elizabethlevett

       Over the years it has been my distinct honor to be called upon as an instructor of royals. I have taught any number of pink- or purple-clad Vanessas, Tiffanys, and even a Brittany or two. Some come to school clad in pink tutus with all the dignity befitting their station. Each and all of them have required, and have been given, my special attention to their needs. Most recently, though, I got to teach the real thing. This one is not just any princess; she is a gypsy princess. I have had the honor of hosting in my classroom a true descendant of gypsy kings.

       Early in the school year, my principal asked me to take an extra student under my wing and into my kindergarten class. The student, enrolled as a fourth grader, would be with me during my morning literacy block, which includes my writing workshop. Sequoia was around ten or eleven when I met her. She had been home schooled. This can mean many things in different contexts. In Sequoia’s case, it meant that she had spent a few months in Kindergarten when she was small. That was it. That was the extent of her education up till this point. 

       Sequoia knew that she lacked all the skills her peers had gained in school. She also knew that all her friends would know she was spending her mornings with kindergarteners. Suddenly I did not feel at all like an expert. What I needed to know in order to help this student took more than anything I’d learned up to that point. Beyond all the methodology and resources, this child needed acceptance, affirmation, and a lot of help. We would do what we could.

       When she came to me, Sequoia had almost no knowledge of letters or of letter sounds. She needed glasses and had great difficulty seeing the charts or other visuals I would use during instruction. Sequoia often came to class hungry, disheveled, and very sleepy. I would quiz her about her bedtime, which was usually hours later than mine. I would admonish her to get more sleep. She always explained that the family had had a party. (On Sunday? A school night??) I pulled a hair clip out of my bag and pulled her long, soiled bangs out of her eyes. You can’t learn to read if you can’t see. She seemed sad and embarrassed in those first days. I wanted her to feel regal. Whatever her limitations, she needed to know they were temporary. 

       Despite the gaps in Sequoia’s learning, she was extremely sweet and resilient. She was determined to learn to read and write from me. I taught her the sounds of the letters and included her in all my writing lessons. She participated in shared and interactive writing activities, where students take turns helping me compose and scribe a piece of writing on chart paper. She learned how to form letters and to “stretch” words out, listening for their sounds. She also learned how to use the word wall and various word groups I posted in the room. I had her list new words as she learned them on the left-hand facing pages of her writing notebook. 

       Every day I would send Sequoia off to write at my desk while my twenty-two littler students went off to write at theirs. She told me she couldn’t write, didn’t know how. I told her she would have to start just as the other ones did, from the beginning. I sat close to her when I could and showed her how to use an alphabet picture chart. “Think of what you want to say. Say the words to yourself and listen for the sounds in the words. Put letters for the sounds you hear. Don’t worry. Just keep writing. When you have something down I’ll come back and help you add more.”

       Eventually, Sequoia was able to write and read complete sentences. She wrote about helping her grandmother, finding a cat, going shopping, and eating spaghetti. My other students all got to decorate their new writing notebooks with real, sewn bindings and stiff cardboard covers. Naturally, I got a special one for Sequoia. Anything the others got, she would have to have. But for Sequoia there would be a big-girl version, just a little more sophisticated and fancy. She is of auspicious lineage, after all. Instead of having her use the collage bits left for the others to decorate their notebooks, Sequoia would be allowed to paw through my secret stash of truly fancy papers to choose the pieces she’d glue onto her cover. Her collage cover was silver, pink, and purple leopard print. She even cut out little hearts to glue on, and every morning she couldn’t wait to write in it. 

       In March my students were working on a personal narrative unit, and began writing longer stories with actual sequences of events in their hand-made books. Sequoia started to write her own stories and started making her own special books to write them in. One day I noticed that she was getting up a lot and going over to my art cabinet instead of writing. Silly me, I assumed she was wasting time. When I got a chance to go and check on her progress, Sequoia showed me that she had made a folder for herself to keep all her little storybooks in. She had also made a miniature word wall. She had cut up card stock and printed words for herself that she must have decided she needed close at hand. It was a collection of high frequency words – words used often in writing that can’t be “sounded out”. She’d written little flash cards for words like “through” and “again” and taped them into her folder. My true protégé, she had actually developed a writing fetish!

       In April the cold wind came back with a vengeance to our foggy city. Sequoia showed up at school one Monday looking tired and unwashed. She was also under-dressed for the weather. My Cinderella! I had to stay in the schoolyard before school began for a kind of educator torture we call “yard duty.” I sent Sequoia to hang out in my room so she’d be warm enough. This year the parents’ association had purchased beautiful fleece jackets for all of the teachers, embroidered with the school’s logo. Sequoia was standing in the doorway of my room looking out at me and shivering. I went over to talk with her. “Sequoia, go open up the cabinet behind my desk and look on the shelf. There’s a jacket in there. Put it on so you don’t freeze.”

       When I was born the doctor who delivered me was a friend of our family named Dr. Waters. He and his wife had seven daughters and then adopted another one. I loved the Waters family when I was little. I remember Mrs. Waters once saying to me, “People ask me whether I have a favorite. I always say, my favorite child is the one who needs me the most right then.” 

I had some exceedingly cute kindergarten students that year. Sometimes, though, my favorite was the uncombed princess in a Lilliputian classroom. Sequoia returned my jacket, neatly folded the next day with a note that I hope I never lose. It said, “I like your classroom. You have words to help me write and you have a warm heart.” Thank you, Sequoia. I am honored to have had an opportunity to host true royalty.