Dear George,
I gave you after-school detention one day for mouthing off to me. I thought I had done such a great job of setting up the premise for the story we read--a great mountain-climbing adventure called 'Top Man'-and then had read most of it aloud to the class. You, along with everyone else, were supposed to read the rest of it on your own and then, that night for homework, answer one question: Who was the top man? The next day, when I asked you who you thought the top man was, you just shrugged. I asked what the shrug meant. 'I don't know,' you replied. 'You don't know the answer to the question or you don't know why you shrugged?' I pressed. 'The question. It didn't say who was the top man.' 'You're supposed to make an inference, George, you know inferencing. That's how you answer the question. Make an inference.' You stared at me for a moment, then said, 'No, I guess I don't know. Don't you think if I did know, I'd just do it and get you off my back? Jeez.'
Obviously, George, twenty-three years ago, it took much less for me to send a kid to detention. Honestly, though, I think I gave you detention because your answer was just too honest. I backed you into a corner and then punished you when you defended yourself. If I was so good at making inferences, I wonder why it took me so long to figure that one out?
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Dear George,
On the last day of class, you handed me a note. 'Read it later,' you said, then headed off for summer vacation. You had barely walked out of our classroom door before I had unfolded your note. There, in your familiar pencil-smudged scrawl, you had written: 'Sometimes what we show on the outside doesn't really match what's going on on the inside. Thank you for being my teacher.'
My inferencing skills weren't too good, as I was never quite sure if the 'we' meant students, in particular you, or the 'we' meant teachers, in particular me. In either case, your words meant more than I ever had the chance to tell you. By the time I got into the hall, you were gone. I dreamed you a summer of basketball, skateboards, and fishing...I have hoped you a life of success.
Kylene Beers, When Kids Can't Read, What Teachers Can Do, pp. 61/72