Last Kid on the Playground

It's a simple and age-old rule that the only thing worse than being the only kid on the playground is being the last kid there. Consider taking the feeling of isolation from the former and add to it the limited resources of the latter, along with the knowledge that your social peers are available, just not to you. It's a terrible feeling and unfortunately one that I am well acquainted with both as a student and as a counselor.

There are a lot of factors that can go into being the last kid on the playground. For me, it was because I moved in fifth grade from a fairly urban school district to what I believed at the time to be the most rural place someone could possibly wind up, Cartersville Ga. My first day of school, I was quite literally the last kid to get to recess.

Happily, I was quickly inserted into a ballgame by my teacher under the pretext of including the token "new student.” Unfortunately, it wasn’t more than a couple minutes of rowdy playing before a student and I collided when going after the same ball. This might not have been such a huge disaster if my forehead hadn’t hit her in the mouth and managed to bust her lip. However, it did, leaving me with a nasty nickname and an unshakeable new position as the last kid on the playground anyone wanted to play with.

Now, I would love to say that the rest of this blog will be about how through the power of friendship and perseverance I finished my fifth grade year on a happy note as the “it” kid on or even off the playground. If I did, though, I’d be lying. On top of moving that year, all four of my great-grandparents died. As is often the case, in taking the time necessary when there is a loss in the family, I also ended up missing quite a lot of school. This did not endear me to my teachers who, unlike those at my previous school, did not know me for the last four-and-a-half years. Nor did the fact that as a middle-of-the-year transplant, most things they were reviewing I hadn’t learned yet and most things they were introducing I had already mastered.

Again, as is typical, I found my attention wandering more and more in class. I resented these teachers who started to actually treat me like a "C" student they saw before them instead of the "A" student I had always been. As a result of my behavior at school, I began to get in trouble more and more at home. I’m the eldest so this was a first for my household. My parents couldn’t fathom what had gotten in to me. And somewhere along the line a distinction occurred; I no longer cared if I was the last one on the playground or the only one on the playground. I hated my peers, I hated my teachers, and for the first time in my life I hated school.

Unfortunately, my case was not an exception to the rule. Fifth grade tends to be a very influential year in children’s perceptions of themselves and of school altogether. This year is often a turning point for youths that are struggling both academically and socially in school. Too often "I’m having a hard time and need help" turns into "I hate school, and don’t care." I unequivocally fell into that category, despite that fact that even then I had a natural proclivity towards academics such as reading and creative writing.

In fact, it was my sixth-grade English teacher who ended up making all the difference in this story. That first week of school, I was sitting in the back row of her class, obviously not giving her my full attention. Now, if any one of you knew me in high school or college, you wouldn’t believe I would ever sit on the back row, but I did. I was writing in my notebook while she explained the rules of her class. She stopped talking, walked back to my desk, and took up the piece of paper. Then, she asked out loud if I wanted to share the contents with the class. Years later, she shared that she had thought it was a note to another student. It wasn’t, it was a poem. I said "No" quietly and through my eyes pleaded with her with every fiber I had in my little sixth-grade body. Luckily, she didn’t read it out loud. 

I vigilantly paid attention for the rest of the class and afterwards swore that I would keep my poems for the writing portion of class.She let me go with a compliment to my writing and I walked out liking a least one class in school again. That night, my parents got a phone call from my teacher. I instantly knew that I had been tricked and I was yet again going to be in trouble for some stupid school rule. The teacher wanted me to read my poem at a district principal’s meeting. You would have thought I had been invited to the Oscars. The whole dynamic in my home that night changed. My mom and I went out a bought me a new khaki skirt. My dad told me he was proud of me and said we were going out to eat where I chose that night. I felt good about myself in such a profound way that I realized how truly low I had been feeling before.

It got even better in the coming weeks. Word got around that I was the girl to talk to if you needed help in English class. I started to make friends with other girls that liked my imagination. It was like they were seeing me for the first time when they exclaimed, “Oh! I didn’t know you were CREATIVE!” Even better, the other teachers seemed to catch wind, too. They started saying things like, "Use some of that creativity" or "I KNOW you probably know the answer." The thing is, I did know the answer most of the time. I just hadn’t felt like telling them that up until then.

After that, it didn’t matter when I made it to the playground because there was almost always someone that would include me. If not, I’d sit down and start to read a book and inevitably someone would sit next to me and start reading, too.

So, what’s the point of this story? The moral so to speak….

Being the last kid on the playground, the last kid to be called on in class, or just plain the last kid to be chosen for anything in school is not a permanent post any parent wants to see their kid take up. However, it’s a place that families find their students in from time to time.

One positive way to work through this is my helping your student to reframe the situation. If you think about it, my teacher gave me a break when she didn’t have to. More than that, though, she helped create a different way for others to look at me and for me to look at myself. She helped me to “reframe” myself.

A lot of times when I see students, the majority of our work together is doing just that. By educating them on how to reframe their statements, a simple statement of “ I hate school” can easily transform to “I hate break,” which then turns into “ I hate this game at break” and finally gets resolved into “I want to be invited to play that game more at break.” That last statement is a lot easier to work with and to help others understand than the first. Goals can be formulated, step can be taken, the student can be productively working toward changing his or her circumstances. The same principle can be used in working with students who have lost their way in regards to self-esteem or self image.

Kids act out for a reason. It may not always be a reason we agree with as adults, or one that is terribly complex, but it’s a reason nonetheless. Until you get at the reason or motivation, you will never fully understand the situation or how to help that student. I often remind students, my job isn’t about discipline. For me, it’s about problem solving. How can I help them to get what they want or need here at Darlington without stepping outside of the structure provided to them by our rules standards? In short, how can we frame a situation in such a way as to focus our energy on the positive of what they want to see happen instead of getting stuck, discouraged, or even angry about the negatives to be found in what they don’t like.