El Boletin
Volume 8
October 14, 2011
Issue 7
This Week at Elida
Seniors with Josten’s Representative – 9:20 a.m.
Board of Education Meeting – 7:00 p.m.
October 14th
October 18th
PACT testing for all sophomores – Periods 1-4 – Community Room/Commons
October 19th
Freshman Meet with Josten’s Representative – 9:20 a.m.
October 20th
Upcoming Events
Marching Band Concert – 7:30 p.m.
Student ALICE training – 8-10 (Freshmen and Sophomores)
Student ALICE training – 8-10 (Juniors and Seniors)
End of First Nine Weeks
NHS Tapping – 10:00
Salute to Veterans
Board of Education Meeting – 7:00 p.m.
High School Musical
NHS Induction – 8:00 p.m.
Blood Donation Day
Thanksgiving Break
October 24th
October 25th
October 26th
October 28th
November 3rd
November 8th
November 15th
November 18th/19th/20th
November 21st
November 21st
November 23-27
Thought of the Week –“Finish every day and be done with it.
You have done what you
could; some blunders and absurdities crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a
new day.” Ralph Waldo Emerson
Staff News
On Tuesday, October 25th and Wednesday, October 26th we will be training the students on
ALICE. On Tuesday from 8-9, the Freshmen will be in the auditorium with Bob Tomasi. From
9-10, the Sophomores will be trained. On Wednesday, from 8-9, the Juniors will be trained, and
from 9-10, the Seniors. We will not change the schedule at all. We will be operating on a
regular schedule.
Next Tuesday, October 18th, I am having surgery to remove my gall bladder. I anticipate being
out Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday with maybe a half day on Friday. Please call Greg next
Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday if you need a sub. Thank you!
Letters to My Younger Self
Emilie Shafto
Having learned to thrive with a learning difference, here's what I wish I could tell the
younger me.
Last fall, I walked into a 2nd grade classroom for the first time since I was a 2nd grader.
Although I was entering as an adult and assistant to the teacher, suddenly I was back in my
small body, panicking about my handwriting, spelling, and (worst of all) my performance on
timed math calculations. Second grade was the year I was classified as learning disabled.
While working at this elementary school, I found myself remembering how my elementary
school years felt. From my perspective as a successful student, it's odd now to recall what sort
of student I used to be. I'm beginning my senior year at Drew University, and I have
maintained a 3.8 grade point average. I no longer use any accommodations. If you had told
my 2nd grade self that this was her future, she never would have believed you, and she
probably would have begun to cry thinking about what a beautiful imagination you had.
On my first day as an assistant in the classroom, sure enough, the 2nd graders were taking
their "mad minute" math tests. I was nervous, so I hung back, observing. When they finished,
the teacher asked me to go around and help students check their work and mark down their
scores. One little girl was twisting her braids, a devastated look on her face. She had finished
10 problems of 30, and of those only 5 were correct. "I'm just bad at math," she said softly.
I thought of all those times I had said exactly that. I thought about how long it took me to get
past the math anxiety I developed during my elementary school years. I told her that in 2nd
grade, I never passed a single timed math test. That surprised her. I then gave her some news
that truly shocked her. I told her that after elementary school, she would never have to do
such computations so quickly and that after 8th grade, she might never have to use them at
all. After this, math was going to be completely different. Instead of rote memorization, it
would be about problem solving.
I don't know whether this information will help that girl through her next few years. But as I
said it to her, I suddenly felt as if I were telling it to myself, to little Emily who had suffered
routine failure and declared herself "stupid" over and over throughout elementary school.
Back then, my 2nd grade teacher had put a paper racetrack up on a bulletin board. Every
student had a little race car with his or her name on it that would travel along the racetrack
each time that student passed the next level of timed tests. Suffice it to say, mine never
moved. Just weeks into the year, I was so far behind everyone else that other students were
noticing. My parents came in to talk about how this racetrack was affecting me—how I was,
by that point, so sure of failure that I was learning it hurt more to try and fail than to not even
try.
My teacher's solution was to take my race car down. I hated myself for that. The worst part
was that I knew that even if I still had a race car, it would be sitting at the edge of the board. I
felt cemented in place; I did not know how to succeed or even how to learn. For a long time, I
felt that I had failed that little car.
Thinking through my 2nd grade memories, I wrote these five letters to myself. May they help
caring teachers know what to say to all their struggling students.
Dear Emily,
You are never going to be good at calculating math problems in your head.
This, however, does not mean that you aren't going to be fine in mathematics.
In fact, in college (I know that sounds like an eternity from now), you will get
an A in a math class. So what should you do during these tests? You should flip
over the paper and draw. That way, instead of starting off school each
morning feeling bad, you'll start off happy. Stop worrying about the math
tests.
Dear Emily,
I know that it's very hard to write neatly. Unfortunately, you'll never have
beautiful, flowery handwriting. It's OK to cry about this. But let me tell you
something: You have a gift for writing. I know that at the moment that sounds
ridiculous, but let me explain. Starting in middle school, your teachers will talk
about the content of your writing, that is, the stories you tell and how well you
put sentences together. I don't have to tell you to start practicing this because
you tell stories all the time. Right now, all it does is amuse your little sisters,
but soon it will be your favorite subject in school. Teachers will call your
parents to tell them how gifted you are. And, darling, just wait until you
discover poetry!
Dear Emily,
I want you to write down on a piece of paper "I, Emily Shafto, have a learning
disability." Now I want you to tear that paper into as many pieces as you can.
You are now cured. You are no longer "learning disabled." From now on, you
have a "learning difference." Right now, it feels like a disability. But your
"difference" comes with many gifts. Think about how much you read and how
difficult the books you read are. Think about how shocked your 2nd grade
teacher looked when you told her you read The Secret Garden. She was
shocked because only gifted kids could read that.
You might want to think of it as a trade-off: Your brain might only be good at
certain things. Although you can't do math calculations quickly, you're going
to be very good at algebra. You have bad handwriting, but you are a terrific
writer—you will publish poems in your high school and college literary
magazines. You're not very good at spelling, but you are an excellent reader.
You are going to read books that are far more complicated than your current
teacher has ever read, and you're going to love them.
Dear Emily,
I want you to be your own advocate. This is going to become your motto later
in life, so you might as well learn it now. You have to set up the world so that
you can learn the way you learn. This means you have to go to your teacher
and talk about your strengths and weaknesses as a student. Tell your teacher
that you need to sit in the front of the room to keep up. Ask if you may have a
little extra time to pack up your bag at the end of the day so you don't have to
rush. It's the rushing that makes you forget to bring home worksheets.
I know how scary this sounds, but you are definitely brave enough. As nice as
it would be for the teacher to figure it out on her own, you are responsible for
your learning. If the teacher says no, then at least you know that it's the
teacher who is holding you back, not you.
Dear Emily,
You are beautiful. You are special. You are loved. And, Emily, you are
brilliant.
These coming years will be a struggle. You will have to work twice as hard as
everyone else to do as well as they do. I know it isn't fair. I know how bad you
feel right now, but I promise that all of these bumps will only make you
happier when you finally succeed. You will know what it is to really work, to
push yourself through subject matter too difficult for you.
Because of that, you will be a stronger person. But most important, you will
know what has to change in the way schools treat children like you—and what
teachers need to say to help struggling children. And that is my final promise. I
promise you that I'll do everything in my power—and fight with whomever I
need to—to prevent what happened to you from happening to any child again.
Love,
Emilie
P.S. I changed the spelling of our name so that we don't have to write the letter
y anymore. It was always the hardest part of our name to write, and it didn't
ever look pretty in our handwriting. Doesn't it look nice with ie at the end?
P.P.S. Don't skip your 8th grade dance.
Emilie Shafto is a senior at Drew University in Madison, New Jersey, who plans to pursue a graduate degree in early
childhood education and special education; emilieclara@gmail.com.
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