Donna's fourth-grade classroom looked like many others I had seen in the
past. Students sat in five rows of six desks. The teacher's desk was in the
front and faced the students. The bulletin board featured student work. In
most respects it appeared to be a typically traditional elementary classroom.
Yet, something seemed different that day I entered it for the first time. There
seemed to be an undercurrent of excitement.
Donna was a veteran small-town Michigan schoolteacher only two years away
from retirement. In addition, she was a volunteer participant in a
countywide development project I had organized and facilitated. The training focused
on language arts ideas that would empower students to feel good about them and
take charge of their lives. Donna's job was to attend training sessions and
implement the concepts presented. My job was to make classroom vis itations
and encourage implementation.
I took an empty seat in the back and watched. All the students were working
on a task, filling a sheet of notebook paper with thoughts and ideas. The
ten-year-old student closest to me was filling her page with "I Can'ts."
"I can't kick the soccer ball pass second base."
"I can't do long division with more than three numbers."
"I can't get Debbie to like me."
Her page was half full and she showed no signs of letting up. She worked on
with determination and persistence.
I walked down the row glancing at students' papers. Everyone was writing
sentences, describing things they couldn't do.
"I can't do ten pushups."
"I can't hit over the left-field fence."
"I can't eat only one cookie."
By this time, the activity engaged my curiosity, so I decided to check with
the teach er to see what was going on. As I approached her, I noticed that
she too was busy writing. I felt it best not to interrupt.
"I can't get John's mother to come in for a teacher conference."
"I can't get my daughter to put gas in the car."
"I can't get Alan to use words instead of fists."
Thwarted in my efforts to determine why students and teacher were dwelling
on the negative instead of the positive "I Can't" statements, I returned to
my seat and continued my observations. Students wrote for ten minutes. Most
filled their page. Some started another.
"Finish the one you're on and don't start a new one," were the instructions
Donna used to signal the end of the activity. Students were then instructed
to fold their papers in half and bring them to the front. When students
reached the desk, they placed their "I Can't" statements into an empty sho e
box.
When all of the student papers were collected, Donna added hers. She put
the lid on the box, tucked it under her arm and headed out the door and down
the hall. Students followed the teacher. I followed the students.
Halfway down the hall the procession stopped. Donna entered the custodian's
room, rummaged around and came out with a shovel. Shovel in one hand,
shoebox in the other, Donna marched the students out of the school to the farthest
corner of the playground There they began to dig.
They were going to bury their "I Cant's!" The digging took over ten minutes
because most of the fourth graders wanted a turn. When the hole approached
three-foot deep, the digging ended. The box of "I Cant's" was placed at the
bottom of the hole and quickly covered with dirt.
Thirty-one 10- and 11- years -olds stood around the freshly dug gravesite.
Each had at least one page full of "I Cant's" in the shoebox, three-feet
under. So did their teacher.
At this point Donna announced, "Boys and girls, please join hands and bow
your heads." The students complied. They quickly formed a circle around the
grave, creating a bond with their hands. They lowered their heads and
waited. Donna delivered the eulogy.
"Friends, we gather today to honor the memory of "I Can't." While he was
with us on earth, he touched the lives of everyone, some more than others.
His names, unfortunately, has been spoken in every public building - schools,
city halls, and state capitols and yes, even The White House.
We have provided "I Can't" with a final resting place and headstone that
contains his epitaph. He is survived by his brothers and sisters, "I can,
'I will' and "I'm going to Right Away.' They are not as well known as their
famous relative and are certainly not as strong and powerful yet. Perhaps someday,
with your help, they will make and even bigger mark on the world. May 'I
Can't' rest in peace and may everyone present pick up their lives and move
forward in his absence. Amen."
As I listened to the eulogy I realized that these students would never
forget this day. The activity was symbolic, a metaphor for life. It was a
right-brain experience that would stick in the unconscious and conscious
mind forever.
Writing "I Cant's," burying them and hearing the eulogy. That was a major
effort on the part of this teacher. And she wasn't done yet. At the
conclusion of the eulogy she turned the students around, marched them back into the
classroom and held a wake.
They celebrated the passing of "I Can't" with cookies, popcorn&n bsp; and fruit
juices. Donna cut out a tombstone from butcher paper. She wrote the words
"I Can't" at the top and put RIP in the middle the date was added at the
bottom, "3/28/80."
The paper tombstone hung in Donna's classroom for the remainder of the
year. On those rare occasions when a student forgot and said, "I Can't," Donna
simply pointed to the RIP sign. The student then remembered that "I Can't"
was dead and chose to rephrase the statement.
I wasn't one of Donna's students. She was one of mine. Yet that day I
learned an enduring lesson from her.
Now, years later, whenever I hear the phrase, "I Can't," I see images of
that fourth-grade funeral. Like the students, I remember that "I Can't" is
dead.
