He Kept the Turkey

As I begin my 41st year in education, I find myself thinking about the hundreds of children who have walked through my classroom doors.

Some I remember because they made me laugh. Some because they challenged me. Some because they taught me something I didn't know I needed to learn.

And some I will never forget. Weston is one of them.

Weston—not his real name—was five years old when he came into my classroom. At the time, I taught at a self-contained K–12 school for students with significant emotional and behavioral needs. I was the elementary teacher, with thirteen students from kindergarten through sixth grade in my classroom.

Weston came to us carrying experiences no five-year-old should have had to endure. He had been severely abused by someone who told him the abuse was an expression of love.As a result, Weston didn't understand what genuine love and caring looked like, sounded like, or felt like.

When he first arrived, he was violent. He kicked me hard enough to leave bruises and bumps. He tore things off the walls and threw things across the classroom. One day, he bit me in seven places, and I ended up needing a tetanus shot.

He also wore a coat every day. Even as the weather grew warmer, the coat stayed on. It seemed to be a layer of protection between Weston and the world.

With patience, positive reinforcement, consistency, and a great deal of care from the people surrounding him both at home and at school, things slowly began to change. We also began something very intentional. Whenever someone did something kind for Weston, we named it. If another student shared crayons with him, I might say, "Weston, when someone shares their crayons with you, it's because they care about you."

If someone said something kind to him: "Weston, when someone says something like that to you, it's because they care about you."

When Weston shared something or did something kind for another child, we named that too. "That's what people do when they care about someone."

Again and again. Day after day. Eventually, even the other children began saying it. We weren't simply telling Weston that people cared about him. We were helping him experience what caring looked like, sounded like, and felt like.

As the year continued, we saw remarkable changes in him. Emotionally. Behaviorally. Academically. We hoped the message was reaching him. Yet we didn't know. Weston never said the words back to us.

In November, our class made Thanksgiving turkeys. Each child created a turkey with feathers that shared something they were grateful for. As Weston worked on his, several of the other students shared things with him. Before Thanksgiving, everyone took their turkeys home.

The school year continued. So did we.

"That's because they care about you, Weston." "That's what people do when they care about each other." Over and over, in ordinary moments that probably didn't look like much from the outside.

Then May arrived. On the last day of school, I stood at the classroom door saying goodbye to each of my students and working very hard not to cry. Yes, I was that teacher then. Yes, I am that teacher now.

When it was Weston's turn to leave, he asked me if I would come back on Monday to teach him through the summer. I explained that school was over and that he got to have a break. He wasn't happy about that answer.

Then he reached deep into his backpack and began searching for something. Finally, he pulled it out. His turkey. The gratitude turkey he had made in November. He had kept it for six months.

Weston handed it to me and told me it was for me. I told him how happy I was to receive such a special gift. Then I started to say the words I had said to him so many times that year. "Oh, Weston, when you do something like this, it's..."

He cut me off. "Because I care about you!"

That was it. I lost it. I cried. I hugged him tight. Soon, everyone in the classroom was hugging him.

For an entire school year, we had been showing Weston what it meant to care about another person. That day, he showed us he understood. He didn't simply repeat the words we had taught him. He expressed what they meant. He chose something that belonged to him, something he had held onto for six months, and gave it to someone he cared about.

Our kindness wasn't grand. Crayons. A compliment. Sharing. Patience. A turkey made out of construction paper. Tiny things, repeated consistently, helped a child begin to create a new understanding of what it meant to be cared for.

As I begin my 41st year in education, Weston's picture continues to hang in my classroom. Through changes in classrooms and schools, it has been one of the first things I unpack and put up.  Beneath it is a small gold plaque engraved with the words he spoke that day:

"Because I care about you!"

And yes, I have the turkey, too.

After thousands of school days and hundreds of children, I have never forgotten what one five-year-old boy taught me about caring. Words matter. Actions matter. Sometimes we may never know whether the kindness we offer is reaching someone. We keep offering it anyway.

Be Kinder Than Necessary (BKTN365™),

Jerilyn Brown

An Invitation

Notice what caring looks like, sounds like, and feels like in your life.

Sometimes love speaks most clearly through the smallest things.