On Helping

Stories from a writing classroom

In a classroom where learners care deeply about one another, the impulse to help can be overwhelming. But year after year, students made it clear that caring about learners meant honoring their right to struggle.

As we developed rules within our classroom community each September, a rule about helping always emerged. Third graders, experienced in the dynamics of classrooms, offered lots of anecdotal and “what if” scenarios eventually leading to a rule worded something like this: Help others when they ask for help. I clearly held certain authority to ensure that learners were safe and supported. But these young learners were equally clear in establishing authority over their own learning. They would let others, including me, know when they needed help.

I thought I understood. I needed to wait to offer my help. But helping was both more complicated and more subtle than that. As a teacher within a trusting community of learners, my offer to help was implied. All the time. Gradually I understood that asking Can I help? was, itself, too much. Let me know if you need help was more acceptable. I learned to sharpen my nonverbal skills, opening the way for help with eye contact rather than words. And students were really, really good at letting me know with a sideways glance or a raised eyebrow that they’d had enough help, thank you.

This dance of help was especially acute when it involved writing. I had to learn, repeatedly, to resist suggesting and correcting. I could question the text. I could ask for help in understanding. I could even wonder. But the authority—the author-ity—always and ultimately belonged to the writers, even the youngest ones.

To the end of my career, I worked at curbing my urge to help with varying degrees of success. But the simple act of considering if and when to help, even in fraught moments, made room for more important, more appropriate and even more authentic help to unfold within the classroom.

In September, Wesley had nearly daily outbursts in class. His classmates witnessed the way small changes and challenges triggered episodes during which he banged his hands, threw things, or hid under the table. Slowly, with support, those behaviors had disappeared from the classroom. All of us, including Wesley, became used to the calm rhythms of our days.

Months later, our class schedule was suddenly switched so that recess came before lunch. As the rest of the class quietly gathered their things and lined up, Wesley sat. Tense and rigid, his hands and jaw clenched, he shook his head. When his eyes filled with tears, he put his head down on his desk and covered his head with his arms.

I considered how best to help. I knew that Wesley needed time. But we were on a schedule and each minute we waited meant that precious and necessary recess time was lost. I couldn’t leave Wesley alone in the classroom and I hesitated to call for assistance, knowing that the introduction of someone outside the classroom might escalate the situation. I watched the class for signs of restlessness as a few long minutes ticked by. They were calm. So we waited. I waited.

Harper was the last to line up. As she walked past Wesley, she lightly touched his shoulder and whispered, “We got ya.”

Without a word, Wesley stood up, wiped his eyes on his sleeve, grabbed his coat and joined the line.

In my experience, children were adept at tuning in to all sorts of subtle signals about helping. They seemed to intuitively understand the time, space, and grace necessary for honest, effective help. When norms for helping were arrived at and agreed upon collectively, trust within our community grew stronger and learners, myself included, flourished.