4th Graders Know More Than You Think.

I was the new girl in 4th grade. I moved to Oregon from Florida and I remember that it felt like the air in Oregon lacked substance. My lungs were accustomed to heat and humidity, and that Pacific Northwest air was so cool and clear. I wore a new outfit that I was extremely proud of- a pale pink cotton skirt and matching cardigan- and I felt pretty. Maybe that outfit lent me some confidence, because I made new friends pretty quickly. By the end of the day, Jenny and I decided that we were BFFs.

Jenny was a head taller than me. She had wide, serious brown eyes and fluffy curls the color of buttered toast. I soon came to realize that time with Jenny was time spent on the edge. She chased boys at recess and they chased her back. I remember the sheer terror of flying through the field of Adams Elementary, a flock of boys at my heels, their fingers reaching out to pinch my backside. Another time, we snuck into our classroom at lunchtime and left anonymous notes for the boys we liked in their desks. Panic rushed like a tidal wave in my ears. I knew we would get caught and go to the principal’s office. Somehow, we evaded capture.

She only lived about 3 blocks from me, and we spent hours playing at her house after school. No one was ever home. (A fact I am not sure that my mother was aware of.) She was not interested in playing with American Girl dolls, as was my passion. We watched VH1 music videos, drew on the walls in her bedroom and ate whatever we could find in the pantry. One such afternoon, she lead me into her dad’s bedroom. She closed the door behind us and pointed at the wall. I stared at the hole in the sheetrock. “What happened?” I asked, with a weight in my heart. “My dad punched it.” We stared at the hole in silence for a moment, and then she flopped onto the massive waterbed. I laid down next to her, and we floated for a while, staring up at the ceiling. “Why did your dad do that?” I asked her timidly. “My mom left us. She isn’t coming back. I guess my dad was mad about it.” I squeezed Jenny’s hand, which was kind of dry and rough, and she squeezed back a little too tight.

I don’t remember the specifics of the fight that ended our friendship. It was spring time- I remember seeing tulips on my walk home. We had an argument about something trivial on the playground. Jenny liked to be in charge, so likely I disagreed with one of her directives. What I do remember, is that she called me a bitch. The world came hurling out of her mouth and slapped me across the face. I remember feeling stunned for a moment before the heat of the word began to burn and I burst into tears. My mom came to walk me home from school that day and I was beside myself. “It’s just a word, Kristen. Don’t let it bother you so much.” It did bother me though. It was more than an insult. It was proof of what my 9-year-old self had known all along. Jenny was just too much for me. When my mom said we couldn’t play together anymore, I was a little sad, but I was also incredibly relieved. I still feel guilty about that.

I don’t know what happened to Jenny. I heard rumors about juvie and rumors that she moved far away. I have thought about her off and on throughout the years, but she came back into focus for me this year, as I taught 4th grade. Just 9 and 10, these kids are still pretty young. It always shocks me just how worldly, how aware they are. I think of Jenny, and the trauma she likely experienced as a young child. At the time, I didn’t know she had lived through any trauma, but I also really did know it. I recognized the differences between us, and I felt pushed by Jenny to grow up a little faster than I might have, if left to my own devices. All of this was long before social media was a thing. My students are exposed to all kinds of things both online and in person that are beyond their years. Even the kids with the best possible home lives have a “Jenny” to make them run screaming through the field at recess.

I find myself in a precarious balance between respecting students’ knowledge of the vast, cruel, adult world, and urging them to just, stay little. Kids can tell when you’re being disingenuous. They crave honest, genuine, authenticity from the adults in their lives. They also thrive on boundaries. Some of the Jennys of the world have precious little in the way of boundaries. They seek out control wherever they can find it. That kid that’s standing on a table screeching like a pterodactyl? He needs boundaries and structure. The kid drawing obscene pictures and sharing them with friends? Boundaries. The kid telling a friend “we’re done!” in a storm of notes, tears and drama? Structure. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that you have to say what you mean and mean what you say. They crave consistency.

I’m not trying to be overly saccharine here, but kids also really do need to be loved. Of course, there are necessary limits to the ways in which teachers can show love to students. I try to do it by forming relationships, maintaining boundaries and whole-heartedly believing in them. Every kid needs someone that truly believes in them- someone who knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that they can do hard things. I like to think that somewhere out there, Jenny found that.