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Betty Dean
I have more to learn than I have to teach. The children who passed through my classrooms and my life taught me this is true.
I was a beginning teacher when I first met Regan. We were both overwhelmed by the bodies and the action and the noise in our Grade 1 classroom. For both of us, it was our first day of school.
Regan was small and quiet. For many days, he did not speak. When he finally did, he held his hand over his mouth. In the few weeks he was with me, I learned to understand most of what he said and to know that those rare words would be said only to someone he trusted, when no one else was around and never to his classmates. During recesses, he walked with me if I was on supervision, or he played by himself. But before I knew him well, and before the speech language assessment and therapy could begin, he was gone.
Two years passed before I met Regan again. I had changed schools, but I was still teaching Grade 1. He arrived in my classroom a few weeks into the school year and was introduced as a new Grade 1 student. We shared our mutual recognition with a smile. But I knew there was a mistake—he should have been in Grade 3. When we had a chance to talk, I asked him where he had been. He still spoke little, quietly and mostly behind his hand. His speech had not improved, and I knew that his discomfort with it had increased. He said he had been in school sometimes; he lived with his mom sometimes. He didn’t know the lady he was living with then—his foster mother.
For her part, Regan’s foster mother knew little about him—he was new in her home. He had been in several different placements between times with his mother. She said Regan didn’t talk. His school records had been lost, misfiled or misplaced. Nobody knew his birth date, and he couldn’t or wouldn’t tell them what it was. Based on his skills and small stature, he was placed in Grade 1.
Regan was the first child I knew who had fallen through the cracks.
After being moved to a Grade 3 class, he came to visit me every day after school. We sat side by side at my desk as I prepared lessons, graded work and prepared for the next day. We organized papers, drew on the chalkboard and read books. Sometimes we talked a bit, but I learned little about his past and about his life outside school. Mostly it was me talking and him giving one word responses. His speech was still almost impossible to understand, but he had stopped hiding behind his hand when we were together. We developed a kind of friendship based on the present moment.
One day, several months later, he missed his regular visit. I wondered why. I finished my work, went to my car and there he was waiting. He had come to say goodbye. He didn’t know where he was going or who he would be living with. I wanted to say no, to shout, to scream, to tell somebody that Regan needed to stay. Changing schools and homes so often made his life hard. I cared so much for him. I was afraid for him and wanted to hold him. Regan and I stood there and, in our silent conversation, shared how much we cared about each other.
I was profoundly saddened by Regan, yet profoundly grateful to have known him. He was the first child I taught who touched me deeply, and who began to teach me how much I had to learn. In the early stages of my career, he helped me to understand what it means to be a teacher. I began to define my values and beliefs as a teacher. My sense of outrage grew when I saw children in pain because of adult actions. Regan helped me know how angry I am when I feel helpless, and how much I wanted to work for change.
There are countless children like Regan, who bring with them unimaginable complexities, challenges and difficulties. But complexities help develop strengths and skills that may not be learned in the classroom. To teach is to look at each child through a lens of assets, not deficits; to question our own biases and provide experiences and opportunities to best carry each child forward into the future. All children bring gifts. Regan’s gift to me was the beauty of his friendship and the quiet, gentle way he taught me some of life’s painful lessons.
During my career, I often thought of Regan. I listened for his name in staff rooms and on the news. I wondered what strategies he developed to express himself, and what he did with his anger. I hoped others learned to understand him. Outcomes for children like Regan are often not good. They are at higher risk of living in poverty, of being underemployed or unemployed, of being involved in criminal behaviour and of suicide.
The joy and the pain of knowing Regan changed me and profoundly influenced my teaching. I never saw him again and I do not know what happened to him. I do know, however, that there are countless other Regans who touch teachers’ lives.
For me, he was the first.
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Betty Dean retired as a principal with Edmonton Public Schools in 2006. During her career, she taught students from Grades 1–12 with a wide range of abilities and disabilities. She served as principal of McCauley School, John A. McDougall School and the Alberta School for the Deaf/Tevie Miller Heritage School Program.
