december 11, 2000. My co-operating teacher says that difficult classes are often followed by wonderful classes. Today I discovered the truth of this statement. Contrary to the snarly beasts who snarled their terrible snarls at a little creative work on Friday, these kids were little unsnarly angels (that should get me the Diarist Award for 'Cutest sentence about a profound professional trauma.') I think the fact that I didn't lull them into a stupor with 80 minutes of overhead notes had something to do with it as well. But what made me feel the best was the decision I made this morning. During the weekend I had complained about my class from one end of Toronto to the other, and I received a lot of advice that boiled down to, "try harder." Even though my superiors are fine with my performance, I felt like I had capitulated to the idea of "individual student responsibility" in an irresponsible way. So what if these kids were snarly and mean and my school had basically written them off? This was my job, wasn't it? Wasn't I morally responsible for finding a reasonable path to every student's success? In other words, my head may have agreed with the staff, but my heart knew that something was wrong. I approached each kid who hadn't handed in an assignment last week, and gave them a chance to a) say they didn't understand it or b) hand in a paper tomorrow. One girl ignored me while her seatmate didn't seem to want the second chance. But that was the absolute worst experience. Boys that I'd secretly dreaded didn't cause any problems. One girl, who before had seemed to dislike me on a personal level, was all goofy smiles when I took her aside. It was a powerful reminder that my task is not to teach to the bright, or the broad middle. Everyone gets a shot. Finally I can reconcile theory to practise.