In their own words
Michael Cormack

Michael Cormack graduated from Boston College with majors in political science and philosophy. He is a 2003 Mississippi Delta Corps alum, and he taught fourth grade for two years at Carver Upper Elementary.

August 10, 2003

Larentis Wright is a boy that reminds you just how cruel kids can sometimes be. Larentis is an awkward boy whose head is generally hunched over. His clothes and shoes fit loosely on his body and he seems to slide along the floor instead of walking. Even when he talks, his words are muffled at best. He is a boy with few true friends. This afternoon at recess, I watched in anguish as he became a monster chasing other students around. He is all too comfortable in the role, and seems happy just to get the slightest attention from his peers.

Only a day into teaching, and my plan for an inclusive classroom is beginning to unravel. A third of my students are identified as "resource," which means that they are pulled out of the classroom for most of the day for extra help. After diagnosing my students' reading abilities, I find that most are reading on a mid-second grade level. Larentis, however, is reading on a first grade level — three grade levels behind where he should be. He is one of my students with resource needs, so in addition to the verbal taunts about his appearance, he also faces hurtful teasing about his academic abilities.

For his part, being labeled "resource" takes its toll on Larentis. He just mopes around, never really ready to leave my classroom with the other "resource" students after attendance is taken, obviously anxious to stay with the rest of the class. I believe in Larentis's potential, but I'm not sure where to begin to help him overcome his lack of confidence. I want him to make the big gains he'll need to ready for the fifth grade.

November 16, 2003

It is only days before Thanksgiving break and my classroom is filled with a restless energy. My students are rising to a set of high academic expectations in the classroom, and my informal assessments show that we are on pace to make our goal of one and a half grade levels in reading. But we are all anxious for a little time off, so to focus us, I set aside some time to for us to write about a person we are thankful for. Most of my students settle in quickly around the room in spots under their desks or on carpet squares and write about parents or older siblings. I step back in the quiet and start writing myself, and I notice Larentis working meticulously over in a corner. As most students are finishing, Larentis is still hard at work.

Since September, I've been working to create a culture of acceptance in my class, and Larentis is finding a home in the classroom. After scouring our school library and internet book lists, I've found readings that encourage tolerance and inclusion. In subtle ways at first, my students are beginning to make tangible connections to the texts. And while in many ways Larentis is still the awkward little boy I met back in August, after-school is a time he comes alive. One day to my surprise, Larentis asked to stay behind and help clean up. He straightened desks, washed the white boards, and swept the floor. Afterward, we sat and ate animal crackers and played Connect Four. After a few days, I parlayed the cleaning into reading and helping him with his homework. Now, staying after-school is a regular event and his mother and siblings all wave from the porch on afternoon drives home.

I walk over to Larentis in the corner and sit beside him. He hides his paper secretly close to his chest and asks if he can read it to me; it began like this:

"I am thankful for Mr. Cormack.
We do lots of thing together.
We play games.
We go fishing.
Mr. Cormack is my dad."

April 20, 2004

It's the week following Easter break, and we're all gathered around the lunchroom table. My students are talking about their weekends and trying to one up each other in describing their holiday feasts. "We had a big bucket of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, collard greens and corn bread," chimes in one student. My mouth is starting to water as the conversation continues. Larentis, who is seated next to me, is ready to join in the conversation. As he opens his mouth, my mostly lovable smart aleck Matthew interrupts, "Shut up Larentis, you know y'all didn't have anything at your house." I stop for a second to think about how to handle the situation, which is a big step backward for our classroom culture. But before I can intervene to chastise Matthew and defend Larentis against the light snickers, he stands up for himself. "Well at least we didn't eat fried possum!" The whole table erupts in laughter, including me. The comment is funny for a variety of reasons: first, anyone who has traveled to the Delta knows of the abundance of unlucky possums on the sides of the highways; second, the very original thought of a possum head on a plate is a great figurative image. Matthew is agape and stumped all at once; and while I don't condone my students acting in this way, Matthew knows he has stepped over the line and he even smiles in subtle recognition of Larentis's budding confidence.

With less than a month left of school, this is also the day that I'm finishing reading diagnostics. I'm enjoying this because it is a chance for me to see whether what I've been doing this year has been working and if my students have met the ambitious goals we set at the start of the year. Over the year, my class made significant academic gains — on average, they moved up by one and a half grade levels in reading. And, to my eternal joy, Larentis has grown nearly two years in reading, surpassing the class average. He is now at the beginning third grade level and he's ready for even more challenging content. I share the results with his resource teacher Ms. Gatlin, and we begin conversations to transition him back into my mainstream class for reading instruction. On the 25 books chart in my classroom, Larentis's stars outshine the class with 37 books that he has read, responded to, and taken an Accelerated Reader test on.

The next morning after attendance is called, Larentis stays in his seat instead of heading off to resource. Some of the other students look around confused. I explain that Larentis will be staying for Readers Workshop from now on, and he sits up straight in his chair with his chest puffed out. A million dollar smile stretches across Larentis's face, and he beams with pride. I, too, am beaming. Matthew looks about ready to shoot off one of his trademark smart-aleck comments, but I flash him my teacher look and he says, "Alright, Larentis. Go head."

As I reflect on this year of teaching in the Delta, I think about all the reasons I first joined this movement. Growing up without a father for much of my life, I wanted to be a strong male role model for all of the boys and girls in my classroom. All year, I have tried to marshal all the love Larentis has for me and all the love I have for him into something tangible, into a love for reading, into a love and pride for himself, and it feels incredibly good to see the confident young man he's becoming.

Note: Some names have been changed in order to protect the privacy of individuals.

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