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Rest
in Peace: The "I Can't" Funeral
Chick
Moormon
Donna's
fourth grade classroom looked like many others I had seen in the
past. Students sat in five rows of six desks. The teacher's
desk was in the front and faced the students. The bulletin board
featured student work. In most respects it appeared to be a
typically traditional elementary classroom. Yet something seemed
different that day I entered it for the first time. There seemed
to be an undercurrent of excitement.
Donna was a veteran small town Michigan school teacher only two years
away from retirement. In addition she was a volunteer participant
in a county-wide staff development project I had organized and
facilitated. The training focused on language arts ideas that
would empower students to feel good about themselves and take charge of
their lives. Donna's job was to attend training sessions and
implement the concepts being presented. My job was to make
classroom visitations and encourage implementation.
I took an empty seat in the back of the room and watched. All of
the students were working on a task, filling a sheet of notebook paper
with thoughts and ideas. The ten-year-old student closest to me
was filling her page with "I Can'ts."
"I can't kick the soccer ball past second base."
"I can't do long division with more than three numerals."
"I can't get Debbie to like me."
Her page was half full and she showed no signs of letting up. She
worked on with determination and persistence.
I walked down the row glancing at students' papers. Everyone was
writing sentences, describing things they couldn't do.
"I can't do ten push-ups."
"I can't hit one over the left field fence."
"I can't eat only one cookie."
By this time, the activity engaged my curiosity, so I decided to check
with the teacher to see what was going on. As I approached her, I
noticed that she too was busy writing. I felt it best not to
interrupt.
"I can't get John's mother to come in for a teacher conference."
"I can't get my daughter to put gas in the car."
"I can't get Alan to use words instead of fists."
Thwarted in my efforts to determine why students and teacher were
dwelling on the negative instead of writing more positive "I Can"
statements, I returned to my seat and continued my observations.
Students wrote for another ten minutes. Most filled their
page. Some started another.
"Finish the one you're on and don't start a new one," were the
instructions Donna used to signal the end of the activity.
Students were then instructed to fold their papers in half and bring
them to the front. When students reached the teacher's desk, they
placed their "I Can't" statements into an empty shoe box.
When all of the student papers were collected. Donna added hers.
She put the lid on the box, tucked it under her arm, and headed out the
door and down the hall. Students followed the teacher. I
followed the students.
Halfway down the hall the procession stopped. Donna entered the
custodian's room, rummaged around and came out with a shovel.
Shovel in one hand, shoe box in the other, Donna marched the students
out of the school to the farthest corner of the playground. There
they began to dig.
They were going to bury their "I Can'ts"! The digging took over
ten minutes because most of the fourth graders wanted a turn.
When the hole appeared three feet deep, the digging ended. The
box of "I Can'ts" was placed in position at the bottom of the hole and
quickly covered with dirt.
Thirty one 10 and 11-year-olds stood around the freshly dug grave
site. Each had at least one page full of "I Can'ts" in the shoe
box, four feet under. So did their teacher.
At this point Donna announced, "Boys and girls, please join hands and
bow your heads." The students complied. They quickly formed
a circle around the grave, creating a bond with their hands. They
lowered their heads and waited. Donna delivered the eulogy.
"Friends, we gather today to honor the memory of 'I Can't." While
he was with us on earth, he touched the lives of everyone, some more
than others. His name, unfortunately, has been spoken in every
public building - schools, city halls, state capitols and yes, even The
White House.
"We have provided 'I Can't' with a final resting place and a headstone
that contains his epitaph. He is survived by his brothers and
sister, "I Can', 'I Will', and 'I'm Going to Right Away.' They
are not as well know as their famous relative and are certainly not as
strong and powerful yet. Perhaps some day, with your help, they
will make an ever bigger mark on the world.
"May 'I Can't' rest in peace and may everyone present pick up their
lives and move forward in his absence. Amen."
As I listened to the eulogy I realized that these students would never
forget this day. The activity was symbolic, a metaphor for
life. It was a right brain experience that would stick in the
unconscious and conscious mind forever.
Writing "I Can'ts", burying them and hearing the eulogy. That was
a major effort on the part of this teacher. And she wasn't done
yet. At the conclusion of the eulogy she turned the students
around, marched them back into the classroom and held a wake.
They celebrated the passing of "I Can't" with cookies, popcorn and
fruit juices. As part of the celebration, Donna cut out a large
tombstone from butcher paper. She wrote the words "I Can't" at
the top and RIP in the middle. The date was added at the bottom.
The paper tombstone hung in Donna's classroom for the remainder of the
year. On those rare occasions when a student forgot and said, "I
Can't," Donna simply pointed to the RIP sign. The student then
remembered that "I Can't" was dead and chose to rephrase the statement.
I wasn't one of Donna's students. She was one of mine. Yet
that day I learned an enduring lesson from her.
Now, years later, whenever I hear the phrase, "I Can't," I see images
of that fourth grade funeral. Like the students, I remember that
"I Can't" is dead.
(from
Chicken Soup for the Soul TM,
1993)
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Copyright
© 2006, Jace Carlton. All International Rights Reserved.
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