I know their secrets， their stories. Dora slouches and is shy， and I know it is because she spends all her time at home trying not to get noticed， so she won’t feel the brunt of her stepfather’s angry hand. Jay can pitch like a tenth grader， and all the girls swoon when he and his blond hair strut by， but I know he doesn’t really even like baseball that much， he plays because his dad wants him to and he is too scared to ask out the girl he likes. The kids think Keith is just the class clown， but I know of his dreams to become an astronaut and I’ve recommended him for space camp. I know my students because I am their writing teacher. They trust me with their stories and so I am given the privilege of having a secret bond with each and every one of them.
I teach my students about the power of words， and I try to let them find release and expression through writing. We learn to trust each other in writing class because we learn how hard it is to write openly and honestly， and we learn that sharing your words takes courage. I see courage every day in my classroom， and I am always amazed at the words that come from my students’hearts.
One such example of courage took place during author’s chair， a sharing session at the end of our writer’s workshop in which students volunteer to share what they have written. We had a new student to the school， Al. Al was small and， with his dimpled cheeks and baby face， he looked younger than his classmates.
In fact， when Al was first introduced to the class 2 weeks earlier， one student said，“You’ re not in the 7th grade. You’ re a baby. ”
To that， Al quickly responded， “I’m Al Billslington， and I am in the 7th grade. ”
Despite his obvious courage， Al had been with us for only a short while and was still trying to fit in. So I was a little surprised when he volunteered to read during author’s chair. I had one of those teacher moments， when I smiled and nodded for him to read， while inside I said a silent prayer that the other students would not tease the new kid after he read. The room fell silent， and Al began to read.
“If I had one wish， it would be to meet my dad... ” He started out loud and clear and held the attention of my usually restless 7th graders as he read on for what seemed like 15 minutes. He told of how he had never known his father， who had left the family when Al was a baby. He shared the intimate details of his struggles to be the only man in the house at such a young age， of having to mow the lawn and fix broken pipes. He revealed to us the thoughts that raced through his mind constantly about where his father might be and why he might have left.
My eyes scanned the room for snickering faces of seventh-grade kids who I knew were prone to jump at a weakness and try to crack a joke， but there were no snickers. There were no rolling eyes or gestures insinuating boredom or pending attacks. All of my seventh-grade students were listening， really listening. Their eyes were on Al， and they were absorbing his words like sponges. My heart was full.
Al continued on， telling of nightmares at night， of never knowing a man so important to him， yet so unreal. I could hear his voice growing shaky as he read such passionate and honest words， and I saw a tear roll down one of his dimpled cheeks. I looked to the audience. There were tears on Jessica’ s face and on the faces of a few others seated quietly， intently listening.
They are letting him do this， I thought. They are allowing him to share something he perhaps has never shared before， and they aren’t judging him or teasing him. I felt a lump in my own throat.
Al finished， struggling now to read his last sentence. “If l had one wish， it would be to meet my dad， so I wouldn’t...” His tears were rolling now， and so were ours， “... so I wouldn’t have to close my eyes in bed every night just wondering what he looks like. ”
Without any cue from me， the class stood up and applauded. Al smiled from ear to ear as they all rushed him with hugs. I was floored.
This is why I teach. I teach because I am allowed to learn the stories behind the faces. I teach because I can watch kids grow and laugh and learn and love. I teach because of students like Al.
我很了解我的学生们。在我们乡村中学里， 每天都会有一群七年级的学生，背着双肩背包，沿着走廊的瓷砖地板一边嚷嚷，一边慢悠悠地从一间教室走到另一间教室。我站在教室门口看着他们，就像一个将军在阅兵似的。我为能叫出他们每一个人的名字而感到高兴。
我知道他们的秘密以及他们的故事。多拉是一个懒散而害羞的女孩，我知道这是因为她在家的时候不愿太惹人注意，以免因闯祸而遭到继父的殴打；杰伊可以像一个十年级的学生那样投掷棒球，当他顶着一头金黄色的头发大摇大摆地走过时，所有女孩都欣喜若狂，但是我知道他对棒球根本没兴趣，只是不敢违抗父命而已，他也不敢跟自己喜欢的女孩约会；孩子们都认为基思只是班上的小丑，但是我知道他梦想能成为一名宇航员，所以我把他推荐给了一个太空夏令营。我了解我的学生们，因为我是他们的写作老师。他们信任我，并告诉我他们的故事，所以我有了与他们每一个人分享秘密的特权。
我教给我的学生们文字的力量，尝试着让他们通过写作来释放自己，表达自己。在写作课上，我们学着相互信任，因为我们知道公开而诚实地写作是多么困难的一件事，我们学着鼓足勇气来分享我们的语言。在教室里，我们每天都可以欣赏到孩子们的勇气，我总会为学生们的心里话而感到震惊。
一个有关勇气的例子发生在“作家工作室”中的一个自愿分享作品的环节中。学校里来了一个名叫阿尔的新学生，他很瘦小，一张娃娃脸上还有两个小酒窝，这让他看起来比其他同学都小。
事实上，当阿尔在两周前第一次来到班上时，一个同学就说：“你不该在七年级，你还是个孩子呢！”
阿尔立即回答道：“我叫阿尔？比尔史灵顿，我上七年级。”
尽管他的勇气可嘉，可毕竟刚来到我们班，他仍然处于适应阶段。所以，当他自愿要在“作家工作室”上朗读自己的作文时，我感到很惊讶。像往常一样，我笑着点头示意他开始朗读，心里也在为他默默地祈祷，希望其他同学不要在他朗读之后取笑他。教室陷入了沉寂，阿尔开始朗读了。
“如果说我有一个愿望，那就是可以见到爸爸……”他的声音洪亮而清晰。在朗读的大约15分钟里，他引起了我那些通常不安分的七年级学生的注意。他讲述了自己从未见过父亲的原因：当他还是个小孩时，父亲就离开了家。他和大家分享了一些他的秘密，他如此小的年龄就要为成为家里唯一的男子汉而努力，割草，修理损坏的下水道。他传达给我们一种思想：他的脑海里满是他的父亲在哪里，以及他为什么离开的疑问。
我环顾教室四周，寻找着班级里窃笑的面孔。我知道这些学生喜欢取笑别人，但是此时没有一个窃笑者，没有四处张望，没有不耐烦的表情，也没有要攻击的架势。同学们都在听着，确实在听。他们都望着阿尔，像海绵吸水一样倾听着他的话语。我的心里满满的。
