“Teaching Donnell” — A Story from Scottie

I’ll never forget Donnell. Back row. Loud sneakers, louder voice. Diagnosed with a learning disability that impacted reading and math, and ADHD that made it nearly impossible for him to sit still for more than two minutes at a time. Donnell was a walking, talking hurricane of energy and frustration, and to be honest, I was overwhelmed from day one.

He came into my classroom already labeled. “He can’t focus.” “He’s disruptive and obstreperous.” “He’ll throw a pencil across the room just because.” “He’ll randomly yell out ‘brokeeeeeyyy’.” And sure, some of that was true. But I also learned that Donnell was hilarious, curious, and obsessed with comic books. He could break down a Black Panther storyline like a scholar but couldn’t sit through a five-minute phonics mini-lesson without spinning in his chair like he was training for the Olympics.

Teaching Donnell was hard. Like, drain-your-energy-then-some hard. Like this ain’t for me hard. Like walking out the classroom with my brown box hard. Ok, you get it. 

There were days I’d stand at the front of the room with my clipboard in hand, scanning the class, and see him already off-task before the bell had finished ringing. Sometimes he’d be under his desk, sometimes he’d be making sound effects like he was in a Marvel movie. I used to dread seeing him some days because I never knew what I was walking into. And I hate not having a plan.

At first, I reacted. I snapped, gave warnings, and made calls home. None of it worked. It felt like I was chasing a moving target, constantly behind, and both of us were frustrated. I’d go home thinking, What am I even doing? Am I helping this kid or just surviving him?

Then one day, after Donnell had a particularly rough morning, he crumpled his math worksheet, called it “trash,” and stormed out of the room. I sat in my car during lunch and cried. Not a cute tear-down-the-cheek cry. A full-on, ugly “I’m exhausted” cry. Because I was TIRED!

And that was the moment something shifted. Because I realized… I was tired of reacting. I needed to start responding. I needed support.  I needed guidance. 

I reached out to a veteran special education teacher I trusted, and she reminded me of something simple but powerful: “Behavior is communication. What’s he trying to tell you?”

So I started paying attention. I mean really paying attention.

I watched what triggered him (timed tasks, noisy spaces, surprises) and what calmed him (drawing, moving, one-on-one attention). I gave him a small sketchpad and told him he could draw quietly if he felt himself getting overwhelmed. We set up a movement break system where he’d tap his desk twice and I’d nod, and he could go stand by the window for a breather without disrupting the whole class.

We broke down assignments into bite-sized steps. I wrote instructions in bold, simple language. And more than anything, I made it my mission to show him that I saw him, not just his behavior but his effort, his intelligence, and his growth.

And slowly, so slowly, it started to work.

Donnell began raising his hand instead of yelling out. He started asking for help instead of storming off. He even started using phrases like, “Ms. Scottie, I need a break,” which, for a kid who used to throw chairs, felt like a win worthy of fireworks. Do you hear me!

Was it perfect? Hell no. We had setbacks. We had days when the sketchpad ended up in the trash and the window break turned into a full-on dance routine. But we also had days when he read aloud, finished his work, and smiled at me like he believed he could do it.

And I believed it too.

Here’s what I learned, and I say this especially for the teachers out there barely hanging on: when we commit to knowing our kids, not just their IEP goals or behavior logs, but their fears, joys, strengths, and quirks, we unlock something powerful.

I couldn’t fix the system for Donnell. I couldn’t change the fact that he’d been misunderstood and mislabeled for most of his school life and not given the support and resources he needed. But I could build a classroom where he felt safe enough to try. And that commitment to knowing him, adjusting for him, and believing in him made all the difference.

So yeah, teaching Donnell was hard work. But it was also heart work.

And on the days when I want to quit, when the paperwork and politics feel too heavy, I think about that kid in the back row who taught me that behavior is communication, that growth is messy, that I need to ask for help, and that commitment means showing up, again and again, even when it’s hard.

Especially when it’s hard.

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This story was inspired by one of the 50 questions from my “50 Reflection Questions for Transformative Teaching” guide. If you found yourself nodding along or thinking about your own Donnell, this guide is for you. Whether you’re preparing for an interview, planning a professional development session, or simply reflecting on your growth, these questions are designed to deepen your practice and ignite your purpose. Want all 50 questions?

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