Chapter 3
No moment ever went to waste in the early stages of our 2010-2011 school year. While there may not have been time to stop the train once we left the station, there was still space to undergo a critical process in the first days and weeks. These were the moments to become ingrained in the expectations of a new school year, yes, but before we could do so, our class was tasked to set our own internal ones.
“We always found time to have a good time. We always found time to create procedures.” Mr. Eddie Gibbs explained, “You all always helped me come up with the rules that we followed in class. They weren’t my rules, they were your rules.”
This kind of investment created the space for accountability to ourselves and fellow classmates. Mr. Gibbs oversaw this process and made sure it aligned with the broad goals of our entire year. As a nine year old, it was a refreshing feeling to experience this kind of responsibility. Step one of an “all hands on deck” building process was encouraging each student to have a voice, then combining them all to build our classroom foundation. A key element to the materials for our personal and collective construction was the narrative of our new horizons.
With the 2010-2011 blueprint resembling one of a skyscraper, starting at the ground floor can invoke a mood of uneasy impatience. Finding the “fun” qualities within each level also takes effort, which I learned the hard way. In the first weeks of our year, aside from building the family bond, Mr. Gibbs introduced us to an essential element of the curriculum’s history category. Our fourth grade requirements were specifically targeted at the history of our state, North Carolina. Building familiarity with each other occurred while we did so for the state we called home.
Instead of being led down a rabbit hole of facts, we simply started with an overview of the state itself. Mr. Gibbs passed out a sheet of paper with the outline of our state and its three regions. Our task was to choose a color for each region, color the region, then create a key to signify the name of the region and its specific color. After starting on the coloring sheet in class (another reminder of the assignment's simplicity,) our homework assignment was to complete the sheet and turn it in the next day. Easy enough, right? You would think so. That evening, for some reason, things seemed much harder. Sitting there next to an opened crayon box and my three chosen colors in hand, my mind was taking me in every direction other than the assignment’s completion.
I would soon have an excuse, other than lazy disinterest, to temporarily take me away from the strenuous task of coloring. As a member of our local Pop Warner football team, my dread at this point in the evening was typically around the evening practice. On this particular day, however, I joyfully put on my football gear and was ready to go. Stuffing the coloring page into my backpack, it quickly became a distant memory. A harsh reminder of this neglect came the next morning when my classmates proudly pulled their colorful papers out to show off. While I am sure it was nice for them to reveal the color choices to their fellow classmates, Mr. Gibbs was the viewer whose approval held the most significance. When he came to my desk, I did not give him much to view, other than a half-colored image of North Carolina. I also gave him the easy choice of denying my unfinished sheet from our class display in the hall. At the same time, I had denied myself of an easy one hundred score in the gradebook.
Having a zero or “incomplete” showing in the gradebook was not my main concern at that moment. It was the embarrassment of staying behind in the classroom, along with one other student who had been absent the day before, while everyone else went out in the hall to show off their creative work. While I hurriedly colored with the hopes of joining them I paid no attention to the enjoyment of this early learning opportunity. In the process, the overall purpose of the assignment was pushed aside. Taking its place was my self-induced shame of missing out. More would follow regarding the pitiful work resulting from this lack of attention and awareness.
Jumping from my seat to approach Mr. Gibbs in the hall, I held my paper out and was met with a quizzical look. I responded to it by saying, “I finished,” or something to that effect.
Taking one quick glance at my paper, Mr. Gibbs chose the nicest form of sarcasm when he softly asked, “Are you sure about that?”
I, too, glanced at my work, but for a bit longer than Mr. Gibbs had. Exposed to the sloppy display on my paper, I did nothing but turn away in a state of self-inflicted defeat. Doing so, I had to face the reality of letting myself down, and an even more painful one of disappointing Mr. Gibbs. Never before had I ever felt this way. In years past, even when I was the sole reason for my shortcomings as a student, it was natural to avoid any semblance of liability. I had always cast the blame elsewhere, considering myself a victim of other sources. In this case, it was the first time those excuses were nowhere to be found. The biggest reason for this? … I never began to look for them in the first place.
Even in those first weeks of a new school year, an investment had already been made. With skin in the game, I was willing to keep a firm grip on this newly discovered level of responsibility. Since I could recognize the commitment Mr. Gibbs showed to us, the least I could do was to represent that trait to the work he assigned and the future experiences he created. Once I cut my losses and moved on from this experience, I learned to find joy in the content taught by Mr. Gibbs, specifically when it concerned the subject of history. In order to promote such a feeling to us, Mr. Eddie Gibbs managed to hark back to his own experience in our position.
“I was blessed to have a history class in my high school called Hyde County History,” said Mr. Gibbs, “and it was only about Hyde County. You would think that Hyde County wouldn’t have enough history for you to get a whole years’ worth of learning out of it. My teacher was absolutely the best storyteller that has ever breathed air, no lie.”
On the receiving end of this kind of instruction, Mr. Gibbs took note of his surroundings and gained even more respect for it.
He explained, “You know that if you can walk into a high school history class at eight o’clock in the morning, and there is a man standing in front of you telling stories, and you’ve got a bunch of farm boys, who could care less, just got out of the woods from hunting. Yet they are all sitting at the palm of his hand because he is telling them stories.”
This undeniable power became a source of purpose for the educator position Eddie Gibbs had long considered as his dream. It would remain with him long after he was on the receiving end as a student.
“That’s how I learned to teach Social Studies,” Mr. Gibbs noted, “I taught it with stories.”
While we became increasingly familiar with the history of our state and local areas, some of these stories did not always have a smooth and sunny narrative. Less than a full month into our school year, we were unexpectedly forced to live out this difficult truth. Our school district, Craven County, is a direct coastal location. In the time frame known as “hurricane season,” our proximity to the formation and landfall of such storms keeps us well aware of their damaging potential. There will never be an adequate level of preparation for the impact of such events. This vulnerability to natural forces beyond our control is a lesson in and of itself, but would be one learned away from our classroom.
Mr. Gibbs explained, “I know that, with kids, when they experience things like hurricanes, even though we were used to it, it builds a level of trauma in kids.”
Parents and guardians were given multiple weeks worth of time to experience our immediate thoughts and fears regarding the hurricane aftermath. Any prolonged school cancellation can put a typical class of elementary students at high risk. When early year momentum is built solely around endgame achievement, it will be lost when the routine is put on pause. The special boost of our particular group, which separated us from most others, was fully based around another order of priorities. Attaining a meaningful bond with each other had been at the forefront in those first weeks. Put to the test were the surface level aspects of routine, such as waking up early and spending a full day at school. Passing that same test were the deeper, well established qualities of our family dynamic, which most other classes never had to begin with.
Speaking on those other dynamics, Mr. Gibbs explained, “You can’t come back in and go just as hard as you possibly can.”
It is worth noting how many had to deal with the unfortunate disadvantage of starting back at square one, but Mr. Gibbs was more than happy to recount the luxury of picking up where we left off.
He continued, “It’s not really starting again, because we worked hard, you know, to build our family at the beginning. But because we had worked hard at the beginning, and being aware of the trauma, it was easier to get back into the flow of things.”
Things may have been easier but they were not necessarily “easy,” per se. The steps of getting a bunch of nine and ten-year-olds back into an educational state of mind still had to be taken.
“We spent some time reviewing, yes,” Mr. Gibbs remembered, “but kids are resilient. Kids really are resilient. And we were very fortunate that we could get back into ‘school mode’ as quickly as we did.”
This mindset brought a level of unmatched care amid our introduction to new ideas and their myriad of obstacles. Any pressure associated with this was never experienced on our own. By feeding off the strength from those around us, a safe space was created to acknowledge our concerns. The open expression of them gave Mr. Gibbs the platform to create clarity from those complications.
“In any classroom we spend a lot of time looking at each other as human beings and family,” said Mr. Gibbs, “because of that, you can allow kids to be imperfect in your classroom. And you share that with each other, to the point that we grow from each other and we help each other. So, it’s kind of like we designed our own support system with each other.”
This haven of safety became a blank canvas for creativity of all kinds. It was never reserved just for us students, but was an obvious outlet for Mr. Eddie Gibbs to reach in his deep bag of teaching tricks. In it was his own geographical experience and the passion associated with it. The focus of North Carolina’s rich history was a continuous theme throughout the entirety of our year. Growing up in Hyde County, set on the coast of our state, he had an important perspective we would soon be very familiar with.
“I always had a love, and still do, for the coast of North Carolina,” Mr. Gibbs said.
One big love letter for this location would be discovered in the pages of a special piece of literature. Taffy in Torpedo Junction, the book became the one I thought of first when asked about my all-time favorite. I now realize the reason behind this top ranking had less to do with the story itself and dealt more with the way it was presented to our class. Not only did we read the words on each page, we heard them. Mr. Gibbs did not merely read each one aloud from start to finish, he embodied the characters who spoke them. It immersed us all into the story’s world and created a more in-depth look at every aspect of the book. The infectious energy Mr. Gibbs had for Taffy in Torpedo Junction encouraged each of us to develop a deep connection toward the story. While we hung on every word he spoke, there was a clear sense of how much each one meant to him.
“I believe that book was written in the 1960s. The author lived between Englehard, where my grandmother grew up, and Manteo.” Mr. Gibbs shared, “She and my grandmother knew each other, so that’s how I had a connection with Taffy in Torpedo Junction.”
Identifying oneself in a story is a key part of relating to its material. Investing the time and effort to read and interpret the content can be a lot to ask of a young student, but for Eddie Gibbs, it was easy.
“In the book, I believe they mention Engelhard and they mention the gas station there in some part of that book. Because of that, when I read that as a kid, I was like ‘that’s my town!’”
Aside from the specific details of location, the idea of time is a crucial story point. The important historical themes from that moment are given a spotlight throughout the book’s entirety. The magnitude of them could have been difficult to grasp for an elementary student, the target audience for this story. This is something the book’s author, Nell Wechter, was well aware of. Taking place amid the tense moments building up to the start of World War II, those high stakes can be overwhelming for a young reader to fully respect their importance. It made a world of difference for the book’s main title character, Taffy, to be in our age range. Able to see those tough circumstances through the character’s eyes, while making note of her emotional reaction to them, a high level of accessibility and comprehension was created.
With the recognition of both setting and character, young Eddie Gibbs could also recognize this clear pathway to these crucial moments in history.
Referring to the book, Mr. Gibbs remembered, “It connected those places I knew with big events like World War II and Pearl Harbor on December seventh.”
Though our school’s town was not specifically mentioned by name, there were still plenty of personal experiences we had with North Carolina’s coast. Our immersion in the story’s setting had been felt before. Whether it was the sand between our toes, smell of salty air, the ocean breeze, any mention of these sensations came with an inherent understanding of their impact.
In speaking of our class, Mr. Gibbs said, “You all had something to connect it with,” because of that, he continued, “It was easier to build a love for that book.”
Even easier was Mr. Gibbs’ process of getting into character. Prominently featured in the story is the main character’s grandfather. Whenever this character spoke, Mr. Gibbs was given a chance to show off his clear appreciation of the specifics of dialect for the coastal location.
“The reason that part of that book was so important to me is because my daddy grew up on the coast and he had that very thick ‘hoi toide’ accent until the day he died. And so that was a part of my life growing up. I grew up with people who talked like that.” Mr. Gibbs explained, “So, in my attempt at trying to speak that way, I always felt close to those people because I could hear them talking in my ear. That was always good for me.”
This choice went well beyond any performative impact, though it was certainly entertaining. Unbeknownst to us at the time, there was a deeper, more substantial goal Mr. Gibbs had in mind.
“I thought it was good for children because, in our classes, we have such a variety of kids with experiences, languages, social norms, things that they accept and their parents accept,” Mr. Gibbs observed. “I felt like they needed to realize that there were other people in the world that spoke differently and behaved differently and valued different things. I tried to do that through that story.”
The impactful experience of visiting another time and place, along with its high stakes and historical significance, began to make my own responsibilities less appealing. The risk of taking them for granted was on an increasing rise. My failure to address one of them would put me right back in a place of reality I was in avoidance of facing.
Chapter 4
A major component of what made Mr. Eddie Gibbs special was the daily reminder of his unique abilities as an educator. As a student, what built even more respect for the man was my awareness of the other hats he put on when he wasn’t wearing his teaching one. While we weren’t always expected, nor encouraged, to know about the life of a teacher outside of school, the one Mr. Gibbs led outside of our classroom had an interesting appeal.
He was happy to share some parts about his other professions. When stories are used as a teaching method, aspects of the narrator’s life are usually unfolded. As a business owner of both a catering company and flower shop, in addition to being a full-time teacher, Mr. Gibbs put himself at even higher levels of rarefied air. His unique position came across as an incredible feat to me. It would have been less so if his style of teaching was lackadaisical, or even if he maintained a run of the mill, status-quo style of classroom. Yet, there was simply nobody further from what I had ever before seen from a teacher.
Prior to my understanding of a full-time educator’s wide array of responsibilities, there was still a fascination about the extra ones Mr. Eddie Gibbs had on his plate. I would often wonder, how could there possibly be any extra room for us?
Mr. Gibbs was more than happy to explain his philosophy by stating, “As a human being, I’ve always been the type that, when the school day ends, I’m done with school. I didn’t take a lot of school work home with me, because I’ve always believed that if a person hires you, you work as hard as you possibly can for them during the time that you’re employed. But when you’re done, your day is done to go home and do what you do.”
It was rare for Mr. Eddie Gibbs to veer from this throughout the year. Of the few occasions where there were other obligations he tended to, Mr. Gibbs explained, “Every now and then I had to take off a Friday afternoon because I had two weddings to do or whatever.”
One of those particular Friday afternoons takes me to a time where one of my own obligations was not tended to and altogether forgotten. This important moment provokes a contrasting feeling compared to nearly every other from that year. A vast majority of those memories I vividly recall will usually put a smile on my face and a joyful feeling in my heart. For this chain of events, I can only muster a cringe of embarrassment and shake of my head.
Mr. Gibbs let it be known that there was an expectation to get our daily homework planners signed by a parent or guardian. For each day of the week, our assigned homework had to be written down and, upon our completion of it, a parent would need to sign off. The nightly signature would be a sign of supervision and accountability at home.
He explained, “That whole planner thing was a big deal because homework was a big deal to me. I thought that the connection with school and family was important.”
Whether or not all parents abided by the true purpose of this could never be fully certain but with the planners Mr. Gibbs knew one thing could always be.
“I didn’t want momma’s calling me at the end of the nine weeks saying ‘my child has a bad grade on homework, I didn’t know they had homework.’ So, I always covered myself with that planner” said Mr. Gibbs. “I remember telling my class that on the very first day. ‘We do our homework and you have to get those planners signed.’”
Since the “failure to color” mishap from earlier in the year, I was always good about doing my homework. It was often the “getting the planner signed” task that required more effort for myself and my other classmates. It was almost too easy. This level of simplicity seemed to give our class enough reason to continuously delay the very strenuous process of seeking an adult’s signature. My mother, God love her, always went above and beyond when it came to her level of care for my education. She would go out of her way to ensure my work was not only complete, but done correctly and understood fully. Out of the question was the thought of ever casting any blame on her if the all-important signature was not provided. This is mainly because I never had to consider that scenario as a realistic possibility … until, alas, it was.
To begin their long weekend together, my parents left town on a Thursday afternoon. I was set to stay with my grandparents that night and throughout the weekend. I was also tasked with getting that one final signature to close the week. Homework? No problem! Signature? Not so fast. Absent from my mind was the thought of asking for it. Absent from my homework planner was, you guessed it, the signature.
In a mode of panic, I was pinned into a corner of my own creation. I could only wonder, how do I get myself out of this situation? While I assessed every avenue of escape, multiple answers to the question were shoved in my direction. If only I had known they were all the wrong ones. The blame game becomes very appealing in situations such as these. Yet, I was steadfast in knowing of my sole responsibility in this debacle. It made matters even worse to reckon with and my method for handling things would follow the same course.
If I could cast blame on anything, it would be the simplicity of my mother’s signature, which was basically her two initials, followed by a squiggly line. Surely I could do this myself, right? Once again … not so fast. Before explaining my penmanship efforts, I must also point to the fact that Mr. Gibbs just so happened to not be there that Friday afternoon. From both observations, I wondered, How can I make the most of these two key ingredients?
Remember those “wrong answers” that were shoved in my direction? An apparent easy signature and absent teacher were the beginning choices of a very deep rabbit hole filled with bad ones. Seeking to take advantage of both options, I severely miscalculated their complexities. Though Mr. Gibbs was not physically in our classroom, his instruction and rules remained intact. Even in my attempt to break them, I still felt the odd urge to uphold a certain standard of quality. Picking up a pencil as the substitute teacher began to check our signatures, I hurriedly glanced at my mother’s previous signatures one more time. I took a swing at copying what I saw … and missed … big time. No worries, though, unlike my mother, who had used a pen for literally every other signature, I had a pencil! Smart move, right? Even if I had nailed the first attempt, I would have already helped raise some suspicions with my choice of writing utensil.
With a pencil, came an eraser. With an eraser, came another signature attempt. Another swing … yet another miss. My version just simply was not making the cut. My third try, barely legible through the eraser marks, was as good as it was going to get. Regardless, I had no choice but to present the horrific handiwork to our substitute teacher, who was one stop from reaching my desk. When she arrived, I recall maintaining a nonchalant demeanor, though what was on the page was more along the lines of destruction, resembling every fiber of my internal being. She, too, erred on the side of calm after only taking half a beat to look at my planner. Hardly stopping before moving on to the next desk, my state of panic was put on pause.
What just happened?
With no clear answer in sight, I would have trouble finding any in the ensuing moments. Excuses masked as explanations? There was an abundance of those, which I happily provided in response to the substitute teacher’s inquiries.
Met with the very reasonable one of, “Did you write this?” I was steadfast in keeping a calm, cool outward expression.
The teacher, in reaction to my response of, “My mom did,” asked for my homework planner, held it up, and gave me a quizzical look, as if to say, are you serious?
“Serious?” Try dead serious, though inside it was just “dead” … completely dead. My follow-up statement firmly put a nail in a coffin I had bound myself to.
With ill-fated intentionality, I sheepishly told her, “She just messed up.”
Yikes … another swing, another big miss. While it may have been strike three, deep down I knew I had been out well before my first swing. I must say, I do credit the teacher for siding with an outward representation of the “be curious, not judgemental” perspective.
The thoughts kept to herself were probably more complex, just as mine were when she replied, “Okay … we’ll see what Mr. Gibbs thinks about it on Monday.”
It would be sensible to imagine how my weekend could have been ruined after this kind of declaration, and it very well should have. Yet, as I am sure you can tell from my choices leading to that moment, I sided more along the lines of impracticality. The rules of my world had become blockades to the real ones of life. Those two days away from school were unmarred by any anticipatory worry for potential punishment. Instead, it was as though I had forgotten about the matter altogether. I was due for a friendly reminder from the man whose plan I was deviating from. Before this could come, the bliss of normalcy was back in swing, as was our leader, Mr. Gibbs.
A new week was quick to cycle back around while our class resumed the course he was leading us on. Step by step, we progressed through the day’s agenda when suddenly it was flipped on its head. I was called to rise from my seat and approach the one who spoke my name. Responding to the summoning from Mr. Gibbs was the demand to both wake up and wise up. Unlike the past Friday, there was nothing private about this interaction. I was not the only one alert to what Mr. Gibbs would soon portray to myself, along with every other member of the class.
Mr. Eddie Gibbs was much less curious than our substitute had been. I provided him with all he needed to express an important level of judgment. Beating around the bush was not an option for Mr. Gibbs at that moment, nor was the use of discretion.
Explaining this method of discipline, he noted, “I always felt like if I taught you a lesson, there were other people in the classroom that could benefit from that lesson, as well. I did everything that I did in front of everybody else because that’s what family does.”
There is something binding and inherently relatable about the tense moments of a familial environment. It is a connective point Mr. Gibbs offered by saying, “When your daddy fusses at you, he says what he’s going to say at the supper table. And so I always did it that way.”
What followed his summoning and eventual sermon to our class was a blur to me. The next thing I knew I was drying my tear-filled face in the bathroom down the hall. Consumed with the embarrassment and shame of a sacrificial lamb, I looked in the mirror and was severely disappointed in its reflection. In what seemed like the major, life-altering deal to me then was only one example of many seen by Mr. Gibbs in his years of teaching.
“Kids would come in, and I knew perfectly well they signed their parents name or they had copied somebody else’s homework,” said Mr. Gibbs, “but it did not stop me from pouring the coals to them, so to speak, requiring that same homework.”
While my feet were planted in the hot coal Mr. Gibbs referenced, I took a moment to feel the fullest extent of those burns. I then slowly began to lift each foot and put one in front of the other. In hindsight, the self-consciousness of my actions were a bit dramatized. The nine and ten year age range of my classmates is a very forgiving and forgetful demographic. What happens one minute is quickly viewed as old news the next. When I entered back in the classroom, my red-face and puffy eyes were the only remnants left from the past moment’s scene. Seeing how everyone had already moved on, I knew I had permission to do so myself. Helping Mr. Gibbs with his steps away from the situation was a certain silver living point of view for dealing with the casual corner-cutting student.
“In truth, if a kid’s copying somebody else’s homework on the bus, they’re still learning something.” He explained, “Because as you copy something from somebody else, you're thinking, ‘Oh, that’s how they did it! Oh, I see!’ So I had to change my way of thinking about it a little bit and become a little more grace-giving in the world of homework and planners.”
These merciful actions were forged from a place of unconditional love. Just as his disciplinary choices resembled those shown from a family unit, the purposeful intent to promote a meaningful learning opportunity originated from the same source.
“I wanted to instill in everybody’s mind that this is what a family looks like.” Mr. Gibbs continued, “you can mess up and we still love you, just like that planner, you can sign your momma’s name but I’m still going to love you at the end of the day. I say that every single day, every single day, I say to children, ‘you’re my people, and I love you.’”
For an elementary-aged student to wrap their mind around such a phrase, it takes more than the sound of three words. It ultimately comes down to the consistent representation of them.
“I feel like that is so important because that day, a student may not always know what ‘I love you’ means,” Mr. Gibbs said, “but there will be a time in their life, I hope, that all of it comes home to them and it makes them a different person.”
By planting these seeds, it helps to recognize the wide range of growth rates within each individual. Every class group consists of students with unique learning styles and life experiences. Their world outside of the classroom and daily school hours is what helps mold their personalities, view of the world, and most importantly, view of each other. As is the case in a real family, its members cannot choose the others in their tribe. I do believe the ultimate value of this ideal has its highest impact in the elementary-aged years. It is at this point where young minds are molded into becoming a barometer for each day’s surroundings. When students can look around at a diverse environment of people, the realities of life are introduced in their purest form.
Mr. Gibbs sought to give us something to help represent this diversity and serve as a reminder of our yearlong mentality … “we are family.” Each tasked with bringing in a plain white t-shirt during one of the first weeks of the school year, that phrase would be at the front and center of the shirt. Directly below it, and nearly covering the entire front part of our shirt, was a photo of our entire class. Taken within the first month of the year, the class photo had a high level of significance.
For our school, the official class photos occurred during the spring. At this time of the year, the class bond has long been established and battle tested. The image on our shirt, taken before those dynamics could fully form, symbolized something very powerful. Aside from the variety of sizes, ethnicities, abilities, and personalities of those pictured, it showed a group of young students bound together in pursuit of something beyond themselves. It went beyond any academic feat and centered around the humanistic traits to carry us through a lifetime of learning in and outside of a classroom setting. These attributes would never be attainable for any of us on an individual basis. Only as one collective whole could we ever dream of pursuing such lofty expectations for a fourth grade class. Keeping it alive for all of us was Mr. Eddie Gibbs and the strong power of his convictions.
“I always did something, if it wasn’t a shirt it was something for us to all sign. Something like that because I felt like we always needed something to unite us.” Mr. Gibbs explained, “Part of that came, not as a teacher, but as a human being, because I felt like there were kids in every classroom I’ve ever taught that did not have family and in likelihood, I was the only person that was ever going to teach them, even the most remote idea of what family was.”
While the emphasis and impact of this was received by us as students, our group would soon become vessels of the idea’s core components. Witnessing how others around us were in desperate need of this message, it was suddenly our turn to give it back.
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