How Trying to Love a Pet Rabbit is Like Teaching a Struggling Writer

This is the second draft of a piece I started this summer. I've been working to revise it to submit it to NCTE's National Gallery of Writing. I'm not sure I'm totally satisfied with it, but it includes good thoughts to think about at the beginning of a new school year.

Prey animals at heart, they are skittish. Bunnies have a natural instinct to run away, to escape the fox or hawk or human. As a group, they combat their weakness by reproducing rapidly, but as individuals, they are constantly afraid of what harm will befall them. Even in the safety of the basement, my rabbit, Clark, darts from cover to cover, quickly grabbing a treat between his teeth before hopping away to eat it in a safer location. I’ve been giving him daily food and water, along with auxiliary treats, for two years now, and he’s still afraid I might suddenly make him into a stew.

My classroom experiences with struggling writers have been the same way. I don’t think most teachers intend to prey on young writers, but experience with my bunny tells me that vulnerable beings may perceive a real danger even when it isn’t there. It may come sometimes from the wrong “helpful” comment on the wrong day, or several poor grades on essays they worked on intensely, but I think for my most reluctant students, it’s a feeling of failure that builds up over time. By the time my students come to me in eighth grade, writing has made them vulnerable so many times that they want to run or hide or not give a true attempt: if you don’t expose yourself, you remain safe.

There remains joy in watching a bunny, just as there is sometimes immediate joy in teaching. Clark will dig an imaginary den in a pet carrier with an intensity that reminds me not to give up. When he gains speed and has a sudden burst of energy, he jumps and twists simultaneously, in a gleeful motion that makes me laugh every time. I experience this genuine joy in the classroom, too, when a kid asks a gutsy question that restores my hope in the future, or a student’s kindness toward another child gives me a new ideal to work toward. Reading student work often reminds me how challenging adolescence can be or trains me not to drink or eat while reading, because I’ll sometimes choke on a giggle.

But there are times when my enthusiasm for these two areas of my life goes terribly wrong. What humans see as affection, bunnies see as threatening. When I try to pick up Clark, he is afraid I am going to kill and eat him. He kicks his feet and tries to scratch me—anything to get away and thump his little foot to show his anger and fear and reinstate a boundary I didn’t have permission to cross. When a young, vulnerable writer hands me a piece, I feel the same hesitation in the air. Just as touch sends a warning signal to bunnies, feedback on writing is something that has many times burned struggling writers in their pasts. They are told to be honest, to take a risk, to care. And every time I read too quickly, fail to listen, and respond too strongly with my own intentions, the desire to shut down grows. In my struggling writers, I see a reluctance to accept even praise, because they simply don’t believe it. They have been offered this carrot in the past, just before the list of suggestions and errors comes out.

Progress is made. After several nights of sitting on the basement stairs with Clark, telling him stories about my day (without trying to touch him), he’ll warm up. He’ll hop over and let me softly pet the spot he likes in the center of his nose. But I will read too much into it, and let my excitement carry me away, and the next night when I spontaneously reach for him (even when I know better), he sprint-hops away and thumps in a cupboard. I was uninvited. When I think about Mark, a writer I worked with this year, I made the same mistakes. We would make a little headway: Mark would ask me a question or share a piece of writing, looking for feedback. Working from what seemed like a good place, I would push too much or say too much, in a language that was comfortable to me. Mark would return to his seat, distancing himself from his piece and from me, rebuilding his shell.

There are lessons to learn here, from Clark. I know he’s ready for a little human-type affection when he comes bumbling over to me (especially if I don’t have a carrot in my hand). I remain patient, and I am sensitive to the differences in the ways we show we care. When he runs away, I recognize his prey-animal tendencies. I don’t take it personally or assume he’s not trying his best. I take it a day at a time, and I take responsibility for forging and repairing the damage to our relationship, some for which I am not responsible and some in which I must recognize my role. I can strive for the same understandings with kids like Mark: waiting for them to make the first move, showing caution in my words, not becoming too eager. It’s easy to forget that even when two species speak the same language, they don’t always understand each other. I must do better if I want my reluctant writers to see me as something other than another predator.