This can apply to lots of situations, not just school so I had to pass it
along...Karen

 > The I CAN'T Funeral

> > Author Unknown



> > 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 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
form retirement. In addition she was a volunteer participant in a
country-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 the students
were working on a task, filling a sheet of notebook paper with thoughts and
ideas. The ten-year-old student next 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 in student's 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 hand 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 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 the 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 the papers in half and bring them to the front. When the students
reached their teacher's desk, they placed their "I Can't" statements into an
empty shoe box.

When all of the students 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 hallway 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 to 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 approached
three fee deep, the digging ended. The box of "I Can'ts" was placed in a
position at the bottom of the hole and then quickly covered with dirt.

Thirty one 10 and 11-year-olds stood around the freshly dug rave 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 here today to honor the
memory of 'I Can't.'  While he was with us here on earth, he touched, the
lives or everyone, some more than others. His name unfortunately, has been
spoken in every public
building- school, 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
contained his epitaph. His is survived by his brothers and sisters, 'I Can,'
'I Will' and 'I'm Going to Right Away.' They are not as well known as their
famous relative and are certainly not as strong and powerful yet.  Perhaps
some day, with your help, they will make an even 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 then and hearing the eulogy. That was a major
effort on this part of the 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 a large tombstone from butcher
paper. She wrote the words "I Can't" at the top and put 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.