Empathy: Recognizing a teachable moment

Teaching Pre K-8, Nov/Dec 2001 by Olney-Friedrich, Michelle

How a sixth grade teacher turned an "incurable medical condition" into a valuable lesson

My mom noticed the first bald spot on my head as we argued over prom dresses at Dillards. She demanded to know what I had done to my hair Unfortunately, the nickel-sized bald spot did not signify a seventeen-year old's attempt to emulate Sinead O'Connor; rather, it signified the appearance of alopecia areata, a disfiguring auto-immune condition.

One week after the first bald spot was sighted, a dermatologist told me that millions of Americans suffer from some form of alopecia. He bluntly explained my prospects: 1) my hair might fall out completely only to grow back later in life, or not at all; and 2) the nickel-- sized spot might grow in with no more fall-out, or more hair could fall out, grow in and then fall out again. The possibilities terrified me - a seventeen-year-old, just asked to the prom, considering life as a bald woman.

Like millions of Americans with alopecia, I felt alone. My hair fell out, grew in and fell out. I purchased a frightful off-the-rack wig, and by nineteen had a custom-made head of hair. My hair regrew in time for student teaching, then promptly fell out again. A new prospect loomed being a bald teacher. At the time, it never occurred to me that alopecia areata would become a teachable moment. An important question. The students in my sixth grade English class toiled away on their persuasive pieces - every student except Barbara. Barbara specialized in high-volume, "Your Mama" insults, although the opportunities to hurl them decreased as my experience increased.

Surveying the room, Barbara stood next to me and cupped her hand around my ear. "Ms. Olney," she whispered. "Do you wear a wig?"

I mimicked her body language and whispered in return, "Yes, I do. Give me a moment and I'll tell you and the class why."

Barbara returned to her seat and I asked the class for their time and attention. "Barbara has just asked me an important question, and I need to share the answer with all of you. I have a condition called alopecia areata, which means that I lose my hair - so I wear a wig."

The decision to share my story with my students arose from slightly selfish reasons. I am bald and I do wear a wig. Once these facts are out in the open, I don't have to worry about someone "finding out," and the kids can concentrate on the lesson instead of my hair. After telling the story of my hair loss to 280 students, I discovered that every single one of them responded with empathy and compassion. What follows is a summary of their questions and responses to my story.

"Weren't you afraid no one would like you?"

This type of question topped the list for sixth grade girls. They wanted to know if my boyfriend took me to the prom...if my fiance (who is now my husband) knew that I wear a wig...if boys asked about my wig...if boys still liked me once they found out I had no hair. I told them that I only dated boys who cared about who I am, so of course my boyfriend still took me to the prom. They were amazed and relieved to discover that boys might like them even if they have some odd physical trait.

"Were you devastated? I wouldn't want to leave the house or want anyone to know."

Boys and girls alike expressed this sentiment. It gave me the opportunity to emphasize that I have had five years to adjust to my condition. When I first found out about alopecia, I was worried sick about people seeing my bald spots and about meeting new people. If they had asked me at age 19 if I wore a wig, I would have burst into tears and run out of the room. As I explained the process of learning to accept my baldness, I noticed looks of recognition and hope cross the faces of some of my students who also have some type of physical disability. One student, a shy boy who lost two fingers on his left hand, relaxed in his chair and glanced at me as he listened intently.

"Are people ever mean to you? Do you feel bad when they are?"

I related stories of adults yelling obscenities at me as they drive or walk by on days when I choose to go out in my natural state. I recalled a high school "friend" telling everyone I had mange. I told them about a thoughtless college student who laughed out loud at my bald spot as I bent down to pick up my belongings in a bookstore. The kids got angry, just as I do when someone is insensitive.

"What do you do when people are mean to you?"

Most of my students had a few good suggestions and I responded in every way possible. I told them that I have yelled right back, but the most effective method of retribution is to look the person straight in the eye and explain that I have an incurable medical condition and kindly point out how unbelievably rude and insensitive they are.

"You know, Ms. Olney, people are mean to me, too."

This comment grabbed everyone's attention. Those students who were so indignant about adults being rude to their teacher turned to look at a classmate they picked on that morning.

Robert raised his hand. "All the kids call me fat. My mom says I'm just getting ready to grow because I only gained weight last year. It's not fair that they don't like me because I'm fat."