BREATHING BUDDIES
Drive to the dead end at the farthest reach of a street on the east side of New York City's Spanish Harlem and you find an elementary school, P.S. 112, snuggled between the FDR Drive, a Catholic church, a parking lot for big-box stores, and the massive
Robert F. Wagner low-income housing compound.
The kindergartners through second graders who attend P.S. 112 come from hardscrabble homes, many in those low-income apartments. When a seven-year-old there mentioned in class that he knew someone who had been shot, the teacher asked how many other children knew a shooting victim. Every hand went up.
As you enter P.S. 112, you sign in at a desk manned by a po lice officer, albeit a kindly older woman. But if you walk down the halls as I did one morning, what's most striking is the atmosphere: looking into classrooms I found the children sitting still, calm and quiet, absorbed in their work or listening to their teacher.
When I drop by Room 302, the second-grade classroom of co-teachers Emily Hoaldridge and Nicolle Rubin, I witness one ingredient in the recipe for the halcyon atmosphere: breathing buddies.
The twenty-two second graders sit doing their math, three or four to a table, when Miss Emily strikes a melodious chime. bn cue, the kids silently gather on a large rug, sitting in rows,cross-legged, facing the two teachers. One girl goes over to the classroom door, puts a DO NOT DISTURB sign on the outside knob, and closes it.
BREATHING BUDDIES
Drive to the dead end at the farthest reach of a street on the east side of New York City's Spanish Harlem and you find an elementary school, P.S. 112, snuggled between the FDR Drive, a Catholic church, a parking lot for big-box stores, and the massive
Robert F. Wagner low-income housing compound.
The kindergartners through second graders who attend P.S. 112 come from hardscrabble homes, many in those low-income apartments. When a seven-year-old there mentioned in class that he knew someone who had been shot, the teacher asked how many other children knew a shooting victim. Every hand went up.
As you enter P.S. 112, you sign in at a desk manned by a po lice officer, albeit a kindly older woman. But if you walk down the halls as I did one morning, what's most striking is the atmosphere: looking into classrooms I found the children sitting still, calm and quiet, absorbed in their work or listening to their teacher.
When I drop by Room 302, the second-grade classroom of co-teachers Emily Hoaldridge and Nicolle Rubin, I witness one ingredient in the recipe for the halcyon atmosphere: breathing buddies.
The twenty-two second graders sit doing their math, three or four to a table, when Miss Emily strikes a melodious chime. bn cue, the kids silently gather on a large rug, sitting in rows,cross-legged, facing the two teachers. One girl goes over to the classroom door, puts a DO NOT DISTURB sign on the outside knob, and closes it.
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