Visiting a school, I rested during what I thought was my lunch period. Glancing over at the typed schedule I'd been given, I suddenly realized I was supposed to be in a class! I dashed into the school and tore into the classroom, still panting. Without thinking I apologized, "I'm sorry, it's my ADD in my face again!" After a momentary pause to calm myself, I began to talk about how Attention Deficit Disorder affects my life.

"But you're happy!" called out one child, defending me against what she perceived as an attack on myself.

"And you're fun!" commented another.

"Yes," I laughed, "I'm those things and I make myself crazy a lot of the time by forgetting details, or having so many ideas at once, or getting off on tangents. I work hard at organizing myself and sometimes, I mess up, like today. And I apologize," I ended.

The children were warm and wonderful. I loved the way they forgave me. "Hey, no one's perfect!" offered one.

"Who likes perfect?" added another.

After class, a child came up and admitted quietly, "I have ADD, too."

"It's hard isn't it?" I asked.

"Yeah," she smiled.

Several hours later a teaching assistant made a point of stopping me in the hall, to tell me she respected how I'd talked about my struggles. She'd worked with students who were emotionally disturbed and knew they benefited when adults spoke openly about their own endeavors, showing the children models of success and strategy. She'd seen children with all kinds of difficulties, but what she noticed was how differently they dealt with what was handed to them.

We agreed quickly that the worst disability we see in schools is Attitude. Attitude is that stony sulky silent temper tantrum where children hide effectively in a place impossible to reach. It's incredibly popular in schools these days, probably because TV and media glorify its triumph. Children aren't fools. They're quick to learn strategies that get attention and save them from facing problems. If you don't want to deal with something, put on Attitude. It makes adults crazy because they know children who achieve mastery of Attitude in the present are often robbing themselves of skills they'll need in the future.

When I teach, I can see the struggles that children face and how little we do to help them strategize. I see lurkers, timid about sharing their wonderful ideas and the "I'll-do-it-my-ways" who alienate others. There are the bullies, who gain respect from fear, while the tender-hearted children are hurt by classroom cruelties. I've seen all these types in adults, too. We never learned to identify or discover ways out of these behaviors.

I enjoy earning my "human button"; making mistakes, figuring out what they have to teach, and mostly telling stories about what I've learned. Recently I attended "Moral Education in a Diverse Society", a conference sponsored by the Kenan Ethics Program at Duke. When professionals in the field spoke of confessional teaching, telling stories that have taught you, I resonated. My most meaningful classroom times come when I talk about the difficulties I face, children face, and all human beings deal with.

But I don't go there as often as I'd like. Most times, I only have a week to teach writing so I often end important conversation to get to concepts. I interrupt a child who wants to open up so that we can get on with the task at hand. I do this to serve the mind, but what, I wonder often, do I do to serve the heart?

I'm betting my behavior is much like that of many teachers. But they have it worse. I don't have the end of grade tests hanging over my head, or the difficulty of meeting so many academic goals. Still my situation represents a version of what they face and I suspect many teachers grieve the fact they don't have time to deal with life's more important issues.

I'm more afraid about this next generation being human and humane than I am about their reading skills. If only humanity were measured in schools, perhaps society would worry more, too. Tests are omnipotent because they can measure results, but as far as I know there are no tests to measure how a child is learning to deal with the issues of getting along in the world. So we, as educators, deal with what's countable and measurable. It's almost doable.

Then what happens when children grow up? Crime and violence, the results of emotional intelligences never tested in schools , become more measurable and more frightening than lack of academic proficiency. But by then it's too late to make change.