I don't give up (on broken things)

The students groaned when I told them I still wanted to try and complete the 750-piece puzzle we have at the front of the room.  The day before, one student made the mistake of spilling water on the table.  The dry cardboard pieces soaked up the liquid like so many tiny sponges, warping out of shape.  When they tried to dry them off with paper towels, the designs on the front of the pieces peeled away, rendering it useless.

"I don't give up on broken things," I said.  Some students paused, and nodded their heads approvingly.

I don't give up on broken things, particularly people.  Perhaps I am revealing a little too much of myself by admitting that I am often attracted to people with baggage, pasts with stories that include heartbreak, failure, addiction, or loss.  My friends accuse me of having a "Superman Complex," a reckless need to selflessly save others.  I think I can care too much.  I take responsibility over things that I cannot possibly control, and then I am especially hard on myself when it all goes wrong.  I do this because I, too, was broken at one time.  I was salvaged.  I just want to salvage other people, too.

In regards to my program, I've got a couple kids who just aren't getting it.  We've established the basic rules of program with them as clearly as possible.  One student has even been removed from program for a few months and recently let back in after a conversation with their parents and a behavior contract.  Their behaviors haven't changed: they frequently loiter in the hallway or restrooms to avoid participating in program.  They are inattentive and disrespectful when others are talking.  They do not stick with club activities and are frequently on their phones.

I've tried multiple ways to change their behavior: behavior contracts, calling parents, talking to the students personally about what they can do, giving them roles during clubs.  We're still not seeing any significant change.

I believe in the necessity of Bright Futures for my students, especially at our school.  Many have home lives that aren't very safe, stable, or supportive.  We provide a place for students that offers a different childhood or pre-adolescent narrative:  that there is somewhere a student can be loved unconditionally, in a way that facilitates positive development.

So what to do at this point?  On one hand, I have a responsibility to my program to keep things running smoothly and provide the best after-school experience I can for all of my students.  Removing students who are constantly disruptive of our structure is a necessary action.  On the other hand, our program exists to bring students back on track, more socially and emotionally than academic.  If I send these students away, am I really performing the function of our program?