I.
Becoming
first year
“Here’s your keys, your room is at the end of the hall, on the left. Have fun.” And with those words, I find myself in my very own classroom. For the first time.
Twenty-eight battered and bruised desks, twenty-eight mismatching chairs, duct tape holding the dingy green carpet together. Is that a trap door in the corner? Scarred, wooden monstrosity which will be my desk. Probably spent its first life as a landing strip. Huge, saggy-shelf bookcase at the back of the room. Oh my, it’s hiding a door into another room. A secret, bat-cave entrance. Not a whiteboard in sight, it’s old school chalkboards in this classroom. Old rusty sink, not sure it even works. Six windows, four that open, but only two of them have screens. TV hung in the corner, like a pierced ear on your dad screaming, “See, I’m entirely hip and in touch with the times!”
Filing cabinets, three of them. Open a drawer and musty, years old paper grabs me by the nose. Three cabinets, nine drawers, all of them the same story. Will I need these things? These papers? These relics from another career? Black science counters taking up space at the back of the room. Wait, not just taking up space…these are cupboards. Moving aimlessly, opening cupboards, greeted by the detritus of thirty years in education. What will I possibly do with 79 rolls of scotch tape? Six bottles of vegetable oil? Thousands of pens? Coffee cans filled with crayon pieces? Dozens of gallons of tempura paint? What is tempura paint? Oh, Lord, am I expected to do my own art projects? Cause I don’t do art projects.
The books start coming. “This was fourth grade up until last year,” they explain, “those books you’ve got aren’t right, these are the ones you need. Teacher’s manuals? I’m sure they’ll turn up somewhere. Just keep looking.”
Landing strip haphazardly organized at last. Teacher’s editions gazing mutely back at me. A whole week. They want to see a whole week of lesson plans before the kids even come in the door. Every little detail, or just a general outline? Veteran teacher upstairs says, “Start with a review.” A review of what? What do they learn in fourth grade? Harry Wong says, “Start with procedures.” But what do fifth graders do while they’re learning procedures?
Just start at the beginning, I guess. Lesson 1.1. I’ll work in something about what the procedure is for using the restroom, too. Should I have them all practice? Or is just telling fifth graders what to do enough? Please, let this get easier. My weekends are going to be nonexistent.
Twenty-eight faces staring solemnly up at me. I wasn’t supposed to be their teacher. The beloved fourth-grade teacher was supposed to have looped with them. Who was I?
And that was the question on everyone’s mind: Who was I? Was I the pushover teacher, the one that all the other teachers hate to share a bus with on field trips because their kids behave so badly? Or was I the teacher whose children behave like small automatons because they are so completely terrified to so much as breathe the wrong way? Or was I something in between? Was I the worksheet teacher, sitting at her desk sipping coffee and ignoring raised hands? Or was I the inspiring teacher, who gave kids the tools to become what they were all along? Could I be?
Becoming
first year
“Here’s your keys, your room is at the end of the hall, on the left. Have fun.” And with those words, I find myself in my very own classroom. For the first time.
Twenty-eight battered and bruised desks, twenty-eight mismatching chairs, duct tape holding the dingy green carpet together. Is that a trap door in the corner? Scarred, wooden monstrosity which will be my desk. Probably spent its first life as a landing strip. Huge, saggy-shelf bookcase at the back of the room. Oh my, it’s hiding a door into another room. A secret, bat-cave entrance. Not a whiteboard in sight, it’s old school chalkboards in this classroom. Old rusty sink, not sure it even works. Six windows, four that open, but only two of them have screens. TV hung in the corner, like a pierced ear on your dad screaming, “See, I’m entirely hip and in touch with the times!”
Filing cabinets, three of them. Open a drawer and musty, years old paper grabs me by the nose. Three cabinets, nine drawers, all of them the same story. Will I need these things? These papers? These relics from another career? Black science counters taking up space at the back of the room. Wait, not just taking up space…these are cupboards. Moving aimlessly, opening cupboards, greeted by the detritus of thirty years in education. What will I possibly do with 79 rolls of scotch tape? Six bottles of vegetable oil? Thousands of pens? Coffee cans filled with crayon pieces? Dozens of gallons of tempura paint? What is tempura paint? Oh, Lord, am I expected to do my own art projects? Cause I don’t do art projects.
The books start coming. “This was fourth grade up until last year,” they explain, “those books you’ve got aren’t right, these are the ones you need. Teacher’s manuals? I’m sure they’ll turn up somewhere. Just keep looking.”
Landing strip haphazardly organized at last. Teacher’s editions gazing mutely back at me. A whole week. They want to see a whole week of lesson plans before the kids even come in the door. Every little detail, or just a general outline? Veteran teacher upstairs says, “Start with a review.” A review of what? What do they learn in fourth grade? Harry Wong says, “Start with procedures.” But what do fifth graders do while they’re learning procedures?
Just start at the beginning, I guess. Lesson 1.1. I’ll work in something about what the procedure is for using the restroom, too. Should I have them all practice? Or is just telling fifth graders what to do enough? Please, let this get easier. My weekends are going to be nonexistent.
Twenty-eight faces staring solemnly up at me. I wasn’t supposed to be their teacher. The beloved fourth-grade teacher was supposed to have looped with them. Who was I?
And that was the question on everyone’s mind: Who was I? Was I the pushover teacher, the one that all the other teachers hate to share a bus with on field trips because their kids behave so badly? Or was I the teacher whose children behave like small automatons because they are so completely terrified to so much as breathe the wrong way? Or was I something in between? Was I the worksheet teacher, sitting at her desk sipping coffee and ignoring raised hands? Or was I the inspiring teacher, who gave kids the tools to become what they were all along? Could I be?
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