Saturday, December 10, 2005
Kindergarten Kinetics
With the forecast for rain, I had abandoned my construction work and accepted a call to teach Kindergarten. Upon my arrival at the classroom I left the door unlocked, anticipating that some of my charges might seek refuge from the rain outside. Before I’d made it through the first few paragraphs of the teacher’s Lesson Plan, one sodden little girl traipsed in.
I have found that those who stay in close orbit to the figure of authority often like to explain how the day is to proceed. I asked about certain logistical issues. She was happy to elaborate on the location of the basket for lunch tickets, the buckets of library books and the easel with classmate names. When she began to tell me how to move the named clothespins from happy faces to sad, I interrupted her with thanks. Foolishly hopeful as ever, I trusted that my own minor disciplinary measures would suffice. After all, this was only Kindergarten. Five year olds generally had not attained the level of sophistication and cunning required for the airs and attitudes displayed in the upper reaches of the elementary school spectrum.
I spent the first Reading Time introducing myself and my rules -- one person talks, subs do it differently sometimes, learn something new each day and have fun doing it. We passed out nametags. I always found it rather distancing to call out “you in the back” in lieu of a friendly “Sarah” or “Kirby.”
Fifth graders arrived to pick up attendance and lunch count. Hurriedly I noted 19 present and accounted for. The kids helped me to put lunch money and tickets in the envelope and note the total number RSVP-ing for the noontime attraction.
Toothless
One little girl came up and presented me a tooth in hand. This was not a “show and tell” item brought from home, but live, unfolding drama. Such an event can be traumatic and inevitably awaited everyone in the room. Seeking to forestall fear and panic, I chose to deal with it candidly and calmly. I let her show it around.
We got some wet tissue for the tooth’s former location and a dry one to wrap up the tooth. I wondered whether I should offer the consoling myth of the bribing tooth fairy, or indeed whether such a legend even extended into her Asian culture. I cautiously entered a middle ground by asking, “Has anyone heard of putting a tooth under your pillow?” The rest of the class eagerly offered the basics of the commercial exchange.
“You can take the tissue out now,” I instructed. The little girl shook her head. “It’s okay. There’s no more bleeding,” I consoled. She shook again. “Where is your tooth?” I inquired. She shrugged. Soon I was looking through discarded tissues on the floor for a tooth, ne’er to be found. At this point, a learned rule of teacher survival kicked in: I proceeded to wash my hands vigorously at the sink.
Things were proceeding nicely, albeit with the hectic pace I found to be usual. The phone rang to inform me that my parent helper was a no-show. Just when I was hoping for a positive change in the student-teacher ratio!
Turkey soup with rice!
We finished half of the math sheets and moved on to turkey-by-numbers, per the Lesson Plan. I searched the desk. I looked elsewhere in the room, near the art supplies, the cupboards. I saw no images of turkeys. Why were we doing turkeys, anyway? Thanksgiving was last week! Maybe this was just “sub-filler” material. “Okay, let’s do another math sheet,” I compromised.
Just then an aide walked in, as if sent from higher realms. I asked her to help guide the students while I frantically continued my search. This teacher had notes well prepared, documents clipped together: she was too organized to have forgotten the materials. I looked again in the day’s pile: there, under a sticky note saying “writing/journal” was a cubist’s version of a polygon turkey!
I asked the aide to take some children on the rug and gave her the “Wednesday bucket” project abandoned by my parent helper. The note said “she’ll know what to do.” I implored the aide to figure out what to do. With twenty kids about to breach from their desks, I found such delegation skills to be essential.
Quickly passing out turkeys, I explained the “color by number” scheme. Attending each table, I reviewed this again and had them color in the number keys on the bottom of the page. Everything seemed to be going well. “Where is your turkey?” I asked a brown-haired boy. “I don’t have one.” What had this kid been doing for the last ten minutes?
Incarceration
The loudspeaker interrupted: “Attention everyone. Because of the weather, we will be having Rainy Day Recess in the classroom.” There went my extra time to read over the notes again. More concernedly, this growing mass of energy would have to be contained within four small walls. Normally an opponent of video sedation, I nonetheless resorted to the teacher’s proffered videotape.
To my dismay, it soon appeared that even Winnie the Pooh could not hold their attention. The fission reaction began as students went from here to there in increasingly chaotic fashion. Noise levels rose. Several times I had to blow my kazoo to defer critical mass. Finally I abandoned containment and decided to co-opt, figuring a gradual and controlled release of energy was preferable to a sudden explosion. I brought out my Pustefix Bear.
Bubble rebellion
Squeezing his belly, I blew through the rising circle to create a stream of bubbles that floated over their heads. Screams of excitement pierced the air. Hands shot out to pierce the bubbles – and occasionally poke a neighbor in the face. This wouldn’t do.
With demands of “I want a turn!” following me, I left the rug and invited a child up onto a table. I was sure there was a very sane rule prohibiting such behavior. I furthermore suspected such rebellious disregard for newly learned norms might bring down all sense of social order. It was a critical moment.
“Normally we don’t stand on tables; but just this time, only one at a time, we’re going to do this so the bubbles go up high. Okay? Remember what I said about subs doing it differently sometimes?” As I tried to tag logic back onto such errant behavior, I wondered whether the teacher would consider this blasphemy or acceptable crisis management. Twenty kids were jumping around me; I had no time for theoretical musing. Bubbles captured their attention. It seemed to be working. Everybody got a turn or two. No more faces got poked. The bell rang, promising relief but offering only a transition.
I can’t see Jane
We sat down to read at the rug -- usually a calming influence when returning from an exhausting recess. However, my confined charges were not so winded. The number of teary-eyed altercations was rising. While I brought together the aggrieved parties for friendly resolution, the uncontained noise level rose again.
To bring a central focus, I began to read a picture book to the assembled class. Then I heard it: that familiar cry, “I can’t see!” As an experienced Kindergarten teacher, I had faced this before and had sought the help of other professionals. “Show everyone the page first; then read,” they had counseled. I showed. I read. Sometimes I folded the book against the binding so they had visual stimulation whilst I provided the audible. We stumbled on thusly until Round One was over. Time for lunch!
Nature is said to abhor a vacuum. So too there is some natural disintegrating force that acts to dissipate a simple line into its constituent points. After herding my students into a line by the door, I command the leader to begin walking. I remained by the door, nudging them along to close the gaps of inattention and to ensure that the tail end actually stayed attached. By the time the last student emerged, the line ahead had meandered, gapped and merged with other class lines now in an amorphous flow toward the cafeteria.
How was this going to work, I contemplated, when the students didn’t have their tickets? Were their names noted on some roster? What about those who had brought unmarked currency? How could the lunch administrator manage this for the entire school? It seemed more likely the work of an uninformed substitute, I concluded. Time to pursue corrective action.
I found the ticket-taker and explained my suspicion. In magical fashion, she withdrew an envelope filled with the class’ morning booty. I thanked her and retraced the line, redistributing the entire wealth to children whose names and faces seemed familiar. With all claims met, I retired – or retreated – to the sanctity of the teacher’s lounge.
“How’s it going?” asked a young woman in the shelter.
“Rather like herding squirrels,” I replied.
“You mean, ‘shepparding,’ don’t you?” she offered. I preferred the peaceful sound of her word, despite the greater accuracy of my own.
Broken bouquet
After lunch I gathered the troops on the rug. One boy sat dejectedly, unresponsive to concerned classmates around him. “What can we do to make him feel better?” I suggested. We all considered. I had seen bright red maple leaves outside the classroom door. At hand was the promise of distraction – an essential tool of parenting. I went outside, three girls in tow. Before I could even show them the leaves, one little girl pointed and exclaimed, “Flowers!” Honoring such independent thought, I said they could pick this simple icon of joy and healing. The girls went over and started to pick. When they reached for second bunches, I called them back.
It was a sweet albeit short-lived moment as they gave their flower blooms to their classmate. Almost immediately the petals began to fall off. Curious children started to crush the petals; others began to complain about something and moved away from the rug. In our haste to console on this wet and rainy day, the girls had brought lots of mud from outside. Brown clumps were ground into the carpet. I began taking off shoes, but the warm togetherness of children clustered “criss-cross apple sauce” was lost for the duration.
Contagion
One girl had a stomach ache and prepared to leave for the office. Suddenly, three other girls had acute digestional problems as well and demanded similar treatment. I told them all to wait and see, hoping the psychosomatic epidemic would pass.
It was at this time that I reached a familiar point in a substitute teacher’s day, asking myself the existential question: “How did I get myself into this?” With a deep breath and the steeled resolve of an educational firefighter, I continued on.
Factional clashes seemed to be arising at all corners. I hastened to redress these grievances. As classroom control approached a delicate turning point, I stopped to hear one boy’s concern. “What? Please tell me again,” I said above the din. After two more tries, I finally understood his words: “I have a dog.”
Abandoning all sense of context as well, I congratulated him and asked what kind. While he was speaking, one of the dramatically ill girls returned to implore her release. I knelt down to calm and console. With tears in her eyes, she pleaded her case as she cried and sniffled and coughed. Generally I favored eye-level conversations with kids, especially when they were upset and needed comfort. As airborne droplets projected from her mouth with every sob and sniffle, I realized the folly of my ways.
Calling for reinforcements, I checked with Cathy in the office. She agreed that the first girl might have a legitimate complaint, as she had been out the previous day. I gave her a note for the cruising hall monitor and slipped her surreptitiously out the door.
Hyperactive
I rounded up my charges to do more independent work at Centers. In the morning session, everyone wanted to draw on whiteboards. This afternoon’s popular pastime was blocks. The teacher had been quite clear on assigning only four per task. Amidst the ensuing outcry, I tried rotation. Children lobbied desperately for inclusion. Others wandered off task. The feverishly ill girls recalled their ailments and renewed their demands. “In twenty minutes, you can go home to rest.” Was I talking to them or to myself?
After a bout of multi-tasking, I raised the teacher’s Official Noisemaker for Silence and waited for the class hyperactivity to abate. I instructed them to assemble papers for home and pick up classroom materials that had scattered across the floor. We were still hunting and gathering when parents began to appear.
The teacher’s notes had an appealing section on releasing them one by one, letting each shake my hand or give me a hug before joining their parents. On a calmer day, I would have loved this. Today, we weren’t ready. Kids did not have their backpacks. They were not at their tables. I decided to resort to an old game of matching pairs. Hailing each parent one by one, I asked them to claim his or her offspring, complete with coat and backpack. The day care coordinator appeared to take charge of the remaining group.
Soon I was comfortably alone, free to collapse amidst the shambles of Room 5. Some chairs were on tables; others were not. Papers and markers were scattered across the floor. Mud was smeared on the carpet. Nearby a discarded and forgotten coat offered the illusory hope of a clean spot beneath. It was as if this kinetic disarray had been frozen in time by a snapshot image, devoid of the implied motion. By next morning, this stillness would melt once again into the fluid activity called Kindergarten.
© 2005 James Chandler
Monday, February 21, 2005
Welcome to class!
The substitute classroom is a place of both peril and humor. We enter, unarmed and at a logistical disadvantage. Kids have an innate need to test a sub, to see if the absence of their regular teacher offers an opportunity for blissful chaos. Often, they succeed in this attainment.
More often, a seasoned substitute teacher -- while not exactly commandeering the class -- has a reasonable chance at survival and even occasionally, success. There are times when the stumbling errors he or she makes and the humorous candor of the young charges make for excellent dinnertime stories. Usually one must wait a few days for these events, viewed live as near catastrophe, to cool to palatable temperature.
Substitute teaching is not for the faint of heart, nor for the uncaring. Amidst the conflicts, skirmishes and misunderstandings, an understood goal of learning and enabling drives us to answer the call, which usually comes about 5:30 A.M. Groggily but nobly, we don battle armor to enter the classroom yet again as "The Sub."
My "first day" of school
Driving down
I'd wondered what teaching would be like. Varied as my work experience was -- from swinging a sledge hammer on the railroad to arranging multi-million dollar high tech financings -- I'd never been a teacher. I had no teaching credential. In recent years, I couldn't afford the pay cut. However, my current career status, namely "unemployed," now reversed the financial logic in favor of education, which had an ideological edge over waiting tables again. I inquired further.
It turns out one needs only to jump through a few hoops -- TB test, fees, fingerprinting -- and present a valid college diploma, preferably with your own name prominently listed. Heck, I had a couple of those. Fees when money is tight? Well, I'd paid union dues on construction sites. I figured I'd break even if I could last two days.
Then their was the FBI checks of my fingerprints. Hoping that they didn't review clandestine photos of peace marches in the Seventies, I submitted to the scans. The government determined that I was clear -- or at least that I did not pose and immediate danger to school children. I received my official Substitute Teacher ID from the
January 14th. Day One; grade Five; 31 students --- all talking and moving simultaneously. I commanded them to take their seats. I requested. I implored. I wished I had a coach's whistle or a megaphone.
First we made name cards for everyone. I had prepared 33 cards for 31 students before class. Somehow, we ran out. I cut more. We ran out again. It took 45 name cards to make 31 names. Already the math was beyond me.
We began instruction. Fortunately, my mid-year students know what to do. They wandered purposefully to their desk clusters, about six with 4-6 students each. Unfortunately, many had differing opinions of what this entailed. Several -- each trying to commandeer my exclusive attention -- came up to explain to me what should be transpiring. I began to appreciate small families.
My predecessor had left me scanty notes obliquely referring to books and worksheets. I was sure these would make sense to me once I had accustomed myself to the routine and order of an elementary school classroom. This was, however, the first hour of my teaching experience. How to wing it?
Recalling a note from the teacher about class helpers, I immediately used my first "lifeline" in the form of a young girl. Morgan was a savior as she led us through many obstacles, from the Flag Salute to homework assignments. I called on her often; she was my anchor, my rock --- all four feet of her.
I wrote a few rules on the board, with objectives being: learn something new and have fun! I realized I was shooting too high, that today's goal would be lower on the scale: survival. I soon drew out my second lifeline.
My daughter had advised me that the key to effective Sub teaching was bribery; that is, positive reinforcement with candy. For good answers or behavior, I began to shower Jolly Rogers like a parading celebrity. This worked well for awhile. Alas, any distribution of wealth in any society will soon be deemed unfair by someone. The candy addicts started whining.
I found the only way I could keep their attention was to keep them fully engaged. I talked almost constantly, with responses and questions and complaints interceding. My throat was getting dry. One boy was wandering from his desk. I soon saw he was fetching tissues to blow his nose. I offered him one to shorten his tour. Instead, he gave me all of his accumulated and rather used tissues. Oh well; I tossed them in the trash. Days later as I queried the source of my newfound cold, I remembered the boy and the tissues.
Lunch! Saved by the bell. I was told they would return by the rear door. I rested, recouped, ate and waited. Where were they? A few scouts showed up, expressing disapproval that I had not come to get them on the tarmac and lead them homeward, through the rear door. Oops.
"That's not how we do it!" was a common complaint. "Subs do it differently sometimes, and that's okay!" I reiterated this. Finally, I knew I had gotten through when one boy shouted at a complainer: "Subs do it different!" I had established a new truth, one essential to the survival of the entire Sub culture. We need a bit of flexibility sometimes.
The afternoon wore on. I used my last lifeline: baseball. My own fifth grade teacher had played this game, to rave reviews. I still remembered it. I split the class in half. Get a question right and your player gets on base. The competitive drive kicked in. We played feverishly until the final bell. The winners got Jolly Rogers. The kids collected their belongings and exited. The Sub locked the door, collapsed in a chair and admired the stamina of elementary school teachers everywhere.
Crowd Control
After several days of substitute teaching, I came to the realization that “crowd control” is absolutely essential for an educational day. Essential -- and apparently very elusive in a classroom of thirty-plus kids. Even with twenty present in the younger grades, keeping them relatively still so as to be educationally receptive is a daunting challenge.
Coming quickly to mind is the principle of atomic physics, stating that all mass is in constant motion. Amidst a buzzing classroom full of children, this truth seems so obvious as to require no explanation.
A buzzing in my ear
“Take your seats please.” Yeah, right. “Everyone please sit down!” Some frequencies of sound and voice seem to pass through eardrums without causing the usual signals to the brain. “EVERYONE BE QUIET!!” Silence descends momentarily. However, just as nature is said to abhor a vacuum, kids seek to fill silence with sound. The room is soon abuzz once again.
Hey, look at this!
Distraction always served me well as a parenting tool. More than once have I been able to calm a crying baby by pointing out interesting noises and objects. I did this one-on-one though, not in a nursery school setting. As I face many islands of chattering students, I realize I am seriously outnumbered. How can I distract them if I can’t get their attention? Anyone have a conch shell? How about one of those boat distress horns we use at the high school football games?
I’ve been pleasantly surprised by the types of bells, special phrases or noisemakers I’ve found in classrooms which are purported to bring focus and attention. This works for a second or two, until the inquiring students realize it’s not their regular teacher making the call. Just a Sub. Now what were we saying?
Tough love
I’m too easy going to enact effective classroom discipline. I’m not a stern parent, have not had large numbers of direct reports to oversee at work and generally do not play the “tough guy” role. This puts me at a serious disadvantage. How would the “tough guy” do it?
I recall a movie wherein Arnold Schwarzenegger went undercover as a kindergarten teacher. The first day, kids were like critters crawling all over everything – desks, tables, even Arnold! In desperation, he got a training whistle and made them march around like soldiers. Desperate it seemed, but effective … dare I say tempting? General Jim? No;
Dress for success
In our society, dress is an important indicator of status and authority. In my educational forays, I have dressed smartly – slacks and a long-sleeved, collared shirt. Okay, so that didn’t work. Would a tie help? Not enough, I’m afraid. I have concluded that I need to arrive in a police officer’s full dress, complete with baton and menacing leather belt. Whom am I fooling? I know this might work for the younger grades. For fifth and over, a National Guard outfit would be the entry-level fashion.
Silence is beautiful
Exasperated one day, I instructed my fifth grade class to sit quietly for one minute in their seats -- no wandering for pencil sharpeners, water, books, tape, paper or important consultations. Sixty seconds without a word, nary a sound. Could they do it? This was both an attempt to calm the waters and an experiment. I repeated the experiment three times in succession. It appears that silence in a social setting is a force that decays with a seven-point-four-second half-life. The disintegration would start with a comment here, a reply there. The cacophony returned well before the second hand made its single orbit.
Revered experience
Crowd control is particularly challenging to a Sub. Less experienced and without the authority of the full-time instructor, Subs are often ignored by their charges. I have found the degree of this ignorance directly relates to grade level. Kindergartners might listen if one can attract their attention. Sixth graders can’t be bothered. The former group is generally more accepting of a “grown-up’s” authority; the latter seem to question a Sub’s very existence. A Sub-day is a holiday!
I have come to admire the social wizardry of experienced teachers. They can come into my room full of factional rebellions and quell all with a few sternly delivered words. Kids who have been giving me grief all day will pale under the glare of experienced eyes.
I too am silent, awed by such power. I’d like to schedule regular visits by these teachers – say every half-hour. It’s like hosing down the flames every once in awhile to keep the barbecue from scorching.
Psycho-telepathic skills required
Nonetheless, teachers have told me it’s even hard for them to walk into a different classroom and get the kids to stay on task. While I understand that no one can deal with a class like their regular teacher, I have come to believe there is something more. That authority and influence is akin to the skills of the Indian snake charmer. The wonder is not that he makes the snake dance or a rope suspend in mid-air; rather it’s his ability to entrance an entire audience into raptured attention and fill their minds with a common image. I sometimes daydream about hypnotizing a whole class, opening their minds to a new receptivity and pouring the Pythagorean theory right in!
Sinking the Sub
Games are essential in the worthy pursuit of making learning fun. The competitive spirit, team dynamics and general entertainment all come into play as a teacher leads his or her class.
Unbeknownst to the neophyte substitute teacher, the leadership role of classroom games can be reversed. Experienced schoolchildren have their own version of a classroom game called “Sinking the Sub.”
Generally I hold up well under pressure. I rarely lose my patience --- and more rarely still my temper. However, I was a new recruit on unfamiliar ground.
Heavy swells
I lost my first naval commission while serving in the middle school wars. I didn’t volunteer to enter these more treacherous waters; but out of some apparent desperation, SEMS [Substitute Employee Management System] called me to task.
The morning skirmishes weren’t bad. Maintaining student focus was a constant battle, but we actually got through fractions. A few students seemed to grasp my contention that math problems are like puzzles, each having clues to be discovered.
Dive!
Perhaps it’s the hyperactivity of a highly social lunch that riles up the afternoon class. Maybe it was just the nature of this class. I struggled to keep their attention. I lost. I started giving them candy for answers. They whined for more. I rang the classroom noisemaker and yelled at them to be quiet. They waited ten seconds each time, then resumed their social chatter.
The hull breached when I was in their midst, passing out spare protractors and jotting down names of the unprepared. So totally did the class ignore my requests for order that an indignant, primal rage broke through my professional facade. “BE QUIET!!!” I screamed, emphasizing my point by slamming my notebook down on a desk. “This is the most unruly, inconsiderate, undisciplined class I’ve ever taught! Kindergartners are better behaved than you!”
This settled them a little but unsettled me a lot. As I disbursed my last protractor, I noticed my finger was bleeding – no doubt caught between notebook and desk during the explosion. Wounded, I made it back to the teacher’s desk and fished a Band-Aid from my wallet.
Abandon ship!
“They’re only kids,” I told myself. “I’m the adult, the teacher. Don’t break character.” I felt like a defeated Captain, trying to stave off panic while I assembled my remaining crew in the lifeboats.
Kids one; Sub zero. All hands lost at sea.
My second sinking occurred while assigned as a fifth grade “Class Reduction Teacher.” I was to assemble my forces from two other classes. Upon my early arrival on deck I counted the desks in the room: only about 20. This should be a cruise, I naively thought. Since then I have become very suspicious about unexpectedly low class numbers.
A riotous crew
One boy introduced himself by telling me he had been suspended seven times so far this year. I wondered whether he was preparing to extend his record today. Next I broke up a circle of kids to find one boy threatening to hit another. “You are NOT going to hit anyone,” I informed him with authority. “Yes I am,” he contradicted with impertinence; “I’ll hit him after school.” I said something about taking him to the Principal and the right of students to a safe environment. He remained nonplused.
With my first ten minutes underway thusly, I began to wonder what the rest of the day would bring. I felt strangely uneasy.
Military disorder
The social bonds of this group were worthy of clinical study. As in any class, some kids were good students trying to get an education. But there was a rogue band of half a dozen others with a different agenda. Each sought to serve himself while supporting the others in any conceivable disruption. It occurred to me that I had fallen into some kind of parallel universe wherein Robin Hood and the merry men had become opposite in character, aiming their bows at any authority figure. I stood before them as an easy and inexperienced prey.
The two boys continued to demonstrate their more advanced skills of disruption. “What do I have to do to get you to be quiet? Put tape over your mouths?” I asked in desperation. They quieted for a moment or two while they resourcefully located scotch tape and self-administered. Sighing, I concluded that their contentious but silent attitude was preferable to their classroom disruption.
Still the rebels wandered, whined and complained. They challenged the teacher’s authority in every way their creative minds could muster.
Until now I had naively taken pride in not having to send students out or to bother the Principal. Finally I abandoned this goal and looked for the phone. Nowhere near the desk. The boys closed in. I instructed Mr. Seven Times Suspended to return immediately to his seat. He stood immobile, defiant, as if in front of a train, daring the conductor to stop. A major confrontation ensued as my second command headed toward the deep.
Sinking number two
I found the phone and called in rescue craft. I prepared to abandon ship.
I’ve heard with some disbelief of Subs just up and leaving their classrooms. My sense of understanding grew. Yet I stayed with the flotsam. Soon the Principal arrived and accepted the two boys into her care, or at least into her realm of responsibility. I tried to get back to the subject of education as it receded further into the murky waters.
Kids one; Sub zero.
Yet I remained alive, redeployable and wiser. I resolved to remove these saboteurs from future classrooms more quickly. The Principal is my “pal;” I’d call her often. I thought of how much more smoothly and successfully I could educate if I could just remove the few troublemakers.
Then it dawned on me. This class was assembled from two other classes so they could concentrate on primary subjects. Whom would I remove to facilitate such learning? Hey! Wait a minute!!
Graduating to Middle School
When I first signed up for substitute teaching, I very consciously limited my exposure to this risky business. Recalling Sherlock Holmes' advice -- "Elementary, my dear Watson" -- I resolved to stay within the K-5 range of orchestrated chaos.
Up through third grade, class size has thankfully been limited to twenty youngsters -- a recent enactment that has been more educational for them and more merciful for the arriving substitute. Of course, my initial assignments were fourth and fifth grade classes comprised of over thirty rambucious marauders. However, kids at this level still have some measure of parental respect that fortuitously extends to other adults in perceived positions of authority.
I was still finding my way around these "dynamic" classes when some malfunction in the assignment system called me to task; namely, sixth grade at the Middle School. What the heck? They must be desperate. I innocently walked to the first of these roving classes.
In elementary schools, a teacher has one class all day. Subs can make name tags and gradually get to know the kids. Not so in grades above. The kids come and go in rapid succession like wave upon wave of army reinforcements. There's no time to learn names or, more importantly, behaviors.
My first sixth grade class was okay -- not so much different from trying to herd fifth graders toward an educational watering hole. Class two was a computer lab, fairly self-directed. My third class was a prep period -- a few minutes when teachers have the chance to prepare upcoming lessons and correct papers. This wasn't looking so bad after all! Slowly I felt myself being lulled into a sense of ease.
A sense which rapidly dissipated in my afternoon class. They squirmed. They talked. They failed the "Sixty Second Test," managing only about 15 seconds of silence before noises began to burst involuntarily from their midst. They weren't trying to be contrariwise; they just seemed sincerely incapable of restraining their internal impulses. Unchecked by intermediate thought processes, words and gestures emerged volcanically from youthful depths. None of my crowd control knowledge to date could contain them. I struggled to hold the attention of a few long enough to teach some basic geometry.
In the end, I failed. I closed my six page report to the teacher with an apology: “I’m sorry I could not provide your class with an educational day.”
Back in the realm of younger kids, I enjoyed my new attitude toward the cub-like creatures. I began to appreciate even fifth graders. One morning I arrived at Independent Elementary and was intercepted by a plea from the Middle School, claiming greater need. Warily I accepted, wondering about "bait and switch" tactics in educational recruiting.
Sixth grade again! Fighting back the sense of panic, I tried to assess my situation and estimate odds of survival: not looking good. I even recognized a few kids from my prior debacle. I steeled myself.
By now I had learned to separate desks and occasionally toss one or two kids to the justice of the Principal's office. Plus I knew a few of the most vociferous of the pack, keeping them on a short leash. I barked commands and held eye contact with menacing intent. I stayed on the noisy ones, isolating them after several warnings. The tides had begun to turn. Dare I believe that I was getting the hang of this?
A student came in with a stack of papers. The note atop was from the proprietor of my former class. Not only had she signed her name, she repeated a class description I had used in my report: “from the zoo where the cages all collapsed.”
She offered to take a particular student off my hands. Ten minutes later he was out the door. The papers were student letters of apology with promises of improved behavior. They sounded sincere if not long remembered. I started to feel better about all this. For a moment – a delicate, vulnerable moment – the thought occurred to me that I could actually do this job. Or was I being delusional?
I couldn’t see these kids sitting quietly at desks, politely raising hands and offering interested commentary under my tutelage. It wasn’t going to happen. Perhaps, just perhaps, I could convert this wild zoo into an organized circus, with all participants marching together in the same direction if not in the same step. It could be entertaining – even, dare I hope, educational.
Probably I was delusional.
Graduating to High School
My teenage daughters both had advised me strongly against any attempt to teach at the high school. Students there, they assured me, were the worst: disrespectful, inattentive, disinterested. This credible assessment, combined with a greater requirement for specific subject knowledge, had deterred me in the past. Yet high school lingered as an unanswered challenge, a dare . Was I really ready to face this morning duel in the
“Never know until you try,” I told myself as I checked more boxes in my district eligibility (read “gullibility”) profile. My odds for substitute spots increased dramatically. Teachers at the high school are susceptible to the various strains of influenza so efficiently disbursed by a student body of 2000.
My first call came the next Monday: math at the high school. How much math did I have to know? New math? Old math? Regular math? I decided it made more sense to stay home and finish my IRS math. The return was much higher.
They persisted the next morning, this time catching me half-conscious at
This was sounding ominous. As I arrived at the classroom, the counselor checked in to relate stories of disaster for the previous day’s sub. “Good luck; remember ‘tough love.’” She was gone.
Unlike other schools, the high school offered a short but useful Substitute Teacher Survival Guide. This included more tips about discipline as well as emergency evacuation procedures. I wondered whether the latter were generally necessitated by external forces like earthquakes or internal acts of rebellion.
At first I was awed by the assistance and forethought of such a document, brief as it was. Then doubt and suspicion crept in, making me wonder if this wasn’t actually hindsight garnered from years of staffing tragedy.
How many entering subs actually did survive? Was the ratio so low that the administration felt inclined to issue field support? I scanned the document for tips like “Duck when projectiles are thrown at you” or the more menacing “Never turn your back on a class.” Nothing that specific appeared, although there was a general section on discipline and referral slips.
I felt like a new recruit being issued five cartridges and ordered out of the trenches toward a foggy demise. In a desperate attempt to transport myself to some other world, I began to wonder vaguely whether soldiers got to use all five before they fell. More immediately, I wondered if I’d get to use all the tips. “Thank you sir; I’ll do my best sir.” Off I went.
I didn’t even try to make them stay in their seats. The couch along the windows suggested seats and desks weren’t the style for this class. So why frustrate everyone with unattainable demands? We started with English, each taking turns reading a story – one I recognized from my own primary school days.
Next was math. I tried to get through some geometry. I froze a wandering student at the front of the class, demonstrating his erect posture as a right angle to the floor. I held a ten-foot window pole from his head to the floor, measuring 8-inch tiles from that point back to his feet. A right triangle: A squared plus B squared equals C squared. Solving for the missing vertical side, we calculated his height to be just over seven feet. Close enough.
In the afternoon periods, I only had to throw one student out for insubordination. Attitude is key. Thus went the day: survivably.
The following week I boldly signed up for a five-day stint in the computer maintenance lab. This entailed two classes of kids who were first and foremost in attendance to fulfill a vo-tech requirement for graduation. Yet I was at least on familiar ground.
I told stories about the computer industry. I brought in old drives; we took apart diskettes. We talked about zeros and ones and the meaning of binary systems, which had to my surprise escaped them all. I brought in print samples from thermal wax transfer and dye sublimation printers. I even espoused on the rise and fall of companies, technologies and standards.
One kid admitted he was there to learn. My heart rejoiced! A few others demonstrated their curiosity, despite the apparent apathy of the class as a whole. The Teachers Assistants knew a good deal and were motivated. When things went well, I gave everybody game time if they played together on the network. It worked better than candy.
The last day I brought in an old 486 PC. We opened it up and identified components; some students were clueless; others were right on. I left the PC in the class storage room, not quite sure whether I did so for educational purposes or just to get the old boat anchor out of my garage.
This same day my quiet time in lab periods was interrupted by a call to teach Spanish – another box I had checked off on my eligibility form. I’m half-Spanish by marriage, my wife being Cuban. I’ve forgotten lots of verb structures and vocabulary since high school, but I figured I could teach proper pronunciation and a bit of culture. And so it went.
“Don’t speak Spanish in English. Speak it with a Spanish accent: short, crisp, lively!” I had everybody saying phrases in Spanish Spanish. We talked about how languages spread beyond their countries of origin, generally by conquest and emigration. We observed lots of Spanish names in
One girl challenged me repeatedly. She went next door to retrieve a binder and came back later without it. I disallowed her offer to go get it a second time. During class she talked to friends, too much. By this time I had become much more direct. Standing immediately in front of her, I asked if she would like a referral to the office and some detention time. A few minutes later I gave her a last warning: “participate or you will leave.” To my own amazement, she stayed quiet. When she wasn’t participating loudly enough, my firm stare would get her going. Say, maybe I was getting the hang of this!
I felt as though I had used up all my initial ideas and would be hard pressed to come up with another lesson. Nevertheless, it was a lively time.
The last student was departing from my final class. I asked him, “Well, how did that go?” After expressing some frustration at the usual pace of that class he said, “I learned something today. Thank you for an educational day!”
“That’s the goal,” I replied. That was also the highest complement for which I could have wished.
Kindergarten Cop II
My substitute teaching had lately yielded to carpentry work. The latter paid twice as much and was half as tiring --- this being a clear commentary on the state of education in
Still, I missed the kids. The young ones especially are pretty cute --- something akin to a litter of foxes. So when the next call came, I pushed "1" to accept: Kindergarten.
I had just watched "Kindergarten Cop.” If
At 8:00AM I found the kindergarten room and proceeded to the teacher’s desk, hoping to find notes to help me through the day. Some teachers left only stock information sheets or nothing at all. Others wrote a helpful page of instructions and even commentary on the sequestered population. It was useful to know which kids would be trying to blind-side me and which I could enlist as helpers.
To my surprise, this teacher had three pages of standard information and four on the anticipated course of the coming day. Such optimism is usually in direct contrast to the actual events of a day of teaching. I prefer to have flexibility -- slack time if you will -- to maintain some semblance of control. Halfway through the list of planned activities, I heard the bell ring.
On this cold morning one of the furry little creatures had entered the room already. I called out to my little helper, “Let’s go get the kids!” When we opened the door, a torrent of children . poured into the room, parents in tow. Jackets and backpacks scattered in the general direction of cubbies. The gates were open; they were off!
There arises in this morning ritual a moment -- a handoff if you will -- when a parent pauses to check out the teacher. They look him over, as if he or she is deciding whether to entrust a child into the care of this stranger for a day. It’s a Norman Rockwell moment … at least it would be, had I time to savor it. For an orderly procession can digress into chaos within seconds, as I once again observed in amazement. “Okay, kids; everyone go to your desks,” I called in a vain attempt to quell the rising insurrection.
One mother explained that her daughter was “Student of the Week.” She had brought materials to share. Others handed me slips of mysterious paper and homework folders. Sure, just put it in the box over there; I’d figure it out later. The kids approached their desks and settled a bit.
“Hello everybody. I’m your Sub today. My name is Mr. Chandler.
We gathered on the rug. Reading a story usually had a calming effect on the little tykes. I’d hold the book up so they could see the pictures of the little boy and his Uncle, the Plasterer. “All day long Peter carried plaster up the stairs for his uncle,” I read.
“I can’t see!” yelled kids on the left. I moved the book toward them.
“I can’t see!” yelled kids on the right. I moved the book toward them. The kids in front closed in.
“I can’t see!” yelled kids in the back. Apparently no one could see. This was starting to sound like a book of its own. Time to shift gears.
“OK kids, now it's time for us to write a sentence about how we help at home. Let’s all get a piece of lined paper.” It’s funny how kids can move in what can only be described as a “flurry.” I swept them back toward their desks; they swirled around the room.
“Write like this,” I said in demonstration: “I help my mom cook.” I was amazed at the range of abilities. Some were right on. Others didn't have the attention span to write a whole sentence.
“I’m done!” “I’m done!” Looking on one table, I pieced together words that said “I Mom my kook” and “I help dad grden.” “Good!” I encouraged. “Try to put an ‘a’ in there.”
The next child impressed me by saying all the things he had written. However, the strange markings on the page looked like the wanderings of a chicken who had just trampled an ink pad.
“I’m done!” This cry came from several directions now. They started to wander from their desks. One boy showed me his whistle. I was aghast: it was a police whistle just like mine! I hate it when they sell arms to both sides!
Another wave of children arrived, staggered as they were to allow for smaller reading groups. How many was I supposed to have? Was anybody missing? I started to recount.
"Let's all go over to the rug again. We're going to sing a song!" My instructions referred to an attached page. I began to chant the words. The kids joined in.
They did pretty well at this; the class seemed to be coming together. I looked at my notes, hoping vainly for a moment to scan ahead. Already the class was beginning to spontaneously combust. I reached in my pocket to grab my whistle; my hand emerged with Chapstick. In those few seconds of delay, all discipline evaporated.
“We want snacks!" chanted two little boys. Soon the whole class was chanting: "We want snacks!” I stood up and walked into the center of this cacophony. In my most indignant tone, I said, "Excuuuuse me!" This always worked; I awaited their acquiescence.
Nothing happened. “We want snacks” rolled on like an unstoppable freight train with 18 little cars. I dove again for my whistle, hands in my pockets.
“What is going on in here?” We all fell silent. “This is unacceptable,” said a young woman. Their teacher had entered the room, summoned from her day’s task of proposal writing by the unchecked bellowing of this heathen crowd.
I felt embarrassed, having failed to reign in this gang of five year olds. In walks a woman half my age and the barbarians become lambs. How does she do that?
As she restores order, she leaves Skittles for later. She asks me about the Harvest project. I haven’t read that far yet. How much more busted can I get?
Soon it is time for snack. I get helpers to put the Skittles in bowls; others pour water into cups. Skittles spill all over the table and onto the floor. The water somehow mixes with the Skittles in the bowls, becoming a colored soup. “Okay, snack time is over! Out to recess!” I holler.
Alone at last, I read about the Harvest project --- something to do with coloring trees and removing fruit according to the roll of dice. The teacher enters, sees the mess and exclaims, “Oh! Did you use the Skittles for snack? They were the fruit for the Harvest project.” Busted again!
She found colored pasta and copied number strips for dice before leaving through the front door. The youthful tide returned through the back door and flowed onto the rug. “Today we have someone who is the Student of the Week,” I announced. She came up with her show and tell.
She went through the standard pages about herself, her family and her favorite things. Then she pulled out her mother’s material: a scrapbook of pictures four inches thick! There were pictures of every facet and time of her life. She must be an only child, I thought --- until she showed us pictures of three or four siblings! Kudos to the parents!
The instructions allocated ten minutes, but it was going to take all week to go through this epic. “I can’t see!” came shouts from several directions. She held up the book and continued on, ready to take whatever time was required to explain the details of her existence to date.
“Okay, we have to get ready for lunch!” I said as we drew this show to a close.
The afternoon went in similar vein. Some of the kids had their hands in the leftover Skittles. I confiscated the sticky remains. We did the Harvest project. Each pair had a tree and twenty pasta fruit. They turned over numbers to see how many to take away.
“Teacher, we’re done!” cried a cooperative team. “Great!” I encouraged. “Let’s see. You have 8 and you have 9.” What happened to twenty? What should I be teaching here: math, art or project management? I could just see the results with Skittles: “you have 3 and you have 5!”
“I won!” said a rather aggressive young boy paired with a quiet girl. As I watched him play the next round, he picked the highest number card every time. The paper was too translucent. I held my hand over his eyes. He squirmed, ducked his head and picked the highest number again --- a con-man in the making. Where were the dice for this game?
“Okay, let’s clean up!” I declared. The early arrivals got ready to be picked up. After they left, I rounded up the strays and corralled them onto the rug. We read the morning story about the plasterer. With half a class, it was quieter. Maybe this would be better. Then I heard a familiar cry.
“I can’t see!” “I can’t see!”
I pondered the clamorous group. One-on-one would get me back to a “cute and fuzzy” ratio. I made a note to call the mall tomorrow. Maybe they have an opening for a Santa Claus?
Lost in the Middle Kingdom
Every time the substitute system called me for Middle School, I laughed and hung up. My worst experiences had been with undisciplined, hyperactive sixth and seventh graders whose sole purpose in life was to talk incessantly with their friends. “Fool me once,” as they say. I’d been fooled several times; enough already.
Still, I hadn’t subbed all year in that forbidden kingdom. Last year I had enjoyed a few of the advanced classes, which had stunned me by taking their seats, opening their books and waiting quietly for me to begin -- remarkable if altogether rare behavior. This call was for seventh grade math. I was eager to work with more complex equations than the fractions of the younger grades. With highly speculative optimism, I approached the gates once again.
The school secretary explained that it was a block schedule day, which meant I had only three long classes. I could work longer with a given group of kids. Plus, my first period was prep, during which I prepared for the oncoming hordes by reviewing the subject material. What could go wrong with only two class periods in the day?
LCM? GCF? SAYW? I looked through the teacher’s notes and the book to decipher. “Least Common Multiple.” “Greatest Common Factor.” This had to do with prime numbers; I wrote the primes up to 50 on the bottom of the board as a kind of “cheat sheet.” After reading the descriptions of LCM and GCF three times, I devised a pedagogic strategy for the day: I’d call on students to do the problems on the board!
That still left SAYW, which I was extrapolating to “Say What?” It seemed to be part of most of the teacher’s assigned problems. Finally I solved the puzzle: “show all your work.” Okay, I was back on level ground again.
The first class clustered in: talkative but able to focus. One worried girl came up to me and asked, “why is my name on the board?” I had seen it listed in the birthdays list and publicly promoted her to read the homework answers to the class. She received the news excitedly. The class followed along.
After reviewing questions and the upcoming assignments, we had time to go over my own math agenda. I try to give them something they won’t find in books … tips from my own years on their side of the desk. I began by explaining equations as balancing scales: you could make changes to them as long as you did it evenly to both sides. Next was the Smart Check: stop and ask yourself if an answer made sense; was it in the ballpark, or were you getting a negative number for the price of tomatoes? Aside from a few small insurrections, all was going well. Before I knew it, we were off to lunch.
It appeared I had more than an hour of free time in this block schedule, so I walked around the back sports fields after lunch. Kids in PE went back inside. As I meandered along the track, three students walked through the tennis courts and onto the track behind me. Should I interdict? Perhaps they were student council kids, or maybe they had some assignment involving preparation for some sporting event. I watched them as they crossed the track and disappeared on some trails leading away from school. I decided to ask the office about it.
Approaching the office door, I encountered a stunned secretary in hasty exit. “Mr. Chandler, your class started ten minutes ago!” I must have read the schedule wrong. I hurried toward the classroom. Now I really regretted not intercepting those students. Bringing in three escaping prisoners would have given me some excuse!
The principal was holding court in my classroom when I arrived. I apologized and checked the board where I’d written the incorrect starting time -- apparently for sixth grade; this was seventh. I was off to a poor start. The kids began to roam.
“Can I sit back there behind her?” asked one girl in the front row. Trying to accommodate them and gain some favor, I allowed her to do so if she promised to pay attention.
“Can I go to the bathroom?” What was this, kindergarten? I told them they should do that during their break. After all, they had just returned from lunch! Everyone objected at once.
“One at a time,” I said as I tried to regain control. This class was quite different from their peers of the morning. They squirmed. They turned to talk to their neighbors. They threw things. I blew my whistle.
In Elementary School, a loud whistle was the signal for silence. In Middle School, some students shrieked, covering their ears; others said, “cool!” and wanted me to do it again.
We stumbled through the homework correction. One girl found a wrong answer in the teacher’s transparency. I rewarded her publicly for her attentiveness and gave her a “homework pass” I had seen in the teacher’s desk. Despite this demonstration of good behavior and tangible reward, the chattering continued.
Whenever I would start to gain some momentum, a student would raise his hand and ask, “Can I go to the bathroom!”
“No!” I shouted. “You’re supposed to do that during the break.” Through a din of protest, I finally understood that the bathrooms had been locked during lunch because of flooding. That morning I had seen one of the urinals intentionally blocked with paper, adding credence to their claim. “Alright; but one at a time.”
I tried to explain the idea of equations as balancing scales. “It doesn’t matter what I do to one side, as long as I do the same thing to the other.”
“You can’t do that,” said the girl I had allowed to change desks. I tried showing her again; she resisted, all too indignantly.
“Come up here then and we’ll do it together.” She refused. I repeated my invitation more sternly. She refused more adamantly. Seeking to keep control of my class, I approached her and repeated my command in her face. She yielded to my resolve.
We worked some modifications to the equation on the board. Begrudgingly she acknowledged them. “Can I sit down now?” After her third such request and for my own benefit as well, I allowed her to retreat.
A few hands were raised. “Does this have to do with math,” I asked suspiciously?
“Can I go to the bathroom,” came the reply.
“Me next!” said another girl. Not again, I sighed.
“It was the boys’ bathroom that was flooded,” I objected.
“No, they locked the girls’ too!”
“Only one at a time then.” My head started to throb.
It occurred to me that seventh graders at the general class level have a twelve second attention span, after which some primitive drive takes hold, spinning them in their seats and forcing them to talk to other seventh graders similarly overcome.
This left about one-third with their backs to me, another third aimed at some oblique angles and the remainder facing forward by random chance. Desperate to gain their attention, I blew my whistle with full force.
“Cool! Do it again!”
By this time I was writing names on the board. I’m hesitant to send kids to the office, believing that a teacher should be able to reign in his students. However, my patience was being tested to its limits. I asked another chatty girl her name, then realized I had already written it on the board once and ordered her into another seat.
“Why aren’t you in that seat?”
“What? I had to get something.”
“Get back to the seat in front!” I harangued. She moved, complaining all the while in a whiny, sassy voice. I took a slip from the teachers desk and asked her full name.
“What? Are you giving me a detention?”
“A detention or a referral. Which would you like the least?” I queried.
“Oh God! I haven’t had a detention all year!” The year, I could see, was young. “I had to get some pictures!” She pointed to her thighs where she had taped pictures of classmates to her jeans.
“You didn’t have to … .” I tried to quell my frustration. Perhaps I could reorient this group with a “You Are Here” simplicity. “This is math class!”
Once again I tried to teach with sensitivity. Another miscreant had improved her behavior and earned her name off the board. I showed the referral slip to my immediate offender.
“If you behave yourself for the rest of the class, I’ll tear this up. Okay?”
“There’s only eight minutes left anyway,” she said in a contemptuous tone.
“That’s it!” I took my copy of the slip, handed her the rest and ordered her out of my class. “Now!”
Despite the insubordination of her last comment, I found something strangely encouraging in this girl’s words: only eight minutes left! I could make eight minutes.
“Can I go to the bathroom?”
“No! Wait for the bell.” So much for my remaining sensitivity.
I was observing a function of social physics before me: the greater the distance between student and focal point, the less the attention. Things that were way up front, like the whiteboard or the teacher at the podium, were easily ignored. Friends in close proximity were showered with attention. At my peril, I walked deep into the class, resolving to move amongst them. Like an Aikido master, I would fend off their obtuse questions and sarcastic tones, countering with the penetrating enigmas of mathematics.
“If we were averaging the ages of the students in this class and we came up with 18.5 years, would that make sense? Would that pass the “Smart Check” test?”
“Yeah, if one of the students was 18,” said a boy to the right. He must have no concept of averaging. A single student would have to be about 200 years old to swing the average up that much. I started to weaken, feeling outnumbered and surrounded.
How did their regular teacher deal with this? My eyes scanned his desk for magic amulets, wands … perhaps some intelligence-provoking dust I could sprinkle in the air. I saw none.
Desperately, I came up with an idea: maybe I could just take them all prisoner and walk the whole lot of them to the office? A tinge of doubt suggested that my reception would not be that of a returning hero. True heroism lay in stoic endurance: four … more … minutes.
I imagined myself running: out the back of the school, through the tennis courts, across the track and down the trails. Ahead of me lay a beckoning light, promising freedom. “Wait for me!”
