Adventures in Substitute Teaching

Kindergarten Kinetics

2005-12-10T20:57:00.000-08:00

Fortunes of Weather
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

2005-02-21T21:03:00.000-08:00

Recovering at the beach

Welcome to class!

2005-02-21T18:28:00.001-08:00

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

2005-02-21T18:28:00.000-08:00

Driving down Redwood Road, I noticed the High School marquis advertising substitute teaching jobs. The plea sounded desperate: "Teachers needed, all levels."

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 Castro Valley Unified School District … two days before Christmas recess.

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

2005-02-21T18:27:00.001-08:00

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; Arnold took weeks to “drum them into shape.” As a Sub, I’m only with them for a day.

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!

Ah, dream on.

Sinking the Sub

2005-02-21T18:27:00.000-08:00

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

2005-02-21T18:26:00.001-08:00

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

2005-02-21T18:26:00.000-08:00

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 Castro Valley mists?

“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 5:30 A.M. “Freshman Resource; please call the teacher.” Okay, let’s do this thing. I pushed 1 to accept. Over a bowl of cereal I heard the teacher explain what “Resource” meant: kids with problems at home, an inability to concentrate or something else that makes it difficult for them to fit into the regular track. Great place to start, I thought. She finished my briefing by saying, “If you can just be a good babysitter, I’d be grateful.”

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 California geography. Borrowing a trick from the prior week’s Latino Club concert, I had them all do the macarena by singing the 12 months of the year.

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

2005-02-21T18:25:00.001-08:00

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 California. My wife would laugh at me as I, returning from a day in the teaching trenches, collapsed on the couch. Eight hours of construction seldom induced such utter exhaustion. My throat would be sore from non-stop talking in a vain attempt to maintain the attention of 20 to 35 hyperactive students!

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 Arnold could do it, so could I! I was inspired by his whistle and marching drills. I promptly bought myself a police whistle, harboring some reservations about young ears. In any case, I had taught kindergarten before. I knew the principal and some of the teachers. They would surely offer moral support. With images of the governor’s inaugural ball fresh in my mind, I was certain that politics was a short step ahead.

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. Chandler.” With older kids, I could refer to a popular TV show with a character by that name. I concluded this wouldn’t fly in the Sesame Street set, so I wrote it on the board. I was rewarded throughout the day by shouts of “Mister” and “Teacher.” Better than “hey you!” I concluded.

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

2005-02-21T18:25:00.000-08:00

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!”

A Flight of Bubbles

2005-02-21T18:24:00.000-08:00

Today we experienced a moment of unchecked joy.

Having found considerable interest in my Pustefix Rocket bubble blower during the AM recess at elementary school, I brought my Pustefix Bear outside for the afternoon affair. First I let my little cadre blow some. This soon attracted other children. After awhile I moved out to the grassy area and offered it to the growing masses.

Finally I told the kids I would be the one to blow, and they could be the catchers. I blew long streams of bubbles. These, carried by the wind, sailed into and over groups of children – probably thirty or forty in all. Each flurry of bubbles attracted a sub-flurry of children – yelling, squealing, shrieking and running.

I thought back to my youth, to a time when I was hunting geese with my father in North Dakota. The barking pandemonium that five thousand geese make when they are rising from the water was not unlike what I saw now before me. Jumping into the air in pursuit of bubbles, the kids seemed to be lifting off. It was mass hysteria of an excellent kind, of the free-spirited bubble kind.

I soon closed up shop, fearing some responsible adult educator would shut me down for reasons of safety or hyperactivity. I was supposed to be watching the kids, not playing with them. Besides, other children were starting to complain that the bubble kids were running into their track lanes. Indeed, one did not look very carefully at where one was going when one chased the breezy bubbles in a shifting wind.

A teacher on patrol walked toward me. “That was wonderful!” she said.

More than wonderful: it was unchecked, pandemonious gaiety; pure joy, unleashed.

A Good Day

2005-02-21T18:23:00.000-08:00

Enter Obi-wan

My assignment was for a local elementary school where I had met the teacher. He ran his class like a Jedi boot camp with posters and models to match. He had taught his fifth graders to be fairly independent and I hoped this behavior would continue today.

Arriving in the classroom early, I noticed the lesson plan from the day before. It highlighted lots of independent work and study periods. A note from yesterday’s sub said the class had been wonderfully well behaved. “Thanks for an easy day!” it concluded. Would I be so lucky?

Less than plan

For starters, I found no lesson plan on his desk. His illness had extended another day, so this omission neither surprised nor upset me. I liked talking to the kids, taking my own best shot at making them see things with interest and curiosity. The absence of a rigorous plan gave me more flexibility to explore with them. After checking in the office for a sub plan and finding none, I looked over yesterday’s. I could easily work with these subjects, taking each a next step. The bell rang; I walked out to meet the troops.

Pleasantly ignored

The teacher’s notes had suggested that the kids would go about their morning tasks independently. So they did – collecting homework, noting who had not finished on a whiteboard, passing out new material, checking attendance. I asked a few of them what tasks they were doing; largely, I let these impressively organized activities continue.

Ruling the masses

After introducing myself, I gave them my four basic rules:

“1) Subs do things differently sometimes, and that’s okay. It might be fun to do things in a different way.” This kept at bay the swarm of well-intentioned children simultaneously explaining how the class was to be taught. It also gave me a little room to move when accomplishing an academic objective.

“2) One person talks at a time – whether it’s you, a classmate or me.” That way everybody can actually listen to peers and their teacher. With my waning sense of hearing, it was especially important for me to minimize the background noise.

“3) Learn something new every day.” Otherwise, what’s the point of coming to school, or of walking out your door to anywhere?

“4) Learning should be fun!” As should life. And why not? The kids learn better if they’re having fun; it’s a repeating cycle when it works.

Perfect students

Yesterday’s first formal activity involved journal writing on the subject of “I would be a perfect student if I …” fill in the blank. Today I started a discussion by asking some of them to share the thoughts they had written.

“I would be a perfect student if I turned in all my homework on time, came to class with sharpened pencils and paid attention,” offered one student. Nice, but not quite there. I wanted to open this up a little, beyond the superficial actions of classwork. School should be about exploration, not regimen.

Philosophy 101

“Why are we here? Why do we come to school?” I asked. Some faces looked taken aback by such fundamental questioning. To my pleasure, I saw that most were pondering this existential puzzle.

“To learn things,” answered one boy. At that moment, I knew we were into a good day. On the surface, it’s a simple question. Yet many kids think school is just where you have to go, a place that gives you homework and where you meet your friends. For them, school is just something that happens to you. I want them to pick up the reigns, to make school happen for them.

“Right! We’re here to learn, and learning things is more important than knowing things. We can’t know everything. Even if we did, we forget! But the ability to learn things -- to look it up, to figure it out -- that makes us strong.” They seemed to be following along.

“Who are you learning stuff for? Your teacher?” Some nodded. “Your parents?” They hesitated, now suspecting a trick question.

“For us.” I loved this little guy. He was being my straight man. I always try to find some way to put empowerment into the classroom, some ownership. Learning is their responsibility, their advantage, their privilege. He was picking up on this train of thought wonderfully.

“Right! You learn for you! It makes you smarter and stronger.” An independent group like this easily got the concept. “Not only that, it’s fun! It’s exploring. Think of it: you get to come to school and explore stuff together, to find out about things with your friends.” We talked some more about “the perfect student.” Those who had written only of homework and polite behavior I prodded for a few words about learning.

Role reversal

Next was math. I saw they were doing fractions so we started simplifying. I wrote down some homework on the board. “These are some answers to plain number problems, and here are some to word problems. You be the teachers. You write the questions for each of these answers. It will be your test.”

They looked puzzled at this change of position. We worked the first one of each type.

The first answer was 1/3. “It can be anything! Simplify 3/9, or 100/300.” I always figured one could understand problems better if he could see them from the origination side, the tester rather than just the testee. With lingering hesitation, they wrote down the assigned answers. A few started offering source problems out loud.

“And here’s the pitch”

To liven things up, I started a game of “math baseball.” That always added a competitive relevance to problem solving. Soon we had kids answering my problem pitches and running around bases in the room. Each was eager to be up to bat at the board.

Next we had a study hall. I’m not very good at sitting around while the students work by themselves. They had a study hall yesterday. I sounded the waters to see if they wanted to have one today. “No!” “It’s boring.” “Let’s play math baseball.”

Off the beaten track

“Okay, remember the rule about Subs doing things differently? Let’s choose something to learn as a class: whatever you want, we’ll do our own research.”

“Let’s play real baseball!” “Flag football!” “Heads up seven up!” Several more games were suggested.

This wasn’t going the way I had hoped. Where was the curiosity about some subject other than sports?

“Sputnik,” said a boy in the back. All right! We were back in business: a science topic, and a political one too.

“Great idea. Does anyone know what Sputnik had to do with Americans getting to the moon?” No response; I continued. “In 1957 the Russians launched Sputnik. It scared the Americans to think of the Russians peering down on us. So we started our own space program. Several years later, President Kennedy announced that we would send a man to the moon by the end of that decade. All of this started with Sputnik.”

“No, he meant the game,” said a boy near the front. Ah, Sputnik the game, I sighed with recollection. The last time I subbed here I was a PE teacher. Sputniks were spheres the kids assembled with hula-hoops. Opposing teams tried to knock them over with dodge balls. So much for the innocent curiosity of the world around us. Maybe I had to reset my sights a little.

Children of invention

“Okay, we can’t just play a game. This has to be a research project.” Their enthusiasm started to fade. “We have to invent a game.”

The hands flew up again. “It can be like flag football, but we’ll play with balls.” “Yeah, we can knock over Sputniks.” “There can be safe zones inside the other teams territory.” “Flag Sputnik!” If I couldn’t get academic pursuit, at least I could engender some creativity and class empowerment.

Organized chaos

“We need flags!” said one girl. I sent her back to our room in search of paper strips. I claimed a grassy area for our class and started them on their sputnik building. At the sound of my whistle, they were off.

Flag Sputnik was a little chaotic at first, but the kids seemed to enjoy it. Moreso, they enjoyed playing a game they had invented. Chalk one up for empowerment. I watched more than ref’ed as they swarmed over the field, tides that moved to some rhythm understood by them if not by me. At the bell we gathered our gear and headed back to the classroom.

Life is but a play

The next item on yesterday’s list had been to write about conflict resolution and avoidance. A chart had some basic principles about ignoring insults, reflecting attitudes and consulting authority figures. I asked kids to work in groups and present skits to demonstrate. I watched budding actors and actresses stumble through likely social encounters and resolve them. They laughed at themselves and their friends.

Too often in elementary schools I’d seen kids run to teachers. I didn’t like this tattle-tale attitude – not so much for the whining but for the victimization of it. Those kids abdicated their authority and capability to someone else.

“Remember to tell the person that you didn’t like what he said or did. Maybe he didn’t mean it, or maybe he didn’t realize that it hurt you or your feelings. Don’t run to a teacher before you try to communicate with that person yourself!” Take the reigns, kids.

Outsourcing

The last two periods were conducted by specialists in the fields of Science and Choir. Absent my class, I walked around the room, amazed by al the models and action figures frozen in ardent battle. Whatever got their attention and made it fun, I thought.

Oops

On a table near the board, I saw it: Lesson Plan, Wednesday. Jeez! Now I find it. I looked over the pages: mostly independent study on work in process, and a math packet. He was making it easy for a sub. Nothing seemed urgent or essential.

After marching the kids back from choir, I distributed the math packet.

“We have to do al this too?” complained several.

I countered: “We have to do the homework your teacher gave us. That comes first. But I’ll let you pick just two of the problems from the answers I gave you.” They seemed assuaged. “And I’ll tell your teacher I gave you an extra day to finish the packets. I was guessing he’d give us a little slack.

They began their ritual of preparing for departure from another day in school. “Well kids,” I asked, “did you learn anything today?”

They continued their gathering. Then one boy shouted, “I learned how to make a great game!”

“I learned you’re a great sub!” added another.

“I learned math baseball is fun.”

“I learned that if you go to a teacher right away, you skipped a step.”

It was indeed a good day.

A Good Sub

2005-02-21T18:22:00.000-08:00

Forewarned

I arrived at school early, having allowed for traffic hazards this time but encountering none. As I waited for the school secretary to appear, a woman asked for whom I was subbing.

I seldom remember a teacher’s name. If I get to the right school with the right grade in mind, I figure they’re supposed to know the rest. If things are left solely to my memory, it’s going to be a tough day.

“It doesn’t really matter; but if it’s a certain second grade, there are two students I have to warn you about.” Great. Already the name she mentioned is becoming more and more familiar. With the arrival of the secretary, my worst fears are confirmed.

I poke my head into her office, which says “Principal” on the door. Two of my students have reached the highest level of notoriety, it would seem. “What was it I should know about this second grade?” I inquired cautiously?

“Well, you really only have one student to watch out for. The other one was suspended yesterday.” Such heartening words. Still, I was puzzled: this was one of the best schools in the District. I’d never had a problem here, at least not due to a rebellious student. My inexperience and the high frequency metabolism of kindergartners had been my greatest challenges.

“This girl has a social problem. She steals food from other students’ backpacks. You can’t leave her alone anywhere. If you allow her to go to the bathroom, she needs an escort. Good luck.” With this strange warning, I was off.

I found the room and settled in with my various supplies. The teacher had established a defensive position at the front corner. I liked this vantage point, as I could glance easily at notes and look for necessary books or papers. On the desk was my Lesson Plan. I looked through it quickly and noticed another from the day before, indicating a two-day absence.

Cut and Run

In two days, a sub can actually get to know the class well enough to make a smooth show of it. Why hadn’t yesterday’s sub stayed for the easier second day? Perhaps he had a prior commitment. Remembering the Principal’s warning, I glanced at his note to the teacher to see how it went.

“Great class … yada yada …the expected problems with the two children did occur … yada yada …he went into the boy’s bathroom at recess and started a fire by urinating on an electrical outlet, Fire Department called, sent home from school ... .” I stopped reading. He started a fire by “urinating on an electric outlet?” Was this kid trying to commit vandalism or suicide?

Luck of the Draw

I thanked my good fortune to be subbing the second day of this teacher’s absence, one child short of a full house. In teaching, it is absolutely true that “one person can make a difference.” My teaching day was already improving because this kid was off making a difference somewhere else. A few kids came into the classroom. Ready or not, the day had begun.

“There it is!” Some kids were talking and pointing to the large pencil I sometimes bring to class. It was over five feet in length, made of yellow fiberglass and with the words “Dixon-Ticonderoga” officially printed on the side. Such props made for a good start at the least and offered a chance to do math multiples of a normal sized pencil.

“Whoa! Where’d you get that?” asked one boy excitedly.

“I have my sources,” I responded. In this case, my clandestine source was the dump out in Livermore. During a run for a construction job last year, I’d seen this gem in the milieu and had to have it. One isn’t supposed to reclaim such archeological treasures. However, my sense of pedagogy prevailed. I left with a teaching aid suitable for all elementary schools.

We began the morning’s introductions and rituals. I couldn’t find the attendance sheet and concluded it was probably in the teacher’s mailbox. With my ominous beginning, I’d forgotten to check. I wrote on a sheet of paper that all were present and accounted for, save one miscreant. “How does the attendance get to the office?” I inquired.

Why do I ask general questions of a whole class? I know I’m going to be overwhelmed with well-intentioned answers. We sorted out the responsible party for this errand. Preferring the safety of pairs, I dispatched two and began our morning exercise of journal writing. I added two more pencils to the mix. Each was about a foot and a half long and maybe 1 ½ inches thick. These I had legitimately purchased from an art store. Kids had fun trying to write with something so different. I passed them to two students who were diligently working.

Trouble Unmasked

“I have to go to the bathroom,” said a brown-haired girl. The inevitable pilgrimage had begun.

“Someone has to go with her!” chimed several voices. Good enough; I like to send kids in pairs.

Upon her return, this same girl wasn’t doing her work. When I prodded, she whined: “I can’t.”

“Yes you can. You have to. Here, write these words: ‘My favorite vacation was … .’”

“I can’t.”

Suddenly realized who this was: the notorious girl with wandering fingers. No wonder the kids advised me to send a guard with her: they were defending their snacks and lunches. No amount of coaxing, no appeals to higher goals of learning were going to work. I steeled myself to her whining.

“Here. Do it. Begin with these words. Now!” She drew out her writing as painfully as possible.

I asked a few students to read what they had written. Peer involvement usually stimulates the slow writer. I heard about trips to Paris and Hong Kong – a well-traveled group. Maybe I should start a school sponsored trip to Rome? At snack recess, I brought my Bubble Bear for some entertainment.

“I knew you were going to be a good sub,” said a sandy haired boy.

“Oh yeah? How’d you know that?” I asked.

“You just had that extra umph!” he explained. Good communication skills, I surmised.

Educational Trickery

Back in our room, we went through math packets. Once again I pulled my wild card, Math Baseball, from my bag of tricks. It was a good thing I seldom got the same class twice; what would I do when I ran out of my stock amusements?

I lined them up for lunch. They were ready to depart, but the bell was still silent.

“We can go,” they said in agreement. I’d been duped too many times for this. It wouldn’t look good for my kids to be running rampant before other classes had been released.

“Wait. I have a trick to show you.” I pulled out a magic trick I still had from college days. They watched in awe as a coin passed through a solid piece of glass. The bell rang. Off they went – all except one dark-haired girl who said she was looking for her missing chips.

I ate quickly and found the Principal in the schoolyard. She was bestowing her attention upon my very own parolee. Reluctantly, I asked about the problem.

“She owes me some time during lunch recess. She’s been taking food again, now and during the morning recess.” I made a note that my varied career should not include the title of Security Guard. When did she sneak that?

I decided the Principal could have her – all day if she wanted. Before she marched her charge back to the office, I asked if there were any problem with my flying a sail with some of the kids during lunch recess. Fine by her.

Shifting Winds

My enthusiastic student found me as I approached a grassy area. I enlisted his help and soon we had a sail flapping in the wind. I had removed the lines from the corners and just had large circles of rope for kids to hold at each point. As in the day before, children pulled away from each other until the sail flattened. The Ouija board effect took over again. What the heck. If dozens of kids had fun moving a colorful sail around a field, why control it beyond basic safety? I’d teach them about wind some day in smaller, more instructable groups.

My kids had lined up outside the back door of our classroom. I blew my whistle – now an ever-present classroom management tool – and marched them in like an infantry unit. None appeared to object to this conscription.

We did a few more academic tasks. Some finished early and came up to hand me their finished work. “What do I do now?” they would ask.

To balance the differing pace and keep me from having to fend off the quick ones, I told them to be tutors to the other students. “Do you know what happens when you play checkers and you get one to the end?” They nodded; hands shot up. “You get kinged and can move backward. In our class, when you finish you become a tutor. You get to go around the room and help those who need it.” To my delight, this seemed to work with none of the usual questioning.

Sharing

Soon we sat on the floor for something called “I messaging.” Looking at my notes, I started by saying what I was feeling.

“I’m happy because we have a good class of learners who like to have fun.” I turned to the student on my left.

“I’m happy because we have a good sub today.” Around it went.

“I’m happy because we have a very good sub today.”

“Okay,” I intervened, “everybody has to say something they feel that’s different.”

“It is different. I said ‘very good;’ he said ‘good.’” I let this pass.

“I’m happy because I’m going on a trip to New York.”

“I’m sad because my friend is moving away.” This continued around the room.

When we got to my little fan, he burst out: “I’m happy because we have the best sub ever! Even better than Mr. V!” The class sat still, hushed by this blasphemous claim. “Yeah!” he extolled.

“Yeah!” said the class in unison. He carried the day. I didn’t know Mr. V, but I recognized this as the greatest complement of my teaching career.

We read a book while on the rug and talked about what it meant. My parolee had been released back into my custody and had an uncertain hand up. I called on her. She really wanted her contribution to count. I reinforced what she said and took the discussion in that direction for awhile. Maybe this would give her a little confidence. It may not help to change her behavior, but then it couldn’t hurt.

Before I knew it, the day was over. The kids donned their backpacks and lined up at the doors. Taking my Rocket bubble maker, I stood by the door to “bubble them out” for the end of the day. I missed half who went out the other door. It’s hard to understand all the practices and rhythms of a class in only one day. Nonetheless, I had a great one with these kids. Returning to the teacher’s desk, I told her she had a great class. I left Mr. V out of it.

A Good Second

2005-02-21T18:21:00.000-08:00

Who’s on First?

I like teaching first grade. The kids are still cute, like kindergartners, but also more capable. Most essentially, they can sit still long enough to do something.

I arrived too late to do much prepping, as an accident on 580 had flooded the local streets with harried commuters. Fortunately, this first grade started out more like yesterday’s fifth: they were self-directed as they went about their appointed rounds. As this seemed purposeful, I watched rather than commandeered.

Some kids had papers, regarding which I inquired. ”They are ‘gatherers.’ They collect the homework,” one girl told me. “The ‘getters’ get the buckets,” she continued. Upon each table these tradespersons deposited plastic buckets of supplies – crayons, markers, pencils, scissors. I would have been impressed by such organization in third grade. I was in awe of these first-graders.

As the activity level started to subside, I introduced myself and gave them I four rules: one-person talks, subs do things differently, learn something new and have fun.

First in our lesson plan was a math quiz. I read the questions. After we corrected these, I asked “do we do flag?”

“The fifth graders do the flag.”

They must be referring to an outdoor ceremony. I rephrased: “no, I mean the pledge.”

“Yes,” they responded.

“Do we have someone who leads? Usually there is some designate or perhaps a “Student of the Week.”

Several burst out with jumbled responses I took in the affirmative. Others pointed to a visual on the wall. “Jobs are on-the-Job Board.”

Silly me; for there it was: a column of tasks matched to another of names. The reigning order was coming together. I find it a good idea to stick to the class’ familiar routines, unless pedagogy suggests an educational variation. Kids are generally more comfortable navigating known waters.

After the pledge, we moved to board work: writing in journals. I looked over a few shoulders; they were writing about vacations. I decided to ask a few to share their stories.

Excuse Who?

“Excuse me, I’m about to read.” How cute! A girl I’d selected had walked up to the front of the class, turned to face her peers and gave this call to attention. I still couldn’t believe this was first grade!

“Excellent!” I cheered. “Do you hear how she used lots of detail to make her story more interesting? Words like “scary” and “huge.”

“Excuse me, I’m about to read.” Our next contestant took the stage. This was going well. While students read, I looked over the teacher’s notes again. She mentioned one child who was a highly functional autistic. I’m not sure what I should do with a highly functional autistic. My college degree was inside psychology, albeit that was 30 years ago. I searched my memory for clues. What memory? I’d do what all good substitutes do: I’d wing it. Besides, helpers would be in class for parts of the morning and afternoon, if these notes proved true.

Out of Paper

Next was vocabulary. The words were written on the board. Students were to copy them on a special sheet of paper. I couldn’t find the special paper anywhere on the desk.

Improvising, I said, “Just take out a piece of paper.” This seemed to me one of the simplest and most basic instructions in teaching. I was stunned by the chaos that resulted.

“That’s not the paper we use!”

“We don’t do it that way!”

The gears of primary education had encountered the proverbial wrench. We needed a little flexibility.

“What’s the objective here?” I directed. “Can we accomplish the objective of copying words with a piece of paper and pencil?”

Begrudgingly, if you admitted this might be possible. I could feel the resistance in the air.

“Just write the words on any paper. Here: here’s paper for anyone who needs it.” While they worked on this, I tried to get myself back on track by looking at the next task in the lesson plan. There, at the bottom of the workbook pages for grammar were ruled lines for the now infamous words. Great.

Risking the unraveling of my lesson on alternative paths to a common end, I passed out the new sheets. “You can copy your words over, or just staple the extra sheet on top,” I conceded. .This minor episode had so shaken the students and brought my own leadership into question, I felt we needed some healing. With smoother execution we finished the morning with math packets. On several occasions, I called on my autistic boy. Although not a conversationalist, he could offer answers and seemed quite good with math. I could easily work him into the general class.

Sail Ho!

At lunch , I went to see the principal. She had on a previous occasion offered me good advice when I’d been conned by some fifth-graders. ”Never make deals with 10-year-olds,” was engraved in my teaching rubric. As I contemplated another experience beyond normal school parameters, I sought her counsel and -- if not approval -- at least permission.

It had been a very windy day. Raised in a sailing family, I had come to respect and enjoy the power of that natural force – to the extent that I still carry with me a small Spinnaker. After all these years, I still sought to recapture the joy of flying a sail on the beach, locked in a tug of war with a formidable adversary. I was however a bit worried about lines entangling legs and sudden guests dragging off my first-graders.

I shared my idea of the sail. “This morning was a bit too windy, but now it’s lessening, I said, demonstrating my caution and responsibility. She looked out the window at the trees listing heavily to leeward. With a doubtful expression, she asked, “Is it in the lesson plan?”

I almost choked at this improbability. Grasping to recover, I told her it was just my exercise to show the kids the power of the wind.

“Have you done this at schools in the district?” she asked.

“Yes, but with less wind.” I neglected to tell her that it had been at her school that I tried this once before. The students tended to pull each corner the sale in different directions like a tug-of-war. They moved the sail around the field like a gigantic Ouija board, looking particularly un-sailor like. On second thought, I had been a PE teacher that day with an unlimited agenda; so it was in my lesson plan!

I promised I’d keep a tight lid on it and shut down if the wind grew too great. One should be careful about making promises that one cannot keep. Nonetheless, I must have exuded a minimum level of confidence. With lingering suspicion, she acquiesced.

I walked to a grassy area, gathering a couple of kids from my class as I went. We unfolded the sail as I naïvely explained how it would work. We caught a gust of wind. I hoped they could feel the strength of an intangible force. I tried to arrange them so the sail would form a pocket. One girl held on valiantly as the wind dragged her forward.

“Well, I guess that’s the end of this shirt,” she said as she beheld a long grass stain. I was cheered by her attitude. We pulled the sail upwind once again.

A Tide of Children

More kids came. They grabbed onto the lines, pulling the sail down as 100 hands sought to participate. Soon the entire playground had emptied its children, now to be found around, under and occasionally in the sail. I heard that high-pitched squeal of dozens of kids at gleeful play, a cacophony unto itself: the sound of unchecked joy. I started to worry about kids suffocating or being strangled by wind-powered ropes.

The Ouija board phenomenon began again. I tried to get some lines of children to move in so the sail could fill. I shoo-ed some kids away, to no avail. They could not hear me for the wind and the screaming. In an effort to get the sail to fill, I pulled a line. Against me was the considerable force of 30 kids. The sail luffed in twenty mile per hour winds, traveling mysteriously two and a half feet above and parallel to the ground.

This wasn’t working. With the wind and the noise, the kids were uncontrollable. I decided to pull the plug. Grabbing a corner of the sail, I began wrapping it up until the lines had shed their keepers. Exhausted, I walked off the field.

“What’s your name?” came an inquiry. I looked down to see an excited boy with rosy cheeks: one of the conspirators, I surmised.

“Jim,” I answered.

“No, who do I ask for if we want you to sub for our class?” Did he want me or my sail?

Read On

Back in class it was time for silent reading. This is supposed to calm them down after their lunch recess and so it did. I appreciated the power of routine, this time to my advantage. I asked them each to find a really good sentence to share.

Soon we gathered on the rug to read. The topic was Community. There was a poster showing a town setting with lots of people going about their business. We talked about the different people, their jobs, the shops that offered products and services. I asked them to find the flows of services in a Community: transportation, electricity, garbage and the like.

“Yes, people get around on buses, and in cars, and look there’s a bike,” I said. Trying for a higher level, I asked, “Do you know what a system is?” I stared expectantly into blank faces.

“A system is something that works together. For example, water evaporates from the ocean into the clouds; clouds rain on the land; we capture the rain and put it into pipes to run into the homes in the city.” Still blank. Maybe this was a little too advanced for first grade. I looked at my crib sheet, which advised me to ask them about the helpers.

“Who are the helpers in the poster?”

“The Firemen,” called one girl.

“The Policeman,” said another.

This went on for awhile when suddenly it struck me: “Room Seven is a Community! We are a Community! Who are our helpers?”

“You are a helper, teacher,” said a little girl.

“Yes,” I encouraged. “So is she,” I said, pointing to our afternoon assistant. “And who helps us with our garbage?”

“The janitor,” said two students in tandem.

“Yes. And the Librarian helps us too.” Hoping to show them several layers of Community, I asked, “What’s the next bigger Community we belong to?”

“The school!” shouted one young fellow, with others in hot pursuit.

“Right, our school. What’s the next Community?”

“The world!” chimed an inspired boy. This was a bit of a leap, but in the right direction.

“Sure, the world. But what’s a little smaller than the whole world?”

“Castro Valley.”

“America!”

“There are lots of Communities. We can be members of more than one.”

A girl in the back raised her hand. “Some people hurt other people though.” A sobering note. I tried to acknowledge yet soften her words.

“Yes, some people don’t see that they are part of a larger Community. What’s the biggest Community of all? Someone already said it.”

“The world.”

Time was up. Everyone headed back to their desks and purposefully gathered and stuffed. I had them line up at the door.

“Thank you all for being such a well-behaved and co-operative class. This has been one of the best first grade classes I’ve ever taught.” They left with smiles and hopefully a bit of well earned pride.

I left with a new awareness of the capabilities of six year olds.