I’m back. Back to school, back to blogging, back to hitting “snooze” at four a.m.. It’s all good. I am thrilled to be back in the teaching saddle. I missed these kids, darn it! Don’t get me wrong. I loved every glorious moment of my Christmas break. Loved and gloried in the daily reminder that teaching runs on the most amazing schedule imaginable.
I had eleven days to myself over the holidays. Eleven days! I got to enjoy my visiting sons, I slept late nearly everyday, and I cooked up a storm. For the first time in over two years, I felt like I had a life again. I did go to school a couple of those days, but really tried to stay away as much as possible. And it was a good decision on my part. I walked into my classroom yesterday with the three R’s in my holster. I was Rested, Renewed, and Rarin’ to go.
All was clipping along on my first day back (yesterday), when I happened to read an email sent by the elementary principal. He’s a great leader and a friend, but he stinks at communicating by email. Why, you ask? Because every directive and piece of information he wants to convey for say, an entire year, is stuffed into a single email. They are long, they are filled with dates and “need to know” bullet points, and I almost always miss some important piece of information buried between lines 43 and 57.
Just before break I read such a message. This one gave the heads-up that after Christmas we would be welcoming new students. The details followed which I merely perused after reading that none of the new kids would be in first grade.
Yesterday afternoon while the kids were in music class, I quickly scanned my email for any do-or-die missives. I opened one entitled “Team” (that would be me), and scanned the contents with one eye on the door for returning pint-sized musicians. This one reminded the “team” that new students would be showing up (today). Yadda, yadda, unimportant detail, unimportant detail… then, FIRST GRADER??!! Noting that I had a few moments left on the Doomsday Clock, I bolted out the door and up the stairs, then sailed into the principal's office. “Did you mean to say first grade?” I asked without preamble. Slow grin crosses his face. “I did.” “But I thought before Christmas you said he would be in second grade.” Grin is fixed on face. “I did say that.” He shrugged in a don’t-blame-me manner. “That was the information we had at the time. I just found out differently today.” I don’t remember if I said anything before billowing my sails to full expansion and leaving his office. Wow, I had things to do. I knew I better get my butt in gear and there was not a minute to lose. I am the queen of personalized classroom paraphernalia. I wanted this new child to walk in and feel warmly welcomed. This would take time after school was over, but I was confident.
At 7:30, confidence was waning.
I was tired, had begun to feel physically crummy about midday, and had not accomplished all I had hoped to, but the sun would rise on another day. It was time to go home, take a hot shower, and fall into bed. I did not want him to show up nervous and timid on his first day only to find a sub waiting for him. Sleep, Mrs. Dahl! I summoned all spare white blood cells to-arms, and slept like the dead.
I awoke with better perspective, still a little wobbly and not running on all pistons, but I knew I would survive, and so I met the day head-on.
I guzzled all the caffeine I possibly could without needing a catheter, made extra copies of the day’s activities, pasted on my most dazzling smile, and greeted The New One with sincere joy.
I guess on some level of my brain I had anticipated some shyness and reserve on the part of my students. I DID NOT anticipate the Devil’s Spawn possessing my darlings the very moment they met New Kid.
I’ll back up a bit. Watching group dynamics is of infinite interest to me. My first college go-round and degree had me interested in Sociology, because like everyone else in their early twenties in the eighties, I wanted to save the world from itself and “help” mankind. I thought social work was my cup of tea and so I enrolled in countless sociology-related courses. That lasted two semesters and ended abruptly. There are two reasons for that. My professors were boring beyond tears and I job-shadowed a social worker for a day. One day was plenty. We went into horrible homes, encountered horrible situations, and her pay was abysmal. I guess I wasn’t the altruist I thought I was.
However, I remained fascinated with the how and why of people, societies, and groups of people.
I was a little knocked off-kilter today by the sudden rash of fresh attitudes and minor misbehaviors suddenly being exhibited by these formerly angelic children. Fool that I am, I convinced myself that as the day wore on and the novelty of a new kid wore off, they would settle down and revert to their former selves. It never happened. They were borderline naughty all day.
At lunch I plopped my bones beside a couple of other teachers and laid out my bewilderment. I ended with, “my voice is sore.” I never yell. I just don’t. I get their attention so much better with a quiet tone than with elevated decibels. Today however, my voice level was elevated. Not yelling, per say, but trying to get attention enough to pull focus back to the tasks at hand. It was a constant fight. They were showing off, I guess.
I used to have chickens, here on the ranch. Chickens, like people, were very interesting to watch. You’ve heard the term “pecking order.” This is a true phenomenon with chickens. For reasons unknown and invisible to humans (and possibly themselves. Chickens have very small brains), one hen would start to be picked and pecked on. One or two other hens would begin to peck at the poor thing with their sharp beaks. Pretty soon, other hens would join the bullying fun and before long, the witless victim would be bloody and maimed, feathers gone and wounds agape.
This happens in the human world as well.
We’ve all seen it. Someone decides that someone else is inferior and worthy to be picked on because they don’t look right, or dress appropriately, or are too smart, or too dumb, or whatever. We’ve seen it, and maybe participated in it at one time or another. At the least, we have been silent witness to it and refused to intervene. I am as guilty as are you, probably.
I think part of what I witnessed today is the Chicken Coop Syndrome. In a child’s mind, it is better to proactively avoid being the one pecked to a bloody pulp by creating dominance as soon as possible. My kids wanted the New One to know there is already a group dynamic in place, there is a certain placement of the leaders and the followers, and that he will have to earn his stripes in the jungle of first grade playground gangs.
Overstated and over analyzed? Possibly. Just the workings of a middle-aged, quasi-hippie brain.
Anyway, the day ended mercifully. I kicked off my high heels (what had I been thinking?!), and I thanked the good Lord that I had survived without permanently damaging vocal chords or tender egos.
When I drug my still-not-feeling-right body through the door at home, there was a letter waiting for me on the table with no return address.
Tearing it open, I found a neatly typed note from one of my students. He had typed it all himself, every word. Not an easy feat when you are only six. It contained the lyrics to Santa Claus is Coming To Town in its entirety. He also assured me that he missed me over Christmas vacation and that in June he would be going to Florida. And, neatly taped to the page, was a quarter.
I held the paper treasure in my dog-tired hand and felt a tender smile cover my face. Then I giggled over the quarter and was deeply touched, simultaneously. I raised boys. I know how they value money and what a quarter means to a first grader. Little boys save those quarters so that on their next trip to the Tractor Supply Store they can buy another farm animal to add to their collection, or a pack of Double Bubble at Walmart. A quarter is big deal to a six-year-old. His simple gift spoke volumes of his love and affection for a certain middle-aged teacher who was loony enough to embark on a new career when most people her age are winding theirs down.
The stresses of the day rolled off my shoulders like rain on a slicker. That sweet, sloppily-folded letter will go in my treasure box of Favorite Things and be a forever reminder that children are proof-positive that God loves Mankind and that teaching was the perfect choice for me.
Tomorrow is another day. I hope sugar has been consumed sparingly tonight and that they come just a tad tired tomorrow.
Hello New Year and welcome New Kid.
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