Done - Close encounters of the third-grade kind : thoughts on teacherhood

Copyright 2009 by Phillip Done

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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First eBook Edition: September 2009

ISBN: 978-1-59995-264-2

Dedicated to:

Mrs. Ranada who taught me how to read,

Mrs. Murayama who taught me how to think,

And Mr. Stretch who taught me how to teach.

Now all I have to teach you is one word everything.

The Miracle Worker

O n my desk at school there is a treasure chest. It is filled with construction paper cards decorated with glitter glue, school photos framed with Popsicle sticks, and pictures drawn with tropical marker and colored pencil and love. If Im in the drawings, I am usually as tall as the schoolhouse in the background. My head is bigger than the sun.

Next to parents, teachers are the most influential people in childrens lives. We love, care, guide, and nurture. We collect baby teeth, check foreheads for fevers, and can punch the little silver dots on top of juice boxes with one swift poke of the straw. We are used to being called Mom and Dad. I wonder: Why dont we have a word that captures the essence of being a teacher a word that encompasses the spirit of teaching? Motherhood and fatherhood are words. Parenthood is a word. I think teacherhood should be a word, too.

Teacherhood is knowing that softer voices are more effective than louder ones, that students read better under their desks, that you always hand out birthday treats at the end of the day, that kids will not hear the difference between than and then, that children will always choose chocolate chip cookies before oatmeal and raisin, and that if the office supply store is having a Back to School sale on folders but will only let you purchase twenty folders at a time buy twenty, leave the store, return, grab another twenty, and go to a new register.

Teacherhood is understanding that you should never try to teach anything on Halloween, that when kids start learning cursive they forget how to spell, that students who are usually quiet will become chatty the week before Christmas break, that desks swallow papers, that at any given moment a child could announce something random like hes been to Denver and saw a banana slug, that the best lessons on paper can tank in real life, that children who are about to throw up get clingy, that reading nothing but comics is like eating only pasta your whole life, and that for Show and Tell you do not ask Sarah to bring in her cat and Trevor to share his dog on the same day.

Teacherhood is knowing that when kids hold up their multiplication flash cards to the light they can see the answers on the back, that children will leave the t out of watch and the second m out of remember, that you always explain the instructions before handing out the blocks (or beans or marshmallows), that cupcake paper is edible, that the pile of red construction paper in the supply room will be lowest in February, that when the air-conditioner man comes into the classroom and starts removing the ceiling tiles stop teaching, and that when children see their teacher burst out laughing or fight back tears while reading a book they witness two of readings greatest rewards.

Teacherhood is prying staples out of the stapler with a pair of scissors, following mud tracks to a students desk, asking questions about things when you already know the answers, laughing at knock-knock jokes youve heard three hundred times, being able to make thirty-seven different things out of a paper plate, locating the exact book that a child is searching for when all she knows is that it has a yellow cover, knowing that a storm is coming without looking outside, pushing desks that have crept up throughout the day back to their original places, finding yellow caps on blue markers, and counting to five while each child takes a drink at the drinking fountain so that no kid hogs all the water.

Teacherhood is correcting papers while watching Letterman, calculating how many workdays are left till the middle of June, singing the ABC Song out loud when looking up a word in the dictionary, taking the 7:00 AM dentist appointment, asking the woman at the dry cleaners if she can get out glue stick, unrolling a brand-new package of paper towels because you need one more tube for an art project, taking your students out for free play and calling it PE, knowing that no matter how much food you have at the Thanksgiving feast kids will just grab the popcorn, and calling your student three different names before finally getting it right.

Teacherhood is standing in the center of the dodgeball circle while twenty children try to get you out, counting kids heads on a field trip, confiscating yardsticks that have magically turned into swords, snitching candy from your own goody jar, collecting abandoned bird nests, scooping goop out of pumpkins, understanding that cursive is easier to write than cursive , having ninety-seven items in your emergency preparedness backpack but not being able to find the Band-Aids, knowing all about Cabbage Patch Kids, Beanie Babies, Pokmon, Smurfs, Elmo, Tamagotchis, Webkinz, and Bakugan before they became hot, and sitting in the barbers chair on Colonial Day while getting a shave with a Popsicle stick and Cool Whip.

Teacherhood is writing Do Not Touch! on the tape dispenser then hunting for it the very next day, sweating over not being able to get the DVD player to work while twenty kids offer to help, waiting out in front of Target the morning after Thanksgiving to save fifty cents on ribbon, making rain parkas out of Hefty bags when it starts pouring on the field trip, expecting more chase games on the blacktop in spring than in fall, explaining that a rock is a very important role in the school play, yanking so hard on the wall map that it shoots up and jumps off the metal hooks, having butterflies the night before school starts, and understanding that a child may forget what you taught her but will always remember how you made her feel.

T here is a moment in August when teachers everywhere experience the same migratory call. This tug is always followed by a sigh, or a shake of the head, or both. Where did the summer go? Eventually, we make that first trip back to our classrooms. The key turns. The door opens. Summer is officially over.

Inside, the tile floor around the sink shines with a new coat of wax. The room smells like carpet cleaner. It is time to rebuild our nests. So we unstack chairs, arrange desks, organize books, and decorate bulletin boards. We make copies, sort through files, and put a brand-new shoe-box house in the bunny cage. And best of all, we get to visit the supply room again.