Just Teach: Chapter 4, Back to School
The first two weeks of school are all about routines and training.
How to stand in line
How to sit down at your desk
How to hang up your coat
How to pack up your bag
How to ask to use the bathroom
How to sign out to use the bathroom
How to return from the bathroom without disturbing the class
How to wash your hands (!)
How to ask a question
How to ask for help
How to ask for a tissue if your nose is running
What to do if your nose is bleeding
How to go from your desk to the rug
How to return from the rug to your desk
How to take out your books
How to put away your books
How to ask for a drink of water
How to sip the water from the fountain so it won’t splash on the floor
Where to sit for Morning Meeting
Where to sit during reading instruction
Where to sit during math instruction
How to pass out papers
How to collect papers
How to put your papers in your folder once they have been graded
How to sharpen your pencil
How many pencils to have sharpened at all times (Although, honestly, you can never have too many sharp pencils.)
But I forgot to discuss the scissors.
I intended to talk about the use and care of scissors before making pictographs of summer vacation last Thursday, but as we were coming back from lunch Veronica got a nosebleed (thankfully we had already covered what to do if your nose is bleeding) and I was called down to the nurse’s office to fill out an Incident Report even though it really wasn’t an incident but Nurse Smith, who doesn’t speak Spanish, thought Veronica said she had been punched in the nose. So I gave Mrs. Truman the materials for the pictographs and asked her to lead the activity. Ten minutes later I got back to the room and they were cutting away. I collected the scissors before dismissal and put them in the box on the window sill. No problem.
By Monday there were only 20 pairs when we cut out shapes for the team flags. Then Marcia pointed out that someone had surreptitiously cut off the erasers of all the spare pencils.
On Tuesday there were only 17 pairs for the word sort, and the ficus plant had been pruned. At recess Faith told me in tears that two inches had been cut off of a braid on the back of her head.
This morning I discover someone has been shaving the wood off of the pencils in the cubbies, and the letters “LOL” have been carved into the wall near the computers. During the math lesson, I count the scissors before handing them out. We are down to 12 pairs. I have more scissors in the supply closet, but I refuse to restock until we get to the bottom of this. I stop the class for an interrogation. “Ok, where are all the scissors?”
Their stony faces tell me they know exactly who has the scissors. No one says a word.
“We can’t make our flashcards without the scissors. Where are they?”
Harry dares to shrug. Julian lets a grin slip and glances at Adam’s desk. Then Hope stands up, walks over to my position at the front of the room, and whispers into my ear. Before she can speak, I grab a folder from my desk and hold it up in front of her face so no one can see or hear her confession. “Adam has the scissors,” she tells me. I wink at her before I lower the folder. I keep my eyes on the whole class, but out of the corner of my eye I can see Adam, the palest child in the class, turn bright pink.
“Hope,” I say loudly. “I hardly think the mice are taking the scissors. That’s ridiculous. Please take your seat.” She stares triumphantly at Adam as she walks back to her desk. Most of the class is now looking at Adam.
“Ok, everyone. Desk inspection.” There goes my math lesson. Together we create a list of what a clean desk should look like. Then I prompt everyone to clean out their desks and organize them according to the chart, books on the left, folders on the right, three sharp pencils in front. Less than one month into school, it’s impressive how much junk they have already amassed.
A desk inspection is like a personality test. Tyson has to tip his over completely, scattering pencil shavings, crumpled papers, breakfast snacks, and markers all over the floor. “Hey! My glasses!” he declares, picking up a tattered, purple case from the pile. Charles takes less than a minute to straighten his piles, wipe down the surface of his desk with a Clorox wipe, and settle into reading his math textbook. Claudia tidies her desk quickly and then goes to help her twin sister, Erica. Erica stands by passively, hovering but inert, while Claudia takes her papers and puts them into folders, clucking and scolding like a hen. I assign Charles to help Mark with his mess, and Faith to help Marcia with hers.
I make my rounds, peeking into each desk, arriving at Adam’s in good time. “Looks good. Put your things on top, so we can make sure they are in the right order.” He freezes, looking at me, once again flashing red as a stoplight. “Now,” I clarify. He knows that I know that he knows that I know.
Tucked behind his math and reading textbook is a shiny pile of scissor blades, each expertly separated from its partner at the fulcrum. I count 18 shanks. Nine pairs. I collect the scissors amid gasps and whispers from the class. “Where are the others?” He slinks over to his backpack and produces two pairs, still assembled for efficacy. “And the rest?” He pulls one blade out of his pocket, and then looks at Harry and Julian. Harry pulls out a blade from his pocket, and Julian hands me a pair of scissors from his.
Secretly I am impressed by their diligence, ingenuity and deviance. These are strengths to be harnessed. But in the meantime, I yell at them. I lecture the class. There will be no scissors for anybody for any reason for the rest of the week. I call all the families. I make the boys sign a contract. I give them recess detention during which the boys must use tape to reassemble the scissors, which I realize too late is almost as fun as the crime itself. I still have to throw all of the scissors out, of course. It’s just an attempt at a logical consequence. A failed gesture to justice.
The following Monday I scrap my science lesson and instead we have an Introduction to Scissors.
I pull out a shiny, brand new pair of child scissors with pointy tips, still in the packaging for maximum sex appeal. I ask: What are these called? What do we use them for? What do you notice about them? What do you wonder about them? As if we are encountering an ancient artifact from a lost civilization. Then I model how to use them to cut out shapes for our geometry activity. We discuss the difference between the blade and the handle. I demonstrate how to hold the scissors, how to walk with the scissors, how to pass them to a friend.
The process takes forever. I wish they could just use the goddamn scissors responsibly. Then maybe I could be past lesson two of the science unit. But anyway.
Finally, I give each child their own brand new pair. I have numbered them and I write down the number next to each child’s name. “This is YOUR pair of scissors,” I say. They compare and discuss the relative merits of their scissors. “I got red! I love red.” “I wanted a clear handle.” “Wow, mine are sharper than yours.”
Angela does not open the package and admires the scissors inside the protective plastic. She has scored a pair of Fiskars which must have been in the community donation from the city last spring. Top shelf scissors. And they are pink.
“Open them up, Angela,” I tell her. “Try them out.”
She tugs at my skirt and gestures for me to bend down. I do. She leans over and whispers in my ear, “Can I keep them?”
It’s not in my budget to give away a class set of scissors every year, but her request is so fragile and sincere, and it would be so easy to grant this one wish. I whisper back, “How about you keep them here for school work, and at the end of third grade you take them home with you?” Then I wink, to show her that this is our secret contract. She smiles.
“Hey, everybody!” Tyson yells. “Ms. Martin says at the end of year we can keep our scissors!” They all cheer. Tyson may not be able to see, but he has bionic hearing.
I give them fifteen blissful minutes to cut out any shapes they want and put them in envelopes for an as of yet undetermined future purpose. The room is nearly silent as I prompt them to, “Feel how the scissors slice the paper. What happens if you cut faster? Slower?” I compliment them on their form and precision. “Pay attention to how much pressure you need to use. How much is too little? Too much?” I put on the Thinking Music and let them cut, cut, cut, placing each shape into envelopes for tomorrow’s activity. Tami has made at least two dozen squares of different sizes and what looks like a hundred ovals. She’s good.
Then I see Dr. Moore. She is sitting at the back of the room, legs crossed, laptop closed, looking at her phone. How long has she been there? It’s only September, and the first observation, by contract, must be scheduled and announced. My neck tightens and I proceed as if it is the most natural thing in the world for my principal to drop by my classroom when she has never done so before. In my peripheral vision I see her look up and around, perhaps trying to figure out why the students are cutting out shapes when the schedule on my board says we are in our science block and will be reading about the Sun. She nods at me and I smile weakly. She talks slowly around the room, pausing to ask Charles a question, to which he just shrugs. Then I hear her ask Marc, “What are you doing?” And Marc looks up at her like a startled squirrel and says, “Huh? I dunno.” And he goes back to chopping up his paper into what looks like confetti. After another minute, she leaves without a word. I let out a slow breath.
“Why the principal here, Ms. Martin? We in trouble?” Tyson asks me. Maybe, I think. I just tell him his lines are exquisitely straight.
After a ridiculous amount of time cutting, we make a chart together called, “Our Treatise on the Care and Use of Scissors” and everyone signs a pledge that they will be used only to cut paper, or possibly string, with permission. The scissors will always be stored in the closet. We love our scissors.
Tomorrow’s social studies lesson: Introduction to Glue Sticks.
***
Back to School Night is on Thursday, the same night as Louise’s Back to School Night, which I will miss again. Last year Mark went alone and neglected to pay attention to what reading and math programs they were using, or if they sat at desks or tables, or really anything at all. He did report that the teacher, Ms. Wilson had just graduated from college and was pretty hot. This year I happen to know that Louise’s teacher is scheduled to retire in April, so I’m not sure what exactly Mark will pay attention to, but at least he’s going.
I expect a flyer from the office to go home on Monday, but Tuesday comes and goes and still nothing from the office. I have my students write “Back to School Night, 6:30!” into their agenda books under Thursday. “My mother works,” Erica A. says. “My grandfather is sick. My mom can’t leave the house,” Bradley tells me. “We go to church!” Daniel insists. Over half the class is certain their parents won’t be able to come. I promise a whole week of homework passes to anyone who shows up.
On Wednesday Mrs. Cruz sends an email to the whole grade level:
Looks like we were supposed to send our own flyer home (???!!!). Please print this letter and send home to families TODAY!
I personally put the letter into each of their backpacks. After dismissal I walk around picking up discarded letters from the asphalt on the playground. “Ms. Dudley, you mind asking God if he can get these parents to come tonight? Because I don’t think the flyers will do it.”
“I’m on it, baby,” she assures me with a wink. You can always count on Ms. Dudley for a good prayer.
Thursday afternoon I stay after school to prepare. We’ve been in school for less than two weeks, and it feels like I have hardly taught them how to line up and stop talking over one another, but I have to make it look like they have been doing some serious learning. I fill the bulletin boards with their hopes and dreams and collages and self-portraits. I populate my Word Wall with the September sight words and some vocabulary that might give the impression of rigor. Words like “inspect” and “diversity” and “analyze,” as well as “weather” and “system” and “array.” Dr. Moore loves to talk about the importance of rigor. I add the word “rigor” to my word wall for good measure. Then I rewrite each of my anchor charts in my best handwriting and place them conspicuously around the room. There is no evidence of fist fights or theft or tears. I’ve scrubbed the crime scene. I’m ready.
I am not confident that many parents will show up with such short notice, but I print out a class set of handouts anyway. I have a welcome letter, a page on grading and homework policies, and a sheet about our classroom rules. I have a page on “How to Read With Your Third Grader,” and “How to Make Math Fact Practice Fun for the Whole Family.”
After school Mr. Lee asks me, “You have many families coming?”
“I don’t think so. We just sent the notice home today, so, yeah. You?”
“Well, I was nervous so I called everyone over the weekend, so I think most of them will show up. Ronaldo’s dad is still in the hospital, so they won’t make it. And Janice said her mom can’t get off of work. But I expect to have at least 85%, which is above the national average.”
I know he is just stating facts, and his tone is neutral, but it feels like bragging. When I was a first year teacher I hosted a family picnic for my class on the Saturday before school. I would call every family at least once a month to check-in. I accepted two Mary Kay makeover invitations. I definitely called every family before Back to School Night. But that was before I had my own family. This year the thought of calling parents didn’t even cross my mind.
Just wait until you have your own kids, and we’ll see how many phone calls you make on the weekends, I want to say. Instead I ask, “You nervous?”
“Naw,” he says. “I was on the debate team last year and we went to nationals.” Of course he did.
I spend the rest of the afternoon helping Ms. Frank tidy her classroom and post student work on her boards. We get takeout from Benny’s across the street and talk about ourselves.
Ms. Frank’s first career was as a reporter. “Actually, I really wanted to be a marine biologist, but I double majored in English, and right out of college I landed this job with a local paper. Back when they had local papers.” When the Gazette folded, she worked as a freelance copy editor while she was raising her kids. When her twins entered high school, she was laid off. “The county was always recruiting teachers, and I really enjoyed working in my kids’ schools, so I figured, why not?” The pause after this statement and the vacant look in her eyes suggest that by now she has figured out “why not.” Because it is far less stressful getting sentences to behave than persuading children to pay attention. “What about you? Did you always want to be a teacher?” she asks, reaching for a fortune cookie.
“Me? Not really. I mean, it’s not like everyone in my family was a teacher or anything. In my family, you were supposed to be a lawyer or a doctor or, sure, a journalist. I went to a liberal arts college with a big tuition, so it seemed like teaching would be a waste of that degree, I guess. And I don’t know, I saw that there was so much suffering in the world, you know? I had this idea that I wanted to help, do my part. I worked in residential drug treatment for a while. I worked for like two seconds for an immigration lawyer. I thought about social work, or policy. But I always enjoyed working with kids, always worked at summer camps. So figured teaching would be the best way to have, like, an impact. I mean, maybe if I had a kid for 180 days, 7 hours a day, I could make a positive difference, you know?” I look around her room at the stacks of papers, the messy desks, the behavior charts and textbooks and grade-level standards, all the things needing attention. I do not need to point out that we have both been in the building for nearly 12 hours.
“And hey, the steady paycheck and summer vacations are no joke,” she reminds me.
“Here’s to that!” I agree, raising my Arizona Arnold Palmer in a toast. “What’s your fortune?”
She reads, “A smooth long journey. Great expectations.”
“I got, Competence like yours is underrated.”
We pack up the dinner, and head downstairs to the cafetorium.
The room is packed with families. Parents fill every seat, holding babies and small children in their arms and laps, wearing work uniforms of all kinds. The students are dressed in their best home clothes. No school uniforms tonight. I see several of my students have made it. Ana is in a red lace dress with matching hair bows. The twins, Claudia and Erica, are in matching jeans and t-shirts that say, “I rule in school!” Julian and Harry lurk by the back door, no parents in sight, but Harry’s hair is combed slick, so I doubt he is alone. Charles sits in the front row next to his mother and four siblings, like stair steps. There is standing room only. Mr. Wright makes an announcement for teachers to bring in more chairs from their classrooms, which causes much grumbling and more commotion. It is still technically summer and the air in the room struggles to circulate. Miraculously, the presentation starts more or less on time.
“Good evening, families,” Mr. Wright begins. His sleeves are rolled up and his tie is loosened as he has already worked a full day. His voice is winded. As he speaks I can imagine him saying, Now, I know we would all rather be at home with a hot dinner and Netflix… Instead he says, “It is such a pleasure to see you all tonight. Let me begin by extending Principal Moore’s apologies that she can not be here. She is attending her own children’s Back to School Night.”
There is a murmur of approval from the parents in the room, who know that a person’s own children must always come first. Personally, I am not so understanding. Wait, this is optional? For the first time, I wonder how Louise feels about me missing her Back to School Night for the second year in a row. More fodder for her therapy sessions, I suppose.
I simmer over Dr. Moore’s absence while Mr. Wright talks about school policies and procedures. “You must send in a note when your child is out sick or it will be considered an unexcused absence… Please do not block the entryway during drop off… We expect scholars to wear their uniforms EVERY day… You must show your ID at the office before you may enter the building… No early pick-ups after 1:45…” The presentation takes twice as long as every sentence must be translated into Spanish by an interpreter. I watch one father fall asleep standing up and then get swatted awake by his wife.
Finally, we are dismissed. The teachers scuttle upstairs first to set up, and the parents follow along like fish traveling upstream on a tributary, branching off into hallways and then classrooms. We decided to meet with the entire grade level together in one room because we expected a low turnout. Mrs. Cruz will lead the power point, and Ms. Dudley will translate. I am surprised to see so many families represented as Mrs. Cruz’s room steadily fills. I give Ms. Dudley a thumbs up. “Nice work!” I tell her. Her prayer did the job. Mr. Lee’s sign-in sheet is nearly full, and I am pleased that more than half my class has come on such short notice. I open all of the windows and wonder if we shouldn’t have split up for the presentation, but it is too late to change plans.
Mrs. Cruz works her way through the powerpoint about our grade level standards and curricula. I smile at the fatigued audience. Younger siblings fuss. Two babies are crying. The slides take us nearly 30 minutes, leaving little time for questions. Our distractible eight-year-olds begin to squirm and act their true selves. It is nearly 7:30 when we finally thank everyone for coming and give them time to see the classrooms and ask questions. I notice that my deodorant has completely worn off. I’ll have to keep my arms down.
Daniel’s mother is the first to approach. She thanks me for all of my work. “You know that my husband died last summer,” she tells me. Yes, I know. We were all informed in an email in August. He was diabetic. I am so very sorry for their loss. “How is Daniel doing?” she wants to know. Daniel is often distracted, but he does not cry in school. He has friends. He seems happy to be here, and he is doing his work. The truth is, most days I forget that Daniel’s father died so recently. He’s such an easy going kid. “Thank you for looking out for him. He’s the oldest, so it’s been the hardest on him.” I promise her I will take care of him.
Marc’s mother wants to see his written work, and tells me she is worried about his attention. “He just always seems like he’s somewhere else,” she tells me. No kidding. I assure her I will set up a meeting with the Student Intervention Team soon. Alice’s mother tells me she thinks her daughter is not challenged. “You must see her potential,” she says, and I agree, making a mental note to get her reading scores next week and start small group instruction right away. I watch from across the room as Tami’s mother picks up her writing journal and flips through the pages, shaking her head. She is as perplexed by all the rectangles and ovals as I am. I think about approaching her to start a conversation, but in that moment she turns and heads out the door, avoiding eye contact.
Most of the parents are occupied looking around the room while their children show off their recently scrubbed desks and neatly stacked folders when Ana approaches me with a handsome man who looks to be between fifty and sixty years old. She has his eyes exactly. She introduces him in Spanish as, “Mi papá.”
We greet one another warmly. Then he explains, “This is my youngest daughter. She was born here, but returned to Salvador with her mother when she was a baby. Now she is here with me. She came two months ago. Her brothers and sisters are with their mother. It is just us, teacher.” I thank him for coming, assure him his daughter will advance quickly, she seems very bright. “Muy lista!” She has been following along well. I was not aware that she was so new to the country. I take his cell phone number so we can stay in touch.
Harry has come with his older sister, who thanks me and leaves quickly. Julian, who seems to be here on his own, follows them out the door. At eight o’clock Mr. Wright’s voice comes over the intercom. “Thank you so much for coming, families. This concludes our Back to School Night. Teachers, please turn off all the lights and lock your doors when you leave. See you in the morning!”
It takes ten minutes for the room to clear. I linger to talk with Charles’ mother, who just arrived after visiting three other classrooms. I promise to challenge her child. I tell her about the Talented and Gifted program. I want to apologize for neglecting him, which I know I will do, but I don’t need to. She knows. Her son will be fine at the back desk with his math textbook. She can tell I have my hands full. They leave in a line, each child with a book in hand. These kids are going somewhere.
Just as I am about to turn out my light, I see her in the doorway. Angela’s face floats, bodiless, tilted tentatively sideways, an animal emerging from hiding. She has sneaked upstairs.
“Hey there, Angela,” I say as warmly as possible, although I can hardly form a sentence and just want to go home. “Funny meeting you here.” She says nothing, but she smiles. Then a broad woman steps past her and into the doorway, out of breath. She seems too young to have an eight year old child, but she has Angela’s eyes. Maybe an older sister?
“I’m so sorry we’re so late,” she apologizes. “I just got home from work and Angela told me about the meeting. I just wanted to meet you.” Her accent is from the islands, but I cannot tell which one. “I’m Angela’s mother.”
“No problem at all. So nice to meet you.” We shake hands. She is so small, this woman, she could almost be one of my students. I ask Angela, “How did you get in?”
“I showed her the door in the gym,” Angela says proudly. “It’s always open.” Really? I’ll have to email the custodians. She has stepped into the room and I see that she is also dressed up as if for a party, or church, in a blue velvet dress that is at least two sizes too small. She has even tamed her hair into several ponytails. I tell her how pretty she looks.
“Look, I know you need to go. I just wanted to say that you have any trouble at all with Angela, you call me, any time, and I will deal with it.” She looks at her daughter, and Angela darkens, recoils. But when the mother’s gaze turns to me, it is weary. “Angela, she can be tough.”
I am too tired to talk, but I encourage Angela to show her mother her hope and dream on the bulletin board and her neat desk while I straighten up a bit. They linger for only a minute before leaving as quickly and silently as they appeared.
By the time I get home my body is shaking. Iggy and Louise are already asleep after their own exhaustingly long days. I give them each a kiss, and then curl into the fetal position next to Mark who is watching his show on the couch. I lay my head on his lap. For a moment I can be the child.
“How was the open house?” I ask with my eyes closed.
“The teacher is at least three years past her expiration date. But it was okay. Oh, and they’re sitting at tables this year, not desks.” His hand is warm and strong as he rubs my back.
“That’s good,” I mumble. “Tables are better.” If he asks me about my night, I don’t hear it because I am immediately asleep. School starts in less than ten hours. And I have work to do.
