Just Teach: Chapter 2, One Down

When I was a first year teacher, a veteran entering his 30th year in the classroom told me, “I still get diarrhea before the first day of school. Every year. Like clockwork.” I thought he was just trying to make me feel better. Well, six years later, turns out diarrhea is a thing.

I pass most of the night multitasking on the toilet by scouring Pinterest for cute First Day of School ideas and revising my First Day Plan. Around 4 a.m. I return to bed and doze off long enough to catch a nap before my alarm at five-thirty.

Adrenaline propels me to the shower. Then I dress for battle: Suit skirt and lucky blue blouse. Hair washed, dried, product applied. Fake pearls and matching earrings. I put on my low, black heels, so they will be able to hear every step as I click-click-click past their desks.

When they arrive, they are going to be greeted by one serious ass teacher.

I am out of the house by 6:00 before the family is awake, leaving the celebratory donuts I picked up at the grocery store last night on the dining room table for Louise and Pascal with a note that says, “Have a great first day, Rock Stars! Love ya!” I add an asterisks for John, “*Don’t forget first day pic!”

It’s early, but traffic is up. Today is the first day back for every district in the area. Game on.

I get to school with an hour to spare, but the building is already bustling. Turns out I am not the only one who adjusted her list last night. I find Ms. Frank at the copy machine.

Christina Frank is a second year teacher. I know her mostly from a two-day professional development workshop about Self Care we were both forced to attend last year. She is teaching first grade, which is a curious fit for a woman with so little patience. “Happy opening day,” I say. “You ready?”

She turns her attention to me while the machine spits out what look like coloring pages. “Are you kidding? Is it possible to be ready? I hardly slept last night because I couldn’t get my computer to send to the printer yesterday, so I was worried about making these copies. And yesterday my class list went up by three more kids, so I have to find them desks…” I am relieved when she suddenly remembers her objective and flips the workbook page to make her next copy. The minute hand on the wall clock ticks up towards 7 am. “It’s like only my second year, you know, and last year I was in fourth grade so I’ve never taught first grade and I know first graders can be more of a handful and I think I have like four IEPs, so yeah. Not ready.” I consider telling her about the diarrhea, but she is already turned back to the copy machine which has jammed. “Fuck!” she says.

I help her fix the jam. When it comes to copy machines, I have a surgeon’s touch. I console her with, “You’ll be great. They’re always angels on the first day, anyway.” She shoots me a weak, sarcastic smile. “Last year I had to break up a fist fight on the first day.” Then she groans. “Forget it, I don’t have time for this. It’s all yours.” She grabs her worksheets and heads through the door, adding, “Thanks for the pep talk.”

After making my copies I click-click back to my room. On the way, I glance at Mr. Lee’s door and stop in my tracks. I poke my head in. The lights are off. Quiet music is playing. Every bin, basket and surface has been color coordinated in blue hues, creating a soothing, underwater effect. The bulletin boards have neatly hand printed titles like, “Welcome back to SCHOOL!” with a bunch of fish cutouts, and “Let’s SWIM through a new book!” and “Our scores are rising like BUBBLES,” and “We’re REEL excited for math!” Adorable. Mr. Lee is sitting at his desk, leaning back in his chair, looking at his phone, ready for anything. I could kill him. He is in his second year of a high profile teacher preparation program. By next year he’ll be appointed grade level chair on account of his color-coded schedules alone.

“Knock ’em dead, James,” I say, careful to conceal my annoyance at his fish cutouts. “Thanks,” he replies, smiling confidently. “No specials today, you know.”

“Yeah, I know,” I answer. I did not know. Was that in an email? That means I have no bathroom break until lunch at 11:30.

When I return to my classroom, I find it bland, unwelcoming, too bright. My reclaimed book baskets are all different vintages and colors. I have no theme. My bulletin boards are blank intentionally. The plan is to create them together with the students as our first weeks unfold, but now they make me look lazy. The room feels serious and unwelcoming. My first year of teaching I spent hundreds of dollars and almost as many hours creating an island theme, crafting elaborate tropical motifs for every bulletin board and literacy center. My book bins all matched. I bought a palm tree for the library. Within two weeks I realized the elaborate signs didn’t leave enough room for student work and anchor charts. The students could have cared less about my ability to make coconuts out of construction paper. The tree was dead by October. I’m not going to sweat Mr. Lee’s fish cut outs. Those kids might eat him alive anyway.

I sharpen more pencils, check my name labels, prep the desks and before I know it, Dr. Moore is on the loudspeaker:

“Good morning, esteemed staff! You may now come down to the gymnasium to greet your students. No specials today and please check your email for the revised lunch schedule. We will have a debrief in the cafeteria right after dismissal.”

It’s showtime.

The gymnasium is a churning sea of bodies. Someone opened the doors before the teachers were in position, so parents pushing strollers and carrying large bags of school supplies swarm the court with hundreds of children in matching white shirts. I excuse my way through the throng and hold up a manila folder on which I have printed with purple marker: “Martin — 3rd Grade.” I take my place next to Mr. Lee along the half court line. His sign is in the shape of a clown fish, and laminated.

“Do you have your class list?” Mr. Lee asks. Of course, I have forgotten to print out my class list.

“I have it on my phone,” I explain.

“That’s ok,” he says. “I printed yours out as well… Just in case.” He hands me a list, color coded in blue and pink. So now I know Mr. Lee has decided I am disorganized.

“Thanks,” I say.

One by one they come. They are so much smaller than I expect. Compared to the fifth graders I sent off to sixth grade last year, they are newborns. Suddenly, I remember why I am in this game. I swell with energy. My people are here.

First to arrive is Veronica Velasquez. Her hair has been oiled and stretched into two perfect braids, each tied with a pink bow. The white shirt of her uniform is new and bright. The dark blue skirt has been ironed. She hides behind her mother who is carrying one child on her hip and pushing another in a stroller.

“Welcome,” I say. “You’re my first one! Can you hold my sign?” She looks at Mr. Lee’s sign and back to mine, but then graces me with a smile. “I am Ms. Martin,” I say to her mother. “Nice to meet you.” She smiles and nods, no free hands with which to shake. “Mucho gusto,” I try.

She relaxes and responds in Spanish, “Oh, you speak Spanish?” I nod cautiously. I took Spanish for two years in college, and it’s not pretty, but I try. “Thank you, teacher. My daughter is new. You understand, she does not speak English. She does not read. She wants to learn, teacher, but she is shy. Tell me if you need anything, teacher.”

I do my best to assure her I will take care of her daughter. Veronica’s wide eyes moisten as her mother disappears into the crowd. “Thank you for holding my sign,” I tell her. “Stand here.” She does.

They come. Some are wide-eyed and smiling, some smug, some scared. With each child I check my list. “Yup, you’re with me. Welcome to third grade! You can join our line.” Will this be the one who keeps me up at night? Is he my superstar? Will she be my favorite? Which one is the class clown?

Or, “Nope, try Mr. Lee.” And the child recedes out of my life forever. I will see her at recess, but she will not be one of mine.

I take notes on the color-coded class list that Mr. Overachiever has provided me. 11 boys and 12 girls. I have spent the last week labeling desks and notebooks and folders with their names. They are:

Adam

Alice

Ana

Angela

Bradley

Charles

Claudia

Cynthia

Daniel

Erica

Erika

Faith

Harry

Hope

Julian

Marcia

Mark

Robert

Shaun

Tami

Tyson

Veronica

And Walter

Everyone is present but Angela. The crowd has dissipated as parents leave for work and home, doubtlessly relieved to be back to the routine of the school year, and the molecules have stilled into lines. Then Mr. Wright gives the word, “OK, teachers. Take ’em away!” I wait for Mrs. Cruz’s class to file out the double doors towards the stairwell, then I shepherd twenty-two silent students down the hall and up the stairs to our new kingdom.

By the time we reach the doorway, Veronica has stopped crying. Shaun, who was retained and will be repeating third grade, frowns when he realizes that he is in the same classroom as last year, but he doesn’t make a sound.

“Welcome to your new classroom,” I tell forty-four wide eyes. I realize this may be the only time all year I have all eyes on me, so I rise to my full height and click-click down the line, a general surveying her troops.

“You will spend over a thousand hours in this room this year. One thousand, two hundred and sixty hours, to be exact, IF you have perfect attendance.” The number has its desired effect. They are terrified. “So you must treat this room with absolute care and respect. I hope you will feel at home, but don’t get too comfortable just yet. For now, you will walk in the door, find your name on a desk and sit. Do not unpack your bags yet. Any questions?”

They are too nervous for questions, and I am sure much of what I said was lost on anxious minds. They get the gist. I repeat the directions in Spanish for Veronica, then I invite each child, one at a time, to enter the sacred space of our classroom.

I have not always started the school year this way. My first year of teaching I let 26 sixth graders in at once and had them choose their own seats. It was a pajama party all year long.

Tyson needs to hold each name tag close to his eyes and takes a while to find his desk at the front of the room. I jot on my list, “T = Glasses?” Veronica is pretending to look at the names, but passes by her desk twice. I silently direct her to sit. I write, “V = non-reader.”

While they work silently on a worksheet survey, I take attendance, collect the school supplies, say hello to each child individually. They write and color. Harry finishes right away and starts looking around. Then Julian finishes and looks at Harry, grinning. I prompt them to draw a scene from summer vacation on the back of the paper, and then make a note not to sit the two together.

Charles has taken out his freshly sharpened pack of colored pencils and is drawing a detailed family portrait. It looks like he has written a full paragraph for each response. I write next to his name, “TAG?” Any kid who is writing paragraphs without being forced in third grade must be Talented and Gifted. Tami has written nothing, but is working hard to fill the margins of the page with little squares with eyeballs. “What are you drawing?” I ask. “Spongebob,” she tells me without looking up. “And this is Squidward.” She switches to drawing ovals.

Mark just sits, staring out the window. When I ask him what’s wrong, he startles as if awoken from sleep and returns to his paper. One minute later his eyes are on the window again. This is the first time I notice that Erica R.’s left arm ends at the elbow with five finger nubs. She holds a fresh, pink eraser with the small digits and draws a strikingly accurate husky puppy with her right hand. I write, “E.R. = 504 for hand?” I’ll talk to last year’s teacher about it.

Everything is going smoothly. I give credit to the high heels.

Then Angela appears in the doorway.

“They thought my name was Andrea and put me in the wrong class and that teacher man says I’m with YOU!” She has no bags of supplies or backpack. She is wearing a snug-fitting, off-white shirt with the insignia of a charter school near my house in the city. She must not have noticed my impressive, clicky pumps because she enters in like a gust of wind and sets everyone in motion. “Where do I sit?”

“Good morning, Angela. Welcome,” I say and direct her to the front row. I see Faith visibly recoil. I hear Tyson mumble, “You again?”

Angela is ready. “What you got to say about it, Tyson?” No one is working on their First Day of School Survey. Angela is in charge. The spell is broken. But I have heard about Angela, and I am ready.

“Angela, I have something for you. Meet me in the hallway. Class, when you are done with your survey, use the crayons on your table to decorate your name card. We will start our day in five minutes.” I set the timer for five minutes and place it on the chalk tray at the front of the room for all to see.

Thankfully, Angela decides it’s worth her time to follow my directions and steps out into the hallway. There are two students from the neighboring classroom, Ms. Goodman’s, in the hallway. I shoot them a look and they retreat back into the door. I keep one foot and eye in my classroom while I give Angela the impression of having my full attention, which is all any child ever wants.

“Angela, I’ve been looking forward to having you in my class. Mrs. Brown told me all about you.”

“Yeah?” Angela is suspicious, and not stupid. “What did she say?”

“That you are hard working. That you’re smart. That you care about people and like to help.” All of these are true. I don’t mention the part about her being volatile, passive-aggressive, unpredictable, emotional, and violent. Or that she was suspended for a week in second grade for hitting a teacher. “Look, today is our first day of school. I need things to go really well, so can you help me with something?”

Angela relaxes. “Like what?”

“For starters, I need someone to sort all the school supplies.” The back table is piled with the bags of notebooks, glue sticks, markers, crayons, pencils, copy paper, paper towels, tissues, and hand sanitizer donated by families who scarcely have enough money to cover the basic cost of a school uniform and a backpack. There is nothing more seductive to an eight year old than brand new school supplies, except candy.

“Sure,” she says. Without prompting, she finds the stack of plastic bins from under the table and sets them up for sorting. I return to circulating the class and take notes on handwriting and spelling. By the time I call the group to our first Morning Meeting, she has organized the supplies into bins and set up a hand washing station at the back sink. She joins the class easily.

We creep through the morning, step by step, practicing tedious routines. “Let’s try it again,” is my mantra. I must be the maestro, a master puppeteer. They must learn right away that there is one supreme leader in this universe, and that is me. Later, I will transfer the power to them. But for now, my word is law. Honestly, it’s not unlike training puppies.

Last year in fifth grade I made the mistake of assuming they already knew how to line up at the water fountain and by ten o’clock I sent two students to the office for spitting and one to the nurse for slipping on a wet floor.

But the time I drop them off at the cafeteria for lunch, I am exhausted, but I spend the twenty minutes resolving lunch account issues instead of eating. Recess is more teaching routines, but we let them play for ten minutes so we can all relax for minute. The teachers gather on the blacktop to debrief. We are supposed to spread out into zones, but it’s too tempting to connect with another adult.

“Hey, how’s it going?” I ask Mr. Lee.

“Oh, great!” he tells me, but he sounds tired. I find this satisfying. “I have a few live wires,” he admits. If he asks for advice, I’ll tell him about the going slow to go fast and building routines, but I’m sure they taught that in his teacher prep program and I am pretty sure he will never ask for advice. He can learn in the fire like we all do.

Mrs. Cruz is more kind. “Let me guess, one of your live wires is Mustafa, and the other is Christian. Am I right?”

Mr. Lee giggles with relief. “Yes! How did you know?”

“I had Christian’s older brother, and Mustafa was in my drama club last year. You have to show those two who is boss today, or you’ll spend the rest of your year fighting them. Make sure you call all the parents tonight. Christian’s mom does not play.” Mr. Lee nods. He didn’t ask for advice, but I think he’ll take it.

Julian tells me he threw up in the bathroom during recess, but when I ask for proof he smiles and says, “Just kidding.” We get through about half of my plans, as I make our way through the day in slow motion, repeating each routine until they execute my choreography with precision and in silence. We do a little drawing and writing, a math fact game. Even Angela follows along. But by 1:30, they are done. Every child is either wiggling in their seat or collapsed on their desk. Mark is visibly asleep. So I read the first chapter of Charlotte’s Web aloud, and we play about ten rounds of Seven Up. Finally, it is the end of the day.

No one is suspended or sent to the hospital. We are on the first day of our glorious honeymoon. I run on adrenaline until 2:55 pm when I wave Ana off to her mother. Then, suddenly, I can hardly stand in these stupid shoes. I drag myself to the cafeteria for our all-faculty debrief. “Congratulations on a smooth first day!” Dr. Moore congratulates us. We listen to notes on arrival and dismissal and lunch transitions. I press my bare feet into the cold linoleum to keep myself awake. Over the summer I became weak. I lost my stamina. I wonder if I am getting too old for this.

When I get home, I collapse on the couch while Iggy sucks his thumb quietly in my lap, and Louise tells me about her teachers and friends, the kid who got a nosebleed, the promised class pet. Mark hands me a large glass of wine and offers to order pizza to celebrate.

One down, only 179 days to go.