My Classroom
Alexis Watson
I loved school before I entered kindergarten. Preschool was easy; I had friends in class, naptime, dress up costumes, and best of all, we had story time. I raced to the far left of the carpet whenever my teacher read to us; that way, I’d be the first student to see the pictures when she slowly swept the open book across the room.
I don’t remember the first time I pretended to be a teacher, but I do remember “reading” to my class many times. I only had the pictures to guide me through simple stories about bears living inside a tree or a monochromatic man with a monkey as a pet. I always made sure to show my imaginary students the pictures when I was done “reading”. I swept the open book across my room, careful to start with the left side then slowly make my way to the right.
Fortunately for me, my students were imaginary, and thus very patient. Since I was only using the pictures as a guide, I oftentimes got ahead of the story. If a kid fell off a bike on page twelve, I’d assume he’d be up and walking by page thirteen. Oftentimes, I’d turn the page, and the emotions shown on the characters’ faces wouldn’t match up with the plot I’d so hastily developed the page before. I had to restart books seven, eight times before I finally stumbled upon a plausible ending. The process was fun the first time through, but I’d get tired and frustrated around the fourth try. It was this frustration and perfectionism that nearly led me to quit my teaching career before it even began, at the age of four.
My employment status in limbo, I entered kindergarten. I decided that I still loved school. The classroom didn’t have dress up costumes, but we did have a pajama day, which was just as fun. Storytime got even better; my teacher, Mrs. Dobson, held the book out all the time so we could see the pictures as she read the words, not after. I could sit anywhere I wanted and still watch the story unfold. The best part was that she didn’t want to keep the action to herself. She did her best to give the story to us. Before we read Dawn of the Dinosaurs, we watched, drew, and created our own dinosaurs. I started to love not only school but learning.
During winter, Mrs. Dobson finally decided it was time to give us words too. The first books I learned to read were dry, as beginner books tend to be. Rain by Robert Kalan wasn’t exactly the gripping tale I liked to make up for my imaginary classroom, so I concluded that teaching wasn’t all it’s cracked up to be. My focus shifted back to tee ball and dance, my other favorite extracurriculars.
It wasn’t until Mrs. Dobson read Chicka Chicka Boom Boom during story time that I really started to appreciate words as the building blocks of stories. Up until that point, the books I knew how to read were filled with simple sentences containing three letter words. They were far from the stories I had learned to crave. Chicka Chicka Boom Boom had big words, long sentences, and a real storyline: lowercase letters struggled to pile into a coconut tree until the older, capitalized letters helped them climb up. The most important part of the book for me was that it could be set to music. I only had to hear it a couple of times before reciting the words became second nature for me; I was confident enough in my abilities to take up teaching again. Again, I “read” to my empty bedroom, but this time, I was able to follow along with the words as I sang them.
After singing to my class for a week, I had gained enough confidence to branch out to other books. When I began to actually read I brought home tens of books each week to share with my class. Nothing could stop me from reading to my stuffed-animal covered room whenever I had the time. I had worked really hard on my new skill, so I was proud to read to anything that would sit silently for long enough.
Time passed, and my teaching didn’t stop at reading; I would come home from school every day for years and reteach what I had just learned. The walls of my bedroom learned about slavery, fractions, United States geography, and constellations at the same pace as the average elementary school student. I talked loud and fast, still proud of how absorbent I was.
I don’t know exactly why I stopped playing school, but I retired in 4th grade. I suppose I found other things to do. What bothers me to this day isn’t why I stopped playing school, but why I haven’t restarted. Time isn’t the issue; I could incorporate it into my study schedule. Going over everything I learn on a given day at college would help me a lot, and bridge the gap between just passing and actually retaining. I certainly don’t care what other people would think- playing school would be a secret guilty pleasure, and I’m sure worse goes on behind closed doors in college anyway.
No, the reason I don’t play school anymore runs deeper than time management and judgment from others. I can’t resurrect my classroom because it’s hard to stay proud of what I know when so many of my peers know so much more than me. Teachers always assure students that learning is what matters, but it’s a lie. Though necessary, grades make school a competition, not a place solely for self-improvement. I don’t get excited when I come home from a long day of learning anymore because instead of congratulating myself on learning something new, I’m worried about how my grade compares to others.
But who knows? Maybe I’m thinking in reverse. Grades do motivate me to work harder, and there isn’t really another way to evaluate academic achievement. Maybe playing school is what made me excited to learn in the first place, not the lack of grades. It’s possible that all I need to build confidence is an empty classroom and a whiteboard.
