On the morning of my first day off from teaching, I felt the need to volunteer at the elementary school down the street. The school is always in need of people who will listen to children read.
I have to admit, I had a silly, indulgent thought in my mind; I imagined a child who needed me that day.
I already had plenty to do on my time-off. Seventy-one essays, some as long as six pages, were waiting for me to read, edit, and grade. And then, all the catch-ups piled high: a cupboard drawer to fix; a blind I needed to reorder; a desk in desperate need of declutter intervention. I hadn't grocery shopped or cooked in weeks, and how could I forget the three essays I would need to write for the class I was taking?
Yet, helping at the elementary school almost seemed urgent.
I asked my friend who works at the school if I could come, and since I was already a teacher with a FBI background check and credentials, she made it possible for me to drop in anytime, any day.
I was excited but nervous; there's a large divide of similarities between high school and elementary age students.
When I first arrived, the secretary found a place for me to help read, but that didn't start until 2:20 and it was 2:00.
"You can help in the kindergarten room for 20 minutes. The teacher is waiting for you."
I sheepishly entered the kindergarten expecting to do something kindergarten-important.
"Hi," the teacher greeted me. Her students were out for recess, "Could you please cut stickers?"
I burst out laughing I was so surprised, but shame on me; little did I realize how important cutting stickers was. The teacher showed me how I needed to quarter the sheets and throw out the empty sticker sheets. I only had 20 minutes and I wanted to do my best. I worked fiercely.
At 2:20, I entered the second grade room, again was greeted by a friendly, appreciative teacher, and assigned to help three boys each read four beginner books in their ziploc bag.
The boys were resistant; I was patient.
When the first little boy guessed at words, I helped him sound them out. When the second little boy preferred to tell me stories, emphasizing the word "butt" when he could, I helped him refocus on the page. When the third little boy pulled out his spinning top, and tried to read while spinning it, I allowed him spinning privileges only after each book. To which he somewhat complied.
An hour had passed, and when the third little boy closed the last book, I was ready to go.
"Thank-you for letting me come," I said to the teacher.
"Thank you. Are you coming again?"
"I actually am a teacher and have a teaching job that I share. It's my time off, but I will try to come back," and I meant it.
What I found out that day was not that a child needed me; I needed those children: their simple thoughts, the ease of listening to simple words, the presence in a classroom without the responsibility. I needed a decompression chamber from the mental exercise and stress of high school seniors, from pushing, pushing, them to finish their stasis interrogation essay, from the serious learning about the Vietnam War.
I needed a mind vacation while still contributing. I needed the contrast to return and enjoy the regular challenges of burgeoning adults.
Today it will be a challenge: a study between Bob Dylan's 1965 revolutionary song Like a Rolling Stone, and John Keats' revolutionary Ode On a Grecian Urn, followed by a study of beauty and truth, and can one exist without the other? Then I will hand back the 71 essays I meticulously edited--and the fear of the firing squad of discontent.
Yes, second graders, I'll be back. I need you.
I have to admit, I had a silly, indulgent thought in my mind; I imagined a child who needed me that day.
I already had plenty to do on my time-off. Seventy-one essays, some as long as six pages, were waiting for me to read, edit, and grade. And then, all the catch-ups piled high: a cupboard drawer to fix; a blind I needed to reorder; a desk in desperate need of declutter intervention. I hadn't grocery shopped or cooked in weeks, and how could I forget the three essays I would need to write for the class I was taking?
Yet, helping at the elementary school almost seemed urgent.
I asked my friend who works at the school if I could come, and since I was already a teacher with a FBI background check and credentials, she made it possible for me to drop in anytime, any day.
I was excited but nervous; there's a large divide of similarities between high school and elementary age students.
When I first arrived, the secretary found a place for me to help read, but that didn't start until 2:20 and it was 2:00.
"You can help in the kindergarten room for 20 minutes. The teacher is waiting for you."
I sheepishly entered the kindergarten expecting to do something kindergarten-important.
"Hi," the teacher greeted me. Her students were out for recess, "Could you please cut stickers?"
I burst out laughing I was so surprised, but shame on me; little did I realize how important cutting stickers was. The teacher showed me how I needed to quarter the sheets and throw out the empty sticker sheets. I only had 20 minutes and I wanted to do my best. I worked fiercely.
At 2:20, I entered the second grade room, again was greeted by a friendly, appreciative teacher, and assigned to help three boys each read four beginner books in their ziploc bag.
The boys were resistant; I was patient.
When the first little boy guessed at words, I helped him sound them out. When the second little boy preferred to tell me stories, emphasizing the word "butt" when he could, I helped him refocus on the page. When the third little boy pulled out his spinning top, and tried to read while spinning it, I allowed him spinning privileges only after each book. To which he somewhat complied.
An hour had passed, and when the third little boy closed the last book, I was ready to go.
"Thank-you for letting me come," I said to the teacher.
"Thank you. Are you coming again?"
"I actually am a teacher and have a teaching job that I share. It's my time off, but I will try to come back," and I meant it.
What I found out that day was not that a child needed me; I needed those children: their simple thoughts, the ease of listening to simple words, the presence in a classroom without the responsibility. I needed a decompression chamber from the mental exercise and stress of high school seniors, from pushing, pushing, them to finish their stasis interrogation essay, from the serious learning about the Vietnam War.
I needed a mind vacation while still contributing. I needed the contrast to return and enjoy the regular challenges of burgeoning adults.
Today it will be a challenge: a study between Bob Dylan's 1965 revolutionary song Like a Rolling Stone, and John Keats' revolutionary Ode On a Grecian Urn, followed by a study of beauty and truth, and can one exist without the other? Then I will hand back the 71 essays I meticulously edited--and the fear of the firing squad of discontent.
Yes, second graders, I'll be back. I need you.
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