32 Third Graders and One Class Bunny Read online

  32 Third Graders and One Class Bunny

  Life Lessons from Teaching

  Phillip Done

  Ruth Lee Mui

  A Touchstone Book

  Published by Simon & Schuster

  New York London Toronto Sydney

  TOUCHSTONE

  Rockefeller Center

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  Names and identifying characteristics of some

  individuals in this book have been changed.

  Copyright © 2005 by Phillip Done

  All rights reserved,

  including the right of reproduction

  in whole or in part in any form.

  TOUCHSTONE and colophon are registered trademarks

  of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  For information about special discounts for bulk purchases,

  please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-800-456-6798

  or [email protected].

  Designed by Ruth Lee Mui

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Done, Phillip.

  32 third graders and one class bunny: life lessons from teaching / Phillip

  Done.

  p. cm.

  “A Touchstone book.”

  1. Done, Phillip.

  2.Teachers—United States—Biography.

  3.Teaching.

  I. Title: Thirty-two third graders and one class bunny.

  II. Title.

  LA2317.D615A3 2005

  371.1′0092—dc22

  [B]

  2004065356

  ISBN 13: 978-0-7432-7239-1

  ISBN-10: 0-7432-7239-0

  eISBN 978-1-43910-336-4

  To Miss Greco

  Contents

  I Am a Teacher

  The New Year

  Class List

  The First Day of School

  Only Thirty-eight Weeks to Go

  Names

  Classrooms

  Mrs. Wilson

  Teacher School

  You Can Always Expect

  Teacher Moments

  The Laminating Machine

  Back to School Night

  Tired

  The Potluck

  Picture Day

  How Many Hats Do I Wear?

  Class Pet

  Officer Joe’s Visit

  Frog and Toad

  Fall

  The Pie-Eating Contest

  Writing

  Garage Sales

  Sharing

  Out for a Day

  Parent-Teacher Conferences

  Report Cards

  Why?

  Halloween

  Teacher Speeches

  Storytime

  Ronny

  The Happy Birthday Play

  When to Stop Teaching

  The Thanksgiving Feast

  Out of Proportion

  Airplane Trip

  Winter

  The Looks

  Off with a Bang

  Interview Questions

  A Cultural Experience

  Sugar Cookies

  ER

  The Christmas Concert

  Sore Lips

  Nicknames

  Thank You!

  How to Know When You Need a Vacation

  The First Day of Winter Break

  Jealous

  Letter to Roald Dahl

  I Had a Dream

  Tortilla Snowflakes

  Valentine’s Art

  Spring

  Spring Is Here

  Testing

  April Fools!

  The Wedding

  Believe Them

  Parents

  French Lessons

  The Sleepover

  The Spring Musical

  Licorice

  Gifted

  Open House

  Grammar Lessons

  School Supplies

  How Old Is Your Mom?

  Words You Cannot Say in Class

  Countdown

  Miss Greco

  Tell Us a Story!

  How Many Times Have I Said That?

  Why Do I Teach?

  Out to Dinner with Teachers

  Customs

  Saved

  Where’s the Hole Punch?

  The Talk

  New Definitions

  Class Placements

  Out of the Mouths of Babes

  The Dinner Invitation

  I Know

  Have I Taught Them?

  The Last Day of School

  Acknowledgments

  My heartfelt thanks to my agent, Janis Donnaud. A writer should be so lucky. To my dear friend Heidi Fisher, I am forever grateful for your unending support and for being there at every step in this journey. At Simon and Schuster, I am indebted to Doris Cooper for editing the book with such care. Special thanks to my family and friends who lived through this whole process with me: Kim Guillet, Piotr Konieczka, Lisa Sturn, Mike Wall, and Dawn Young. And homage to the memory of my dad and grandma; they would have gotten a kick out of all this.

  I Am a Teacher

  I read Charlotte’s Web and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory every year, and every year when Charlie finds the golden ticket and Charlotte dies, I cry.

  I take slivers out of fingers and bad sports out of steal the bacon. I know when a child has gum in his mouth even when he is not chewing. I have sung “Happy Birthday” 657 times.

  I hand over scissors with the handles up. My copies of The Velveteen Rabbit and Treasure Island are falling apart. I can listen to one child talk about his birthday party and another talk about her sleepover and another talk about getting his stomach pumped last night—all at the same time.

  I fix staplers that won’t staple and zippers that won’t zip, and I poke pins in the orange caps of glue bottles that will not pour. I hand out papers and pencils and stickers and envelopes for newly pulled teeth. I know the difference between Austria and Australia.

  I plan lessons while shaving, showering, driving, eating, and sleeping. I plan lessons five minutes before the bell rings. I know what time it is when the big hand is on the twelve and the little hand is on the nine. I say the r in library. I do not say the w in sword.

  I put on Band-Aids and winter coats and school plays. I know they will not understand the difference between your and you’re. I know they will write to when it should be too. I say “Cover your mouth,” after they have coughed on me.

  I am a teacher.

  I examine new braces and new blisters and holes in mouths where teeth have just fallen out. I can spell vacuum. I know the magic word.

  I wear four-leaf clovers and dandelions in my shirt pocket that have just been picked with love at recess. I pray for snow days. I pray for Stephen to be absent.

  I spend Thanksgiving vacation writing report cards, Christmas vacation cleaning my classroom, and summer vacation taking classes on how to relax. I know the difference between a comma and an apostrophe. I can say “apostrophe.”

  I buy books about cats and dogs and sharks and volcanoes and horses and dinosaurs. I turn jump ropes and am base in tag. I am glad you can only get chicken pox once.

  I correct pencil grips and spelling mistakes and bad manners. I push in chairs all the way, push swings higher, and push sleeves up while children are painting. I can touch the paper cutter.

  I own one suit, two pairs of shoes, and eight boxes of graham crackers. I have every teacher mug that Hallmark ever made and every Save the Children tie too. I say, “Use two hands!” when they c
arry their lunch trays. I say, “Accidents happen,” after they did not use two hands.

  I wear green on Saint Patrick’s Day, red on Valentine’s Day, and my bathrobe on Pajama Day. I poke straws into juice boxes and untwist thermos lids that are too tight. I unpeel oranges that are too tight too.

  I sign library passes and yearbooks and new casts. I attend soccer games and Little League championships and funerals for guinea pigs. I answer to both “Mom” and “Dad.”

  I am a teacher.

  I hope April Fool’s Day is on a Saturday. I blow up balloons that will not blow up. I always blow the whistle too early at recess.

  I can borrow and carry very fast. I give them more time to answer six times eight than two times three. I never end a sentence with a preposition. I know what a preposition is.

  I draw stars and smiley faces. I say, “Take over,” in four square games when I was not looking. Once I forgot eight plus seven.

  I know when to say “can” and when to say “may.” I have worn green marker, red paint, yellow chalk dust, glue stick, and glitter all on the same day. I hate glitter.

  I always begin a sentence with a capital and end it with a period. I always walk in line. I always lose at arm wrestling.

  I leave “shuger” and “vilets” misspelled on their valentines. I know all my continents and all my oceans. I tape pages back into books. I can find the end of the new roll of Scotch tape. I call on children whose hands are not raised.

  I know that colonel is a really hard word to read, and so is doubt and so is gauge. I know that kids will read started, when it says stared. I have spelled out because and beautiful and friend six million times.

  I am a teacher.

  I look both ways before crossing the street. I save balls stuck in basketball hoops. I have given 842 spelling tests and have written “Have a Good Summer!” that many times too.

  I collect milk boxes and coffee cans and egg cartons. I know all my times tables. I can type without looking. I know that two pretzels do not equal one Hershey kiss.

  I can make a telescope out of a toilet paper roll and a totem pole out of oatmeal boxes. I can make snowflakes out of coffee filters and a space shuttle out of a Pringles can too.

  I know my notes because “Every Good Boy Does Fine.” I know my directions because I “Never Eat Slimy Worms.” I know all my planets because “My Very Elegant Mother Just Sat Upon Nine Pickles.” And I can only say my ABCs if I sing them.

  I fix watchbands, repair eyeglasses, and search for lost milk money after freeze tag. I know when their fists will make a rock and when they will make scissors.

  I know when a child does not understand. I know when a child is not telling the truth. I know when a child was up too late last night. I know when a child needs help finding a friend.

  I am a teacher.

  The New Year

  Class List

  I have twenty school photos, have marched in twenty Halloween parades, and have survived twenty April Fool’s Days. I have welcomed 642 third graders into my classroom, and tomorrow I will welcome more.

  My principal’s name is Cathy Carlson. We have worked together for five years. I like her. Cathy loves children, runs short staff meetings, and brings doughnuts for the teachers after Back to School Night.

  This afternoon Cathy dropped my new class list into my mailbox. Last year when she handed out the lists, I sent mine back with a note. It said, “May I have another list, please? I don’t like this one.”

  She sent a note back. It said, “No.”

  This year I met Dawn in the staff room just after Cathy put the lists into our mailboxes. Dawn teaches third grade right next to me.

  “Hey, Dawn, did you get a note from Cathy with your list?”

  I asked.

  “Yeah, why?”

  “What did it say?” I asked.

  “Have a good year,” she answered. “Why, what did yours say?”

  “Phil, no changes!” I read.

  She laughed.

  “How many kids did you get?” I asked.

  Dawn looked at her list. “Twenty-eight.”

  “Twenty-eight!” I screamed. “I have thirty-two. How many boys do you have?”

  She counted. “Fourteen.”

  “Fourteen!” I yelled. “I have twenty-one!”

  “That’s not bad,” she said.

  “Not bad? I have the entire NFL in my room,” I whined. “I’ll trade you.”

  “Phil!” she screamed.

  “Come on!” I begged. “I’ll wash your car every week. I’ll write all your report cards. I’ll do your yard duty for the whole year!”

  “Yeah, right. That’s what you said last year. Now get out of here.” She laughed.

  “OK,” I said, “but I’m going to go see Cathy about this right now.”

  I couldn’t find Cathy. I didn’t expect to. Cathy is never around after she puts the lists in our boxes. Actually, she stays out of sight for the next two weeks and waits until we fall in love with our students and wouldn’t dream of giving any of them up. Smart principal.

  I walked into my classroom, sat down, and looked more closely at my list. Out of thirty-two children, four were discipline problems, five had limited English, one spoke no English at all, three were in the learning resource program and needed special help, one was a diabetic, two had ADD and had to take Ritalin twice a day, one was severely allergic to bees, one was allergic to peanuts, and one was allergic to eggplant.

  I started reading their cumulative folders. These folders contain all the child’s report cards, health records, and other important information. Ronny’s was three inches thick. Stephen’s had five different psychological reports. And Justin’s was stamped, “Do not open till 2050.”

  I stopped reading them.

  Hopefully they’ve changed, I thought. Maybe Stephen went to boot camp over the summer. Maybe Justin moved.

  Actually, the class didn’t look that bad. I’ve had worse. One year I had thirty-six kids and twenty-five were boys. That year the women’s group at church put cards in my box every Monday morning saying they were praying for me. And once a week they sent me a string bean casserole. If you can believe it, that year three of the girls moved.

  You know how the Chinese calendar has the Year of the Rat and the Year of the Snake and the Year of the Monkey? Well, that’s sort of how I remember my years too.

  My first year was the Year of Samantha. Samantha was a writer. She wrote on her desk, on the bathroom walls, and on Emily. Her favorite thing to do was draw a watch on her wrist with Magic Marker and beg me to ask her what time it was. Once she got mad at me and took a Sharpie to all my art supplies. Now I have twenty boxes of “Fart Supplies.”

  The Year of Rebecca was special. The first time I called on her, she jumped under her desk and started barking. I told Frank, my very first principal, that I didn’t think this was the best placement for her, but he just shrugged. One day he came in to ask me a question, and Rebecca started chewing on his pant leg.

  “What is she doing?” Frank screamed.

  “She’s teething,” I said.

  And so ended the Year of Rebecca.

  The Year of Dylan was memorable. Dylan “collected” things—pencils, calculators, car keys, mobile phones, furniture. I had to put padlocks on all the cupboards, my desk, even the rabbit cage. Once I caught him rolling the overhead projector cart out the door. He said it was his, and kept on rolling.

  I won’t ever forget the Year of Cody. Cody wanted to be in the movies. Literally. He loved videos. Oh, not to watch them—to wrap himself up in them. About once a month I had to untie a hundred yards of videotape from around his arms before he started turning blue.

  The Year of Satan was really fun. That wasn’t his name of course. That’s just what I called him. Satan stepped on every snail he saw. He sizzled insects with magnifying glasses. Potato bugs curled up when they saw him coming.

  I wonder who this year will be named after. Which one of the thirty-t
wo will be the winner?

  The First Day of School

  This morning, twenty-one boys and eleven girls walked into their third grade classroom. They sat down, nervous and quiet, trying to figure out their new man teacher with the tie and the glasses who for the first period told them to be thoughtful to others, and use your time wisely, and follow directions, and raise your hands before speaking, and do not touch the paper cutter, and ask to go to the bathroom, and don’t whine when you take out your math books, and respect each other’s property, and who knows what that means? And don’t chew gum at school, and don’t exclude others from your games, and walk in the hallways, and don’t run up the slide.

  Poor kids. I would have left after the first ten minutes.

  Actually, I almost did on my first day of third grade. My teacher’s name was Mr. Johnson. I cried when I found out I had him. My friends said he was mean. He gave homework. But my mom liked him because he taught kids their times tables and the states, and my mom said that teachers didn’t teach kids their times tables and states anymore.

  On my first day of third grade, Mr. Johnson lined us all up in front of the chalkboard and walked down the row like a sergeant. He stopped in front of me, bent over, and raised one eyebrow.

  “Mr. Done?” he said slowly.

  I froze.

  “I had your older brother,” he said.

  I wanted to run out the door but figured that, being a sergeant, he could run faster than I could. So I stayed and learned my times tables and my states.

  Now I like the first day of school. I like the newness of it all. The name tags aren’t torn. The butcher paper hasn’t faded. The pencils don’t have teethmarks. The dry erase markers write. The glue bottles pour. The dodgeballs bounce. The watercolor trays are clean. The rug smells like carpet cleaner. And the desks smell like 409.

  The boys still line up with the boys, and the girls still line up with the girls. At nine o’clock they still ask me, “When’s lunch?” and at ten o’clock, “When’s school over?” They still laugh out loud when I read The Teacher from the Black Lagoon, even though they heard it in kindergarten and first grade and second grade too. They still forget over the summer how to do 500 minus 199. They still hope the new man teacher likes them.