Close Encounters of the Third-Grade Kind Read online

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2009 by Phillip Done

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Center Street

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com.

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  Center Street is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  The Center Street name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  First eBook Edition: September 2009

  ISBN: 978-1-59995-264-2

  Dedicated to:

  Mrs. Ranada who taught me how to read,

  Mrs. Murayama who taught me how to think,

  And Mr. Stretch — who taught me how to teach.

  Contents

  Copyright

  AUGUST

  Teacherhood

  Back to School

  Fly on the Wall

  Welcome Back

  SEPTEMBER

  Kids

  Teaching 101

  Photos

  Vanilla Wafers

  Letters

  Cursive

  OCTOBER

  What is a Teacher?

  Spelling

  The Teacher’s Desk

  The Tooth Fairy

  Schools

  Trick-or-Treat!

  NOVEMBER

  Rebecca

  Yard Duty

  The Intercom

  Listening

  Words

  Drama

  DECEMBER

  Holiday Hotline

  Esther

  The Bell

  Gifts

  Wrapping Paper

  Santa Cause

  Giving

  JANUARY

  Reading

  The Diet

  Principal

  Magic

  Fairy Tales

  Stress

  FEBRUARY

  100th Day

  Writing

  Love

  Instruction Manual

  Sugar

  The Angel

  MARCH

  Math

  The Jar

  Similes

  Foiled

  Speaking

  Bubbles

  APRIL

  Science

  Field Trips

  The Conference

  Lunchtime

  Teacher Mode

  I Remember

  MAY

  Change

  Museum

  Thinking

  PE

  Television

  JUNE

  The Second Curriculum

  What I Have Learned

  Good-Bye

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  August

  Now all I have to teach you is one word — everything.

  — The Miracle Worker

  TEACHERHOOD

  On my desk at school there is a treasure chest. It is filled with construction paper cards decorated with glitter glue, school photos framed with Popsicle sticks, and pictures drawn with tropical marker and colored pencil and love. If I’m in the drawings, I am usually as tall as the schoolhouse in the background. My head is bigger than the sun.

  Next to parents, teachers are the most influential people in children’s lives. We love, care, guide, and nurture. We collect baby teeth, check foreheads for fevers, and can punch the little silver dots on top of juice boxes with one swift poke of the straw. We are used to being called Mom and Dad. I wonder: Why don’t we have a word that captures the essence of being a teacher — a word that encompasses the spirit of teaching? Motherhood and fatherhood are words. Parenthood is a word. I think teacherhood should be a word, too.

  Teacherhood is knowing that softer voices are more effective than louder ones, that students read better under their desks, that you always hand out birthday treats at the end of the day, that kids will not hear the difference between than and then, that children will always choose chocolate chip cookies before oatmeal and raisin, and that if the office supply store is having a Back to School sale on folders but will only let you purchase twenty folders at a time — buy twenty, leave the store, return, grab another twenty, and go to a new register.

  Teacherhood is understanding that you should never try to teach anything on Halloween, that when kids start learning cursive they forget how to spell, that students who are usually quiet will become chatty the week before Christmas break, that desks swallow papers, that at any given moment a child could announce something random like he’s been to Denver and saw a banana slug, that the best lessons on paper can tank in real life, that children who are about to throw up get clingy, that reading nothing but comics is like eating only pasta your whole life, and that for Show and Tell you do not ask Sarah to bring in her cat and Trevor to share his dog on the same day.

  Teacherhood is knowing that when kids hold up their multiplication flash cards to the light they can see the answers on the back, that children will leave the t out of watch and the second m out of remember, that you always explain the instructions before handing out the blocks (or beans or marshmallows), that cupcake paper is edible, that the pile of red construction paper in the supply room will be lowest in February, that when the air-conditioner man comes into the classroom and starts removing the ceiling tiles — stop teaching, and that when children see their teacher burst out laughing or fight back tears while reading a book — they witness two of reading’s greatest rewards.

  Teacherhood is prying staples out of the stapler with a pair of scissors, following mud tracks to a student’s desk, asking questions about things when you already know the answers, laughing at knock-knock jokes you’ve heard three hundred times, being able to make thirty-seven different things out of a paper plate, locating the exact book that a child is searching for when all she knows is that it has a yellow cover, knowing that a storm is coming without looking outside, pushing desks that have crept up throughout the day back to their original places, finding yellow caps on blue markers, and counting to five while each child takes a drink at the drinking fountain so that no kid hogs all the water.

  Teacherhood is correcting papers while watching Letterman, calculating how many workdays are left till the middle of June, singing the “ABC Song” out loud when looking up a word in the dictionary, taking the 7:00 AM dentist appointment, asking the woman at the dry cleaners if she can get out glue stick, unrolling a brand-new package of paper towels because you need one more tube for an art project, taking your students out for free play and calling it PE, knowing that no matter how much food you have at the Thanksgiving feast — kids will just grab the popcorn, and calling your student three different names before finally getting it right.

  Teacherhood is standing in the center of the dodgeball circle while twenty children try to get you out, counting kids’ heads on a field trip, confiscating yardsticks that have magically turned into swords, snitching candy from your own goody jar, collecting abandoned bird nests, scooping goop out of pumpkins, understanding that cursive is easier to write than cursive , having ninety-seven items in your emergency preparedness backpack but not being able to find the Band-Aids, knowing all about Cabbage Patch Kids, Beanie Babies, Pokémon, Smurfs, Elmo, Tamagotchis, Webkinz, and Bakugan before they became hot, and sitting in the “barber’s chair” on Colonial Day while getting a shave with a Popsicle stick and Cool Whip.

  Teacherhood is writing “Do Not Touch!” on the tape dispenser then
hunting for it the very next day, sweating over not being able to get the DVD player to work while twenty kids offer to “help,” waiting out in front of Target the morning after Thanksgiving to save fifty cents on ribbon, making rain parkas out of Hefty bags when it starts pouring on the field trip, expecting more chase games on the blacktop in spring than in fall, explaining that a rock is a very important role in the school play, yanking so hard on the wall map that it shoots up and jumps off the metal hooks, having butterflies the night before school starts, and understanding that a child may forget what you taught her — but will always remember how you made her feel.

  BACK TO SCHOOL

  There is a moment in August when teachers everywhere experience the same migratory call. This tug is always followed by a sigh, or a shake of the head, or both. Where did the summer go? Eventually, we make that first trip back to our classrooms. The key turns. The door opens. Summer is officially over.

  Inside, the tile floor around the sink shines with a new coat of wax. The room smells like carpet cleaner. It is time to rebuild our nests. So we unstack chairs, arrange desks, organize books, and decorate bulletin boards. We make copies, sort through files, and put a brand-new shoe-box house in the bunny cage. And best of all, we get to visit the supply room again.

  Teachers love school supplies. We thrill in taking the cellophane off new boxes of markers, stacks of Post-it notes, and sticks of modeling clay. We get tingly all over when we see cans full of newly sharpened yellow pencils fanned out in a perfect circle. Squeezing brand-new bottles of glue — better than chocolate.

  I don’t know a single grade school teacher who can make it through the summer without checking out at least one Back to School sale. We can’t resist. But teachers must exercise caution whenever entering any Back to School department. There is one very important rule that we must follow: Do not let on that you are a teacher. I made this mistake recently in Office Depot.

  When I arrived, the parking lot was full. Signs on the doors posted extended hours. Lines at the registers stretched clear to the center of the store. The Back to School section was packed with dazed moms and dads with supply lists in hand hunting through shelves, rifling through boxes, and fighting over the last Hannah Montana pencil case. It looked like Toys R Us at Christmastime. A manager stood in the aisle directing traffic. His forehead was sweaty. “You should have a fast-track lane like they do at Disneyland,” I joked. He wasn’t amused.

  One woman was standing in front of the shelves talking to herself. “What in the heck is a D-ring binder?” Another was trying to convince her daughter that her pocket folders did not have to match her notebooks. A third was holding up three backpacks while her darling sat in the shopping cart.

  “Do you want Tinker Bell, Scooby-Doo, or Little Mermaid?” the mom asked.

  The child slapped the handle on the cart. “I want Barbie.”

  As I made my way through the aisle, I spotted a mom staring blankly at the pens. Poor gal. She looked like she was about to cry.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “Do you need some help?”

  She turned to me. “I don’t know what kind of markers I’m supposed to get. The teacher just wrote one pack of colored washable markers.” The woman pointed to the racks. “There are twenty different kinds of markers here. Do I get Bold, Classic, or Techno Brite?” She threw up her hands. “Do I get an eight-pack, ten-pack, or twelve-pack?”

  “Well,” I replied, pulling one of the boxes off the shelf, “I always ask my students to bring in Crayola Classics. Eight-count.”

  The woman’s eyes grew big. “Are you a teacher?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She gasped and seized my arm. News spread like head lice that there was a real live teacher in the store. Within seconds I was surrounded by moms asking me questions:

  “Is this the right paper for a first grader?”

  “Does a kindergartner need a binder?”

  “How many glue sticks should I buy?”

  “What the heck is a protractor?”

  I doled out advice on calculators and scissors, lunch bags and hand sanitizer, composition books and facial tissue. The mommies thanked me as they checked the items off their lists. Finally, after about half an hour, I said good-bye to my new friends, made my purchases, and left the store.

  Every year, it seems like stores put their Back to School supplies out earlier and earlier. It’s bad enough that I have to sift through Christmas wrap to get to the Halloween candy and that shelves are full of valentines before New Year’s, but setting up Back to School displays in June is just plain wrong! Teachers haven’t even had a chance to write thank-you cards for their end-of-the-year gifts. The class pets that we just took home to care for over vacation are still wondering why it’s so quiet.

  Other professions aren’t taunted when they go shopping. Doctors don’t walk into Walgreens and find displays full of tongue depressors at half off. Dentists don’t have to listen to blue-light special announcements for toothbrushes and dental floss.

  At the end of June, I was pushing my cart down an aisle in Wal-Mart looking for some flip-flops and sunscreen when I stopped dead in my tracks. “No!” I cried out loud. “It can’t be. Not already!” There in the center of the aisle sat enormous bins full of Elmer’s glue and Bic pens and Scotch tape and one-size-fits-all book covers. Immediately I whipped my cart around and raced away like I was being chased by the dinosaurs in Jurassic Park. I dodged into the Housewares Department. After catching my breath, I quickly slipped out.

  So how can a teacher avoid this slap of reality in the middle of summer? The trick is knowing exactly where a store’s Back to School aisle is located so that you do not suddenly find yourself surrounded by High School Musical backpacks. After careful investigation of three major retailers, here is what I discovered:

  Wal-Mart’s Back to School section begins exactly one hundred twenty-three steps from the front door (I paced it off). If you stay within one hundred twenty-two paces from the entrance, you’ll be safe. Warning: If you step past the Home and Office Department, you have gone too far. I repeat — do not pass Home and Office. The school supplies are in the next aisle.

  Target is trickier than Wal-Mart. When walking into Target, you will feel safe. You won’t see any cardboard buses at the entrance loaded with binders and folders plastered with the Jonas Brothers. But don’t be fooled. Above you hang dozens of giant banners with oversize smiling pencils and rulers and students. (There are never teachers in these posters.) These signs hang ten feet apart and lead the customers right to the Back to School aisle. Do not look up. Look straight ahead. Do not look up!

  Safeway stores are sneaky, too. Be careful. Their Back to School items are always placed close to the front of the store. But the good thing is that you will only find them near one of their two entrances, behind Door Number 1 (by the meat section) or Door Number 2 (close to the produce). If you choose wisely, you will avoid their Back to School display completely.

  One evening, I stopped at Safeway to pick up some food for dinner. Inside the store, I spotted a young woman stacking bags of Tootsie Rolls and Kit Kats and Starburst and Skittles on shelves by the entrance. She’s not putting Halloween candy out already, I thought. It’s only August. I walked up to the clerk and pointed to the display.

  “Uh… Is this for Halloween?”

  “Nope,” she answered. “For Back to School.”

  She must be joking.

  I half laughed. “You’re pulling my leg.”

  “It’s true.”

  I had never heard of Back to School candy before. “What’s it for? Treats from the teachers?”

  “No. For the kids’ lunches.”

  My jaw dropped. “You… you mean to tell me that you’re selling candy for kids’ lunches?”

  She nodded.

  “How long has this been going on?” I asked, raising my voice.

  “A couple of years. Everyone’s doing it.”

  I rubbed my forehead in disbelief. “I’m
surprised you don’t have Back to School soda pop,” I muttered.

  She pointed. “Aisle four.”

  FLY ON THE WALL

  Everyone knows that the person who really runs a school is the secretary. If you have questions, ask the secretary. If you lose something, see the secretary. If the copier is jammed, get the secretary. If a child throws up, send her to the secretary.

  Ellen has been our school secretary for more than twenty years. Her computer is covered with Far Side cartoons and kids’ photos and inspirational quotes to get her through the day. The sign over her desk says, “Ask not what your secretary can do for you, but what you can do for your secretary!”

  The day before school begins, Ellen posts the class lists on the library windows at 3:00 PM. All the teachers try to be off campus when those lists go up. If they stay at school, they are sure to be bombarded by students and parents who just want to stop by and say hello. For three hours.

  This year my friend Sandy, who also teaches third grade, stopped by my room at two forty-five.

  “It’s almost three,” Sandy said. “You’re leaving, aren’t you?”

  I sighed. “I can’t. I have too much to do.”

  “Make sure you lock your door and shut the blinds,” she warned.

  I laughed. “I’m going to hide out in the library.” I figured I’d be safe there.

  “Whatever you do, don’t let anyone see you.”

  “I won’t. I’ll stay out of sight.”

  Sandy glanced at her watch. It was two fifty. “I gotta run. See you in the morning.” Then she cracked open my door, looked both ways, and made a mad dash to the parking lot.

  I grabbed my lesson plan book, hurried over to the library, and crept in the back door where I found a seat in the corner of the room. Parents and kids had gathered outside the front glass doors waiting for the lists to go up. I had a good view from where I was sitting. I kept the lights off so no one would see me. The windows above the doors were open so I could hear what was going on.