32 Third Graders and One Class Bunny Page 2

  And I do.

  Today was a good day as far as first days of school go. I was lucky. One of Dawn’s kids walked home after morning recess. He said he was tired. A girl in Kim’s class screamed for three hours straight. A boy in Lisa’s class had an accident on the rug. Marion had two criers. And a kid in Mike’s room threw up three times before lunch (the custodian finally left the mop).

  On the first day of school, kids usually fall in love with their new teacher by first recess. But for me, it takes about a week until they are mine. I always miss the old ones. I look at row two, second seat from the end, and I still see Jesse from last year leaning back on his chair. I look at row one, right on the aisle, and I still see Alexandra with her hair in her mouth. I look at row three, middle seat, and I still see Mark surrounded by pencil sharpener shavings. But Mark is sharpening his pencils, Alexandra is eating her hair, and Jesse is falling over in another classroom this year. They all have their new favorite teachers now.

  And that is how it should be.

  Only Thirty-eight Weeks to Go

  Where did my summer go? I was just beginning to relax. And I was doing so well too. By the end of June I ate a whole piece of watermelon without counting the seeds out loud. By July I cut an apple without asking anybody, “How many quarters make a half?” And in August I even threw away a mayonnaise jar.

  Every year I forget what it’s like to start all over again. The first week of school comes, and bam! I feel like I just jumped into the hamster cage. Actually, the hamster’s life is looking pretty darn good right now.

  I always forget that third graders at the beginning of the year are not the same as third graders at the end of the year. The kids I hugged good-bye in June are not the kids I welcomed last week.

  I forget that new third graders can’t tell time, they can’t read cursive, and they don’t know if the holes on the binder paper go on the right or the left.

  I forget that they take three hours to write their names on their papers, then another three hours to write five sentences. And the five sentences take up three pieces of paper because they write so big.

  I forget that it takes five minutes for them to finish their addition because they can’t remember how to carry, and they just put question marks on all the problems and say they’re done.

  This week I feel as though all I’m doing is playing chess. First I moved Ronny away from Brian. They were pretending to be kung fu masters. Then I moved him away from Stephen (Ronny discovered that the end of the compass makes an excellent spear). Then I moved him away from Anthony (I had to break up their burping contest). Finally I moved Ronny right beside me. I told him, “One more problem, and king takes pawn outside.”

  I am already on my ninth seating chart. And just when I have everyone seated in a place I think will work, now they all want to know when they can change seats.

  SEATING CHART

  Stephen

  Melanie

  Andrew

  Brian

  Natalie

  Kenny

  Nicole

  Kevin

  Emily

  Joey

  Katie

  Aaron

  Michael

  Amanda

  Carlos

  Joshua

  Erika

  Peter

  Ji Soo

  Melissa

  Matthew

  Patrick

  Jenny

  James

  Sean

  Isabel

  Ryan

  Anthony

  Sarah

  Ronny

  Tomoya

  Justin

  Mr. Done

  Names

  I entered teaching in the C years. The boys were all named Christopher. The girls were all named Christine. The hamsters were all named Cookie.

  Pretty soon we started reading the classics again, and the room was full of Olivers and Elizabeths and Emmas and Nicholases.

  Then came the J years. I had four Jacobs, three Jeremys, two Jessicas, and five Jackies in the same room. It made putting names in alphabetical order extremely difficult.

  Some trends came and went. Once I had two Blakes, three Ashleys, and a Zack. I thought I was on One Life to Live. Another year I felt like I was working at a sweetshop. I had a Candy and a Coco. Then there was the year that I chased Maxes and Trevors and Rexes around all day long. The cafeteria may as well have served Kibbles ’n Bits.

  Some years a few names are just too difficult for me to pronounce. These kids quickly receive their new nicknames of Tiger, or Sweetheart, or Trouble.

  One year it was May when Sam finally realized that Seung Bin’s real name was not Tiger. That was understandable though. Sam thought my first name was Mr.

  Sometimes I just don’t want to say their names at all. Take the new student who arrived last spring. Guess what his name was?

  His name was Phuc.

  All day long I would say, “Sit down, Phuc,” “Line up for lunch now, Phuc,” and, “Phuc, it’s time for reading.”

  I tried making the u in his name long. I pretended that I didn’t see him raise his hand so I didn’t have to call on him. He was my next Tiger.

  Some years I swear that all the expectant moms on the PTA get together and say, “OK, girls, what name can we all give our new babies this year?”

  One year they decided on Hannah. How do I know this? Because a few years later I had five Hannahs in my classroom, that’s why. The only way I could keep them all straight was to number them.

  “Hannah Number Three,” I said, “would you please answer the question?”

  I pointed to Hannah.

  “I’m not Hannah Number Three,” said Hannah. “I’m Hannah Number Five.”

  This year I keep calling Brian by his brother’s name because I had his brother last year. And I call Joshua “Luke” because Luke was sitting in that seat two months ago.

  And forget the attendance sheet. Nobody wants to be called what it says on the attendance sheet anymore. Jenny hates the name Jennifer. Joey hates Joseph. Matthew wants to be called Matt now, Ronald wants to be called Ronny, and Justin wants to be called the Terminator.

  The moms’ names are worse. Half of them have different last names from their kids’. Patrick’s mom got angry ’cause I wrote “Mrs.” and not “Ms.” And I’m sorry, but those hyphenated names drive me crazy. They do not fit on my name tags.

  My brother Steve is a teacher too. He teaches the older kids. One day, when he and his wife were expecting their first child, they sat around the kitchen table trying to pick out a name. I was with them.

  “What about Rachel?” my sister-in-law, Karen, asked.

  “No way,” said my brother.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Because I had a Rachel in my room once,” he answered. “She stole everything.”

  “OK, no Rachel,” Karen said. “What about Rebecca?”

  I screamed.

  “What?” she asked.

  “You can’t name her Rebecca,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “I had a Rebecca once, and whenever she didn’t want to do something, she hid under the desk and barked.”

  “Oh my. Maybe we should try some boys’ names then. I like the name Thomas. Do you like Thomas?” she asked my brother.

  Steve looked at her. “Do you want to be penny-locked in the bathroom and pull toilet paper rolls out of the john?” he asked.

  Karen made a nervous face.

  “How about Jacob?” she suggested.

  I pointed to the side of my head.

  “See these gray hairs?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” she answered.

  “They’re all named Jacob. And see this?” I cried, pointing to the bald spot on the top of my head. “I used to have hair there until Nathan showed up.”

  Karen laughed.

  “OK. No Jacob and no Nathan,” she said. “But we have to name him something.”

  “I got it,” said my brother. “Let’s name
him Martin.”

  “Martin? Why Martin?” she asked.

  “Because I have never had a Martin in my class.”

  “But what if you get a Martin one day in your class and it ends up being the Year of Martin?” she asked.

  “No problem.” My brother smiled. “We’ll just change our son’s name.”

  Classrooms

  Did you know that there are only six classrooms in the entire world? It’s true. Visit any school, and you will see that all classrooms fall into one of six categories.

  Like cars, classrooms have names too. The six models include the Shock, the Chi, the Natural, the Pile, the Hospital, and the Model Home. At my school we have all six of them.

  My friend Kim teaches second grade down the hall. Her classroom is the Shock. Every wall, window, door, and cupboard in her room are covered with kids’ work, banners, posters, pocket charts, and maps. Not one inch is left uncovered. Not even the ceiling. Of course everything is labeled too—the globe, the paper towel holder, the piano, the bunny.

  Dawn teaches in the Chi. She hung mirrors to create balance, plants to soak up noise pollution, and wind chimes to absorb negative energy. Dawn plays soft music during silent reading time. She has an aquarium with goldfish in the back of the room and a small fountain in the corner. She used to burn candles, but once she set off the fire alarm, so she doesn’t do that anymore.

  Mike’s classroom is the Natural. Years ago he threw away all the Rubbermaid, poured everything into baskets, removed the carpet, and pulled out all the fluorescent bulbs. He wears hemp and his kids wear tie-dye. His students macramé their Mother’s Day gifts and sit on stumps to eat their carrot sticks.

  I am not like Mike or Dawn or Kim. I am a piler. I pile papers on my desk. I pile them on the floor. I pile them on the rabbit cage. I pile on my piles. I have three file cabinets. If you open them, you will see piles. But it is not easy to be a teacher and a piler. Pilers are often misunderstood and made fun of behind their piles—especially by those who work in Hospitals.

  Hospitals do not have anything hanging on their walls or ceilings or doors or cupboards. Hospital teachers do not lick their fingers to clean their overhead transparencies. And they do not add extra baking soda and vinegar into the papier-mâché volcano to see how much lava will erupt all over the teacher’s desk.

  Someday I want to work in the Model Home. It is my fantasy. (Pilers are also dreamers.) My friend Lisa teaches first grade in the Model Home. I love visiting Lisa’s classroom. She has fake ficus trees in the corners, plastic runners on her carpet, and guest towels by her sink. Her broom closet has a mirror on it (an up-grade), and her books are all the same color.

  Of course, one could be a combination of two classrooms. Mrs. Simon, the science lab teacher, says she is half Natural and half Shock. Marion, my friend who teaches grade two, says she is about seventy-five percent Chi and twenty-five percent Model Home. And Mrs. Fisher, the music teacher, says she is about one-fifth Shock, and four-fifths Pile. We get along well.

  But certain styles are just not compatible with one another. For example, one couldn’t be a Pile-Hospital. Well, I guess maybe you could. But your piles would smell like Lysol.

  Mrs. Wilson

  There are some teachers who make me sick. No matter how hard I try, I will never be like them. Never. Take Mrs. Wilson, for example. I hate her.

  Mrs. Wilson’s pencil sharpener does not have crayon in it. Mrs. Wilson’s smock has no paint on it. The handles of her paintbrushes do not have paint on them either.

  Her kids walk in a straight line, do not talk in the hall, do not pick mud off their shoes during story hour, always raise their hands, and never spill paint.

  Everything in her room is in alphabetical order—her books, her encyclopedias, her files, her sticker box, even her students. Yes, Derek sits next to Connie, who sits next to Bryce, who sits next to Anna. It’s enough to make one vomit. But of course you can’t. No one would dare throw up in her classroom. No one has ever thrown up in her classroom.

  Mrs. Wilson’s celery always turns red when she puts it in food coloring. Her lima bean seeds always sprout in their Ziploc bags, and her salt crystals always grow. I’m convinced that Mrs. Wilson’s bunny does not poop.

  My compasses point everywhere but north. My batteries are always dead. My aquarium leaks. And my Venus flytrap is a vegetarian.

  Mrs. Wilson changes her bulletin boards diligently each month. Apples make way for pumpkins, which come down for turkeys. When she’s putting up snowmen, I’m taking down “What Did You Do This Summer?”

  Mrs. Wilson has a box for everything (which she covered herself of course with contact paper)—a box for burlap, a box for felt, a box for orange juice cans, a box for popsicle sticks, a box for rabbit food, a box for straws, a box for yarn. She even has a box for her boxes. (Pilers just cannot comprehend this.)

  Her crayons are all in separate containers too. Blue crayons in blue tubs. Red crayons in red tubs. Yellow with yellow. You would never see a green crayon in the blue tub. Never.

  My crayons are all in one box—the same box as all my yarn, burlap, felt, straws, orange juice cans, popsicle sticks, and rabbit food.

  Once, just for fun, I snuck into her room after work and threw a red crayon in with the yellow ones. But that night I felt so guilty about it that I drove back to school after dinner and put it back.

  Mrs. Wilson handwrites each Back to School Night invitation, turns her room into a haunted house for Halloween, dresses up like a pilgrim for Thanksgiving, and has snow shipped in for her winter party. It’s even been whispered that the thank-you cards for her Christmas gifts are written, addressed, and stamped before she receives the gifts.

  Dear Student,

  Thank you so much for the beautiful gift. I absolutely love it. I will put it in a very special place, and whenever I look at it, I will think of you.

  Love,

  Mrs. Wilson

  How does she do it, I’d like to know? What is her secret? How is it that her stapler is always full, her glue bottles always pour, her pop-up books still pop up, and her paper clips never hook themselves to each other when you take them out of the box? How, after thirty-five years, does she still have all her checker pieces?

  Teacher School

  One day while the kids were writing in their journals, Brian shouted out, “How come every teacher always tells me to write in complete sentences?”

  “Because that’s what we learn to say in Teacher School,” I answered.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “It’s where all teachers learn how to be teachers,” I said. “It is sort of like Parent School.”

  He stared at me.

  “You’re joking,” Brian said.

  “No, I’m not,” I answered.

  “What else do you learn at Teacher School?” Justin joined in.

  I paused for a second. “Well,” I said in a serious voice, “in the first year you learn how to push a stapler, how to turn a jump rope, and how to cut straight with a paper cutter. You also learn how to blow a whistle, how to put stars on papers, how to pull down a wall map, how to tug on the screen so it goes up on the first try, and how to turn the pencil sharpener really fast. Emptying the sharpener comes later.”

  “Is this true?” asked Brian.

  “Of course it’s true,” I said. “In year two you learn how to play red rover, how to unjam the copier, and how to change the bulb in the overhead projector. You learn how to make cursive Ws and Ts the right way because you forgot. And you practice saying, ‘Walk!’ until you can say it really loud. I was really good at that.”

  “We could have guessed that,” said Brian.

  “What about year three?” asked Justin.

  “Well, your junior year is more difficult,” I said. “In year three you learn how to pass out papers, how to write in a straight line on the board, how to carve a pumpkin, and how to tell if a child is not telling the truth.”

  “No way,” said Justin.<
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  “Yes way. I studied it very hard. That’s why I’m so good at it.”

  “So is my mom,” said Brian.

  “See? I told you Teacher School is like Parent School.”

  “What else?” Justin asked.

  “Also in year three,” I explained, “you learn how to make a Halloween costume out of a Hefty bag, how to clean a hamster cage, and how to cut a birthday cake into thirty-two pieces with a plastic ruler when a mom sends one in without a knife. Of course year three is when you learn your teacher jokes.”

  “Teacher jokes?” asked Brian.

  “Yes,” I said. “Every teacher has to learn at least three jokes in order to graduate.”

  “That’s not true,” said Justin.

  “Sure it is,” I replied.

  “Then tell us one,” said Brian.

  I paused for a second. “OK. Where do all pencils come from?” I asked.

  “We know that one,” said Justin.

  “Well, where from?” I asked.

  “Pennsylvania,” Justin said.

  “That’s very good, Justin,” I said. “You could be a teacher.”

  He shook his head.

  “What about the next year?” asked Brian.

  “Oh, the last year is tough.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Because in the last year you have to learn to read upside down during storytime, how to lick your fingers before you turn the page, and how to take a messy stack of papers and hit it on the table three times then pat it on the top three times so that it looks nice and neat and the corners are even so now you can staple the stack.”

  “What else?” asked Justin.

  “In the last year,” I continued, “you also learn how to open a Band-Aid so that the ends don’t stick together before you wrap it around a finger, how to turn a shoe box into a mailbox for valentines, and you have to learn to say all your times tables really fast without looking at the multiplication chart.”