32 Third Graders and One Class Bunny

by Phillip Done

  It’s not going as quickly as I had hoped. It’s March, and I still don’t know all my numbers, and when Grace asks me the time, I still point to my watch.

  To help me study, I labeled everything in my house with sticky notes. It helps me remember the vocabulary. I have sticky notes all over my classroom too, so I can learn French while I’m at work. Everything is labeled—le papier, le piano, la table. Once I walked in after recess and Michael had put a sticky note on his forehead. It said “le boy.”

  Grace believes in complete immersion. She speaks to me only in French. Usually I am completely lost and just stare at her. And I have become very good at nodding that I understand when really I don’t.

  In my lessons I am not allowed to even ask a question in English. If I try, Grace says, “Non, non, en français. En français.” Once in a while I beg her to explain a word in English, and she will. But that is rare. My lessons are one hour long. By the end of each lesson, my brain is so full, I cannot concentrate anymore.

  Now I understand a little better what it is like to be Tomoya. Tomoya moved here from Japan at the beginning of the school year. When he entered my class, he spoke three words of English. He knew “yes,” “no,” and “toilet.” Tomoya was a serious little boy. He didn’t smile a lot.

  For months Tomoya sat in the first row with a puzzled expression on his face—five days a week, six hours a day, trying understand his new American teacher who used too many hard words and spoke too fast. And unlike me, Tomoya could not ask the teacher to clarify something in Japanese when he did not understand.

  I have a new appreciation for kids like Tomoya. In fact, I think one of the best things I ever did as a teacher was start learning French.

  I know what it is like to sit at a desk while the teacher is waiting for the answer and I’m still trying to figure out the question.

  I know how it feels when I say something and the teacher stares at me, trying to decipher what I just said.

  I know how it feels to try so hard to remember the word I learned yesterday because I really do know it.

  I know what it feels like to see the paper that I worked so hard on covered with corrections because I got all the plurals wrong.

  I know how it feels to leave out all the articles and put everything in the present tense because it is easier.

  And I know what it feels like when I’m tired and I just don’t want to practice my foreign language today.

  It always amazes me how fast kids pick up new languages. You should see Tomoya now. He reads. He writes. He talks in line.

  Katie speaks German. Peter speaks Polish. Amanda speaks only Spanish at home, and so does Carlos. What a gift they all have to be able to speak, read, write, and think in more than one language. Not only are they developing a lifelong ability to communicate with more people, they are also developing a deeper understanding of their own and other cultures. And they are enhancing their ability in their mother tongues as well.

  I wish someone had told me how important this was. I wish I had begun learning a language when I was young. I wish I had learned a foreign language in elementary school.

  Last week Dawn got a new student. Her name is Haruna. Haruna is Japanese and speaks very little English, just like Tomoya when he first arrived. One day Haruna started to cry in class. Dawn tried to find out what was wrong but couldn’t understand her. Haruna just cried.

  Dawn sent me a note. “Please send Tomoya right away.”

  Tomoya went to Dawn’s room and translated for Haruna. Her stomach ached. Tomoya went to the nurse’s office and translated for the nurse. Tomoya went to the office and helped the secretary when she called home to tell Haruna’s mom. And Tomoya stayed with Haruna until her mother arrived at school.

  At the end of the day Cathy came into my room.

  “I’d like to speak with Tomoya, please,” Cathy said.

  Tomoya froze.

  “Tomoya, Miss Carlson would like to speak with you,” I said.

  He looked straight ahead.

  “Tomoya,” said Miss Carlson, “I heard about what you did today and how you helped Haruna and everybody else, and I came to thank you.”

  Cathy looked at me.

  “Mr. Done,” she said, “if we ever need a translator, I know where to go.”

  Tomoya said nothing. He looked down and stared at his desk. Cathy looked at me as if maybe he did not understand her. But he understood perfectly. I could tell. The corners of his mouth went up. He was trying very hard not to smile.

  The Sleepover

  All day long, Penel the rabbit sits on my countertop and sleeps and eats and laughs at me when I am not looking. On the weekends I send her home with one of the kids so she can eat and sleep and laugh at somebody else. Last week it was Sarah’s turn to take Penel home.

  Sarah’s mom picked Penel up on Friday after school and delivered her back on Monday morning.

  “Thanks for taking care of her,” I said as Sarah’s mom dropped her off.

  “Oh, we had a lot of fun,” said Sarah’s mom.

  Well, apparently they were not the only ones who had fun on the weekend. You see, Sarah neglected to tell me about Ralph, her horny boy bunny. And yes, Sarah put Penel in the same playpen as Ralph for the whole weekend! And apparently Ralph is never not in the mood.

  So, soon we will have God knows how many little Penelopes and Ralphs in our classroom. Just call me Dr. Dolittle. And I get to try to find homes for all of them while thirty-two kids beg me to keep them. Thank you, Sarah. Thank you, Sarah’s mom. Thank you, Ralph!

  At the moment I am not speaking to Penel. She is grounded. And she is never allowed to go on any more sleepovers.

  The Spring Musical

  Every year I do a big musical in the spring with all the third graders in our school. And every year I ask myself the same question: Why in the world do I do a musical? Why would anybody in his right mind choose to do a musical with over ninety third graders?

  Today was our final dress rehearsal. Captain Hook fell off the stage. He couldn’t see with his eye patch on. The Lost Boys are just that—lost! The Crocodile’s tail got caught in the door. The Pirates all have detention for sword fighting in the cafeteria, and the Indians are mad because they don’t get to sword fight.

  Wendy mouths everyone else’s lines with them on stage, Michael walked up to me in the middle of the first scene and said he had to go to the bathroom, and John is at home with the chicken pox. I don’t think Tinker Bell knows what play we’re doing yet, and Peter Pan broke his arm yesterday playing soccer and arrived at school today with an orange fluorescent cast.

  Nana looks like a cow. The piano player can only play in one tempo—slow. And Mrs. Turner dyed all the Indians’ tunics in coffee so it smells like Tiger Lily lives in Starbucks.

  After rehearsal Katie was helping me sweep fairy dust off the stage. Katie is a tree in the play.

  “Thanks for your help, Katie,” I said. “Are you having fun in the play?”

  She stopped sweeping and smiled.

  “Mr. Done,” she said, “I can’t wait for tomorrow. My whole family is coming—my dad and my mom and my brother and my grandma and my grandpa. And my dad is taking off work. You know, Mr. Done, this is my first play. Did you know that? And next year I want to be in another play. And when I grow up I want to be an actress. Did you know that, Mr. Done?”

  I looked at her. Now I remembered why I do a musical with over ninety third graders every year. Now I remembered.

  Licorice

  I started out the year with three hamsters, two guinea pigs, one rabbit, one parakeet, and a goldfish. Now, I’m down to two hamsters and one rabbit. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that I don’t take care of my animals. But that’s not it. I do take care of them. I just lose them.

  Humphrey was my favorite hamster. One day Ji Soo went to feed Humphrey, and he was gone. I have no idea how he got out of that cage. It was called the Alcatraz. But he escaped.

  We searched everywher
e for Humphrey. Kenny and Aaron made giant reward posters saying, “Have you seen this hamster?” Melanie drew Humphrey’s face on each one, and Humphrey appeared on every telephone pole in town. But after about a week there was still no sign of him. Everyday the kids asked me, “When is Humphrey going to come back?”

  “I think Humphrey went on a long, long trip,” I finally said.

  Lucy was our class parakeet. We loved Lucy. And Lucy loved to sing. Her favorite song was “One Hundred Bottles of Beer on the Wall.” Brian taught it to her. It was a little embarrassing when she broke out into song in the middle of parent-teacher conferences. One day Michael took Lucy outside to clean her cage. He slid the bottom tray out, turned the cage upside down, and we all waved good-bye to Lucy.

  I am a little embarrassed to tell you about Sam. Sam was a goldfish. How one loses a goldfish, I’ll never know. But one day he was there, and the next day he wasn’t. I think it was my fault. The day before Sam disappeared, I read The Cat in the Hat to the class. Sam must have been listening too and tried to be like the fish in the book. Never read The Cat in the Hat in front of a goldfish.

  Last week Stephen came up to me before school carrying a big bucket.

  “Look, Mr. Done!” he said, lifting the lid.

  I jumped back.

  “Can we keep him?” Stephen begged.

  Inside the bucket was a twelve-foot black boa constrictor. OK, so it wasn’t twelve feet. But it was a snake, and I hate snakes.

  “Who put him in the bucket?” I asked.

  “My mom,” said Stephen.

  “Does your mom know you brought him here?”

  “She told me to.”

  I grinned. “Tell your mom ‘thanks.’”

  Would someone please tell all the mommies to stop sending me their hamsters and mice and guinea pigs and bunnies and boa constrictors that they don’t want anymore? This is not a petting zoo. I am not running a pet store. And I am not Old MacDonald.

  “Please can we keep it?” Stephen begged some more.

  I sighed. Then I heard the little teacher voice inside my head. It said, “Animals are good for children. Animals teach them responsibility. Animals bring warmth to a classroom. Look how excited the boy is.”

  Sometimes I hate that little voice.

  “OK,” I said, “but I’m not getting near that thing. What’s his name? Killer?”

  “Licorice,” said Stephen.

  We put Killer into a glass terrarium. I cut a wire screen for the top and laid three bricks on it.

  A couple of days later, Stephen went to feed the snake.

  “Mr. Done, Licorice isn’t there,” Stephen said.

  “Stephen, stop foolin’ around.”

  “No, really, Mr. Done. He’s not there,” Stephen said again.

  Everyone looked at the cage.

  “Stephen, that’s not funny,” I said.

  “Mr. Done, really!” he shouted.

  Everyone stared at me.

  I froze. Certainly he was kidding. I got up, walked over to the cage, and looked inside. Killer was gone.

  I screamed. Instantly fifteen kids ran over to the cage. The rest jumped onto their chairs and desks. Emily ran out of the room.

  I shouted, “OK, everyone. Sit down. Sit down.”

  For the next thirty minutes we searched the desks and the cupboards and the closets and the file cabinets. But no Killer. At morning recess I told Cathy what happened. She sent in the custodian. He searched the room too. Still no luck.

  I tried to teach that day. But all they wanted to do was look for the snake and ask, “Mr. Done, where do you think Licorice is?” again and again.

  Cathy came in as we were looking inside the piano.

  “Any luck?” she asked.

  “No. We’ve looked everywhere. I can’t teach in here knowing Killer’s loose,” I said.

  She laughed.

  “All they want to do is try to scare me,” I said. “Brian opened his backpack this morning and screamed, ‘Snake!’ Ryan reached into his desk during reading and yelled, ‘I’m bit!’ Patrick put his hand in the ball box and pretended he was attacked. I can’t handle it!”

  She laughed some more.

  “It’s not funny!” I shouted. Then I looked at the door.

  “But maybe he slid under the door,” I said, pointing to the one-inch gap between the door and the floor. “See that crack? He probably slid right under it. Guess he could be anywhere in the building, don’t you think?”

  Cathy ran out of the room.

  Soon we all forgot about Killer. We pretty much figured that he had found his way outside somehow.

  A couple of days later we were all gathered together in the multipurpose room for our weekly assembly. Cathy stood in the front of the room. The teachers sat on blue metal folding chairs with the name of the school stenciled in black letters on the back of each one (I think they stenciled them the year Dylan made off with the projector cart). Mrs. Turner and Mrs. Stewart, who had been sorting through the costumes from the play, stopped by to see the children. The kids sat in rows on the floor, the kindergarteners in the front, the fifth graders in the back.

  School assembly time is the time when children like to demonstrate how many different ways they can sit on the floor. My students are quite skilled at it. Anthony can stretch his legs out all the way (even with a second grader seated five inches in front of him). Brian can sit really high on his knees and block the vision of an entire fourth grade class. And Justin can lie down when the room is packed and show you how to make snow angels on the tiles.

  After twenty minutes of saying, “Sit up,” and “Sit down,” and “Move up,” and “Move over,” I finally moved Anthony and Brian and Justin right by me. Anthony sat on my right, Brian on my left, and Justin sat between my legs. (You can always tell a lot about kids by how close they are sitting to the teacher at the morning assembly.)

  So there we were. Mrs. Fisher had just finished leading us in our school song, and Cathy walked up to the microphone to pass out the Citizen of the Month certificates and this month’s happy birthday pencils.

  “Boys and girls,” Cathy began, “now we will—”

  All of a sudden there was a scream from the back of the room. We all whipped around. Just as we turned around, a large shopping bag went flying through the air and landed in the middle of the second graders. Out flew a dozen Indian tunics and one black snake. Mrs. Turner was standing on a folding chair shaking and pointing at the center of the room.

  In a flash everyone was on their feet. The second graders ran for the sides. The third graders ran for the center. The fourth graders followed the third graders. Some of the first graders started crying. Everyone was talking at once and trying to get a look at Killer.

  “Get the snake!” I screamed at Stephen.

  Cathy shouted into the microphone for everyone to sit down.

  Stephen caught Killer.

  Cathy shouted into the microphone again, but everyone kept talking. Finally she gave up and adjourned the assembly.

  With Killer safe in Stephen’s hands, I got off my chair and started walking my kids back to the classroom. Mrs. Turner was now seated and fanning herself; she was surrounded by other room moms. I stopped and asked her what had happened. She said that she was holding the bag of costumes when she felt something on her arm. She thought it was her youngest daughter grabbing her hand and didn’t think anything of it, but when she looked down, she saw a snake sliding out of the bag and up her arm. So she threw the bag.

  When we got back to the room, everyone wanted to tell the story over and over again because of course everyone saw exactly what had happened. Carlos stood on his chair and pretended to be Mrs. Turner. Anthony pretended that he was Killer and dove across the room. I put Killer in an old aquarium (Houdini couldn’t have gotten his way out of that thing!) and made Stephen stand guard till school was over. After the last bell, I sent Stephen home with Killer and a note for his mom.

  Dear Mrs. Moore,

&n
bsp; It was so nice of you to send your snake to school with Stephen. The children learned so much about snakes. We learned how to hunt for reptiles in a piano. We learned how to get ready to jump backward before opening the paint cupboard. We learned that the crack under the door is exactly 2.5 centimeters. We learned that snakes must like the smell of coffee and can fly thirty feet across a crowded room. Thank you for helping us learn so much about snakes.

  Yours sincerely,

  Mr. Done

  Gifted

  There once was a student named Phillip. Phillip’s fourth grade teacher, Mr. Donaldson, recommended that Phillip be tested for the gifted program. At that time the program was called MGM; the initials stood for Mentally Gifted Minors.

  One day Phillip went to the office to see a lady he had never seen before. She spoke in a strong southern accent and wore lots of perfume. Phillip knew why he was there. She was going to give him a test to see if he was gifted.

  Of course Phillip already knew that he was gifted. His mom had always told him he was. His teachers had told him too. The lady asked Phillip a lot of questions and Phillip answered them.

  Two weeks later Phillip’s mom received a letter from the school. It said that Phillip could not be in the gifted program. He cried.

  The next year Phillip’s fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Sezaki, recommended that Phillip be tested for the gifted program again. So Phillip went to see the testing lady a second time. She still had a strong accent and wore lots of perfume. Again she asked a lot of questions and Phillip answered them.

  Two weeks later Phillip’s mom received a letter from the school. It said that Phillip was gifted now. He did not understand how he could not be gifted one year and then be gifted the next. It must be, he thought, because he learned his times tables faster.