by Phillip Done
I don’t teach about Columbus anymore either. Well, OK, I do, but I stay clear of those ships. Especially the diagrams. Inevitably, when you pass out diagrams of the Niña and the Pinta and the Santa Maria, the first thing they find is the poop deck. Who the hell named it the poop deck!
Studying geography can be dangerous too. One day we were all reading about the Galápagos Islands in our science books, and we turned to the page on bird life. I started reading aloud. Do you know what happens to third graders when you say “blue-footed booby”? They do not continue to read. They do not hear you say, “Stop!” and “Enough!” and “Get off the ceiling!” because they are too busy laughing and shouting, “Blue-footed booby!” six hundred times.
Even in art, one has to be careful. Once we were making construction paper flags for President’s Day.
“OK, boys and girls,” I said, “Everyone take your strips and—”
Justin began to snicker.
“Justin, what is so funny?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he answered.
I continued. “OK, now, everyone take your red strips and glue them onto the—”
Justin started laughing again.
I stared at him. “Justin, what is so funny?”
“You said ‘strip,’” he said, trying not to burst out laughing.
“Yes. So what,” I said.
“Like strip naked!” he exploded. Then he fell out of his seat and started rolling on the floor.
I stared at him in disbelief.
The last time I had seen him act like this was when Mrs. Turner asked him if he wanted a weenie at the Back to School Barbecue. (By the way, would someone please tell the room moms that they are hot dogs? )
As you know, sometimes kids will mispronounce words. One day James said “fighted.” So I corrected him.
“James, the word is ‘fought,’” I said.
He started giggling.
“What’s so funny?” I asked.
“You said ‘fart,’” said James.
“I did not!” I said firmly. “I said ‘fought’!” Then I said it again very slowly.
“See!” James screamed. “You said ‘fart’!” and he started laughing again.
Have you ever tried to say “fought” slowly? Go ahead, try it. Stop reading this and try it.
See? James was right. When you say “fought” slowly, it sounds like you’re saying “fart” with a British accent.
But arguing with James was nothing compared to last week’s Spring Concert. At the end of the performance I stood up in front of two hundred kindergarten, first, second, and third graders, and all their parents and said, “I’d like to thank our wonderful pianist, Mrs. Fisher!”
The parents applauded. The children began to laugh. I gave them the Chin Up. I knew exactly what they were thinking. So I looked straight at them all and repeated myself very slowly.
“Pi-an-ist!” I said.
Well, no child ever hears the final t in that word. No child wants to hear the final t in that word. It is much more fun to not hear the t in that word. Justin, of course, had to be carried out on a stretcher.
One even has to be careful giving spelling tests. One day I handed out the week’s spelling list and began reviewing the words. “OK, boys and girls,” I said, “our first spelling word is ‘happy.’ Can you all say ‘happy’?”
“Happy,” everyone chanted.
“Good,” I said. “ ‘Happy’ is spelled ‘h-a-p-p-y.’ Let’s spell it out together.”
Everyone spelled out loud, “H-a-p-p …”
“Look!” Michael shouted. There’s ‘p-p’ in that word!”
Everyone laughed.
“Yes, Michael, there are two ps in that word. Now settle down.”
I continued.
“OK, everyone, let’s look at the next word, shall we? Can you read the next word for us please, Emily?” I asked.
“Dis-ap-pear,” she read.
“Good, Emily,” I said.
Michael shouted, “There’s peepee in that word too!”
“Michael, I know someone who is going to disappear very soon if he doesn’t get ahold of himself right now!” I said firmly.
Then I glanced down at the next few words: “wrapping,” “stepping,” “shopping.”
I sighed. Great, I thought. It’s the peepee list.
Who was the wise guy who thought of doubling that stupid p to make the vowel short? Obviously he never knew Michael.
Obviously he never taught elementary school. Why, I’ll bet he was the same bozo who named all the planets, and the parts of a ship, and the birds on the Galápagos Islands!
Countdown
Miss Greco
When I was in second grade, my teacher’s name was Miss Greco. She was old. She wore big gold earrings and smelled like my grandma. In December she wore a Christmas tree pin. Sometimes I would wear my older brother’s hand-me-down suits and ties to school, and Dippity-do my hair just so she’d say I looked nice. She always did.
Miss Greco taught me how to clap big words into syllables, how to add big numbers, and how to spell environment. But, she taught me something else too—something no other teacher ever did.
You see, everyday after lunch we had silent reading. While we read, Miss Greco usually worked on some sort of project at her desk in front of the classroom. During this time, I watched closely as she turned newspapers into puppets, baby food jars into Christmas presents, and egg cartons into bumble bees. Miss Greco could turn an old sheet into a kimono, a road map into wrapping paper, and a basket into a Munchkin hat. She was magic.
Miss Greco showed me how to make something out of nothing. She showed me what thinking looked like. She showed me how to create. Of course I didn’t know it at the time, but Miss Greco was showing me how to be a teacher.
Today I still wear gel in my hair. I still wear a tie to school. I still have silent reading after lunch. And sometimes I too will use silent reading time to design or make something. And almost always when I glance up from whatever it is I’m making, one or two sets of eyes will be on me.
I do not tell them to get back to their reading. For surely they have lost their places by now. Maybe they are learning how to be teachers too. If so, I hope they will be like Miss Greco.
Tell Us a Story!
Miss Greco was a great storyteller. I remember when we were all wilting, or wound up, or worn out, she’d ring her silver bell, let us put our heads down on our desks, then begin to tell us a story. We were riveted.
I loved Miss Greco’s stories, and I still remember them. Once during the war, she sold peanut brittle door to door. Once she drove an ice cream truck. Once when she was young, she took an umbrella into the shower and pretended it was raining. Once she met John F. Kennedy. And once she had a German shepherd that would do the shopping for her. It’s true.
Her dog’s name was Mitzi. Miss Greco would put her shopping list and an envelope with money into a basket, and Mitzi would walk down the street to the butcher with the basket in her mouth. When Mitzi arrived at the butchershop, she’d put down the basket and scratch the door till the butcher came outside. The butcher would take out the list and the money, put the items and change into the basket, and give Mitzi a hot dog, and Mitzi would walk back home with the groceries.
I tell my students stories too. I don’t know what it is, but when a teacher starts telling children anything about his own life—anything at all—they will remember every word he says, then go home and tell everything to their mothers.
For When They’re Driving Me Crazy
“Did I tell you The Raisin Bread Story? I can’t believe I didn’t tell you The Raisin Bread Story! Well, when I was a baby, I would not sit still—not for a minute. My mom would try to hold me and I would crawl all over her. Once she was in the kitchen ready to throw me out the window when she spotted a loaf of raisin bread on the counter. She threw the loaf of raisin bread onto the linoleum, plopped me down next to it, and said, ‘Pick out all the raisins!’ I
picked out the raisins, and my mom had five minutes of peace.
“Now here, do this worksheet!”
For When They Are Tardy
“Did I tell you The Thermometer Story? I thought everyone knew that. Once when I was a kid, I didn’t want to go to school. So I pretended I couldn’t get up. My mom came in and told me to get up. I moaned and said I was sick. She got the thermometer, shook it, and put it in my mouth and left the room. While she was gone, I got up, lit a match (which I had hidden), and put it under the thermometer. After a few minutes I jumped back into bed and put the thermometer back under my tongue. Soon my mom came back into my bedroom and took the thermometer out of my mouth. She looked at it, then looked at me, then looked back at the thermometer. ‘You know what it says?’ she asked. ‘You have a temperature of a hundred and ten. You should be dead. Now rise, Lazarus, and go to school.’
“So, why are you late?”
For When They Forget Something
“Did I tell you The Show Story? I didn’t? It’s famous. Well, when I was in high school, I was in a musical called Gypsy. In one part we had a superfast costume change, and I had twenty-five seconds to change from a military costume to pajamas. Well, in order to make the costume change and be back onstage in time for the next scene, I had to put the pajamas on underneath the military costume. It was faster this way.
“I remember it was closing night. The house was full. The lights went black. I ran off stage left, whipped off my uniform, and screamed! You know why? I had forgotten to put my pajama bottoms on. So yours truly did the whole next scene in his pajama shirt and boxers.
“Now, you can bring your homework tomorrow.”
For When They Are Boarding the Bus
“Did I tell you The Camping Story? No? You’re kidding. Once my family went camping with my uncle and his family. We drove in two station wagons. My uncle had four kids and we had four kids. All the cousins mixed up in the two cars—some in one, some in the other. Well, we stopped at the supermarket on the way to the campgrounds and went shopping for the trip. After we finished shopping, we drove to the campgrounds. At the campgrounds, my dad asked my uncle where I was. My uncle thought I was in my dad’s car. My dad thought I was in my uncle’s car. Then they both realized that they had left me back at the supermarket. Immediately my parents jumped into my dad’s car and raced back to the store. I was sitting out in front of the store in one of those little firetrucks that shake when you put in a quarter. My mom was crying and crying. ‘Hi, Mom,’ I said. ‘Do you have a quarter?’ I didn’t even know they were gone.
“Now, stay with your group today. And don’t go wandering off, OK?”
For When They Embarrass Themselves
“You don’t know The Spaghetti Story? It’s a classic! Well, when I was in college learning how to become a teacher, I worked at a spaghetti restaurant. It was my first day on my own. I remember I made ten salads, put them on a big tray, lifted the tray onto my shoulder, and walked out of the kitchen into the restaurant. As I was walking to the table, I did not see the scoop of butter on the floor. I slipped on the butter and screamed, trying to hold onto the tray. Everyone froze. I teetered around the room, trying not to lose my grip. But finally, down the tray went. Blue cheese and thousand island and creamy Italian flew everywhere. Then the whole restaurant applauded. I had to clean it all up, then go back and make ten more salads.
“Now, I’ll clean this up. Go back and get another lunch.”
For When Teacher Doesn’t Want to Teach
Anything in Last Ten Minutes on Friday
“Did I tell you The Spider-Man Story? I didn’t? Well, put down your pencils. That’s my best story of all. You see, when I was in high school, my dad lent me the car. It was a Chrysler New Yorker. One night I was leaving my friend’s house when I looked across the street and saw two men in the Chrysler. They were starting the engine. Oh my God, I thought. They’re hot-wiring my dad’s car! I ran across the street as fast as I could, screamed, ‘Stop!’ and dove onto the car. Splat! I landed on the windshield just like Spider-Man. The two men froze. I saved the car. But as I lay there on the glass, I realized something.
“It wasn’t my car.
“My car was parked right in front of them. It looked just like their car. Quickly I smiled, slithered off, opened my car door, and drove away.
“Well, it’s time to go now. Have a good weekend. And don’t go jumping on any windshields.”
How Many Times Have I Said That?
As you know, I have been studying French all year. And I am proud to say that I am now fluent. Really. I am completely fluent. Well, OK, I am fluent in French at school.
I came about it quite by accident, actually. You see, one day I got so tired of saying the same old things that teachers say over and over again that I decided to just start saying them in French. And voilà! The new lunch supervisor thought I was born in France. Cathy thinks I’m bilingual.
Believe me. It works. All you have to do is learn the French for the top ten phrases that teachers say, and you too can be fluent. Here they are:
English
French
Walk!
Ne cours pas!
Sit down!
Assieds-toi!
Sh!
Chut!
Put that away!
Range-ça immediatement!
Quiet down!
Silence!
Put your name on your paper.
Ecris ton nom sur ta feuille.
You’re excused.
Tu peux y aller.
How do you end a sentence?
Comment est-ce-qu’on fini une phrase?
Line up!
Alignez-vous!
Do I need to call your mom?
Est-ce-que je dois appeller ta mère?
When you know these ten phrases, you do not just have to use them in the classroom. Oh no. I toss them around all over the place. If the clerk in Safeway asks me if I want paper or plastic, I speak French. It makes no sense, but they seem impressed. When I pick up my shirts at the drycleaners, I speak French too.
Only once did I have a problem. I was in the city library and the librarian said I owed $37.50 in overdue fines. I leaned over the counter, smiled at the librarian, and said, “Est-ce-que je dois appeller ta mère?” in my best French accent.
She leaned over to me and said, “No, but do I need to call yours?”
I paid the fine.
Why Do I Teach?
Every year I ask my students what they want to be when they grow up. I tell their parents to listen closely. Because it was in third grade that I decided I wanted to become a teacher.
“When I grow up, I want to be a lawyer,” said Amanda.
“I want to be a spy,” said Justin.
“The doctor that helps animals,” said Melanie.
“An actor,” said Stephen.
“A doctor,” said Anthony.
“Something that makes a lot of money,” said Nicole.
“A baseball player,” said Matthew.
“Does anyone want to be a teacher?” I asked.
“No way!” shouted Kevin.
“Why not?” I asked.
“I don’t want to wear a tie,” said Justin.
“My dad says teachers don’t make any money,” Aaron said.
“Well, that’s true,” I said. “Aaron, what does your dad do for work?”
“He’s the vice president of some company,” Aaron answered.
“Is he hiring?” I asked.
“Huh?”
“Never mind,” I said.
Natalie raised her hand.
“Yes, Natalie?”
“Mr. Done, why did you become a teacher?” she asked.
“I like unclogging the drinking fountain.” I smiled.
“No, come on, really,” said Natalie. “Why did you become a teacher?”
It was a good question—one I hadn’t thought about since my student teaching days. I thought about it for the rest of the day.
I became a teacher because I like that I get to start all over again every September.
I became a teacher because I like watching thirty-two silent, wide-eyed children suddenly burst into laughter all at the same time when the Grinch rides his sleigh down to Who-ville.
I like when one child starts singing and the others join in.
I like hearing them giggle to themselves when they’re reading a new book during silent reading time.
I like to hand out those little candy hearts with the words on them around Valentine’s Day and watch the kids scream if the hearts say, “Hug Me.”
And I get a kick out of seeing kids carry trombone cases to school that are bigger than they are.
Why do I teach? Where else can you leave work and have hundreds of little people scream good-bye to you from the school bus every day?
But the main reason I became a teacher is that I like being the first one to introduce kids to words and music and books and people and numbers and concepts and ideas that they have never heard about or thought about before.
I like being the first one to tell them about Long John Silver and negative numbers and Beethoven and alliteration and “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning” and similes and right angles and Ebenezer Scrooge.
Can you remember exactly when you learned something new? I can. I remember where I was sitting when Miss Greco taught us “I’m Looking Over a Four-Leaf Clover.” I remember when Mrs. Sezaki taught us what “discrimination” meant as she described her experiences in a Japanese internment camp in California. She called it a concentration camp. I remember exactly when Mr. Johnson taught me nine times seven with his magic multiplying marshmallows. I remember when Mrs. Garson told me there is no such word as “funner” and I didn’t believe her.