32 Third Graders and One Class Bunny

by Phillip Done

  Just think about what you know today. You read. You write. You work with numbers. You solve problems. We take all these things for granted. But of course you haven’t always read. You haven’t always known how to write. You weren’t born knowing how to subtract 199 from 600. Someone showed you. There was a moment when you moved from not knowing to knowing. There was a moment when you moved from not understanding to understanding.

  That’s why I became a teacher.

  Out to Dinner with Teachers

  Last night Dawn, Mike, Lisa, Kim, and I went out to dinner at a really nice restaurant to celebrate the last month of school. As you know, whenever we get together, we usually end up talking about school. So last night we all agreed—absolutely no school talk. Instead we talked about what normal people talk about.

  We talked about art.

  “You should stop by and see Brian’s new fresco on his desk.”

  We talked about politics.

  “Melanie is circulating a petition to impeach the yard duty teacher.”

  We talked about history.

  “Justin asked me today what a record player is.”

  We talked about music.

  “Wait till Mrs. Fisher finds out that my entire class signed up to play the trumpet next year.”

  We talked about fashion.

  “Did you get a load of what Cathy was wearing yesterday?”

  We talked about sports.

  “Who has the ball pump?”

  We talked about problems in society.

  “Three guesses who stopped up the urinals today.”

  We talked about movies.

  “I just don’t see Nicole Kidman as Amelia Bedelia. Do you?”

  We talked about food.

  “We’d like to start with five bowls of stone soup please.”

  We talked about literature.

  “Boy, do I feel old. Charlie Brown is over fifty!”

  We talked about health care.

  “Have you seen the first-aid kit?”

  Then we all picked up our plates, walked to the dishwasher, threw the silverware into the silverware tub, and walked out of the restaurant.

  Customs

  Once a week my kids go to science lab with Mrs. Simon. The kids love her. Mrs. Simon wears bug T-shirts and planet earrings. And she has a tarantula.

  Mrs. Simon is always bringing in something fun to share with the children, like the static electricity machine that makes their hair stand up or a butterfly house or silkworms or my favorite—the potato-powered clock.

  This spring we were studying the systems of the body, and Mrs. Simon brought in a real human skeleton. She borrowed it from a doctor friend but told the kids it was a third grader who didn’t do his homework. The kids said it looked like me and named him Mr. Bone. So Mrs. Simon put a tie on him.

  Seeing Mr. Bone reminded me of the time I tried to get my own collection of bones through customs.

  Several years ago I took a leave of absence from my school district to teach at the American International School of Budapest. I had always wanted to teach overseas. And so I rented a storage unit, had a big garage sale, packed up, and flew to Hungary for a couple of years. It was a wonderful experience.

  In the summers I would fly back home to visit my family and friends, drink Campbell’s soup, and order double caramel macchiatos at Starbucks. When I flew back to Budapest, I always brought an extra suitcase along full of Kraft macaroni and cheese, Dr. Pepper, Skippy peanut butter, and Jolly Ranchers for the kids. One year I also brought back my skulls.

  I had a small skull collection in storage and thought my students in Budapest would enjoy seeing them. I even had a human skull. Before leaving for Hungary, I wrapped the bones up carefully in my clothes and put them in my carry-on. I didn’t want to risk some baggage handler breaking them.

  When I got to the airport, I put my carry-on onto the conveyor belt at the security check. The carry-on rolled through the X-ray machine. All of a sudden the conveyor belt stopped. The man looking at the monitor called over another man.

  Uh-oh, I thought.

  They reversed the conveyor belt and called a third man over. One of them pointed at the screen. His name tag said “Roberto.”

  “What do you have in there?” Roberto asked.

  “My toothbrush,” I answered.

  “What else?” he asked.

  “Uh … toothpaste.”

  I’d heard stories about airports taking your stuff and feeding it to the dogs that sniff for drugs. I didn’t want Rover gnawing on any of my bones!

  “And what else?” Roberto asked.

  “Oh … well … just some skulls,” I said casually.

  He looked at me funny.

  “I teach science,” I said.

  “Could you open your bag, please?” he asked.

  Just my luck. Never in my life had I been stopped at an airport, and now—the one time I’m carrying a bag full of skulls—they stop me.

  I opened it and laid the skulls on the conveyor belt.

  “Could you unwrap these, please?” he asked.

  Roberto watched carefully as I unwrapped the skulls.

  “What’s that?” he asked, pointing to one of the skulls.

  “This one’s a baby crocodile,” I said.

  I continued unwrapping.

  “And this one here is a chimpanzee skull,” I said.

  Pretty soon I had five skulls laid out on the conveyor belt. And there I was, in the middle of the airport—teaching a science lesson.

  Soon I was free to go. I wrapped the skulls back up, waved good-bye to Roberto, and flew to Budapest.

  The next summer, before I flew back to the States, I asked my Hungarian friend Imre what I should bring back for my friends.

  “Definitely Pick salami,” he said. “It’s so good that in Hungary, if you’re pulled over by the police and have a Pick salami, you can just give him your Pick and you don’t have to pay your ticket.”

  So I bought a half dozen giant Pick salamis, loaded them into my suitcase, and flew back home for the summer.

  As I waited at baggage claim back in the States, a scary-looking lady walked up to me.

  “Do you have any food?” she asked.

  “Just salami,” I answered.

  Surely that wouldn’t be a problem, I thought. When they say “food,” they mean fruits and vegetables and stuff that the Mediterranean fruit flies eat.

  “Please go over there,” she said, pointing to the next line.

  I looked over at the line. Everybody was unloading their suitcases.

  “Not again!” I cried.

  I lugged my bags onto the conveyor belt. The bag moved through the X-ray machine. The belt stopped. The man pointed to the screen. His name tag said “Gilbert.”

  “Where’s Roberto?” I asked.

  “Huh?” he said.

  “Never mind,” I said.

  “Could you open your bags, please?” Gilbert asked.

  I opened them. The salamis were right on top.

  “Salami, huh?” he said. “We’ll have to take them.”

  He began to put on his gloves. I felt like a druglord.

  “Why?” I whined.

  “Not allowed in the country,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “But every tourist shop in Budapest sells these stupid salamis,” I said. “And there isn’t one sign anywhere in Hungary that says you can’t bring them into the United States. I don’t have any other souvenirs for my friends. Please don’t take them. Please! I beg you!” (I teach drama too.)

  “Sorry, sir. We have to. The law,” said Gilbert.

  He pointed to the wrapped skulls. “What are these?” he asked.

  “Skulls,” I answered. “I’m a science teacher.”

  “Could you please unwrap them?”

  I unwrapped the crocodile first.

  “Where’d you get this one?” he asked.

  “I found it in Brazil.”

  Next I unwrapped the chimpanzee.

&n
bsp; “What about this one?”

  “A friend gave it to me,” I answered.

  Then I unwrapped the human skull.

  “And this one,” he asked, “what happened to him?”

  I looked up at Gilbert.

  “He took my salami.”

  Saved

  Each year our town blocks off one of the big streets downtown on the first Saturday in May for the annual Pet Parade. The Pet Parade has been around as long as I can remember. I used to pull my own guinea pigs in my Radio Flyer when I was a kid.

  Children from the whole town parade their pets. All animals are allowed, and anything goes. I’ve seen bunnies pushed in strollers, hamsters pulled in wagons, kittens carried in bicycle baskets, and bird cages pushed on skateboards.

  Every pet is covered with bows, every bicycle wheel is woven with crepe paper, and every handlebar is wrapped with streamers. The kids walk with their class behind their school banner. Most of my students participate. I walk with them. Last year I put dog ears on my nephew and gave him a piggyback ride the whole way.

  This year, the week before the parade, Sarah sat at her desk whimpering.

  “What’s wrong, Sarah?” I asked.

  She continued to cry. I walked over to her desk and crouched down.

  “Sarah, what’s wrong?” I asked again.

  Through her sniffles, I made out that Barnie had died last night. Barnie was her rat. Barnie had been in for sharing on Bring Your Pet Day.

  “I’m really sorry, honey,” I said quietly.

  “And … and … now … I … can’t … walk in … in … the parade,” she cried.

  Immediately I put on my repairman’s hat. What could I do? I had already promised Melanie that she could carry Penel. And I had told Katie that she could walk with one of the hamsters. All the other pets were spoken for as well. Sarah continued to cry.

  Then I spotted him. In the reading corner. On the chair.

  “What about taking Snoopy?” I suggested.

  Snoopy sat on my reading chair by the bookshelf. I bought him at a garage sale my first year of teaching and he has been with me ever since. He is our class mascot. His tail is gone now. His nose was loved off years ago. And these days he’s more gray than white, but I’m afraid to put him in the washing machine for fear he’ll completely come apart. When he is not in the reading chair, he is in someone’s lap—usually during silent reading, sometimes after a wipeout on the blacktop, and always during storytime. But Snoopy is a good sport. He has been pulled on and fought over and sat on for twenty years, but he hasn’t left yet.

  He’d make a good teacher.

  “You know, Sarah, Snoopy’s never been to the Pet Parade,” I said softly. “All these years he’s watched Penel leave and he never gets to go. I think he wishes he could. But nobody will take him.”

  Sarah sniffed twice.

  “Of course he might get cold. He’ll need a sweater or something. We could make him something at school. He’s never been out before, you know. You’d really have to take care of him.”

  Sarah sniffed again, but only once this time.

  “How ’bout it? Would you take Snoopy?” I asked. “Please.”

  There was a pause. Then she nodded yes. And on Saturday morning, our class marched with seven dogs, four cats, six guinea pigs, three rabbits, two hamsters, three rats, and one well-loved stuffed animal who saved me.

  Where’s the Hole Punch?

  Have you ever observed how kids clean out their desks? They don’t take out their books and papers and lay them on top of their desks. Oh no. They reach their arms into the desks, pull everything out at the same time, and spread it all out on the floor like it’s their Halloween candy. The room looks like Wal-Mart after an earthquake.

  I know it is time to clean out our desks when I can’t find any more pencils or Wite-Out or erasers or hole punches, when there is some nasty smell that I cannot identify, or when one of the hamsters is missing again.

  Once a month I put on my hardhat, tie red and white plastic tape across my doorway, and lay out orange cones in the hall. I stand guard at the wastebasket, handing back math papers that should have been turned in seven months ago and book reports that forgot where the finished work basket is.

  There are certain students you always have to watch closely on desk-cleaning day. This year it is Joshua.

  “Joshua, come here!” I shouted after he threw a pile into the garbage.

  I handed him back his math book.

  I am relieved to know that there ever be an emergency, we could survive for three months. Today I discovered half a tuna fish sandwich, a black banana, a bag of Cheetos, and two hardboiled eggs. That was in Ryan’s desk.

  Melissa found the remains of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in a tupperware container. If she entered it in the science fair she could probably win third prize.

  I used to dread desk-cleaning day. But then I read 7 Steps for Highly Effective Teachers and made a paradigm shift.

  Now we have desk-cleaning parties and we play lots of games. My favorites are Stuff the Wastebasket Until It Overflows, Stand on the Trash in the Garbage Can to Make It Go Down, and “Oh, There It Is!”

  I even hand out prizes. This month Katie won for largest collection. She had thirteen juice boxes in her desk and twenty-seven more in her cubby. Anthony won for most pencil shavings. Erika won for the most sunflower seeds ever brushed onto the floor. And Michael won for most overdue library books discovered (he had already paid for them to be replaced).

  Sometimes I wonder why kids who won’t clean out their binders, or pick up their jackets off the floor, find desk cleaning so much fun.

  Maybe because it is fun to go to the bathroom and wet ten paper towels till they are sopping and wipe out the desk with them and make the inside of the desk sopping wet too.

  Maybe because it is fun to squirt the desktop twenty-five times with the spray bottle full of soapy water, then watch the soapy water drip onto the floor, and when the teacher screams to get some paper towels, run to the bathroom, then run back and say there aren’t any more.

  Maybe because it is fun to watch the teacher put his hand on his forehead and roll his eyes and shake his head when Jenny pulls out seven hole punches from her desk, when just this morning she asked me for one.

  The Talk

  At the end of the year, the fifth graders get the Big Talk. The girls go to Mrs. Garcia. The boys go to Mr. Clark. The teachers put it off as long as they can.

  This May Mr. Clark had to have an emergency appendectomy and was out for two weeks. Cathy came to see me.

  “Phil, could you fill in for Ken next week? I’ll cover your class,” she said.

  “No way!” I screamed.

  “Please. We need a man,” she begged.

  “I’m not talking to forty-five fifth grade boys about sex,” I shouted.

  “You don’t have to talk to them about sex,” Cathy said. “You just have to talk to them about the changes that will take place in their bodies.”

  “I can’t,” I said. “I had most of those boys two years ago. I know them all. They lose it if you say the word armpit.”

  “Please,” she said.

  “Give ’em a razor,” I said.

  “Please,” she begged again. “I’ll make you dinner.”

  “Really?” I asked.

  “Anything you want,” she said.

  “Can you make lasagna?” I asked.

  “Yep,” she said.

  I sighed. “OK,” I said. “I’ll do it.”

  “Thanks,” Cathy said. “I owe ya.” And she left.

  The next week, after lunch, it was time to separate the boys and the girls.

  Dominga walked up to me. I had Dominga two years ago.

  “Mr. Done, I don’t want to learn about sex from Mrs. Garcia!” she cried. “She’ll ruin it.”

  “Dominga, she’s just going to talk with you about growing up. That’s all. Now go on.”

  She walked into Mrs. Garcia’s room
with her head down. Frankly, I wouldn’t want to learn about sex from Mrs. Garcia either.

  The boys walked into my room and sat down.

  “Hi, boys,” I said, “Today we are going to learn about the changes that will take place in your bodies when you get older. Does anyone have any questions?”

  Silence.

  I scratched my head.

  “Well, is there anything that any of you would like to know about the changes that are going to occur as you get a little older?” I asked.

  More silence. I looked around the room.

  Then I got an idea, and I grabbed some paper and pencils.

  “OK, boys,” I said, “now I am going to give you each a piece of paper. On it I would like each of you to write down any questions you might have about anything related to the changes in your body. And I expect you all to write something. I will read each question aloud and then we can discuss it. OK?”

  “OK,” they all said quietly.

  I handed out the paper. Immediately everyone began to write. This is great, I thought. We will have lots to discuss. After a couple of minutes, I collected the papers and looked at the first paper.

  Scribble.

  I looked at the second.

  Loopty loops.

  I looked at the third.

  Garfield.

  I glanced through the whole stack.

  All scribble but one.

  “Well, boys,” I said, “only one of you has a question.”

  They were all quiet.

  I read it out loud. “Can we go outside and play basketball?”

  They stared at me. No one moved.

  I looked around the room. “OK,” I said, “let’s go.”

  “Yeah!” they all shouted.