by Phillip Done
“But I think I should see him soon.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t finish the story.”
From then on, Rebecca visited Max every Monday and Wednesday. She never needed to be reminded. When we had a Monday holiday, she asked if she could make up the time.
Rebecca became Max’s teacher. She picked out books that she thought he would like — often about dogs. When we studied rocks, she took a book about rocks. Since we were just past Halloween, she taught Max all about bones. Once when she couldn’t find the right book, I grabbed one off the shelf titled The Christmas Cat. “How ’bout this?”
Rebecca put her hands on her hips. “Mr. Done, Max is a dog!”
Ellen took good care of Rebecca. For each book Rebecca read to her new student, Ellen gave her a dog sticker. And for every ten stickers, Rebecca received a new book that Max autographed with his paw. If Ellen heard Rebecca struggling to read a word, she’d help her pronounce it. If Rebecca came to a word that Ellen thought she didn’t understand, Ellen would say, “I don’t think Max knows that word.” Then Ellen would tell Max what it meant.
One afternoon while Rebecca was reading, Max fell asleep.
“His eyes are closed,” Rebecca pouted.
Ellen swiveled around in her chair. Sure enough, Max was sound asleep. Ellen set her hands on her knees and said, “Oh, he’s just concentrating so he can understand better.”
As the weeks went by, I started to notice small changes in Rebecca. Her attendance improved. She wasn’t tardy as often. She complained less about other children, and she got into less trouble on the blacktop. She smiled more.
One day I was sitting in the classroom with all my students reading The Story of Helen Keller. Every child held a copy of the book, including Rebecca. I walked to the whiteboard and wrote the word obstacle in large letters. I knew it was a new word for the children.
“Helen Keller faced enormous obstacles,” I explained, tapping the new word on the board as I said it. “An obstacle is something that gets in our way.” I grabbed the back of my chair and rolled it into the aisle. “See this chair. If I want to walk down the aisle, this chair is in my way. It’s an obstacle. It’s preventing me from getting to the other side of the room.”
I took a few steps and purposefully ran into the chair. The kids laughed. I took a seat in the chair and continued.
“Helen Keller wanted to read and write just like you and I do, but she faced enormous obstacles. Who can tell me what some of them were?”
“She was blind,” said David.
I pointed at him. “Yes.”
“And she was deaf,” Jennifer added.
“That’s correct,” I answered. Then I popped up and wrote overcame on the board. I pointed to the word. “Boys and girls, Helen overcame her obstacles. That means that even though she couldn’t see or hear, she still accomplished what she wanted to do.” I stepped out among the students. “Do you think it was easy for her to overcome her obstacles?”
“No,” several answered.
The kids turned in their chairs as I walked down the center aisle.
“Do you think she got frustrated?” I asked.
“Yeah,” most responded.
“Sure she got frustrated,” I said, leaning on the table in the back of the room. “I’m sure there were times when she wanted to give up. But she didn’t. She learned to read and write despite her obstacles. When Helen got older, she went to college. And she even wrote a book.”
“She did?” Chloe blurted out, surprised.
“Yes,” I replied. “She was a courageous young woman.” I walked back to my desk, picked up the book, and flipped through the pages to find where we had left off. Rebecca raised her hand halfway.
“Rebecca, do you have a question?”
She nodded as her eyes studied the page in front of her. My heart made a little flip. Suddenly I realized why her hand was up. Rebecca wanted to read. She was volunteering to read aloud.
“Would you like to read for the class, honey?” I asked, gently.
She nodded again.
At that moment, I wanted to jump up and wrap my arms around her and give her a hug and announce, “Yes, yes, yes!!” But of course I didn’t. The best thing to do when a child is taking a risk is to act like what she is about to do is the most normal thing in the world. I looked into her nervous eyes and smiled encouragingly. “Okay, sweetheart. Why don’t you start at the top of the page.”
Soon the classroom was quiet except for one soft voice sounding out words — carefully, one word at a time. Her index finger moved slowly from left to right down the page.
I helped her when she stumbled or stopped in front of an unknown word or came to one that I knew she’d have trouble getting through. I praised her under my breath. Each word read was a victory. Each sentence completed was a win.
Rebecca flipped the page. Twenty pages turned along with her. No one read ahead. No one giggled. No one said hurry up. Robbie helped her pronounce a word. Melanie jumped in to help, too. They knew what was going on. Children can tell when something important is happening.
Finally, Rebecca reached the end of the paragraph. She stopped reading and looked up at me. A huge smile stretched between her cheeks. She had made it. She had overcome her obstacle. Some of the other children looked up at me and smiled, too. I reached over and squeezed Rebecca’s arm. “Nice job.” Then I pretended to rub my eyes, but really I was wiping away a tear.
Later that day when Rebecca went to see Max, he got up and wagged his tail. While Ellen typed on her computer, Rebecca curled up beside him and opened her book. “Oh, Max,” she said excitedly, “I have a story that you are just going to love. Have you ever heard of Helen Keller?”
YARD DUTY
Ask any kid what his favorite subject in school is and he’ll say recess. Ask any teacher what his least favorite subject is and he’ll say recess — especially when he has yard duty. Yard duty is right up there with rainy days, writing report cards, and being serenaded by three boys singing “A Hundred Bottles of Beer on the Wall” while driving on a field trip.
The first recess at our school begins at ten o’clock. When the bell rings, five hundred children run outside at the same time with rubber balls and ropes and snacks. Three or four teachers patrol the blacktop, where they dodge basketballs that missed the hoop and spatula first-grade girls off their legs who have decided that the grown-up is base. At ten twenty the five hundred children run back inside their classrooms with dew and sand and dirt and gravel and mud and tanbark and half the grass from the newly mowed lawn on their shoes. The playground and field are cluttered with forgotten sweaters and abandoned balls all carefully labeled with permanent marker.
I have yard duty twice a week. That means on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I have no chance to use the bathroom from 8:00 AM till lunch. That means on these days, if I don’t want to explode, I limit my liquids.
One Tuesday at the beginning of recess, I grab my whistle and my coffee and walk outside. I start at the corner of the blacktop. Joshua and Kevin are standing ten feet apart. They have just stuffed red rubber balls into their shirts.
“Hey, you two,” I say. “What are you doing?”
“We’re playing Sumo!” Joshua shouts. “Watch!”
Kevin counts off. “On your mark. Get set. Go!” The two boys run at full speed toward each other. Bam! Their stomachs collide. They go flying. It is bumper cars without the cars.
Joshua gets up first. “Mr. Done, watch again!”
“No,” I reply, shaking my head. “I have to do yard duty.”
I walk on. Soon I stop at a group of kids digging a hole next to the bike racks. Brian and five other boys have been working on this hole for a week.
“Have you hit water yet?” I ask.
“No,” one of them answers without looking up.
“Mr. Done,” Brian says excitedly, “we’re digging a tunnel!”
“Where to?”
“Under the fence.”
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My eyes survey the dirt. “Just like Alcatraz.”
“Yeah!” the boys cheer. They dig faster.
I leave the great escape and am nearly run over by three girls walking backward. I almost spill my coffee.
“Hey, be careful!”
“Mr. Done,” one of them proclaims, happily. “We’re in reverse!”
“I can see that. Watch the speed limit.”
Moments later I stop at a basketball pole. Angela and Emily are just finishing up tying Michael with a jump rope.
“Hey, Mr. Done, you want to play?” asks Laura.
“No, thanks.”
Nearby, I spot a group of children hopping around in a circle. “What are you all up to?”
“We’re doing a rain dance,” one of them answers.
I look up. There isn’t a cloud in the sky. “Keep dancing.”
As I make my way down the blacktop, I come to a game of Helicopter. You remember Helicopter? One person holds the jump rope and twirls it around in a circle on the cement while everyone else jumps over it. The person holding the rope keeps spinning until it hits someone’s feet.
“Mr. Done, will you play with us?” Jennifer begs. “Will you play?”
“Yeah!” the others join her. “Play!”
I look at the kids. I look at the rope. I look back at them.
“Please!” Jennifer cajoles.
I think about it. Seven faces look up at me waiting for an answer: chins ducked, heads tilted, eyes wide, and pouty lips out.
“Oh, all right.”
“Yeah!” they scream.
I set my coffee mug down on the picnic table, and Dylan hands me the rope. I begin twirling it around on the blacktop.
“Boys!” I call first.
All the boys jump in.
I continue to spin.
“Girls!” I holler next.
The girls join them.
Pretty soon the children are all a blur and I feel like I am in one of those circular carnival rides that spins one hundred miles per hour and everyone is pressed against the wall trying not to throw up. I stop.
“That’s enough,” I stammer, trying not to fall over.
“No!” they shout.
“Yes… that’s all.”
I hand the rope to Jennifer and stagger off.
As I walk away, several kids come running over to me. One little girl is in a panic.
“Mr. Done! Mr. Done!” she pants out. “Sam is hurt. Hurry!”
I follow her quickly over to the edge of the tanbark where students are standing in a huddle.
“Okay,” I say, breaking through. “Let me in. Let me in.”
I reach the center of the crowd. And there is Sam.
“This is Sam?” I ask, raising my eyebrows. Sam is a caterpillar.
“Yeah,” someone answers. “He’s dying!”
Everyone starts chattering at once.
“He fell out of the tree.”
“He’ll get squashed!”
“What do we do?”
“Okay. Okay. Don’t worry,” I say as I crouch down and scoop Sam up with a leaf. “I’ve got it under control.” I hand the caterpillar off to one of the kids. “Here. Take Sam over to the bushes. He’ll be safe there. Got it?”
“Got it!” they answer. And they all scurry off. The boy in the back wails like an ambulance siren.
As I stand up, Robbie and Dylan sprint up to me.
“Mr. Done! Mr. Done!” they shout.
“What?”
“Why did the chicken cross the playground?” Robbie asks, out of breath. Both look like they are nanoseconds from exploding.
I scratch my head, pretending to be stumped. “I give up. Why did the chicken cross the playground?”
They explode. “To get to the other slide!”
I laugh as though I’ve never heard it. “That’s pretty good.” Before they can tell me another one, I point to the yard duty teacher at the other end of the play structure. “Hey, go tell Mrs. Wilson. She loves jokes.”
After they bolt off, I look around the yard. All looks normal. The fifth-grade boys are playing basketball. Several girls are turning cartwheels on the grass. Others are hanging upside down from the monkey bars. The picnic tables are crowded with children eating snacks. Three kids are writing words on the blacktop with their water bottles. Two are scaling the basketball poles. A couple of my students are walking around with banana peels on their heads. (Chloe started The Banana Peel Club.) And a line of second-grade boys is crouched down as low as possible with their shirts stretched over their knees following one another along the grass quacking. I put my hand up like a crossing guard and wave them on. “Make way for ducklings!” They waddle by.
As soon as the ducks pass, Peter runs up to me. He is in the other third-grade class.
“Mr. Done,” he says, “can I take my shoes off?”
“Why?”
“They’re all wet.”
I look down. His shoes are drenched.
“How’d they get wet?”
“I poured water on them.”
“Why’d you do that?”
“It’s hot.”
I just stare at him.
“Can I take them off?”
“Ask your teacher.”
Just then I notice a first grader crying in the corner of the field. I walk over to him.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
He points to two other boys. “They won’t throw the football to me.”
I glance over at his two friends. Neither one is holding anything. I turn back to the one who’s crying. “What football?” The boy’s bottom lip quivers. “Now calm down. I don’t see any ball. What ball are you talking about?”
“It’s…” He wipes his nose with his sleeve. “It’s pretend.”
I make a face. “Pretend?”
“They won’t throw it to me.” He sniffs.
I wave the two over. “You boys come here.” They look scared. Clearly, this is the first time they have ever gotten in trouble with a big mean third-grade teacher. “You need to share that football or I’m taking it away. Do you understand?”
Both nod.
“Okay now, you three shake hands.”
They stare at me.
“You heard me. Shake hands.”
They all look confused.
“Come on,” I say.
The boys look at each other then turn back to me. Together they stick their hands up in the air like they’re being held up and start shaking.
THE INTERCOM
A classroom is like a home. Both have cupboards and closets full of clutter. Both have pets and cages with water bottles that need to be filled up. Both have stashes of candy. Come to think of it, there isn’t much of a difference between the two. I guess this is why teachers and parents say the same things to their kids: “Don’t talk with your mouth full.” “Do you think that jacket is going to pick itself up?” “Let me see your homework.” “I’m not the cleaning lady.” “What do you mean you’re hungry. You just ate an hour ago!”
But one thing classrooms have that you will not find in most homes is the intercom. The intercom system has been around in schools for a long time. Before telephones were installed in classrooms, the intercom was the main way with which the office communicated with the teachers. The secretary or principal would stand in front of a big metal machine, press a button, and call students to the office for dentist appointments, doctor checkups, and visits to the orthodontist so that the rubber bands on their new braces could be changed.
Today the intercom is used mainly to announce special assemblies, hearing tests, and other all-school news. Just this week Bob, our principal, came on the intercom to talk to the whole school. It was a special day on campus. The Dairy Council was bringing Ellie the cow to our assembly. “Teachers,” he said, “please excuse the interruption.” All the kids stopped working and looked up at the speaker on the wall. Bob continued. “Ellie will be late. She is stuck in traffic.”
Once when I was in third grade, the secretary forgot to flick off the switch after making an all-school announcement. More than five hundred children listened to the office staff chattering away until one honest teacher called in and told her. We all heard the secretary scream. Then the intercom went dead.
This year in the middle of November, my class visited our kindergarten buddies. Each class at my school is teamed up with another. We get together once a month and share an activity. My buddy teacher is Gail. I like being Gail’s buddy. She cooks a lot with her students, and I get to taste-test. But I have to be careful. Last year I snatched what I thought was a cookie off a paper plate and just about gagged. They had just made doggy biscuits.
So there we all were in Gail’s classroom getting ready for our big Thanksgiving Feast. Forty kids sat around the room at different stations making vests out of brown paper bags, decorating oatmeal box drums, and tracing turkeys around small hands on brown construction paper.
In one corner of the room, a volunteer mom was helping kindergartners write what they were thankful for on a piece of yellow butcher paper. I started reading the list:
“I am thankful that my dad changed my sandwich from peanut butter and jelly to bologna.”
“I am thankful I am not a turkey.”
“I am thankful for my brain for making new dreams every day.”
“I am thankful for dogs when they lick me.”
“I am thankful for Comcast because now I can tape my shows.”
The mom gave me a grin. I smirked back and walked on. In another corner of the room, Gail’s aide, Robyn, sat with the kindergartners taking dictation. They were making a class book entitled How to Cook a Thanksgiving Turkey. I stopped and listened as Robyn interviewed one little girl. She wore a white paper Pilgrim bonnet tied with fat black school yarn.
“How heavy is the turkey?” Robyn asked.
“A hundred pounds,” the girl answered.
Robyn tried not to laugh as she wrote down the answer. “And how long do you cook it?”
“An hour.”
“At what temperature?”
“Hot.”
“Then what?”