Close Encounters of the Third-Grade Kind

by Phillip Done

“You put a lot of oil on it.”

  “How much?”

  “About ten gallons.”

  I smiled, gave Robyn a wink, then walked on. A few minutes later I crouched down beside one of the kindergartners. His name was Scotty. He had just moved to our school. Scotty was wearing an orange headband covered with thunderbirds and some serious warrior paint on his cheeks. He was stringing a macaroni necklace.

  “Hi, Scotty,” I said. “Nice hat.”

  “Thanks.”

  “That’s a mighty nice necklace. Are you going to give that to your mom?”

  “No. She doesn’t wear macaroni. She only wears diamonds.”

  I smiled. “I see.”

  All of a sudden the principal’s voice came on the intercom. “Teachers, please excuse the interruption.”

  Gail clapped her hands in a rhythmic pattern. The children stopped what they were doing and clapped back. The classroom grew quiet.

  “Okay, listen up everyone,” Gail called out.

  Scotty stared intently at the round speaker on the wall.

  “Well,” the principal continued, “it looks like it is going to rain. So teachers, we will have recess inside today. Thank you.”

  When the announcement was over, the children got back to their projects. Scotty continued staring at the speaker.

  “Everything okay, Scotty?” I asked.

  He didn’t respond.

  I set my hand on his shoulder. “What’s the matter?”

  Then with huge eyes he turned to me and whispered, “Was that God?”

  LISTENING

  This week in class we made our family trees. When I asked the students about their heritage, Joshua reported that he’s half cowboy, Christopher claimed that he is one-fourth pirate, and Kevin (who is Irish) declared that he is 100 percent leprechaun. When Trevor told me that he was named after his grandfather, he looked disappointed.

  “Why the long face?” I asked.

  He sighed. “I’d rather be named after a football player.”

  Art Linkletter was absolutely right. Kids do say the darndest things. But that’s only the half of it. When kids say the darndest things — their teachers have the darndest responses. Here are some of the most popular:

  The Fake Listen

  This response is used when you’re pretending to listen to a child but actually aren’t. I implement The Fake Listen when being followed around the blacktop at recess by a child who wants to explain every one of the tricks he can do on his new skateboard, or during Show and Tell when Laura is sharing her 50th foreign coin and has another 250 to go. The Fake Listen is similar to The Fake Applause. The Fake Applause is commonly utilized when a teacher is whispering with one of his colleagues during the school assembly and suddenly realizes that everyone is applauding so he starts clapping his hands, too, but really has no idea why.

  The Buying Time

  Teachers employ The Buying Time when asked questions that they are not exactly sure how to answer. When John, for example, asked me in the middle of the math lesson, “Why do women crave sardines when they’re pregnant?” I used it. When Lisa asked me what in heat meant, I used it. And when Laura asked me why they called it a booby trap if there were no boobies in it — I used it, too. The best way to implement The Buying Time is simply to respond to the child’s question with another question. Buying Time responses include, “What did you just say?” and “Where did you hear that?”

  The Teacher Dodge

  Unlike The Buying Time in which teachers are not sure just how to respond, The Teacher Dodge is implemented when they absolutely do not want to answer a child’s question. This year when Dylan asked me if Santa knows God, when Gina shouted out, “Why is that frog on top of the other frog?” and when David wanted to know what the difference is between a steer and a bull, I sidestepped with The Teacher Dodge. To do it, simply change the subject as quickly as possible in order to avoid answering the student’s question. Successful Teacher Dodges include: “Oh sorry, out of time,” and “Never mind that. Get back to work.”

  The Frozen Teacher

  This response is accompanied by a state of surprise, shock, bewilderment, speechlessness, and utter disbelief. Since the new school year began, I have already used The Frozen Teacher on multiple occasions. The first time was when my students and I were playing charades. It was Trevor’s turn. He ran around the room, crashed into the wall, fell over, got up, and fell over again. I was dumbfounded. After a couple of seconds, I spoke.

  “Uh… I give up. What are you supposed to be?”

  The corners of Trevor’s lips stretched upward. “A chicken with my head cut off.”

  The second time I responded with The Frozen Teacher, I was searching for something on my desk when Kevin and Danny walked up to me.

  “Mr. Done,” Kevin said, “do you know how to French-kiss?”

  I spun around, eyes bulging. Kevin kissed Danny on one cheek and then on the other. Then Kevin turned to me and smiled. “That’s how the French kiss.”

  Me: Blank. Completely blank.

  A few months ago, I was in the middle of a lesson when Emily stood up in the back of the classroom, stretched to the ceiling, and let out a huge yawn. I stopped teaching and stared at her, immobilized. When she finished yawning, Emily sat down, crossed her hands on her desk, and gave me her complete attention.

  Finally, I came to. “Emily, what was that?”

  “Seventh-Inning Stretch.”

  Last week I pulled my latest Frozen Teacher. We were talking about cats when Christopher volunteered, “I’ve eaten cat food.”

  Full-freeze frame.

  “You… you what?” I asked, shaking myself back to reality.

  “It tastes good,” he admitted, proudly.

  I should not have asked the next question.

  “How many of you have tasted cat food?”

  Half the class raised their hands.

  The Teacher Fib

  Now I know it sounds bad, but there are times when employing The Teacher Fib is absolutely necessary. It is not a lie, per se. It is more of a survival tool. I only use it when I’m in a really tight spot. This year’s Teacher Fibs include:

  Telling Robbie that I was allergic to the birthday cupcakes he brought in after I noticed that most of the frosting had been licked off.

  Telling Sarah that I left my grade book at home after she asked me what her spelling test score was when in actuality I couldn’t find my grade book.

  Telling Rebecca that I couldn’t attend her birthday party because I already had other plans.

  Telling Brian that the fire detector in the classroom is really a hidden camera and that if he didn’t sit down immediately I was going to show the tape to his mother. He sat.

  Sometimes one teacher response is not enough. This was the case just last week when Stacy asked me her big question. It was a peaceful Monday afternoon. We were reviewing our new spelling list for the week. The words were all in past tense using ed endings.

  Stacy looked up from her paper. “Mr. Done, what’s E.D.?”

  Eyes bulging, I snapped into The Frozen Teacher. My eyebrows felt like they were locked in too tight a face-lift. Did I hear her correctly? I think she just asked me what E.D. is. What do I say? Try a Buying Time. I adopted a calm expression. “What did you say, honey?”

  She repeated the question.

  She did just ask me what E.D. is! Oh my gosh! I don’t want to answer I don’t want to answer I don’t want to answer! I could feel the blood rushing out of my head. Deep breath. Deep breath. Close your mouth. Go for second Buying Time.

  I feigned a relaxed smile. “Why do you ask?”

  “It was on TV.”

  As I opened my mouth to speak, I noticed that the rest of the class was now listening to our conversation. I looked back at Stacy. She’s still waiting. Now what? Try Teacher Dodge.

  “I think you should ask your parents.”

  “I did. They won’t tell me.”

  Alarm bells began going off in
my head. I could hear the little Lost in Space robot voice sounding off: Warning. Warning. Danger, Phil Done. Leave topic immediately!

  I glanced up at the clock. Attempt Dodge Number Two.

  “Oh my! It’s time for recess. Okay, everyone, put your spelling lists away. Time to clean up.”

  “It’s not time for recess,” Laura pointed out. “We still have seven minutes.”

  She was right. I couldn’t send them out this early. I looked over at Stacy. She was still waiting for an answer. Sweat started soaking through my shirt. As I ran my finger under my collar, I pictured Wile E. Coyote waiting helplessly for the burning fuse to reach the dynamite. I had no other choice but to pull out The Teacher Fib. I looked down at my watch, glanced up at the clock, then shook my head.

  “That dang clock,” I said. “It’s slow again. I better call maintenance.” I turned to the kids. “You’re excused.”

  Everyone sprang out of their chairs and ran out of the room.

  Whew.

  WORDS

  Teachers are word warriors. All day long we explain, correct, examine, define, recite, check, decipher, sound out, spell, clap, sing, clarify, write, and act out words. We teach spelling words and history words and science words and geography words. We teach describing words and compound words. We teach synonyms and antonyms and homonyms, too.

  The other day when I was reviewing homonyms with my students, I wrote the word hair on the whiteboard and touched the top of my head.

  “Can anyone give me another kind of hair?” I asked. (I was looking for hare.)

  Stacy raised her hand.

  “Yes, Stacy.”

  “Chest hair.”

  In my class we collect words. Each week my kids bring in their Wonderful Word of the Week. It can be any word — one they overheard their parents say, one they discovered in a book, one they’d like to learn, or one they just like the sound of. They don’t have to know what the words mean. They don’t even have to know how to pronounce them.

  “Okay, class,” I said one morning, “get out your Wonderful Words.” The children pulled out their papers. “Who’d like to go first?” Several raised their hands. I called on Rebecca.

  “Exquisite,” she shared.

  “Ah yes,” I said, nodding, “exquisite is a beautiful word. It means wonderful, fabulous. The princess wore an exquisite piece of jewelry. I love that word, too.” I wrote it in big letters on the board. “Who’s next?” More raised hands. I called on Robbie.

  He looked down at his paper. “Ram-bunc-tious,” he read, slowly. “Is that right?”

  “Yes. That’s correct. Rambunctious. Another excellent word. Where did you hear that?”

  “My mom said it to me.”

  I let out a laugh.

  “What does it mean?” Chloe asked.

  “It means rowdy.” I gave an example. “The kids were running around the room making a lot of noise. They were rambunctious.”

  “Like us!” Christopher boasted.

  “You got that right,” I replied as I wrote rambunctious on the board. I turned and looked back at Robbie. “Robbie, that’s a five-dollar word.”

  “What’s that?” he said, sitting up straight.

  I inhaled as if I were smelling something wonderfully delicious. “Well… five-dollar words are nice, juicy words. There are also ten-dollar words and twenty-dollar words. There are even a few hundred-dollar words.”

  “Whoa!” several called out.

  I put the cap back on the marker. “Okay, who’s next?”

  Trevor shot up his hand. I called on him.

  He pressed his lips together in a devious little grin. “Rocks.”

  Christopher snickered.

  “Trevor, come on now,” I said, one eyebrow raised. “Be serious.”

  “I am serious. Not like rocks in the ground. Rocks in a drink. Like a Martini on the rocks.”

  There’s always one.

  “Is that a five-dollar word?” Trevor asked.

  “No!”

  One day I gathered my kids on the carpet in the corner of the room and wrote said on the board. I drew a big circle around the word then crossed it out with a red marker like one of those No Smoking signs. The children waited to see what would happen next.

  “Boys and girls, we are not allowed to use the word said today, so I’ve crossed it out.”

  “Said is dead!” Dylan shouted out, delighted with himself.

  I smiled at him. “For this morning, yes.” Then I faced the class. “Today we are going to learn about synonyms for said.”

  I took the cap off my dry erase pen and wrote Mr. Done said, “Hi, Kevin.” on the small whiteboard. Everyone turned and looked at Kevin. He beamed. I pointed to the word said in my sentence. “Now, I could write Mr. Done screamed, ‘Hi, Kevin.’”

  They giggled.

  “Or I could write Mr. Done whispered, ‘Hi, Kevin.’”

  They chuckled.

  “I could even write Mr. Done sang, ‘Hi, Kevin.’” I cleared my throat and sang, “Hi, Kevin,” in my best Pavarotti.

  Giddiness traveled around the carpet.

  “You see,” I continued, “the words screamed, whispered, and sang are all what we call synonyms. You’ve heard of synonyms before, right?”

  “Yeah,” they answered together.

  “Can anybody give me another synonym for said?”

  John sat up on his knees. “Shouted!”

  “Exclaimed!” Angela added.

  Laura jumped in. “Yelled!”

  “Very good,” I praised. “You got it. Now, today we are going to see how many synonyms you can come up with for the word said. And you may work with a buddy.” Immediately the kids turned to their friends and linked arms like the barrel of plastic monkeys. “Not yet. Not yet. Trevor, let go of Christopher.” They unhooked themselves.

  Then I flopped back in my chair and gave a big, loud sigh. “Of course, I don’t think you could possibly beat the world record.”

  Joshua jumped up. “There’s a world record?”

  “Of course,” I responded with a straight face.

  “What is it?” Sarah demanded.

  “Oh, it doesn’t matter,” I sighed again. “You’ll never beat it.”

  Jennifer seized my knee. “WHAT’S THE WORLD RECORD?”

  I put on a surprised expression. “You really want to know?”

  “YEAH!” everyone chanted. Jennifer shook my leg.

  “Well… ,” I continued, thumping my temple with my finger for dramatic effect, “if I’m not mistaken… I believe that the world record for the most synonyms ever brainstormed for said is fifty.”

  Trevor sprang to his feet. “I’m going to beat it!”

  Dylan shot up next. “So am I!”

  Christopher jumped up with them. “Can we start now?”

  I pretended that I hadn’t planned on it. “Now?”

  “YEAH!” the class chirruped.

  I glanced at the clock then shrugged. “Okay. Off you go.”

  Immediately everyone grabbed their buddies, collected their paper and pencils, spread out around the room, and started making their lists. The noise in the room began to bubble. I walked around to lend a hand. Synonyms were popping up everywhere.

  “Laughed!”

  “Hollered!”

  “Stuttered!”

  “Cheered!”

  “Yelled!”

  “Think of animals,” I called out as I circled the room. “What if animals could talk?”

  “Roared!”

  “Squeaked!”

  “Growled!”

  “Croaked!”

  “Hissed!”

  “Barked!”

  Kevin leapt up from behind the piano. “Is tweeted a word? Like Tweety Bird tweeted?”

  I thought about it for a second. “I’ll accept it.”

  Kevin popped back down. Gina ran up next.

  “Is this one?” she asked, pointing to her paper. It said soft.

  “Not quite, honey. That�
�s the way you can talk. You wouldn’t say, ‘Gigi soft, Hello.’ Understand?”

  “Ohhhhh,” she said. “I get it.” She dashed off.

  Christopher skidded up to me.

  “How many words do you have?” I asked.

  “Seventeen. Is this one?” He cupped his hand over my ear. “Sneezed.”

  “Hmm,” I said, pursing my lips. “Can you sneeze a word?”

  Right away he let out a huge “Ah-choo!” like he was auditioning for a Claritin commercial. “See! Ah-choo’s a word!”

  I couldn’t help but smile. “Well, there you go. Sure, sneezed works.”

  He sped off.

  I walked over to the door and flicked off the lights. Everyone stopped writing. “Think of monsters and ghosts,” I prompted. “How do ghosts talk?”

  “Moaned,” Emily whispered to her partner.

  “Howled!” Danny exclaimed. “Like a werewolf.”

  Melanie raced up to me next. She was shaking her paper. “Mr. Done, what sound does a witch make when she laughs?”

  “Cackled.”

  “Thanks.” She started to leave.

  “Hey, Melanie.” She turned around. I was smiling. “Cackled is a five-dollar word.”

  She smiled broadly then darted off. I sat down on the arm of the couch. Christopher ran up to me again.

  “I got one! I got one! Does this count?” He waved for me to bend near then whispered loudly, “Gargled.”

  I gave him a teacher face: head cocked, lips pursed, chin down, eyebrows up.

  “My dad can gargle and talk at the same time,” he argued.

  I had to laugh. “Okay.”

  “Don’t tell anyone,” he ordered. And he shot off.

  Around the room children buzzed, pencils scribbled, and arms held clipboards close to the chest like poker cards so no one would steal their synonyms.

  “Think of kings and queens,” I directed. “What does a king do?”

  “Chop people’s heads off,” Trevor announced, happily.

  I shot him a look.

  “Ordered!” David spewed.