by Phillip Done
“David, would you read now, please?” I asked.
He began reading. “‘Shut up!’ said Mr. Teavee.”
I stopped him. “What did Mr. Teavee say?”
“Shut up,” David answered, matter-of-factly.
I pretended to be shocked. “David, are you telling me to shut up?”
“No,” he giggled.
I continued my performance. “I hope not. Now read it again.”
David looked at the text and hesitated.
“Go on now,” I nudged. “Start reading.”
“Shut up,” he laughed.
“DAVID!”
Everyone shouted, “Can I read? Can I read?”
I love to teach reading. It is one of my favorite times of the day. I love when a child comes up to me in the morning and asks hopefully, “Are you going to read to us today?” I love seeing a child look up from his book while I am reading and stare at me with wide eyes and open mouth as though I really am Willie Wonka escorting kids through my chocolate factory. I love flicking off the lights to announce that reading time is over and seeing that brief look of confusion on a child’s face because she was lost in her book.
When I was in teacher school, I learned a lot about how to teach the different subjects. But most of what I know about teaching reading, I’ve learned from my students.
My students taught me that when inviting children to the reading corner, it is much more exciting when the teacher hides a book under his shirt than when he pulls it off the shelf.
They taught me that after gathering kids on the carpet — no matter how many times you say crisscross applesauce — someone in the front row will always sit on her knees.
They taught me that when the teacher shows his class a picture from a book, he must always move the book very slowly in front of them or they will whine, “I can’t see.” And when the teacher is finished showing the picture, he will always have to show it again to one person who says, “I didn’t see it.”
My students taught me that whenever the teacher reads the word knock aloud, he should hit the desk at the same time. When he reads yawn, he should make a good loud stretch. And when he reads cleared his throat, he should accompany it with lots of noise in the back of his mouth.
They taught me that choir and bury and coyote are hard words to read, that five-syllable words are more fun to clap out than those with two, and that sitting close together on the carpet is as important as hearing the stories.
They taught me that a child can read an entire page out loud and not pause at one single period, and that kids will remember exactly who sat on the beanbag chair during silent reading time yesterday, last week, and two months ago. They will remember who held the stuffed animal last, too.
My students taught me that when everyone has a copy of the same book and the class turns the page together — if there is a picture, always allow time for the children to look at it before you start reading again. Otherwise, the kids will lose their place.
They taught me that when I am reading a book to the children and ask them to predict what will happen next, it is entirely possible that one child will disregard my question completely and announce that she can see the skin above my sock and that my leg is hairy.
They taught me that if an ant crawls onto the cover of a child’s book during reading time, she will not flick it off — but will carry the book carefully to the front of the room to show me. When hearing that their lucky classmate has an ant crawling on her book, the rest of the class will jump out of their chairs and run over to see our new visitor. Reading will resume only after the dazed little guest has been carried outside to safety by all twenty children.
As we continued reading Charlie, I looked out at my students. Melanie was twiddling her earring. John was swinging his legs back and forth under the desk. Laura was tightening her ponytail. Sarah was straightening her curls. Conner was sucking on his bookmark. This made sense, of course. These things make reading more enjoyable to kids. It’s instinctive — like eating the frosting in Oreos first. In fact, I have learned that children have their own set of reading strategies:
Reading Strategy Number One: Fiddle
As soon as you hand an eight-year-old boy a book, his free hand will immediately reach into his desk and grab the nearest small object — a marble, a ruler, a coin, a paper clip. Because children know that holding things helps you read better. If you don’t believe me, watch what happens when they drop the marble or ruler or coin or paper clip. Their reading will come to a screeching halt until they find it.
Reading Strategy Number Two: Balance
With the book in one hand and the paper clip securely in the other, he will lean on the back two legs of his chair and stay there as long as he possibly can until the teacher comes over and pushes the chair back to the floor or the student falls over. When falling, he may let go of the book — but never will he let go of the paper clip.
Reading Strategy Number Three: Curl
When an eight-year-old girl starts reading, she will immediately begin twisting her hair around her fingers or twirling her bangs around her pencil. If her hair is already curly, she will pull on it like a Crissy Doll with hair that grows and grows.
Reading Strategy Number Four: Slide
The longer a child reads at his desk, the closer he will sink to the floor. If he is sitting on the reading couch, he will take the sofa cushion down to the floor with him.
Reading Strategy Number Five: Hide
When it is time for children to break into pairs and read together, you will see them run to the corners of the room, hide behind the piano, crawl under the desks, disappear under tables, and squeeze into their cubbies. Reading is more fun for kids when the teacher can’t see them.
Reading Strategy Number Six: Gnaw
Have you ever observed a classroom full of third graders sitting at their desks with books in their hands while you are reading aloud? It’s a regular all-you-can-eat buffet out there. They’re chewing on collars, pigtails, marker caps, pink erasers — you name it. One day during reading time, John was eating his pencil as if it were a dog bone. I stopped reading.
“John, you’re going to get lead poisoning if you do that.”
He just snickered and kept on chewing.
Look at my pencil box if you don’t believe me. Right now I only have one pencil in there that still has any yellow paint on it. All the pencils are covered with baby teeth marks. Some have been chewed in half. By the looks of those things you’d think I teach a bunch of beavers.
I stood up and walked over to John. “Okay, hand it over.” John took the pencil out of his mouth and gave it to me. It was all slimy. “YUCK!”
Laughter sped around the room as I wiped my hands on my shirt and took a seat. Then I picked up my book and resumed reading. Pretty soon John was nibbling on his eraser. Trevor was gnawing his fingernails. Conner was sucking his watch. Chloe was braiding her bangs. Dylan was sucking the string on his hoodie. And Gina was teething on her headband. Just as I was turning the page John yelled out, “When’s lunch? I’m hungry.” I reached over to my desk and threw him another pencil.
THE DIET
The first week back from winter break, I have my students write their New Year’s resolutions. Kids’ resolutions don’t change much from year to year: “I want to improve in my times tables.” “I would like to get better at cursive.” “I’m going to make my bed every day.” “I won’t fight with my brother.” This year Angela wrote, “I want a new puppy.”
“Uh… Angela, this isn’t really a resolution.” I explained, “A resolution is something you want to improve in or a change you’d like to make.”
She rewrote it: “I want to change the way my mom feels about having a new puppy.”
My own resolutions are the same every year, too: I want to exercise more. I want to learn how to play the piano with more than one hand. I want to lose a few pounds. Actually, hoping to lose weight is my room moms’ fault. They don’t know what to buy
Man Teachers for Christmas so they send in platters of homemade fudge.
This week as I was looking around Barnes & Noble, I checked out the diet section. I was shocked at how many different books there were. On the covers were photos of low-cal appetizers, light salads, lean entrées, and guiltless desserts. After a couple of minutes I had to get out of there. All that food was making me hungry.
I went online and found a site called The Calorie Calculator. It gives calorie expenditures for hundreds of different activities. I typed in my weight and started scanning the list:
Activity Calories Burned Per Hour
Moving heavy objects 225
Lifting items continuously 230
Sitting in meetings 38
Walking on the job 75
Caring for animals 125
Heavy cleaning 175
Playing outdoor games 200
Using heavy power tools 375
Hmm, I thought. I wonder how many calories I burn up in a day at work. I grabbed paper and pencil and started making a list:
Today I led my kids to the cafeteria, followed my class to the library, and marched five third graders straight into the principal’s office (walking on the job). I lifted three fifth-grade boys off a pileup on the field when they were supposed to be playing touch football (moving heavy objects). I sharpened two packs of pencils in the electric pencil sharpener (using heavy power tools).
I wrestled the class bunny out of the cage so I could clean it (caring for animals). I scrubbed the hairs on the paintbrushes that had morphed into rocks because I forgot to wash them yesterday (heavy cleaning). I turned the jump rope at recess (outdoor games). Actually, I can count that one twice. We played Double Dutch.
But that was just the beginning. According to the Web site, I burn up calories whenever I pass out a worksheet, push the paper cutter, pull down the white screen, pin on a name tag, pick up a backpack, press a thumbtack, pump up a rubber ball, or even unpeel an orange.
At the end of the day, I added everything up. “Oh my gosh!” I screamed, hitting the final equals sign on my calculator. I burn more than three thousand calories in just one day at work! I’ll work this fudge off in no time. Heck — I don’t need to go on a diet. I’ve already got one! I teach.
PRINCIPAL
Whenever Bob my principal is going to be away at a conference or a seminar, he asks me to be the teacher in charge. It’s fun. A substitute takes my class, and I get to do the things that principals do. In the morning, I greet children as they step off the bus and get dozens of leg hugs from the kindergartners. At recess, I make sure kids are not sitting on the tetherballs hanging on the poles. During the day, I walk around the classes and snatch candy from their estimating jars. At lunch, I open stubborn mustard packets with my teeth. After school, I stand at the bus stop and get dozens more leg hugs good-bye.
Once when I was the teacher in charge, a kindergartner walked into the office after the bell rang.
“Are you tardy?” I asked.
“No,” he answered. “I’m Tommy.”
Another year when I was supervising kids in the cafeteria, one rascal read the menu on the wall, put his hand on his forehead, and proclaimed, “What? No wine list?” Last year I was standing out at the bus stop with a colleague when she spotted one of her first graders walking away from school.
“Mindy,” the teacher called out, “aren’t you a bus rider?”
“No,” she shouted back, “I’m a street walker.”
This week the day after Bob left for a training session, our school’s furnace broke down. I work in an old building. This wasn’t the first time it had broken. The heater seems to break down every winter. I had spent most of the morning with maintenance trying to get the heater fixed. At lunchtime, Kim poked her head in the boiler room. I was talking with the mechanic.
“Uh… excuse me, Mr. Done,” Kim said, “I think you need to talk with a few of my cherubs.”
“Why?” I asked.
She breathed in. “We had a bit of a problem in the boys’ bathroom.”
“What happened?”
“Well… four of my boys decided to put their willies onto the heating grate.”
The whites of my eyes doubled in size. The mechanic started laughing.
“What?” I asked.
“You heard me.”
“Why?” I said, rubbing my forehead.
Kim smirked. “They said they were trying to heat ’em up.”
I looked at the mechanic. “See why we need to get this thing fixed.” I turned back to Kim. “Can’t this wait till Bob gets back?”
She shook her head.
I took in a big breath and let it out. “Okay, send them to me.”
A couple of minutes later, four second graders marched into the principal’s office with their heads down. I sat on the corner of the desk. They sat two to a chair. Among their eight shoes, only three were tied. After learning their names, I gave them the Keep Your Zippers Up Speech in my best Judge Wapner voice.
“So, do you boys understand?”
They nodded vigorously.
“And is this going to happen again?”
They shook their heads.
Then I handed each one a piece of paper and a pencil. “Now, you boys are going to write letters to your parents.” (I sure wasn’t going to call home and explain.) The boys looked surprised and stared at the papers. “Come on now. Get going.”
“What do we write?” Matthew whined.
I pursed my lips. “Well… explain what happened and that you won’t do it again.”
The boys started writing.
After a few moments, Tyler raised his hand.
“What is it?” I said.
“How do you spell wee-wee?” he asked, matter-of-factly.
I gaped at him.
“I know,” declared Alex. “W-E. W-E.”
“Uh… that’s close,” I said, “but not quite.” I looked over at Tyler. “It’s W-E-E. W-E-E.”
Tyler raised both palms. “Wait. Slow down.”
I repeated it slowly. “W-E-E space W-E-E.” (I know there is a hyphen in between those two wees, but I did not want to confuse the little guy.)
“I’m done,” Matthew announced, sliding out of his chair.
“Already?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“Let me see it.”
Matthew handed me his paper. It read: “I poot my pee pee in the hetr.”
Well, at least he got “pee pee” right.
“That’s a good start,” I said. “But I think you can write a little bit more.” I gave Matthew his letter, and he took a seat.
Nicholas made a loud sigh while erasing his paper.
“Nicholas, you need help?”
He looked up. “How do you spell jigger?”
My eyeballs froze in their sockets. “JIGGER?”
“Yeah.”
I scratched behind my ear. How many words are there for this thing?
“I know,” Alex piped in.
“Thanks, Alex. I got it covered.” I turned to Nicholas and started spelling the word. “J-I-G…” And then it hit me. Here I was giving an unforgettable spelling lesson to three boys who had just had a wienie roast in the bathroom. No wonder my boss goes to conferences. I covered my mouth to hide my smile.
Suddenly the bell rang. The boys looked up at me. I finished helping Nicholas as I got up and opened the door.
“Okay, you kids may go back to class now.”
They jumped off their chairs and headed out of the room.
“Hey,” I said, stopping them with my voice. “No more jiggers in the heater. You hear?”
“Okay!”
MAGIC
One of my favorite stories is Peter Seymour’s The Magic Toyshop. In this book, all the toys come to life late at night after the shop has closed. At the first glint of dawn, they return to their shelves and freeze. When the shop reopens, the toys sit perfectly still and watch the customers. When I read The Magic Toyshop to my s
tudents, I often think of a small children’s bookstore right here in my hometown. Because it is magic, too.
The shop sits nestled on the corner of a quiet downtown street two blocks off the main road. It has been there since the giant magnolia trees that line the sidewalk were planted over fifty years ago. Outside the store, green-and-white-striped awnings shade two large bay windows. Sunlight and shadows of magnolia leaves dance on the oft-cleaned glass. Behind the windows, books stand up in plastic snow or Easter grass or mounds of sand — depending on the season.
The front door has two sections, a top half and a bottom. When the weather is nice, the top is usually open. A bell on the door tinkles when customers step inside. In summertime, an arbor of untamed morning glories frames the entrance. When you push the door, it feels as though you are opening a garden gate.
Inside the store, narrow aisles weave around tables and cases and cardboard displays stacked with books. The shop smells of new paper. Posters of Clifford and The Magic School Bus and Eloise hang from the ceiling. And like the toys in The Magic Toyshop, stuffed animals and dolls sit on the shelves and watch the customers. Last summer, a morning glory vine sneaked into a crack above the door and started climbing inside the shop. Wisely, the owners let it grow. They called it Jack’s beanstalk.
I like to stop by the bookstore on Saturday mornings around ten o’clock, if I can. Across the street from the shop there is a dance studio. Every Saturday a few minutes after ten, a dozen or so little girls wearing pink leotards and slippers chassé into the store after their ballet class. The young ballerinas grab their books, scatter around the shop, and sit and read. I call them the Saturday-morning girls.
One Saturday when I was in the shop, I heard a scream. A squirrel had found its way into the store. All the dancers chased the squirrel around the room as if it were a leprechaun. Another morning just a few days before Christmas, the girls all flew in wearing pink netted tutus and silver wings, their hair pulled up in tight buns. It looked like a bunch of angels had descended on the shop for silent reading time.