by Phillip Done
As a rule, third graders like to write. Ask them what they’d do with three wishes and their third will always be for more wishes. Tell them to keep a pirate journal and one boy will make all the girls walk the plank. Let them make coupons for their moms on Mother’s Day and they’ll expire in a day. Have them write about their dream vacation and they’ll cast their teacher as the chauffeur.
There is no question that third graders write with flair. They make twenty-five exclamation marks where there should be one. They dot their i’s with hearts. They fill their papers with words like bonk, conk, crash, pow, smack, splat, thwap, slam, whack, varoom, splash, zoom, and arf arf. Their friendly letters end with ten PSs. If they’re writing in print, they’ll switch to cursive to make a word stand out. They put ™ next to their signatures. And just in case you weren’t sure they were finished with their story, The End will fill up half the page.
Whenever we start writing, I always set my rules. “Okay, boys and girls,” I announce, “no blood. No farts. No burps. No toilets. And no machine guns.”
“Can we have pistols?” Trevor asked.
“No!”
When the Goosebumps books were popular, my students wanted to write gory stories. When the Captain Underpants books were all the rage, half the kids’ papers had battling toilets. When Harry Potter first appeared, their main characters had lightning bolts on their foreheads. When Pirates of the Caribbean came out in theaters, everyone wanted to write about Johnny Depp.
I usually have my students write two copies of everything — first a rough draft (the sloppy copy) that we edit together, then a final draft. When I’m editing their papers, I spend a lot of time putting in periods, fixing spelling mistakes, turning lowercase letters into capital ones, adding quotation marks, and explaining that commas are on the ground and apostrophes fly.
Sometimes third-grade papers are not all that easy to read. Eight-and nine-year-olds will write forty lines of dialogue with no quotation marks, place apostrophes in every word ending with an s, hyphenate one-syllable words, write sentences that are two pages long, and — if they’re running out of room — scrunch ten words into a one-inch space and act shocked when I say I can’t read it.
My students don’t type many final drafts. Typing their final copies in computer lab can be quite a challenge. Third graders type about three words a minute. They don’t put spaces after periods. They don’t put spaces after commas, either. All they want to do is play with the fonts. And if the computer has grammar check, God forbid a green squiggly line appears under one of their words. They cannot continue typing until that green squiggly line goes away.
This year I made the mistake of showing my kids some of those emoticons — you know, those little faces you can make using numbers and symbols on the keyboard. Well, you’d have thought I showed them how to type naughty words. Pretty soon emoticons were popping up all over their papers wearing sunglasses 8-), sticking their tongues out :-P, and wearing braces :-#. There was one I didn’t know though. Melanie had typed :-)X.
I touched the screen. “What’s that, honey?”
“You!” She pointed to the X. “See the tie.”
* * *
When third graders hand in their papers, they are usually a stapled mess, and I have to perform surgery on them to get the staples out. Have you ever seen third graders staple two pieces of binder paper together? They can’t. Rebecca’s papers all come apart because she pushes the stapler so gently that the staple never goes through the last page. Robbie pounds the stapler so hard that the handle, the staples, and the shiny part you put the staples into all transform into a whole new thing — like a metamorphic rock.
Jennifer staples her papers in the upper right corner. Laura likes to staple two eyes, a nose, and a mouth before handing her papers in. Joshua hasn’t figured out that his pages are supposed to line up, so after stapling them together the corners end up three inches apart. And Danny’s papers have more staples in them than my bulletin boards. This means that I have to hunt for my staple remover — which I usually find in Christopher’s desk because he likes to hold it up to Chloe’s face and pretend it’s rattlesnake fangs.
In spring, I buy a bunch of hardback books with blank pages inside. My students create their own adventure stories then write their final drafts in them. The kids love making their own books. They feel like real authors. When they’re finished, we have an Authors’ Tea where all the final copies are on display. All the parents come. The kids serve their parents tea in china cups and sign autographs. Everyone dresses up. Last year, Brad wore a navy blue jacket with brass buttons that his mom got him at a secondhand store. He called it his tux.
This year soon after we started writing our adventure stories, I began holding individual conferences with each child. Brian was first.
“Nice work, Brian.”
“Thanks.”
Something caught my eye. It was a c with a circle around it.
“What’s this?” I asked, smiling.
He smiled back. “I copyrighted it.”
Kevin’s writing conference was next. His dedication page said, “To Wally.”
“Who’s Wally?” I asked.
“My hamster.”
Laughing, I turned the page. He started off with dialogue.
“Nice beginning,” I said. “I see you’ve used quotation marks here. Good for you.” I pointed to one of the sentences. The period was outside the quotation mark. “Kevin, periods always go inside the quotation marks.”
“Why?”
I thought about it for a second. “Well… think of it this way — the periods are too little to play outside.”
He liked that.
John walked up after Kevin. His paper was empty.
I tapped his blank paper with my pen. “Uh… what seems to be the problem here?”
“I have a severe case of writer’s block.”
“I see. And how long do you think this will last?”
He shrugged. “Maybe a couple of months.”
“I’ll give you five minutes.”
David followed John. His story was three lines long. At the end he had written to be continued.
I gave him a questioning eyebrow. “You need to write more than this.”
“It’s a cliffhanger,” he replied, grinning.
I pointed to his desk. “Back to your seat.”
Emily was next. Her first page looked like a text message. On it she had written great as GR8. Because was BC. Later was L8R and People was PPL.
I screwed up my face trying to understand. “Uh… honey, you have to write these out. This is a book — not a cell phone.” She giggled. I spotted one abbreviation that I didn’t know. “What’s FTASB?”
“Faster than a speeding bullet.”
Melanie stepped up after Emily. I looked over her story. One sentence began, “And Anastasia wore a a a a a a a a a a a a a silver gown.”
“Melanie, why did you write all these a’s?”
“I was thinking.”
Dylan had the last writing conference of the day. Dylan loves to write stories. He has a good imagination. I laughed when I read his title: Mr. Done in Outer Space. Dylan illustrated some of the pages, too. He drew me sitting in a spaceship with my briefcase. I was holding my coffee mug.
“Nice drawing,” I said.
He giggled.
Dylan reminds me of myself when I was a kid. When I was his age, I also liked to write stories. Not too long ago, I came across my very first book. I wrote it in third grade. Actually, Winston Churchill showed me how. It was spring. My class had just gone on a field trip to the zoo. After school, I sat down at the kitchen table with my paper and pencil and wrote a story about the trip. I drew pictures, too. When I was all done, I folded it and stapled the edges. But I wasn’t happy with it. Something wasn’t right. It didn’t look like a real book. So I went to the family room and stared at the shelves. I pulled down a copy of My Early Years by Winston Churchill and examined it. Then it dawned on me �
� real books have hard sides. Winston Churchill hid his staples. I ran into the garage, found a cardboard box, and cut it up. I glued my story into the cardboard and wrapped it with a brown lunch bag. Now it was real.
The week before this year’s Authors’ Tea, my kids started working on the dust jackets for their hardcover books. I gathered the children on the carpet and shared a stack of books that had received awards and become bestsellers. I explained what reviews are and pointed out examples. We talked about how special it is for an author to get a review from a big paper like the New York Times or the Chicago Tribune or the Wall Street Journal. Then I asked the children to write their own reviews on the back of their dust jackets. The kids ran back to their desks, grabbed their papers, and started writing. But they didn’t want to write critiques from the big newspapers. They had their own ideas in mind.
Angela wrote from Santa Claus: “As good as milk and cookies.” Stacy was complimented by Mary Poppins: “Better than a spoonful of sugar!” J. K. Rowling adored Sarah’s book: “This is WAY better than any of mine!” Randy Jackson raved about Kevin’s: “Yo! Check it out baby. This is awesome, dawg.” And Gina drew a giant circle on her cover and wrote, “Oprah Book Club.”
As the kids were finishing up, I looked over John’s shoulder. He had just written “Ruff! Ruff! Ruff!” on the back of his dust jacket.
“Why did you write that?” I asked.
John looked up and smiled. “It’s from Scooby-Doo. He loved it.”
LOVE
This year I have a student who absolutely adores sticky notes — Laura. She is crazy about them. In her desk, Laura keeps stacks of Post-its in different sizes and colors. At the beginning of the year, she was shocked when I told her that she couldn’t pass notes to her friends in class. But she got over it soon enough. She just started sending them to me! In fact, it became her preferred method of communicating.
I’d find sticky notes on everything. She’d put them on her tests: Why are you doing this to me! I’d find them on my desk: You’ve worn that tie three days in a row. She’d stick them on the whiteboard: Mr. Done, you look very nice today. Can we have no homework tonight?
I am an excellent note detector. Whenever I intercept one, I read it. As far as I’m concerned, notes passed in class can be treated like postcards. If it’s not in an envelope — it’s fair game. Over the years I have discovered that all notes passed in class fall into three categories. There are the after-a-playground-scuffle notes (Are you mad at me?), the when-we-have-a-substitute notes (Don’t tell her about the math!), and of course the love notes.
Whether they admit it or not, most third graders have a crush on someone in their classroom. And most of the time teachers know exactly who likes who. Right now I know that John likes Sarah, David is smitten with Gina, and Laura writes David’s name on her folders. I know that Jennifer is crazy about Dylan (he’s oblivious), Joshua can’t decide between Lisa and Rebecca, and half the boys are goo-goo over Angela.
Oftentimes my students just come right out and tell me. Take Emily and Melanie, for example. One day we were walking to the school library when Emily said, “Mr. Done, you know who I like, right?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Danny,” she proclaimed.
“Well, he’s a nice boy.” I turned to Melanie. “What about you, Melanie? Who do you like?”
She stopped dead in her tracks and put her hands on her waist. “You don’t KNOW?”
I shrugged and cringed. “… I don’t think so.”
“I like Robbie!”
“Oh yes… Robbie.” I nodded. “Right. Sorry. I forgot.”
Sometimes my students reveal who they like in their journals. The children write in them twice a week and I write back. Some even ask my advice. When they do, I feel like Ann Landers.
February 2
STACY: Mr. Done, I like Trevor but he is not nice to me!!!!
ME: What do you mean?
February 5
STACY: He keeps chasing me.
ME: Honey, when a boy does this it means he likes you.
February 9
STACY: IS THAT REALLY TRUE??????
ME: Yes. Trust me.
February 12
STACY: I asked my mom and she said you’re right.
ME: How are things going with Trevor?
February 15
STACY: I like Conner now.
Some kids are more secretive about who they like. But there are signs: When you are going to go on a field trip and he asks to sit in the same car that she is riding in. When she shares her bag of double-stuffed Oreos with him at lunch and doesn’t ask for anything of his. When he looks up every time the teacher calls her name. When she puts four conversation hearts in his valentine instead of two like she gives everyone else.
Some of the crushes in my room have been going on for years. Christopher, for example, has been in love with Laura since kindergarten. Laura knows. The whole class knows. The entire third grade knows. But Christopher will never talk with Laura. If I catch him fooling around, all I have to do is glance over in Laura’s direction then look back at him with a smirk like I’m going to make him go sit by her. He straightens up immediately.
Of course sometimes the kids have crushes on their teacher. My own first teacher crush was in grade one. Her name was Mrs. Ranada. She wore her hair in a beehive and used lots of hair spray. From September to June, her hair never moved. When the morning bell rang, I waited by the door so I could be first in line when Mrs. Ranada opened it. When she called us to the reading rug, I’d run so I could sit right by her. If she wore new earrings, I noticed. If she had a run in her nylons, I told her.
One afternoon Mrs. Ranada was standing by the door excusing her students at the end of the day. My mom was waiting for me outside. As I walked out of class, Mrs. Ranada said, “Phillip, thank you again for the beautiful flowers.”
I didn’t respond.
“What flowers?” my mom asked.
Uh-oh.
My mom looked at Mrs. Ranada. “Phillip brought you flowers?”
“Yes, every day this week,” she replied. “Your garden must be looking pretty bare by now.” She laughed. “I couldn’t get them all in one vase.” She turned to me. “How many vases do I have now, Phillip?”
“Three,” I muttered, looking down.
My mom raised one eyebrow at me. “May I see them?”
“Of course,” said Mrs. Ranada, cheerily.
Not good.
We walked inside. There on the teacher’s desk sat three vases full of daisies, daffodils, tulips, calla lilies, snapdragons, geraniums, marigolds, and yellow mustard weed.
“Well,” my mom said, “they’re beautiful.” She gave me a pointed look. The other eyebrow was up now. I did not make eye contact. “But they’re not from my garden.”
Mrs. Ranada looked puzzled.
My mom breathed in deeply. Here it comes. “Phillip, where did you get these flowers?”
I cringed.
“Answer me,” she said with the same voice she used when I put lime Jell-O powder on our dog for St. Patrick’s Day. “Phillip, where did you get those flowers?”
Gulp.
“At the neighbors,” I mumbled quietly.
“Where?”
I shifted my feet. “At the neighbors.”
“What neighbors?”
There was a beat of silence.
“On the way to school.”
Her voice grew louder. “You cut flowers on the way to school?”
I nodded faintly.
Suddenly Mrs. Ranada made a quick snorting sound through her nose then covered her mouth. I had never heard her snort before. My mom shut her eyes tight and opened them again the way grown-ups do sometimes to see if they are hallucinating.
“With what?” my mom asked.
I looked up at Mrs. Ranada. She was biting her lip now, but I could tell that she was trying not to laugh. She wasn’t mad at me. I reached down, unzipped my backpack, and pulled out
a pair of rusty kid scissors with rounded edges. All of a sudden, Mrs. Ranada clutched her stomach and started laughing. Then she held the edge of the desk, leaned over, and laughed some more. I watched her closely. Her hair never moved.
INSTRUCTION MANUAL
This week our local opera company came to school and performed a couple of scenes from La Bohème. The whole school packed into the multi for the performance. I sat on a metal folding chair by the wall with Dylan beside me. The performance would last an hour. This was a long time for Dylan to sit still. I wasn’t sure how he would respond to an hour of opera. Fortunately, the audience seemed to really enjoy it. For the most part, Dylan was a good listener, too. I only had to remind him two or three times to pay attention. When the show ended, Dylan sprang up on his knees and clapped loudly. Wow, I thought, he really enjoyed it. As he was applauding, Dylan turned to me with a big smile and shouted, “It’s over! Mr. Done, it’s finally over!”
Not always sure what’s going on in your students’ heads? Need help figuring them out sometimes? Here’s a guide to help:
Your student is sitting with her back straight and her eyes on you.
You think: What a good girl.
What’s actually going on: She wants a Jolly Rancher from your goody jar.
As you stand in front of the room and read a book in different voices, your students laugh.
You think: I’m funny.
What’s actually going on: Your shirt is unbuttoned and they can see your tummy.
Your student’s eyes are staring straight ahead while you’re writing on the overhead projector.
You think: She is focused.
What’s actually going on: You’re writing two feet off the screen.
Your student got all the spelling words right on his test.
You think: He studied.
What’s actually going on: You left all the words on the board during the test.
Your student waves his hand wildly.
You think: He is so involved.
What’s actually going on: He has to pee.