by Phillip Done
She jumped up and walked quickly over to the phone. The class followed and clumped around her while she dialed in to listen to her messages. Kim quieted them down as she waited. Suddenly her eyes grew huge. On the other end of the line a man’s voice started laughing. “You didn’t catch me! You didn’t catch me!” he gloated. Kim held the phone out for the children to hear.
The boys and girls started bouncing up and down. “It’s Lucky the Leprechaun! It’s Lucky the Leprechaun!”
As the kids squealed, Kim looked over their heads and gave me a smile. I waved good-bye and slipped out.
The next morning at recess, I stopped by to say hello. Kim was sitting slumped at her desk, her hand leaning on her elbow.
“Well,” I said, “did our Leprechaun Lady survive another St. Patty’s Day?”
“Barely,” she croaked.
“What happened?”
She looked up. “Next year I’m not leaving any messages from any leprechauns.”
“You’re firing me?”
“Yes.”
“How come? I thought they liked it.”
“They loved it.” She feigned a smile. “But do you know how many times I ended up playing that dang message?”
I shrugged.
“Twenty!”
“Twenty?”
“Yes.” She gave a great heaving sigh. “I had to play it for each kid. Then this morning when they walked in, the first thing they did was ask if they could listen to Lucky again.”
I bit back a laugh. “Did you play it?”
“No! I told them that leprechaun messages are magic just like leprechauns and the message disappeared.”
I walked over to Kim, set both hands on her desk, and made a devilish grin. “Well now, it seems to me that Lucky just may have to make another wee call.”
“DON’T! YOU! DARE!”
SPEAKING
Teachers try everything short of back handsprings to get their students to quiet down and pay attention. We flick off the lights, clap patterns, hold up fingers and wait, change the level of our voices, count up to three, count down from five, set timers, brush wind chimes, shake shakers, bribe kids with free play, and seat the boys next to the girls. Gail, my buddy teacher, tells her kindergartners to pretend they have sparkly bubbles in their mouths and if they open them the bubbles will float away. When you walk into her classroom and it’s quiet, all the kids have their cheeks puffed out like they’re holding their breath underwater.
Many teachers use catchy words to get their students to listen up. When Lisa sings, “Peanut butter,” her whole class chants, “Jelly!” When Dawn announces, “Spaghetti,” her kids shout, “Meatballs!” When Kim croons, “Abraham!” her students call out, “Lincoln!” Mr. Davis acts like an astronaut and says, “Mr. Davis to class. Come in, class.” When my students are getting too loud, sometimes I shout “SALAMI!” (Stop And Look At Me Immediately!) They aren’t supposed to say anything back, but once in a while some smarty-pants whispers, “Sandwich.”
This year my class sounds like a Chatty Cathy convention. Some days I’d swear they all drank Red Bull for breakfast. I spend half my time saying, “Turn around,” “Be quiet,” “Get to work,” “Do you want to go to recess?” and “Your mom made an egg salad sandwich for lunch? Careful. I love egg salad. Now stop talking.” My students are so social that when one is chatting away, I skip right past “Who put a nickel in you?” and ask, “Who dropped in fifty bucks?”
Not every quieting strategy works though. If I jokingly threaten to tape one child’s mouth shut with masking tape, the whole class will beg me to tape their mouths. A few days ago when the volume in my class was way too loud, I said, “Okay, everyone, press your Mute buttons.” Danny said his remote was out of batteries.
Raising hands before speaking is something teachers are always reinforcing with their students. There are three groups of hand-raisers: (1) students who lift their arms and patiently wait to be called on (the smallest group); (2) those who blurt out at the same time their arm is going up in the air; and (3) those who bypass the whole hand-raising thing completely. This year, Brian is in Group Number 3.
“Brian,” I said one day, “put your hand up.”
He raised it.
“Now put it down.”
He lowered it.
“Good,” I said. “It works.”
“What works?”
“Your arm. I thought it was broken.”
You’d think that with all their talking, kids would be perfect little speakers. They’re not, of course. Kids mispronounce words all the time.
When I was in the student-teaching program, one of my professors asked everyone in the class to keep a journal. She encouraged us to write down the funny things our students did and said. “Trust me,” she explained, “on bad days, you’ll be glad you did. It’s cheaper than therapy.” After I started teaching, I continued to keep up my journal. (Hence this book.) Here is a list of some of my favorite entries:
Olivia called the national anthem “The Star Strangled Banner.” Russell thought the pirate flag was the Jolly Rancher. Fred said he had a cricket in his neck. (He meant a crick.)
Sean believed that Rudolph was chased by the Abdominal Snowman. Alexandra called Peter Cottontail — Peter Cocktail. Cameron thought the fuzzy stuff that moms pull out of the dryer was lent. Karen said Harmonica for Hanukkah.
In PE, Melanie referred to The Macarena as The Margarita. In computer lab, Deborah called home row on the keyboard the house keys. During reading, Abbie said that all words have consonants and bowels.
Ronny reported that his dentist recommended that he get a restrainer. Dominic called me psycho (he meant psychic). Madison said tangerine instead of tambourine. Michelle asked where the table of continents was in her book. And Tyler thought thumbtacks were Tic Tacs.
Brianna complained that she got up at the crock of dawn. Zachary listed the armed services as army, navy, and submarines. When I asked Hailey to tell her mother what she had learned about Benjamin Franklin, she reported that Ben had testicles. (She meant spectacles.) And every year there is at least one kid who refers to that crooked building in Italy as the Leaning Tower of Pizza.
We don’t have a school nurse anymore on our campus. So Ellen, the secretary, handles all the kids who walk into the office with hot heads, scraped knees, bloody noses, or sore tummies. Over the years, Ellen has heard some funny things come out of their mouths.
William came in and said he had a platter infection. Louisa claimed she had walking ammonia. Victoria worried that she might have Shrek throat. Mackenzie referred to the rainy-day monitors as thermometers. Evan explained that he had to have his tonsils and androids removed. And when Jordan walked into the office holding his privates, he said that a ball hit him really hard in the knuckles.
Ellen says that the kindergartners make her laugh the most. Carlos asked if he had garlic fever. Claire told her that she couldn’t go swimming because she had tubas in her ears. Sydney explained that her grandma had an operation because she had a Cadillac in her eye. While Melody was getting her hair checked for lice, she asked if she had headlights.
I asked Ellen if she has any favorite patients. She said that one would have to be Hunter. Hunter is in first grade. He’s a regular in the office. The first time he came in hurt was at the end of recess. He was holding his ribs. He said he had sideburns.
A couple of months ago Hunter walked into the office with really chapped lips.
“Good morning, Hunter,” Ellen said. “What can I do for you today?”
“Mrs. Parks sent me,” Hunter replied. Mrs. Parks is Hunter’s teacher.
“And what seems to be the problem today?” Ellen asked.
He pointed to his lips. “She wants you to put gasoline on them.”
BUBBLES
All teachers have their time of the month — even the men. These times are achy and unpleasant. When they occur, teachers take a lot of aspirin and increase our coffee intake. In October it’s the week bef
ore Halloween. In November it’s parent– teacher conferences. In December it’s the days leading up to winter break. In January it’s the mid-school-year blues. In February it’s surviving paper hearts and glitter. And in March it’s when we frantically try to get our students prepared for the big state tests. Contrary to popular belief, the term March Madness did not come from the basketball court. It originated in elementary school.
One day as I was prepping my students for the exams, I said, “Boys and girls, on the test you have to know the difference between a dictionary, an atlas, and a thesaurus. Who knows what a thesaurus is?”
Robbie shot up his arm.
“Yes, Robbie.”
“A dinosaur.”
I could see that we had a lot of work to do.
Just before test time, teachers all over the country cram in all the things we haven’t taught yet and review everything we know our students have forgotten. But we’re not just drilling material. We’re also teaching kids how to take a test — and for a good reason. Have you ever seen a third grader take a standardized test? Well, it’s pretty much like observing a boy put on his own buttondown shirt and tie. It’s a mess. The problem with these tests is those darn bubbles the kids have to fill in. I measured them. Some of those bubbles are only five millimeters in diameter. It is almost impossible for a third-grade boy to fill in a five-millimeter bubble without going outside the line. Our class bunny could do better.
Every year I give lots of practice tests. I have to. Third graders lose their place. They skip questions. They bubble in the wrong answers. They copy the problems down incorrectly on their scratch paper. If they get stuck, they will sit there for the entire length of the timed test staring at one problem. And if you tell them to be careful and check all their answers, one boy will cover his entire test booklet with checkmarks.
By the end of March, I have given so many practice tests that my life starts to feel like one big exam. When Dawn asked me what I was doing for the weekend, I had to think about it. I could:
a. Correct papers;
b. Plan my lessons; or
c. Watch Survivor.
I looked at her and answered, “C.”
This year our first practice test was in reading. The kids had twenty minutes to read the passages and answer the questions. Each question had four possible answers. Once the kids began, I walked around the room. My first stop was Melanie’s desk. She was on question number two, but had filled in seven bubbles.
“Uh… Melanie, you can only fill in one bubble per problem.”
She looked surprised. “But I can’t decide.”
“Make your best guess, honey.”
Next stop — Jennifer. She was on her fifth problem, but hadn’t bubbled anything in at all. Instead, she had circled all her answers. I knelt down beside her.
“Honey, you have to fill in the bubbles. Not circle them. Otherwise the machine that reads your answers will mark them as wrong.”
“Oh.”
I left Jennifer and visited Joshua. His test manual looked like a sketch pad. There were more pencil markings outside his bubbles than in them.
“Josh, try to stay in the circles if you can. Okay?”
“Okay.”
I glanced up at the clock. We were about halfway through the allotted time. I looked over Laura’s shoulder. She was making absolutely sure that every bit of white inside her bubbles was completely filled in. “Laura, this is not an art project. Your bubbles are beautiful. Move on.”
Trevor raised his hand, and I walked on over.
“What do you need?” I asked.
He pointed to one of the problems. “None of these answers are right.”
I looked down at his packet then shrugged. “Make your best guess.”
“But I can’t figure it out,” he whined.
“Trevor, I can’t help you. You know that.”
“Well,” he said, “which one would you recommend?”
I pulled a face. Across the room I spotted Christopher drawing on his test with his crayons. I ran to his desk.
“Christopher, what are you doing?”
“Coloring.”
“You can’t do that.”
“But it says to.”
He pointed to the passage. The title was How to Draw a Cat. I read it: First, draw a big circle. Next, put ears on the circle. Then draw a nose, eyes, and whiskers. Finally, color your cat.
I rubbed my forehead. “Christopher, you’re just supposed to answer the questions. Not actually do it.”
“Ohhhhh.”
He started erasing the crayon.
When it comes time to give the actual tests, I try to be as prepared as I can. I send home flyers reminding the kids to eat a good breakfast and make sure their number two pencils are sharpened. I tape my “Do Not Disturb” sign on the outside of the door and highlight all the “Say Boxes” in my instruction manual.
“Say Boxes” are the directions that tell the teacher exactly what to read: Open your books. Put your finger on the sample. Read the problem. Are there any questions? Teachers are supposed to say precisely what’s in each “Say Box” — and nothing more. But of course we don’t always do this. Sometimes we have to say more. The test manual leaves some important “Say Boxes” out. There is no “Say Box” detailing how to respond when a child comes running up to you in the middle of the test because he forgot to use the bathroom at recess. And there is no “Say Box” outlining what to say when Jay starts chewing on his answer key.
Finally, the day arrived when it was time to begin our first real test. That morning I surprised my students with a pet frog. I had bought it at PETCO the night before. The class had really worked hard preparing for the exams. They deserved it. The kids named her Bubbles in honor of all the circles they had filled in.
Our first exam was spelling. The children had twelve minutes to complete it. It wasn’t a lot of time. They would have to work quickly to finish. I passed out the manuals and the pencils and read all my “Say Boxes.” I waited for the second hand to reach the 12 then said, “You may begin.” The class got right to work. I sat down at my desk and kept my eye on the clock.
About two minutes into the test, I heard a noise in the back of the room. I looked up. The kids turned around. It sounded like trickling water.
“Get back to work,” I told them.
The kids resumed working. But soon there was another noise. Everyone wheeled around again. I stood up and walked to the back of the room to see where the noise was coming from.
Splash!
It was Bubbles.
This can’t be happening.
Splash!
I scratched my head and faced the kids. Everyone was looking at me and the frog. I glanced at the clock. Five minutes left.
“Get back to your tests!”
They snapped back to work. Then I had a terrible thought. If Bubbles keeps this up, my students aren’t going to finish their tests in time. This frog is going to ruin all my test scores. What would I say if my boss called me into his office? “Uh… well… er… you see… it’s my frog’s fault.” I crouched down and glared at Bubbles.
Splash!
I tapped on the glass, hoping this would stop her.
Splash! Splash!
“Stop that!” I whispered.
Laughter.
I turned around. All eyes were on me again. I looked at the clock. Two minutes remaining! Summon serious teacher voice. “If you kids don’t turn around, I’m taking this frog home and you’ll never see her again. Do you hear me?”
They whipped back to their tests. No one dared turn around again. At recess I marched Bubbles straight to the office. It was the first and only time I ever expelled a frog.
April
“It must be tremendously interesting to be a schoolmaster… I don’t see how you could ever get old in a world that’s always young.”
— Goodbye, Mr. Chips
SCIENCE
Mr. Done, when are we going to do science?” K
evin asked. “It’s been a long time.”
Kevin was right. I grabbed a pen off my desk.
“Watch this,” I said. I dropped it onto the floor. “Do you know why the pen fell to the ground?”
“Gravity,” he answered.
“Very good.” I smiled. “There. We just had science. Now get back to work.”
He just stared at me.
I know. I know. It’s sad. I love teaching reading and writing and math and history. I love art and music. I don’t even mind playing kickball in my dress shoes. The one subject I’m just not crazy about, however, is science. I feel guilty about it.
It’s not because I don’t know anything about science. I do. Teaching kids has taught me a lot of science. I know that mold grows in yogurt cups but not on Kraft cheese slices. I know that seeds are like lunch boxes: Inside is the food for the new plant, and outside is the protective cover. I know that the closer a child puts his hands near the overhead projector light, the larger the dog will appear on the screen. I know from which desk the sound waves are coming with my back turned.
I know the sun does not need to be shining to make smoke with a magnifying glass. I know that when you place a straw in a glass of water, the straw looks like it is broken. Teacher scissors look broken in the glass of water, too. I know that when I discover a long-forgotten potato in the back of my kitchen cupboard, it will look like a potato tree. And I know exactly what a balloon sounds like when you blow it up and let it go.
I’ve learned that all you need to make a telephone is a piece of string and two Dixie cups and that magnets stick to chair legs, but not to rabbit fur. I’ve learned that large blades of grass are best for making squawkers, car keys make excellent fossil imprints in plaster of paris, and pumpkins float. Tape dispensers do not.
I’ve learned that if you put a bar of soap into the microwave, it will expand to five times its original size. If you put a peanut M&M into the microwave, it will spark. And if you place two marshmallow Peeps into the microwave facing each other and stick a toothpick in each one — after thirty seconds they will inflate and stab each other.