Who’s on First?
I like teaching first grade. The kids are still cute, like kindergartners, but also more capable. Most essentially, they can sit still long enough to do something.
I arrived too late to do much prepping, as an accident on 580 had flooded the local streets with harried commuters. Fortunately, this first grade started out more like yesterday’s fifth: they were self-directed as they went about their appointed rounds. As this seemed purposeful, I watched rather than commandeered.
Some kids had papers, regarding which I inquired. ”They are ‘gatherers.’ They collect the homework,” one girl told me. “The ‘getters’ get the buckets,” she continued. Upon each table these tradespersons deposited plastic buckets of supplies — crayons, markers, pencils, scissors. I would have been impressed by such organization in third grade. I was in awe of these first-graders.
As the activity level started to subside, I introduced myself and gave them I four rules: one-person talks, subs do things differently, learn something new and have fun.
First in our lesson plan was a math quiz. I read the questions. After we corrected these, I asked “do we do flag?”
“The fifth graders do the flag.”
They must be referring to an outdoor ceremony. I rephrased: “no, I mean the pledge.”
“Yes,” they responded.
“Do we have someone who leads? Usually there is some designate or perhaps a “Student of the Week.”
Several burst out with jumbled responses I took in the affirmative. Others pointed to a visual on the wall. “Jobs are on-the-Job Board.”
Silly me; for there it was: a column of tasks matched to another of names. The reigning order was coming together. I find it a good idea to stick to the class’ familiar routines, unless pedagogy suggests an educational variation. Kids are generally more comfortable navigating known waters.
After the pledge, we moved to board work: writing in journals. I looked over a few shoulders; they were writing about vacations. I decided to ask a few to share their stories.
Excuse Who?
“Excuse me, I’m about to read.” How cute! A girl I’d selected had walked up to the front of the class, turned to face her peers and gave this call to attention. I still couldn’t believe this was first grade!
“Excellent!” I cheered. “Do you hear how she used lots of detail to make her story more interesting? Words like “scary” and “huge.”
“Excuse me, I’m about to read.” Our next contestant took the stage. This was going well. While students read, I looked over the teacher’s notes again. She mentioned one child who was a highly functional autistic. I’m not sure what I should do with a highly functional autistic. My college degree was in psychology, albeit that was 30 years ago. I searched my memory for clues. What memory? I’d do what all good substitutes do: I’d wing it. Besides, helpers would be in class for parts of the morning and afternoon, if these notes proved true.
Out of Paper
Next was vocabulary. The words were written on the board. Students were to copy them on a special sheet of paper. I couldn’t find the special paper anywhere on the desk.
Improvising, I said, “Just take out a piece of paper.” This seemed to me one of the simplest and most basic instructions in teaching. I was stunned by the chaos that resulted.
“That’s not the paper we use!”
“We don’t do it that way!”
The gears of primary education had encountered the proverbial wrench. We needed a little flexibility.
“What’s the objective here?” I directed. “Can we accomplish the objective of copying words with a piece of paper and pencil?” Begrudgingly, if you admitted this might be possible. I could feel the resistance in the air.
“Just write the words on any paper. Here: here’s paper for anyone who needs it.” While they worked on this, I tried to get myself back on track by looking at the next task in the lesson plan. There, at the bottom of the workbook pages for grammar were ruled lines for the now infamous words. Great.
Risking the unraveling of my lesson on alternative paths to a common end, I passed out the new sheets. “You can copy your words over, or just staple the extra sheet on top,” I conceded. .This minor episode had so shaken the students and brought my own leadership into question, I felt we needed some healing.
With smoother execution we finished the morning with math packets. On several occasions, I called on my autistic boy. Although not a conversationalist, he could offer answers and seemed quite good with math. I could easily work him into the general class.
Sail Ho!
At lunch , I went to see the principal. She had on a previous occasion offered me good advice when I’d been conned by some fifth-graders. ”Never make deals with 10-year-olds,” was engraved in my teaching rubric. As I contemplated another experience beyond normal school parameters, I sought her counsel and — if not approval — at least permission.
It had been a very windy day. Raised in a sailing family, I had come to respect and enjoy the power of that natural force –to the extent that I still carry with me a small Spinnaker. After all these years, I still sought to recapture the joy of flying a sail on the beach, locked in a tug of war with a formidable adversary. I was however a bit worried about lines entangling legs and sudden guests dragging off my first-graders.
I shared my idea of the sail. “This morning was a bit too windy, but now it’s lessening, I said, demonstrating my caution and responsibility. She looked out the window at the trees listing heavily to leeward. With a doubtful expression, she asked, “Is it in the lesson plan?”
I almost choked at this improbability. Grasping to recover, I told her it was just my exercise to show the kids the power of the wind.
“Have you done this at schools in the district?” she asked.
“Yes, but with less wind.” I neglected to tell her that it had been at her school that I tried this once before. The students tended to pull each corner the sale in different directions like a tug-of-war. They moved the sail around the field like a gigantic Ouija board, looking particularly un-sailor like. On second thought, I had been a PE teacher that day with an unlimited agenda; so it was in my lesson plan!
I promised I’d keep a tight lid on it and shut down if the wind grew too great. One should be careful about making promises that one cannot keep. Nonetheless, I must have exuded a minimum level of confidence. With lingering suspicion, she acquiesced.
I walked to a grassy area, gathering a couple of kids from my class as I went. We unfolded the sail as I naïvely explained how it would work. We caught a gust of wind. I hoped they could feel the strength of an intangible force. I tried to arrange them so the sail would form a pocket. One girl held on valiantly as the wind dragged her forward.
“Well, I guess that’s the end of this shirt,” she said as she beheld a long grass stain. I was cheered by her attitude. We pulled the sail upwind once again.
A Tide of Children
More kids came. They grabbed onto the lines, pulling the sail down as 100 hands sought to participate. Soon the entire playground had emptied its children, now to be found around, under and occasionally in the sail. I heard that high-pitched squeal of dozens of kids at gleeful play, a cacophony unto itself: the sound of unchecked joy. I started to worry about kids suffocating or being strangled by wind-powered ropes.
The Ouija board phenomenon began again. I tried to get some lines of children to move in so the sail could fill. I shoo-ed some kids away, to no avail. They could not hear me for the wind and the screaming. In an effort to get the sail to fill, I pulled a line. Against me was the considerable force of 30 kids. The sail luffed in twenty mile per hour winds, traveling mysteriously two and a half feet above and parallel to the ground.
This wasn’t working. With the wind and the noise, the kids were uncontrollable. I decided to pull the plug. Grabbing a corner of the sail, I began wrapping it up until the lines had shed their keepers. Exhausted, I walked off the field.
“What’s your name?” came an inquiry. I looked down to see an excited boy with rosy cheeks: one of the conspirators, I surmised.
“Jim,” I answered.
“No, who do I ask for if we want you to sub for our class?” Did he want me or my sail?
Read On
Back in class it was time for silent reading. This is supposed to calm them down after their lunch recess and so it did. I appreciated the power of routine, this time to my advantage. I asked them each to find a really good sentence to share.
Soon we gathered on the rug to read. The topic was Community. There was a poster showing a town setting with lots of people going about their business. We talked about the different people, their jobs, the shops that offered products and services. I asked them to find the flows of services in a Community: transportation, electricity, garbage and the like.
“Yes, people get around on buses, and in cars, and look there’s a bike,” I said. Trying for a higher level, I asked, “Do you know what a system is?” I stared expectantly into blank faces.
“A system is something that works together. For example, water evaporates from the ocean into the clouds; clouds rain on the land; we capture the rain and put it into pipes to run into the homes in the city.” Still blank. Maybe this was a little too advanced for first grade. I looked at my crib sheet, which advised me to ask them about the helpers.
“Who are the helpers in the poster?”
“The Firemen,” called one girl.
“The Policeman,” said another.
This went on for awhile when suddenly it struck me: “Room Seven is a Community! We are a Community! Who are our helpers?”
“You are a helper, teacher,” said a little girl.
“Yes,” I encouraged. “So is she,” I said, pointing to our afternoon assistant. “And who helps us with our garbage?”
“The janitor,” said two students in tandem.
“Yes. And the Librarian helps us too.” Hoping to show them several layers of Community, I asked, “What’s the next bigger Community we belong to?”
“The school!” shouted one young fellow, with others in hot pursuit.
“Right, our school. What’s the next Community?”
“The world!” chimed an inspired boy. This was a bit of a leap, but in the right direction.
“Sure, the world. But what’s a little smaller than the whole world?”
“Castro Valley.”
“America!”
“There are lots of Communities. We can be members of more than one.”
A girl in the back raised her hand. “Some people hurt other people though.” A sobering note. I tried to acknowledge yet soften her words.
“Yes, some people don’t see that they are part of a larger Community. What’s the biggest Community of all? Someone already said it.”
“The world.”
Time was up. Everyone headed back to their desks and purposefully gathered and stuffed. I had them line up at the door.
“Thank you all for being such a well-behaved and co-operative class. This has been one of the best first grade classes I’ve ever taught.” They left with smiles and hopefully a bit of well earned pride.
I left with a new awareness of the capabilities of six year olds.