Not much going on in my neck of the woods for the past couple of days, but in honor of school starting back tomorrow (actually pre-planning; kids come back Monday), I thought I'd post a little something I wrote two years ago, immediately after finishing my first day of teaching at FPD. Here's to hoping that this year's First Day and Start of Year Number Three goes a little more smoothly...
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Monday, August 11, 2003
Teaching 19-year-olds is easy.
Forget everything I wrote last year of my first reaction to a class full of 18-year-old UGA Freshmen. I have met the new, more perfect evil, masquerading as 80 (yes, 80) adorable 6th graders. Don’t let their innocent, wide-eyed expressions fool you! No, these creatures will suck the life out of an honest, hard-working 25-year-old in an instant. And this coming after I’ve had a 1-hour nap. I can barely move my fingers enough to type.
It all started at 6 am this morning when my alarm startled me out of a fabulous sleep. You see, before this morning, I had no clue that 6 am existed. What? There’s life before 9:00? pm? I have now discovered (quite brutally, actually) that this ungodly hour not only exists, but is quite dark. A bit like the middle of the night. Exactly like the middle of the night, actually. Interesting.
Found my way to school by 7:40 (hurray!) and thought I was quite early. “I have so much time to prepare!” I think. Uh huh. Actually, twenty or so of these angelic demons are awaiting me outside my room. “Are you Ms. Terry?” they ask. “I am!” I reply cheerfully. You see, I have yet to discover the energy-draining powers that exist inside these tiny people. I am quite fooled.
First crisis occurs when, five minutes before homeroom will start, I am frantically searching for the form that I was given during the chaotic pre-planning of last week that shows locker assignments. To truly understand the gravity of the loss of this form, think back to your 6th grade year when, for the first time in your life, you were given a teeny tiny little cubicle of space that was not to be shared with one of your million siblings. No, you were to have property. Space of your very, very own. Locked space of your very, very own. It was a big day. And I couldn’t find the assignments. I stalled, of course. “Um . . . let’s wait a few more minutes for those who may not have been able to find the room.” Right. The class was full. It was time to start. The perfect Mr. Casper and Mrs. Hattaway had started down the hall. Miraculously, the kids bought it. I found the form. I said a quick, frantic prayer of “Thanks!” and started the day, albeit 5 minutes late.
Handing out locks was the next adventure. I had to call out each one of the twenty students, have them pick out a lock from a basket, write down their combinations (for the inevitable child who forgets everyday), and tell them their locker number. Of course they don’t write these down, so while I’m going through the list, ten others who have already had their turns are crying, “Ms. Terry! What was my number? Ms. Terry! My lock won’t work! It’s broken!”
Finally, the locks are distributed, and the unlocking lesson is to begin. I feel quite cool when I open the first lock that the first 11-year-old crossed-her-heart-and-hoped-to-die was irreparably doomed to the annals of the junk/broken stuff storage closet down the hall. All twenty eyes gaze at me in admiration, and a faint whisper of “Woooooowwwww…” passes through the room. Uh huh. I am the queen of all 6th grade teachers. The year will be a breeze.
The not-so-humble thought passes through my head and immediately 19 hands pop in the air, along with appeals of “Mine won’t work either, Ms. Terry! Mine’s broken, for sure! Open mine!” I start to panic as I see a boy’s face crinkle up like he’s about to cry. He’s first on the list, definitely. Amazingly enough, no one’s lock is broken. Everyone figures it out. They head to their lockers. Homeroom is over.
Not before, however, I had to make a trip over to Mr. Casper’s classroom for some reason or another. Matt’s already made the connection with his students that he and I are family. A kid in the back, destined to be the Homecoming King and class president and “voted most popular” of the class of 2010, immediately says, “Are you Ms. Terry?” “Yes, I am,” I reply innocently. “You’re his sister-in-law?” “Yes, I am,” I repeat. “Well heeellllloooooo there…” he says with a smirk on his face. “I’m Brad*. And I’ll be seeing you later.” I wasn’t looking at an 11-year-old. I was staring in the face of a 90-year-old, dirty old man. Or at least a sleaze ball in a singles bar. What?!? I glanced at Matt. He shrugged. I left the room. (this is a true story. Ask Matt if you don’t believe me.)
Because the first day was a half-day, we had each class after homeroom for only a brief time. The problem came with the fact that the administration failed to tell us, the teachers, how long each class was to last. And we soon realized that that was because none of the periods were the same length. After a 45-minute homeroom, one period lasted 30 minutes, another only 10. There was no way to gauge whether or not to start a new activity, as we had no clue when the bell would ring, if it rang at all. And by the time we herded eighty starry-eyed 6th graders into their appropriate classrooms from staring at their own personal property in the form of their lockers (closed, of course, as they immediately put their locks on them and promptly forgot how they open – if, that is, they remembered the combination in the first place) for an extended length of time, the bell would ring and they would return to the hall, chaotically filled with, once again, eighty starry-eyed 6th graders staring at their lockers. I must have opened a million locks today. At least.
The chaos finally ended at 12:15. Matt appeared in my classroom (I’m impressed he could walk the length of hall between my class and his) and plopped down in a miniscule chair at a miniscule desk. “That was a half-day?” he muttered. “I could’ve sworn it was an extended one.” I nodded. That was all I had the energy to do.
*Name has been changed to protect The Guilty.
