I jogged from my car in the parking lot to a side entrance at a modern west side middle school because I was running late. I had lingered at the computer because I accidentally edited and published a blog PAGE instead of a POSTING (see Friday Book Report), and it took awhile to set it right. the sub teacher coordinator was not particularly happy to see me, but she probably wouldn’t be particularly happy to see a litter of three-week-old puppies either . . . and that’s okay. I was happy to see her. I was happy to see EVERYONE at school. I love to work at schoo. I came to teach, and it was no problem arriving in the art room where I had subbed first semester. The art teacher was present when I arrived that time, but her lesson plans were first rate, and it was like slipping into a rental car I had driven before during a visit to Moline or Westchester.
The first student through the door recognized me from the first semester encounter and addressed me by name. I told him I was impressed and that he was my new best friend. He smiled. Later I learned he’s an honors student. No surprise there. Yes, he was a young black male. First block (they’re about two hours long in middle school) was a movie, too cerebral for the class. Showing it on the class video machine/TV as they sat in distant tables was an unfortunate choice of activity for these kids. To those in the far back it was like asking a picnic table of kids to watch a TV program across the alley in your back neighbor’s back yard. I couldn’t have done it, and it was silly to expect them to do it. Still it was essential for them to stay seated and reasonably quiet, another unrealistic expectation. They would have flown by flapping their arms with less effort than they would have required to be quiet.
The other two blocks engaged students in a drawing assignment. But everyone required more than me passing out the instruction sheet and telling them what to do. It requred me to say it to the class three times, they visit each of siz group tables once to explain and demonstrate, and then do it again.
And again.
And again.
I seldom sit down in the presence of students I’m teaching. I am paid to stand, to monitor them, watch them and to let them know I care about their behavior. There’s a terrific sign in the teachers’ lounge that says something like . . . .” If your students don’t know you care, they won’t care what you know.” and I believe it. In art class, I was almost constantly in motion from group table to group table, checking on progress with the drawing assignment and encouraging those who were doing well . . . . . . and not so well. It’s not enough to engage the A-Team; the D and F-Team MUST BE ENGAGED. No one is unworthy of my attention and my patience. They seem to appreciate that. They remember my name for that.
Does it mean I will find a full time job with District 186? Well . . . . . let’s not get carried away.
I had some dollars in my pocket for lunch. I bought two cartons of white milk, a turkey sandwich and two dishes of chopped peaches and pinapple chunks. I cannot remember the last time I ate a piece of fruit. It was all very tasty. In the teachers’ lounge I bought a Pepsi for 50 cents. They were out of Mountain Dew.
Even with the ceiling fans on, with the help of a teacher’s assistant, I literally perspired during second and third periods, and by the end of the day, i felt actually a mite out of breath. To celebrate what I believe was one of my best days, I crossed the street to County Market, bout a 12 pack of Old Milwaukee, a baked chicken and some cottage cheese.
I wonder if I missed my calling. Maybe I SHOULD have been an art teacher.
Maybe not. I don’t have the legs for it.
Live long . . . . . and proper.
