Skip to main content

Memoirs of a Substitute Teacher

The first graders will do "Rose and Thorn." This is in reference to the song "Every Rose Has Its Thorn." Rose: a pleasant recent memory. Thorn: A memory you can live without.

Reflecting on their week, the first graders actually cannot produce a thorn. Everything is amazing all of the time! "My rose," says one child, "is everything. And my ultra-rose is designing a mansion for rich dogs."

(A trend in education is MakerSpace, where all the kids use tin foil and cardboard tubes and dental floss to erect models of world-saving devices. Recently, the first graders have been asking: How can we design spaces for animals in need? It's unclear why my students have chosen to focus on *rich* dogs, but I suppose rich dogs have needs, just as any other dogs have needs. The design question came from my colleague, whose pug is dying. I find it touching that he has channeled his feelings into a MakerSpace project. He arrives at work stricken, making reference to the dog-oncologist. "I like that dog more than I like most humans," he says. "I know this is ridiculous, but...." and I remind him that the sentiment is not ridiculous. All of this feels like material for Chekhov, or Lorrie Moore.)

The little girl in my class says she is going to build a house for cats, and it is going to feature actual, larger-than-life cat ears, flanking the exterior of the upper levels. "Well, how will *that* work?" asks one of the boys. And there is a disquieting silence.

It is my turn to give my rose and thorn. "My rose is spending time with you all," I say, as if I were Maria von Trapp, or a Victorian governess (and, of course, this is how I secretly think of myself). The children take this revelation in stride, as if I were announcing the sky is blue, or fish gotta swim.

"My thorn," I add, "is that my coffee pot is broken."

This upsets several tiny hearts. I can see the shock and horror in the wide eyes around me. "A broken coffee pot?" says one child. "Why don't you fix it?" Another child says: "You could even get a new one!" Excited murmurings begin.

"Thank you. Yes. I will see what I can do."

Order has been restored. No one needs to think about broken coffee pots anymore.

For the end of the day, we read "Paddington," strictly because that is what *I* would like to do. We're all tired, and my own attention wanders, and this is audible in my voice. One child takes my subtextual boredom as a cue to leap from his chair, throw his arms around me, and do a small hopping dance on the rug. He then begins scaling his chair as if it were a mountain, and I have a vision of cracked bones.

In the story, Paddington arrives from "Darkest Peru"; he's at Paddington Station, and the members of the Brown family decide they have no choice but to adopt him. (The author found his idea by studying various families in London during WWII; terrified of bombings, the families would deposit their children at train stations, with little cardboard signs that said: "Please look after this child." The mind reels.)

Paddington climbs on tables and spills marmalade and rubs his filthy coat all over the seat of a cab. He falls asleep while still in the presence of polite company. The Browns love him--anyway.

The story ends, and one student wants to return to his discussion of a mansion for rich dogs.

His classmate says, "My cousin has a GIRLFRIEND."

Uninterested, the boy produces a half-smile. He studies his blueprints.

Classmate: "Did you hear? A GIRLFRIEND!" Her eyes are full of scandal and wonder.

The boy scribbles something unintelligible on his paper.

Classmate: "A GIRLFRIEND. She is his GIRLFRIEND."

And this is how our workday ends.

Comments

  1. Thank you! Very pleased to hear this. It's a "class" of three kids, so it's a dream for a sub!

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

Joshie

  When I was growing up, a class birthday involved Hostess cupcakes. Often, the cupcakes would come in a shoebox, so you could taste a leathery residue (during the party). Times change. You can't bring a treat into a public school, in 2024, because heaven knows what kind of allergies might lurk, in unseen corners, in the classroom. But Joshua's teacher will allow: a dance party, a pajama day, or a guest reader. I chose to bring a story for Joshua's birthday (observed), but I didn't think through the role that anxiety might play in this interaction. We talk, in this house, quite a bit about anxiety; one game-changer, for J, has been a daily list of activities, so that he knows exactly what to expect. He gets a look of profound satisfaction when he sees the agenda; it doesn't really matter what the specific events happen to be. It's just about knowing, "I can anticipate X, Y, and Z." Joshua struggled with his celebration. He wore his nervousness on his f...

Josh at Five

 Joshie's project is "flexibility"; the goal is to see that a plan is just an idea, not a gospel, not a guarantee. This is difficult. Yesterday, we went to a restaurant--billed as "open," with unlocked doors--and the owner informed us of an "error in advertising." But Joshie couldn't accept the word "closed." He threw himself on the floor, then climbed on the furniture. I felt for the owner, until he nervously made a reference to "the glass windows." He imagined that my child might toss himself through a sealed window, like Mary Katherine Gallagher, or like Bruce Willis, in "Die Hard." Then--thank the Lord!--I was able to laugh. The thing that really has therapeutic value for Joshie is: a firetruck. If we are out in public, and he spots a parked truck, he wants to climb on each surface. He breathlessly alludes to the wheels, the door, the windows. If an actual fire station ("fire ocean," in Joshie's parla...