Does anyone really know what time it is,
Does anyone really care...that I'm still here
Does anyone really care...that I'm still here
in the classroom.
Don't ask me why because
I couldn't really tell you, without reciting the laundry list litany
of teacher tasks
unintelligable to the general public. For example,
"fill salt boxes."
Not salt shakers or sandboxes, but salt boxes
where pointer fingers map out
a letter's path to the sound of a smooth and steady teacher voice...
like the driver education teacher's, only ten years earlier:
"that's it, go to the left and turn, like a c, but then you travel up and go straight, now give it a tall back, a little taller, taller...
and there! you've just made a d! Now, shake your salt and get ready
for the next letter."
"Fill the salt boxes" is on the list because of this morning
when Andrew knocked them over
unintentionally. He was getting the pointer down
unintentionally. He was getting the pointer down
because he was "teacher of the day." Proudly he took the pointer
out of its pocket, not realizing how long it was,
not realizing the sweep of his arm with the pointer
would reach the work table,
not realizing how quickly the salt
would pour out of 15 salt boxes
onto the floor. "Fill the salt boxes" means explaining to the custodian
why there is salt in the cracks in the floor
and running to the grocery to get more
so that I have it for tomorrow. I could skip the salt boxes
but then there's Sarah
who LOVES the salt boxes the most
and who needs "s" practice
desperately.
Next on the list--"make Alien soup." This for Tyler,
who loves to talk about anything alien, loves to be an alien,
and who mixed up all the magnetic letters
and said,
"It's Alien Soup!" as he made nonsense words
on the cookie tray. "Look! B-L-A-S-H...Blash! I put lots of
blash in my alien soup!" Tyler, with his pie-round eyes,
kept making words, unaware
that the bell had rung, and an idea popped into my head
and on to my "to do list:"
I need to make a game
just for Tyler, Alien Soup, a set of letters and a bowl
all his own so he can be
the Alien Soup chef
and serve us all "prill gwesp soup" for breakfast.
I look at the clock with its bent minute hand,
looking as tired as I feel,
scolding me with the evidence: 5:o0pm with my list
only partially done.
And then I see Tyler at the door.
"Hi, Mrs. King. I'm not an alien right now, because
my dad picked me up at the after school program
and he said he wanted to pick up
the real Tyler just this once, so I said okay.
Can I show him Alien Soup?"
And he does, and his dad sits down in a postage stamp-sized chair
and helps his son make alien soup.
I sit down on the other side of the room, pretending
to be doing something important,
while I listen to "luf," "geb," and "twok,"
and smile.
Does anyone really know what time it is?
Does anyone really care?
I do.
It's time
for Tyler to show his dad
that it's okay to be an alien once in awhile,
and it's time for me to realize that
my list makes perfect sense
to me
and my kids.
So, pass the salt, please,
I gotta fill a salt box, and the soup may just need a touch.
But even so...
It's the best soup on the menu.
1 comment:
I remember the salt boxes with my daughter. I remember the teachers that said "but look how she writes her name". I say, did you tell her how you want her to write it?, meanwhile telling my baby that her way of writing it is so darn cool and why didn't I ever think of that (which is exactly what I thought) ;)
The early years we had a deplorable lack of good teachers, until I made a change and moved to a school district that understood and knew how to teach a child who was different. Where no one was insisting my child be on Ritalin because one day in six months she was "fidgety" or should be in full time special ed after failing first grade twice.
Alien soup is important too, we must encourage imagination and the endless possibilities.
Wonderful post! ;)
Anita
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