I still remember my fifth grade teacher—quirky, artsy and dedicated. She wore patterned socks and weird sweaters. I liked her.
My best friend from college is a fifth grade teacher in Denver, but she wears plain socks and J.Crew sweaters. When I booked my ticket to visit her, she invited me to be a guest in her class for the day. “Yahoo!” I thought. “A relaxing, fifth grade day.”
Ya, it’s 5:15 a.m., dark outside and Becca is pouring me a second cup of coffee. Driving through Northern Denver’s dark streets forty minutes later, the smart-ass in me groggily inquires, “Am I ever gonna get to see the sun in Denver?” Becca chuckles.
At 6:10 a.m. we walk into the classroom of which I’ve seen pictures. The asparagus-colored paint attempts to wake me up. Fail.
Becca plans her lessons, enter grades into the system, writes the end-of-the-week newsletter and runs copies of today’s writing assignment. I sit in a plastic, primary blue chair and try to read a book.
It’s the ten-year-olds themselves that jumpstart me. They’re so filled with energy and curiosity when they start stumbling in around 7:30 it’s contagious. The questions start almost immediately.
“Miss Ryan, is that your friend?” they echo.
I try to remember what my fifth grade class was like. I remember the people and my favorite outfit—plaid skirt with matching Scotty dog sweater and loafers—but the class dynamic is lost forever. Looking around this classroom there are girls who are 5 feet tall and girls whose shoes look like doll accessories. Some of them sit quietly, diligently work, eager to please. Others would rather socialize. Suddenly a memory comes back: I was a quiet grade schooler but a loquacious middle and high schooler. I want to tell Carolina that if she can just stay focused for a few more years, she’ll find a vocation that will appreciate her chatty nature. Broadcast journalism, for example…
In second period, they get more inquisitive:
“Are you a teacher?”
“No.”
“Oh…what do you do then?”
“Ummmmm….I’m a…writer.”
“Did you write this book?”
“No.”
“What do you write then?”
(Sigh) Blog posts?
“Are you married?”
“No!”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to be.”
“That’s weird.”
“What is your favorite sport?”
“I like baseball.”
(Eyes wide and sparkling) “Do you play baseball?!”
“…No.”
“…No.”
(Sparkle fades.)
As the afternoon settles in, my energy level pools and resides like the tide depending on the students’ presence that day. Their excitement runs through me, inspires me to tell them about what it’s like to be in college living with your best friends—a concept they neither comprehend nor desire at this point in their lives.
The highlight of the afternoon is the poem a little girl hands to Jorie, or “Miss Clarson.” I can’t remember the whole thing, but “your eyes sparkle like the ocean,” and “your smile is better than mine” were two unforgettable phrases.
The students’ school day ends with an intense game of Four Square into which they invite us. Bouncing and yelling until they’re sweating, the kids don’t want the game to end, but at 4 p.m. we walk them to the front of the school where their parents sit in a line of cars to pick them up.
A half hour later, everyone but two are picked up. Becca leads them inside, cracking jokes along the way. How does she have the energy to keep talking and joking? I’m a walking zombie complete with bloodshot eyes. I can see the day’s end in sight, but I know that usually Becca stays at school until at least 6 p.m., grading, planning, copying, creating, grading, planning, and so on.
Becca and Jorie chat on the way home. I rest my eyes and head in the back. I laugh when Becca says she sometimes goes straight to the gym after school. I think she’s kidding.
She’s not.
So it’s official: to be a teacher you have to also be superhuman.
So proud of you Bec, and thank you Mrs. Crochetti. I had no idea.
