When I stepped into a classroom to teach the first time, I was green-super green. I’m talking Kermit the Frog green. I was at the end of my graduate school program, the practicum a.k.a. “student teaching” experience. I was finally going to put all of the theory and classroom learning to use. And I was petrified! What ifs popped up in my brain, multiplied. Because that is what the then-perfectionist did. I assigned high-stakes status to big deals and little deals alike; planned for the worst-case-scenario, and planned some more.
My cooperating teacher was a dynamo. She was organized, knowledgeable, kind, bubbly-a legit child whisperer. I took note of everything she said and did, wrote copious notes and did my best to emulate her ways. She taught me everything from setting up a classroom to start the year to lesson planning to writing a monthly classroom newsletter. Bit by bit, she shared teaching duties with me.
All was going well. By all accounts I was doing a great job, even. I felt confident in my abilities. Yes! I had landed where I was supposed to be. And then it happened. My first failure. It happened during a spelling lesson, a carbon copy of the lesson I’d presented the week prior. This week, however, the kids weren’t buying what I was selling. They were antsy, inattentive and talkative. I tried to use the strategies I had seen my cooperating teacher use brilliantly to no avail. I stood in front of the chalkboard, arms folded across my chest, eyeing the clock as the second hand made its way around again and again. Shh! One of the kids finally whispered. “She’s waiting!”
I had employed the silent waiting strategy, finally, but my frustration and irritation had already taken root. While transitioning to the next lesson, I muttered, “They will listen” or some other “I’m the one in charge, here” phrase that adults who are clearly not feeling in charge mutter to my cooperating teacher.
She quite calmly and pleasantly told me to let go of my attitude and replace it with good cheer or she’d take over the teaching. I shook it off the best I could and we finished our morning fine. Later, while debriefing, I asked her how she stayed kind and positive in those trying moments when it feels like the class was engaged in a mutiny. She smiled her toothy grin and said quite plainly, “I treat them like they’re my own.” No brainer for her.
But what exactly did her wise words mean? I didn’t have kids (yet). I had a cocker spaniel. How exactly was I supposed to do this? For the next few days, I did my best to make meaning of her words and watch for evidence of her “treating them like her own.”
I watched her listen intently, smile, laugh, and treat the children with kindness. She exuberantly praised effort and pointed out specific evidence of success. And when the children misbehaved, she calmly, matter-of-factly redirected the students. Not once did I see her take our students’ behavior personally.
Now that I’m an experienced parent and seasoned teacher, I totally get the depth of her words. The first rule of parenting. It’s not about us, the adults. I think this is one of the first principles of teaching, too. Our students, like our own children, are complicated, amazing individuals. They are the priorities. It is our job to meet them where they are and help them to soar.
Wow. What an amazing responsibility, but what a privilege, as well. Most days when lessons are going well and the children are following classroom routines, all is right in the world. But some days, when something’s off, someone’s struggling in one way or another; it’s imperative to stop, assess the situation and modify plans as necessary. I know it’s tempting to keep going, plow through the day’s curriculum because we have so much to do. But it’s not about me, the classroom teacher. It’s about the kids. And I choose to treat them like they’re my own.
Kathie Z.