SUBSTITUTE TEACHER TALES

I found an old journal entry today. I haven't been able to sub this school year, and this entry—while the scenario wasn't funny at all at the time—made me laugh today:

“I hadn't uttered a single word, when a wild-eyed child shouted,
"Is you the new lie-berry teacher? What we gon' do? Huh?
Excuse me. Excuse me! I gotta go to the bafroom!
What's her name? Miss... Miss! 'Scuse me. 'Scuse me! Never mind, I'm out. Deuces!"

I stood in shock for a second, not having been able to answer any of the child’s questions before he just bolted out the door. 

The banging of the broken door was starting. 

I collected myself, and greeted the class. 

A few minutes later, a stern-faced security guard appeared at the door. I noticed there was child struggling to get out of his grasp. There was no "Excuse me", just an exasperated, "Do he belong in here?"

I discovered yesterday that not even the library is as sacred a space as I perceived it to be when I was a child. 

The library was a noble, respected, quiet place; a place of order and organization. 

The school library was a place where the world opened up for students and teachers alike. 

The library was a distinctive, dignified place. It called for special decorum. It had its own rules.

Maybe my expectations were a bit too high, and my memories too vivid. 

I remember Mrs. Reamer's neat, clean library at Abram Simon Elementary School. It was on the third floor, and there was a wonderful view of the city that we could see by virtue of the large windows. 

I remember the smell of the wood and the books. 

I remember how much I loved it when she read to us. 

The library was never a noisy, out-of-control place.

When the directions are simple, is it wrong to expect compliance? 

Maybe it was unreasonable for me to think that some of the kids would behave differently in the library than they had anywhere else in the school. 

I was stunned. 

Maybe when I said, "Good Afternoon. Come in and have a seat", they thought I said "Feel free to wreck the place." 

Some kids complied, and I sincerely thanked them for being respectful, but others acted as if they'd just been freed from dungeons. 

They came in with food, footballs--and I even got hit and called a "b_ _ _ _, for daring to take a basketball from a first grader who wouldn't stop bouncing it. They came in running, sitting on tables, fighting, crawling around on the floor, flicking the lights on and off, jumping over, and turning over chairs, rifling through papers on the counter, throwing books, and drumming on tables. 

It was as if they were possessed.

How I long for the days when an adult in the room meant something. 

Some of the kids literally don't care how they behave, or who sees them misbehaving. 

They actually boast about how weak and ineffective their parents are when it comes to disciplining them. In their minds, they're in charge. They have no fear. They see no need to listen to anyone, and they know that consequences, with any teeth in them, are non-existent. 

"My muvah don't do nothing to me!" is a common mantra. 

I wish their "muvahs" could hear them when they're saying it with such arrogance. Maybe some household ground rules would change.

I literally just stared at one class yesterday until they settled down. A little girl commented sarcastically, "She frozen, ya'll! She frozen!”

I couldn't believe what I was seeing. It's a beautiful new school. It's a beautiful library, with resources galore, but some of the kids may as well have been in a field of dirt. 

It's May. 

Were they just trying me?

Has no one taught them how they are to conduct themselves in a library? Perhaps they've just forgotten. 

One little boy just walked to a cart, and began throwing books onto the floor. 

Another went behind the counter and started banging on the window of the adjacent computer lab.

So, today, when a class of first graders attempted to replicate yesterday's madness, I promptly told them to line up at the door. As the line was forming, I heard whispered choruses of, "Where we goin'?" 

I walked them past the smiling principal. 

It was good to have her blessing. 

I pointed them to an exit door, and directed them to go down the stairs. 

A few of them thought we were going to the cafeteria, and look puzzled when we passed by and didn't enter. 

I led them to an exit door that led to the playground--the official, authorized place to go as berserk as one chooses.

They all stared at me. 

I extended my arms and softly said, "If you want to run, this is the place to do it--not the library." 

They ran, alright--until of course, they realized that the playground wasn't nearly as cool and comfortable as the library had been. 

One by one, they approached me while wiping sweaty brows, and begged to go back inside. 

"Okay, everyone. Line up. We're going back."

When we got to the library door, I said, "Now, let's try this again. I'd like to read a story to you. Walk in quietly, and have a seat." 

They were exhausted. Some had run themselves silly, and were happy to collapse onto the carpet. Others had stopped at the water fountains. 

I had no problem getting anyone to sit quietly this time. 

Perhaps they now have a new found appreciation for their library--if for no other reason than it's air conditioned, and not out of doors.