The Road to Something Completely Different: Kindergarten

Wearing different shoes for the day; I tiptoed into the great unknown...

Feeling like a blend between George Plimpton, Mike Rowe and a struggling 1st year Spanish student; I am finally taking a few moments to reflect on my recent experience as an MPS K-4 teacher for a day. In short; it was totally awe-some and awe-inspiring.

In a brilliant team-building endeavor, new MPS Superintendent, Dr. Gregory E. Thornton directed his direct administrative reports to solicit Central Office District volunteers to be "out" in the schools, assisting with the first day of school. I volunteered and am so grateful to have been selected to help out Fratney Elementary for the entire school-day. SRA. Carmen Reyes welcomed me into her kindergarten classroom of twenty-six brand new students with a smile and a cheery Hola and a brief explanation that the State DPI now mandated that K-4 and K-5 abandon their staggered start times of the past and have all children report at the same time. This seemed to be an important point due to the fact that there was only one of her and many more children and parents about to momentarily converge. With Fratney’s 2010-2011 Paraprofessional School Breakfast aide allocation at an MPS typical .20 of an FTE; it was clear that my help would be more than welcomed, if only for one day.

”Miss Carmen” as she is known in the Fratney world is an extremely competent middle-aged, bi-lingual teacher from what I witnessed. Granted I am a complete and total novice in the world of education, however I did assist in the raising of three of my own kindergarteners, and it ain’t no picnic some days. She handled each and every situation that arose like it was no big deal and kept a calming, controlling presence throughout what was otherwise a rather hectic day.

We began our day in room 122 with each parent (or set of parents) dropping off their little Niña, or Niño into our care with kisses, hugs and I love you’s ringing out in both English and Spanish. One little girl was particularly tearful as I went around to each of the mini-tables and chairs, opening their UBP (Universal Breakfast Program) box meals. She sat there stiff straight backed with tears flowing silently down her reddened cheeks as I worked nearby. “Hey, you’ve got new shoes on today with pretty pink horses on them”, I tried as she looked up into my eyes. She stopped sobbing momentarily and before I could go for my winning follow-up remark a woman appeared at her side with a hug and kiss on the top of her head; her aunt. I guess I’ll never know if telling her that ”it would all OK before she got married”, would have worked.

The little children kept on arriving over the next 40 minutes with one adult or another; hanging each child’s Toy Story, Transformers, Tinkerbell, or Spiderman back packs on their corresponding labeled hooks, directly below the brightly colored, plastic named cubbies. These I discovered held a particular child’s blankie and favorite stuffed animal for their eventual nap-time session, (or siesta, as in this case). Parents dropped off the obligatory boxes of Kleenex, paints, crayons, paper toweling and zipper-locked, see-through plastic bags plus something new to me; chlorinated wet-wipes. Yes folks we are now solidly in the new era of the “dual shaking hands maneuver”. This I witnessed with wonder a bit later on as each child held out both their tiny hands to the dual pump of the pungent, alcohol smelling, hand sanitizer wielding, Hispanic aide. It was if doing so was as natural to these wee ones as staring at cartoons on TV. Once each spritz of cooling medicinal gel was administered; each child in turn did a similar combo-move of applying friction to the inside and back of their hands, then quickly waved them both in the air as if wishing an exaggerated goodbye to grandma. Once completed their reward was a small handful of generic animal crackers on a light brown paper towel. But then I’m getting ahead of myself with that observation, however at the time I wondered how my similarly aged counterparts and I ever survived childhood without first performing this adult-invented ritual before eating the popcorn pieces that had wound up in the sandbox.

Name tags were looped around each child’s neck on clear plastic straps, verily daring them to be played with. This however was not only not permitted; it was also one of the first and best ways to get your name advanced along the progressive discipline stoplight; another new innovation for me. No more dunce-caps and standing in the corners I guess. The theory is that this simple visual of a traffic light and a child’s clothes pinned name clipped to one of the three colors, gives a constant reminder of their individual overall behavior for that day. Green (smiling face) was where each child started their day and tried not to get clipped to the red (sad face) circle that represented the need for a call home, only the graphic representation on the red circle would certainly serve to confuse any savvy kindergartner of today as it depicted a push-button, pink, princess-style telephone with handset, instead of an image of mommy’s Blackberry. 

The children were sequentially directed to stand in front and say there first name to their new classmates.  Each child was then cheered with a friendly, gently coached "Hola ____!" from the rest of the carpet-seated throng.  "Criss-cross applesauce" was spoken again and again to encourage the kids to sit cross-legged on the floor.  I asked Miss Carmen how many of these children spoke English. She replied that most spoke some, however a few spoke none. I eventually managed to find each one of the latter by eliciting a curious confused stare as I asked if they’d like me to open their milk carton for them. That’s where speaking more loudly, animated hand motions, and putting an ”O” at the end of English words are totally ineffectual. I relied instead on fetching the attention of an aged Miss Betto who wore a black Fratney polo and spoke Spanish like the native she apparently was. Fortunately this class of children had no repeat first names like each year I coached youth baseball. Three Billys, two Trevors, and three Marys can give you fits and create mass confusion. This class was different and unique with the majority having Hispanic sounding first names to try to properly pronounce. Even a small boy named David had the exotic twist of “Dah-veed” associated with his seemingly common name. I thought I was getting pretty good at the remembering the name game when I was thrown a curve by Miss Carmen. I was making out bus tags for her door when I thought I had caught a mistake. “There’s no Ruth in here, is there?” I smartly questioned. “Oh, that’s Kerany (Key-rrah-nay)....her real name is Ruth, but her parents call her Kerany,” she replied matter of factly. “Oh,” I said and filled out another bus tag. It seemed that another child wearing an ”Aida” name tag was referred to all day as ”Cory” or (Ko-lrree) a far cry from Aida in my mind, so I didn’t even ask about that one. One thing I have never been able to physically, do is roll my ”R”s. I try and it sounds like I’m making the noises of a chronic Tourettes sufferer. I quit trying years ago.

Taking twenty-six K-4 children to the large group bathrooms is a trip and a half, let alone the four times we dedicated to this exercise in the course of our day. I took up a vigilant stance in the boy’s room while the little guys did what little guys do, pants and undergarments dropped down to the floor, attempting to cover every square inch of the porcelain urinal in a back and forth motion while looking back across their shoulders at their buddies vamping at the Bradley wash fountain. “C’mon guys, just one push on the flush valve and soap dispenser please!” I implored, as each one validated their gender by playing with the water as long as possible. What a production! Then there was the trip to then school cafeteria for the very first time. With me lifting and fetching like a 6 foot Border collie; the line of room 122 made its way first to the cashier and then to the actual stainless steel counter. I’m not sure whose great idea it was to have an entire round nectarine rolling back and forth on the paper tray that each set of mini-hands was attempting to control, but c’mon on the first day? “Leche aqui” repeated the African American food service worker, stabbing a finger to a particular section of the segmented tray as the kids fumbled with their carton of choice; chocolate or white. I mean is there really a choice at that age? Chocolate milk was as rare as a school snow day, when I was a kid.

Nap time came after the lunchtime experience and lasted longer that I figured it might. The mats were laid down and the blankets were distributed as the little students were told to lie down. Music provided by a CD player filled the room with soft guitar sounds mixed with gently washing surf as the lights were turned off for the next 60 minutes. Heads were popping up and down as Miss Beto cautioned the kids to stay on the floor or risk the stop light’s fury while Miss Carmen finally took a break to eat some lunch. I vacillated between the hallway and the room as I found that I actually became a distraction to some of the kids who wanted to whisper to me. When the lights finally came back on 6 children had actually fallen asleep so deeply that they needed to be awakened by their eager classmates.

Half of the class went with “Miss Sue” to an actual art room down the hall and up the stairs while the other half listed to Miss Carmen describe the hallowed “take home folder” and its function to those who stayed behind. This particular K-4 class (one of two) was referred to as Las Catarinas (or The Ladybugs) in Espanol. Crayons were brought out and each child was encouraged to color (decorate) a sheet of paper with multiple insects on it. Once finished, the piece was slipped into the clear front of that individual child’s folder as the cover art. Miss Carmen encouraged the kids to write Su nombre’ (their name) on the line at the bottom before she placed it in the folder sleeve. After a period of time, the class halves were switched and the scene in the classroom was repeated. Miss Sue's art class worked on coloring an outlined butterfly with magic markers and these were brought back when the class returned.

With the wall clock approaching 3:00 PM, the veteran Miss Carmen began the arduous task of getting all twenty-six children ready to go home for the day. Folders were matched with corresponding backpacks and labels with the method of transportation for each student were applied to the shirt fronts. I wondered how much more difficult that this task would become once coats, boots, mittens and hats were inevitably added to the mix. While orchestrating this slow motion performance with extreme efficiency, Miss Carmen called my name and offered me the tremendous honor of reading the final storybook for the day as the children waited unknowingly for the clock to reach 3:30; the scheduled time to go home. One little girl had had enough and could not be comforted away from her sudden sobbing homesickness…she wanted her mommy…to go home.

Finally, when my storybook was finished I repaired out of harm's way to take a few photos. From the back of room 122, I watched dear Miss Carmen handle this squiggling group of precious little ones with educational practice and utmost patience, wondering if I personally would have the stuff it would take to show up every day for another session.

I know Miss Carmen would…and thank goodness for that.