Laura and I spent the morning huddled in the library, since Edison's orientation for incoming 6th graders features eight graders doing a welcoming activity; our classroom was taken over by two 8th grade girls, who came in, politely moved all the desks around, and then went about their business.
In the library I sat dreaming about place, how places can be defined, which texts we might use with young kids to think about the places we occupy, how places can feel familiar or not, how we are marked and shaped and defined by the places we inhabit. In the library I overheard one of the little orientation groups going through their motions, and felt that odd thrill as an adult and a teacher of watching kids do some of the work I love best. There was something sort of strange and awkward, even pained about the way the girl leading the group operated--overheard: "Now that we've done something together as a group, we will all learn each other's names." The girl was bossy and controlling and a little strange, and it was one of those odd moments as a teacher when you can see young people rehearsing these adult roles, butchering them in their own weird, emerging way, and feeling that combined thrill--wanting to intervene and assist, and wanting to sit back and let the children be themselves.
And then we returned to our classroom, at lunch, got the overhead projector going, prepared for the influx of kids, and about 12:45 (right on schedule) they started to shuffle in, first one at a time, leading for a little bit of awkward, two adult on one, then two, then four, then six student conversations. At a certain point there was a critical mass, and it became hard for us to do the polite one-on-one introductions, so we waited, and the room started to fill. We told the kids that there were supposed to be thirty kids, and that we would begin when everyone arrived, and so there was this constant counting of children--by us, by them--as new children would enter the room, and arguing over how many there actually were in the room (amongst the children), and then recounting, and then more recounting as other children entered, and speculation about the child who was in the office, and then our deaf student came in with his two interpreters, and Mrs Auburn, the "general" watched for a little while, and I took notes as they went around the room introducing themselves.
And then we went and opened lockers, and helped the children figure out the locks, which you might think would be an easy or simple task, and it was for some of the children, but for many it was not, and so I did that thing where I tried it, showed them how to do it, and then made them do it, and for some kids (D'Angelo in particular), it just never happened the way it was supposed to, but then he got it open, on like his fifth try, and he said: "I think I just wasn't pushing the latch hard enough." And there it was: learning. At one point I asked him, since he was clearly frustrated, if he wanted to put his fist through the locker, and he sort of smiled and looked at me and said: "Yeah."
I cannot imagine that I will know all of their names. I know a few of them, mostly the ones that talked a lot or that asked a lot of questions or who sat in the front of the room. I made an effort to circulate, to get to the back of the room, to try to see the room from as many angles as I could, to see them and also to try to see what they were seeing--an impossibility, I know, but it's worth the effort to try.
It felt good to be back in the room with the kids, good to be doing that back and forth, the questioning, the responding. I felt a little awkward, a little rusty, particularly in my responses to what they had to say. I hope to remember to do some of those little affirmations, like when Kyle said: "My name is Kyle, and I'm deaf," I was glad to be able to say: "Thanks for that, Kyle."
And then later Laura talked about how we would use the microphone to speak so that everyone could hear us, and I thought for a minute about what all that might have meant to Kyle, who doesn't hear very well. It seems like he hears some; he has a coclear implant. I caught myself for a moment addressing myself to his interpreter, then stopped and redirected: I have never worked with a deaf child before and will have to be mindful of that.
But it's good to be back in their midst, amongst the strangeness and their desire for a fresh start and to connect with their peers and the adults who have been charged.
I had to leave the classroom early, and little Jason, who sat by himself in the back of the room and who had assisted us by turning the lights on and off for our presentations, looked up at me as I walked out of the room, and he sort of smiled at me and waved goodbye, and I said: "Goodbye, Jason."
And something about that interaction struck me as sacred: a strange adult and a strange child engaged in the day to day business of being alive.
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