Close Encounters of the Third-Grade Kind (34 page)
“Okay. Okay,” I said over the noise. “Quiet down, everybody. Trevor, get up.” I sat up in my chair and waited until it was
silent. “Raise your hand if you have a question.”
Twenty hands shot up.
“Is this just for school nights?” Sarah shouted out.
“No,” I replied. “Weekends, too.”
More grabbing of throats.
“You don’t have to do it,” I explained. “It’s optional.”
“Can we watch movies?” David asked.
“Not on your TV. You may go to the movies. But you may not do anything using your TV.”
Kevin dropped his head on his desk.
“Can we use the computer?” Trevor asked.
“
May
you use the computer?” I repeated correctly. “Yes.”
Kevin lifted his head. There was hope.
“You may play games on the computer, but you may not watch shows. And no DVDs.”
Kevin plopped his head back on the desk.
“Can we TiVo?” asked Robbie.
“If you want to TiVo the shows and watch them later, you may.”
“Yes!” Robbie cheered.
“How many days do we get without homework?” Joshua asked.
“Five,” I answered.
The room grew animated.
Christopher spoke up over the noise. “If we can’t watch TV for two weeks, then we should get
two
weeks off without homework.”
“Yeah!” everyone agreed.
“Nope,” I said. “One week off.”
“WHY?” John challenged.
“Because I’m the boss. And I make the rules.”
“Please!” Dylan pleaded.
“Nope. Remember, you don’t have to participate.”
“How will you know we did it?” Melanie asked.
“Aha,” I said, holding up my index finger. I reached for a stack of red papers on my desk and held one up. “Every night that
you don’t watch television your parents will have to sign this piece of paper.” I ran my finger down it. “There are fourteen
lines here. In order to have no homework for a week, you need fourteen signatures.”
A sly grin spread across Trevor’s face. “I’m going to forge my mom’s signature.”
“You are, huh?”
He nodded slowly.
I reached into my pocket, pulled out my imaginary cell phone, and dialed. “Hello, Trevor’s mom. This is Mr. Done.” The kids
stared at me. Wide grins brightened their faces. “I have this red paper in front of me with fourteen of your signatures.”
I paused. “You don’t know what I’m talking about? Well, according to this, you’ve confirmed that Trevor didn’t watch TV for
two weeks.” I held the phone away from my ear and whispered to my kids. “She’s screaming.” They laughed. I put the receiver
back to my ear. “What’s that?… Trevor doesn’t get to watch TV for the rest of his life?” Giggles. “Oh my!” I listened some
more. “And he’s grounded for a
month
?” More giggles. “Okay, I’ll tell him. Good-bye.” I closed my imaginary cell, looked at Trevor, and shrugged. “I’m sorry.”
After the snickering died down, I sat on the corner of my desk and leaned forward. “Imagine,” I said, drawing them in with
my voice. “One whooooole week without homework. Just think of how nice it will feel when your older brothers and sisters have
homework and you don’t.”
Brian started bouncing.
“Wait!” I shouted, popping up. “I just realized something. If you have no homework for a whole week, that means you can’t
do your spelling homework. And if you can’t do your spelling homework, then you can’t have a spelling test on Friday.”
Everyone cheered.
I acted upset. “Let’s not do this,” I said, shaking my head. “Forget the whole thing.”
“NO!” they boomed.
“No. No,” I continued. “I’ve changed my mind. We can’t go a week without a spelling test.”
“Yes we can!” they screamed collectively.
I flopped down in my chair, covered my face with my hands, and heaved a loud sigh of defeat. “Okay, you win.”
More cheering.
“So, how many of you are going to participate?” I asked. Everyone but Robbie raised his hand. I looked at him. “Robbie, you’re
not going to try?”
He shook his head.
“Why not?”
“I won’t survive.”
I looked back at the class. “Now, there’s a man who knows himself.”
Next I reached for the stack of red papers and started passing them out.
“When do we start?” Rebecca asked.
“Tonight.”
Melanie slammed her hands on her desk. She looked panicked. “What day is this?”
“Wednesday.”
“No!” she moaned.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“
Hannah Montana
is on tonight.”
“Sorry, honey. No
Hannah Montana.
”
She put her hands on her cheeks and gave a
Home Alone
yell.
Stacy raised her hand.
“Yes, Stacy?”
“Mr. Done, are you going to do it?”
“Me?”
“Yeah!” Brian shouted. “If we have to do it, then you have to do it.”
“Yeah,” Dylan chimed in. “You have to do it, too.”
I shook my head.
“Come on,” Brian urged.
Laura joined him. “You have to.”
I looked around the room then shrugged. “Well, why not?”
Everyone clapped.
Trevor smirked. “And your mom has to sign it.”
For the next two weeks, my class ate dinner with their backs to their TV sets, listened to their favorite shows through the
walls, and were tortured by siblings who took full advantage of this competition and made sure the TV was on 24/7. And loud.
Each morning I asked who was still in the competition. Each day fewer and fewer hands went up. When someone dropped out, I
always asked, “So, what show did you in?”
“Survivor,”
Chloe replied.
“Wizards of Waverly Place,”
said Gina.
“Tom and Jerry,”
John answered.
“Suite Life of Zach and Cody”
was Emily’s response.
“What about you, David?” I asked. “Which show did you in?”
He sighed.
“Dancing with the Stars.”
Finally the contest was over. Five kids handed me their red papers with fourteen signatures. I felt like Willie Wonka collecting
the five golden tickets.
“Congratulations,” I said. “Well done.” Christopher was one of the winners. “Christopher, I’m impressed. I didn’t think you’d
make it.”
“My mom put the TV in the closet,” he grumbled.
“Mr. Done, did
you
make it?” Laura asked.
I flinched. “Uh… well… Okay, everyone, get your math books out.”
“Did you watch TV?” John interrogated, pointing at me.
“Don’t point.”
“You watched TV!” Stacy screamed, jumping out of her seat. “You watched TV!”
“Stacy, sit down.”
Dylan joined her. “You watched TV!”
“Dylan, sit down right now!”
I was trapped. (And I was running out of Teacher Dodges.) I drew in a deep breath. “Okay. I watched TV.”
(Cue: laughter.)
“Mr. Done,” Trevor inquired with delight, “what show did
you
in?”
“Oh no!” I said, shaking my head. “I’m not telling you that.”
“Come on,” Kevin bargained. “We told you.”
“Uh-uh!”
“Please!” Christopher pleaded.
“Tell us!” Laura begged.
I paused to weigh my options.
Option A: Tell them and get it over with; Option B: Say “Stop asking me that!” for the next six hours.
“Okay. Okay. I’ll tell you.”
They started squealing.
“But you have to settle down.”
The room quieted down immediately.
“And one more thing,” I added. “You
can’t
laugh.”
Emily sucked her lips over her teeth. David held his breath. Rebecca cupped a hand over her mouth and started to snicker.
I looked at her. “You’re already laughing.” She added the other hand.
I paused for a moment, gave one last look around, then confessed. “I watched
American Idol.
”
(Cue: peals of laughter.)
The room sounded like the station manager had just cranked up the laugh track. To full blast. Trevor sprang out of his seat.
“
AMERICAN IDOL?
You watched
American Idol
? Mr. Done, does your mom know you’re watching that show? That show is over at eleven o’clock. You should be in bed!”
We are your symphony Mr. Holland. We are the melodies and the notes of your opus. We are the music of your life.
— Mr. Holland’s Opus
T
his week Sarah’s mom walked into my classroom after school.
“Sarah is really upset,” she said.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because she didn’t do well on her multiplication timed test.”
I paused for a moment. “You know something? I actually think this is good for her.”
The mom looked stunned. “What do you mean?”
“Well,” I explained gently, “things come easily to Sarah. I’d imagine they always have. This is a little bump. She’s learning
how to deal with it.”
I could see that this wasn’t what Sarah’s mom expected to hear. She was still letting it sink in when she left the room.
There are many things that teachers teach that you won’t find written down on any district standards or Back to School Night
handouts. I call it the second curriculum. It consists of all the
other
stuff that teachers spend so much time on in school — all the things that we believe kids need to experience. Anyone who
works with children has his or her list.
I believe that all children should blow out birthday candles, follow an ice cream truck, eat a hot dog at a professional baseball
game, lick mixing bowl beaters, spit watermelon seeds, suck on a lollipop, eat a triple ice cream cone, roast marshmallows,
make their own Popsicles, dye eggs, bake a batch of cookies, pick out a pumpkin in a pumpkin patch, turn the handle of a gumball
machine, eat at a picnic table, have popcorn at the movies, wave a Fourth of July sparkler, stay up until midnight on New
Year’s Eve, and get the frosted flower on a sheet cake covered with icing.
I believe that all children should run through the sprinklers, blow bubbles, slide down the stairs, cannonball into a pool,
play in the mud, toss a penny into a fountain, swing really high, ride a Ferris wheel, pull as hard as they can in tug-of-war,
pillow-fight, talk to stuffed animals, score a touchdown, splash in a puddle, throw snowballs, race across the grass inside
a burlap bag, build a fort, somersault down a hill, ring a bicycle bell, run all four bases, trick the teacher, and search
for a favorite animal on a merry-go-round.
I believe that all children should give a present bought with their own money, sell lemonade for a cause, care for a pet,
wrap a gift, address an envelope, visit a nursing home, and pray for someone in need.
I believe that all children should run away from a wave on the beach, stare at a rainbow, skip rocks on a lake, walk through
an orchard, listen to crickets, fly a kite, wait for a tug on a fishing line, ride a horse, have a secret hiding place, feed
ducks, sleep under the stars (and wish on one), build a sand castle, count spots on a ladybug, hike with a stick they just
found, make a snowman, collect seashells in the sand, climb a tree, dig in the dirt, witness a sunset, hunt for four-leaf
clovers, press flowers, and walk in the rain without an umbrella.
I believe that all children should pick up trash that isn’t theirs, make their own beds, pull weeds, clean an animal cage,
whisper in the library, learn to say
please
and
thank you,
wait while an adult is talking, lose a game, and take down the flag and fold it.
I believe that all children should play an instrument, mix colors in a watercolor tray, mold something out of clay, listen
to Mozart, wear a costume, see
The Nutcracker,
hammer a nail, draw a family tree, hear a live orchestra, see the circus, sing on a riser, dress for the theater, take piano
lessons, perform in a play, applaud without hooting, watch Donald O’Connor sing “Make ’Em Laugh,” and go backstage after a
show and meet the performers.
I believe that all children should learn the difference between a daisy and a rose, take apart a flashlight, see the Statue
of Liberty and the Lincoln Memorial (or pictures of them), observe a caterpillar turn into a butterfly, visit their parent’s
place of work, search for the Big Dipper, read
Charlotte’s Web,
study a second language, talk to a military veteran, look through binoculars, fall off a bike and get back on again, struggle
with a math problem, speak with someone who immigrated to this country, get their own library card, and hear a favorite story
over and over again.
I believe that every child should hear his teacher say
I’m sorry
when he is wrong, see her teacher smile while reading her story, spot his teacher in the audience at the school play, stand
beside her teacher when he tells Mom how wonderfully her child is doing in school, and see his teacher smile every morning
when he opens the classroom door.
T
he old adage “By your students you’ll be taught” is definitely true. I have no doubt that I’ve learned as much from my students
as they’ve learned from me. Here is the postgraduate education I’ve received so far: