Snake

A first-grader today, hard at work drawing and coloring a picture of a snake, repeated to me the story told to him by his father about the Bronx Zoo’s missing Egyptian cobra. 

“Somebody left the door open on his cage,” he said, “and the snake escaped.” 

Oh, so the snake ran away, I teased him. 

“No, he slithered away.”

Mistaken Identity

“I saw you yesterday!”

Jordan greeted me excitedly when I entered his third-grade classroom.

You did? Where was I? I asked him.

“You were in your car.”

Was I even in my car yesterday, I wondered. I backtracked in my head over the previous day. I remembered that I mowed the lawn and then went for a run. No, the car on Monday was parked right where I left it on Friday.

“You have a pretty big car, right? Dark red?”

My car is small, I told him, and gold-colored. You’ve seen it in the school parking lot.

“You were driving near the dead-end street off Lakeview,” he said.

Wait, was the guy behind the wheel a very handsome man, I asked him.

“Yes!”

Well, then, it wasn’t me, I said.

Fact and Opinion

Top 10 statements offered unsolicited today by third-graders:

  • If you ever see a zombie, don’t set him on fire. You’ll just have a flaming zombie.

  • Make a fist, and that’s the size of your heart.

  • My dad smokes cigars, but cigars aren’t addictive like cigarettes. Your fingers will fall off. I’m not kidding.

  • Beer is disgusting, isn’t it?

  • My dad loves beer.

  • My mom loves wine.

  • Tampa [the MLB Rays] has the really good young players, and they play good so that they can get to New York and Boston, where the money is.

  • I know how to make fire if you don’t have matches or a lighter. Use the top of a battery.

  • Look how long my nails are!

  • Want to have a no-blinking contest?

Expertise

Experto credite, wrote the poet Virgil. Trust one who has proved it.

Everyone likes to think he is an expert in something. Or if not quite an expert, that he at least has a keener interest in, and is therefore more knowledgeable about, one topic or field than another.

Children are no different from adults in assessing what they know and then offering to share those insights. But their unsolicited opinions come with a lighter touch befitting their youthful exuberance and thus carry more charm and grace than those of their elders. And so it was a most welcome role reversal yesterday when the substitute teacher became the student who profited from the lessons taught by a class of second graders.

Earlier in the week the children were instructed to examine their own interests to try to determine what were their unique specialties or skills. Their assignment then was to write about and illustrate the self-appraisals of their own individual areas of expertise.

Here are two of the most charming (spelling and punctuation uncorrected), which do not do full justice to the children’s efforts:

Caroline judged soccer—playing soccer, that is—to be her specialty. She admitted that it was not easy at the start. “My first game was very tuff,” she wrote, but with instruction and encouragement from her coach, she said that she began to improve. Caroline’s presentation included an “expert” list of important lessons she learned about the sport:

 ∙ Never cover your team mate

 ∙ Always pass the ball when you have a chance

 ∙ Try your best

 ∙ Never argue with the Reff

 ∙ If you fall, try to get back up

 ∙ Try not to hit the ball with your hand or you will get a penelty

 ∙ A punt is what goalies do

Kenny wrote about his wrestling expertise, and like his classmate Caroline, he offered bullet points about what he has learned in the ring:

 ∙ Don’t throw your head gear

 ∙ Wait for the whisle

 ∙ Don’t eat candy before a match

 ∙ Make a mean face

 ∙ Don’t move slowe

 ∙ Shake the kids hand

 ∙ Don’t lose your equit ment

 ∙ Never smile at your openent

 ∙ Don’t cholk

 ∙ Drink water after the match

Age-Old Question

Filling in for the elementary-school teacher can be both ego boosting and ego deflating, sometimes simultaneously, as I learned from today’s second-graders.

The bad news, I told the class at the start of the day, was that their teacher, Mr. A, would not be in. The good news, as far as I was concerned, was that I was happily filling in for him and glad to be reunited with such respectful and hard-working children. (I believe in self-fulfilling pronouncements.)

“We know,” the class intoned in a world-weary tone unsuited to such young voices. “He told us. He said that you guys are basketball pals.”

That’s true, I said, but Mr. A is much younger (by about half my age, I reminded only myself).

“Really? You can’t tell,” said Ella in the innocent, matter-of-fact tone that I love most about the children. “Your voices are different, though.”

So is our hair, I said teasingly, knowing that their teacher shaves his head.

“Hard to say,” said one classmate, since he doesn’t have any.”

And just as that shot of self esteem began to lift me, I was immediately cut down.

“What’s that hole in your face?” Ella asked, pointing to a tiny dermatological scar on my cheek, the indisputable evidence of a face that has had to weather twice as many years as that of their young teacher.