Assembly Line

One of the many small pleasures I enjoy as a substitute teacher in elementary school is the opportunity to attend with the children the holiday and spring concerts as well as the various assemblies orchestrated by the PTA throughout the year. The organization’s members do a marvelous job of searching out and inviting provocative and entertaining guests who supplement and sometimes reinforce the educational curriculum with relevant instructional lessons of their own.

I have seen the Story Pirates, a small theater troupe based in New York City whose brilliant conception is to dramatize (with minimum scenery, costumes, and props) the children’s brief fictional tales. The look of wonderment on the faces of the children when their efforts are recognized and staged is priceless. What a smart way to encourage young writers!

Likewise I was happy to be there the day “The Brain Show” came to school. That was a lively game-show type of entertainment with participatory rounds by energetic students and teachers.

The “Penguin Assembly,” which featured an appearance by a real, live penguin, was another memorable highlight of the year for all.

Late last spring there was an assembly hosted by Professor Science, an extravagantly over-the-top mad scientist in a lab coat, who brought science lessons spectacularly to life. His requests for volunteers to aid him in his experiments were fulfilled enthusiastically by students if not by teachers.

For his final act, an experiment in force, the professor advised the audience that the experiment could be demonstrated only with the collaboration of a man wearing a tie. I shot a quick glance at sixth-grade teacher Eric Pilaar, the only other adult male spectator in the room. To my chagrin I noticed that he was wearing an open-necked golf shirt. “Thanks for wearing a tie today,” Eric said rather too agreeably.  

As I made my way fearfully to the stage the children cheered, I thought, a mite lustily. What kind of degradation exactly were they expecting? Once I joined Professor Science on the stage, he asked me a few preliminary questions.

What was my favorite sport?

Basketball, I told him.

During my playing days, he wondered, had I ever found myself directly in the path of a speeding, oversized opponent on his way to the basket?

Yes.

Was I run over, trampled, and left for dead on the court?

In a manner of speaking, yes.

            
This will be much worse, Professor Science said.

The bloodthirsty groundlings roared. The school had turned into the Roman Coliseum.  I was alone in the center of the arena and the lion cage was about to be opened.

And as Professor Science had me put on safety goggles, a helmet, and chest protector, I thought, O.K., this is over embellishing just for dramatic effect, but I’ll play along. The professor laced on a pair of roller skates and then advanced on me with what he called “a decommissioned fire extinguisher.” That meant that the carbon dioxide had been replaced by compressed air. 

The next thing I knew, the nozzle that pointed at me released a powerful jet of air that drove me backward forcefully while the professor glided smoothly away in the opposite direction. There was no blood spilled, but the bloodlust of the audience had been appeased.

“We don’t pay you enough,” said the school principal as I wobbled off the stage and exchanged high fives with audience members. 

Not the NBA

“Are you in the NBA?” asked wide-eyed third grader Tim. I had just put my official National Basketball Association satchel down on the desk at the start of the morning’s class.

Not anymore, I said, as straight-faced as I could manage.

“Wow! What team were you on? Can you dunk? Do you know LeBron? Are you friends with Kobe?” These were some of the questions excitedly fired at me by Tim and his classmates.

As a member of the working press for over three decades, including many years as editor of several basketball magazines, I would receive a brand-new carryall, courtesy of the league’s publicity department, at the start of each NBA season. The league logo is prominently stitched on the outside; inside were media guides for the league as well as for all of its member franchises. I used to take the bag to work every day, using it to hold my house and car keys, newspaper and books, sunglasses, notebook, pen, and other items. As a substitute teacher, I continue to use the bag.

Tim, an ardent sports fan, had spotted the logo. Now, he and his classmates were excited at the thought of being in the presence of a professional athlete. After all, how many substitute teachers moonlight as NBA players! (The answer is none.) A footnote here: I am five feet ten inches tall and so far removed from my basketball-playing prime (as modest as it was) that I am eligible for social security.

What I love most about working with the children is their innocence: their wonder at and belief in the blissful serendipity that could affect their everyday routine at any given moment. On this day, they did not see an unathletic-looking, average-size, senior male citizen taking the place of their regular teacher. Instead, they willingly suspended their disbelief that an NBA player would spend his day teaching in elementary school before jetting off at night to compete against LeBron James, Kobe Bryant, Tim Duncan, and other superstars.

Before I knew it, a queue had formed, single file, in front of my desk. All of the children were lined up, Post-it and pen in hand, politely waiting their turn for my autograph.

What have I done, I thought, envisioning a summons to the principal’s office—and perhaps my first detention in more than 40 years—for discipline once my scam went public, as surely it would. At the same time, I could not help feeling perversely curious over what I imagined would be a topic in the children’s homes that night. “Guess what, mom and dad? Today we had an NBA player as a sub!”

As the children approached me for my autograph, I realized I had carried the joke too far to back down now. So, pen in hand, I cheerfully signed all of the proferred Post-its.

“I better not see these on eBay later today,” I kiddingly told the class. “This signature could be worth a lot of money someday.”

When a few of the children got back in line, I announced, “That’s it. No more autographs!” Wait, did I really just say that? I thought, cognizant of the surrealism of the statement.

Jenny didn’t move, so I reminded her that I had already given her my autograph and that she needed to return to her seat.

“No, this one is not for me,” she explained. “It’s for my dad.”

And while I tried to process that, she added, “His name is Mike. Could you sign it for him?”

I obliged. “Dear Mike,” I wrote. “Best regards, Mr. K.”

Focus on Kindergarten

Just when I thought I had worked my last day of the school year, I got a message from one of the kindergarten teachers at the West Ridge Elementary School, asking if I could fill in for her on the penultimate morning of the spring term. She was taking a half day to attend her younger son’s “moving up” ceremony, from one level of pre-school to the next. It was a welcome assignment for me. I was familiar with all of the children, having taught them on several occasions earlier in the year. Each one is memorable in individual ways.

Meghan is eager to help, seeing herself more as a teacher’s aide than a student. She would prefer to follow me around the classroom and offer unsolicited help on all matters related to kindergarten. She informed me that she would be going to the Park Ridge town pool directly from school that day, and volunteered to demonstrate her cannonball technique by leaping off her chair. I declined the offer.

Classmate Jayden, who reminds me of Charlie Brown’s curly-haired younger sister, Sally, overheard this conversation. She would be joining Meghan at the pool, she said, and was particularly excited to try out her new watermelon bathing suit.

Lauren likes to remind me that I know her older brother, Ryan. Conor is the class comedian; Jake and Breyden are his best audience. Tanvee is very serious; Kathryn, McKenna, Joseph, Lia, Ved, and Ella less so but studiously quiet and unfailingly diligent. Jason has two older brothers and remains above whatever fray happens to break out. Anjali is ever happy and always with her hair and dress immaculate.

And then there is little Madeline, a freckled-face, red-headed innocent. On this day she greeted me with a wide smile, revealing new gaps in her mouth that must have taxed the tooth fairy’s June budget. 

Maddie seems to enjoy all things about kindergarten. There are the morning meetings, which comprise a recitation of the days of the week and of the ever-growing list of acquired sight words, the recognition of the calendar month’s pattern, and a choral performance of seasonal songs. There is also the weather report, with a different kindergartner serving as daily meteorologist. The forecast involves a quick peek out the window to see if it is sunny, cloudy, rainy, or snowy. Movement of tree limbs and/or leaves indicates a windy day.

I cherish the autographed drawing Maddie gave me during a previous assignment in her class. She has yet to master all of her lower-case letters, notably “b” and “d.” The signature on her abstract artwork read “Mabeline.”

In the course of the morning, as I was reading aloud a story to the class, Maddie interrupted me. “I called Joseph “daddy” once by accident,” she cheerfully said. That type of non sequitur, I’ve discovered, is not uncommon in kindergarten. Drew chimed in: “Once I called [kindergarten teacher] Mrs. Tobin ‘mommy’ by accident.”

The invocation of “daddy” reminded Maddie of another personal memory. “My daddy loves sunflower seeds,” she told me. “One time, on our way to vacation, he stopped to buy himself a whole pack.” 

I tried to press on with the story to the class, but Maddie was not done. “My papa catched a squid at my vacation house,” she said.

How did the squid get in your house? I asked, getting caught up in the silliness. 

She clarified. “He catched it when he went fishing.”

Emily’s hand went up.

O.K., that’s it, I said. No more questions until we finish reading the story.

“It’s not a question,” she said.

I knew I’d regret it, but I allowed her to continue.

“I had a great time at Hershey Park,” she said.

We did eventually come to the end of the read-along, but not before one final interruption.

“It hurts when I do this,” said Drew, awkwardly tilting her head left and right.

Don’t do that, I said, channeling Henny Youngman.

Pink

I was sitting with sixth grader Aidan when he suddenly asked me, “Why are you wearing that  tie?”

What’s wrong with this tie? I asked.

“You know...”

No, I don’t (but I suspected why he disapproved). Tell me, I said.

“The color.”

Pink. I can’t wear pink? What’s wrong with pink? What color should I wear?

“Blue,” said Aidan. “Everybody [meaning every guy] wears blue.”

Maybe I don’t like to do what everybody else does. I think you have to be confident to wear pink—or purple.

“Yeah, well…”

You don’t like pink? Suppose I got you a pink graduation gift, I said. What do you think about that?

He thought for a minute and then brightened, a big smile starting to spread. “O.K., maybe you could buy me some bubblegum,” he said.

I got up from my seat and started to walk around the classroom. Moments later, Aidan approached me.

“Um, and could you make sure it’s Hubba Bubba?”

Handstands and Splits—Just Another Day in the Classroom

“Mr. K, want to see me do a handstand?” asked fifth grader Stephanie at the start of the day. She had respectfully waited until after the morning announcements and flag salute to make the offer. Poised at the rear of the classroom, she was eager to demonstrate her acrobatic prowess.

Not right now, Steph, I told her. We have to get started on literacy.

“How about a split then?” And before I could respond, she had dropped to the floor, effortlessly scissoring out her legs. “Try it,” she said, encouragingly.

Maybe later, I lied. Let’s get started on our lesson.

Not just yet. Emboldened perhaps by the floor exercise, Carly approached my desk. “Did you know, Mr. K, that I want to be a Rockette?”

I assured her that I was unaware of that.

“I saw the Rockettes at the Christmas show at Radio City Music Hall,” she said. “I really liked it. So I think I’d like to be one of them when I grow up. I'm taking ballet lessons now.”

I told her that I did not know anyone who was a Rockette, and that she would be the first if she realized her dream.

“Yeah, but if I don’t make it, I’ll be a teacher,” she said.

Always good to have a backup plan in place.