KENTUKIANA 2: The First Day of Class

As if it were a soccer match, let's say I ended up being handed a 1-2 defeat, and at home no less, since the playing field was none other than my own classroom. And yet, after the last class I was left with a certain taste of victory.

Of the three groups I had that debut morning, the first two (third and fourth grade, between seven and nine years old) were the most combative. Overall it was a week of introductions, where I also asked them to show off their artistic and creative gifts as illustrators, depicting a scene or something characteristic of their summer break. There were true works of art of great imagination, like the creation by Neyson, who portrayed a landscape inside the body of a bird that was in turn flying through another landscape. Not even an adult could have done it better.

For me this would be the winning drawing, the one that best evokes that summer break. Neyson (3rd Grade).

The best drawings were displayed on the door of my classroom.

How I could tell that summer vacation was still lingering in them. They arrived brimming with joy and extreme cheekiness, and they got out of control on me in equal measure. So much so that at the end of the second class, once the group had left, a faint trickle of tears welled up from the sockets of my eyes. The situation had overwhelmed me. I was the doubly rookie teacher, and to them that meant prime meat.

I kept it together as best I could. I could feel my stomach sending me warnings until I finally succumbed. Had the shock really been that strong? Apparently so, and it wasted no time: right on ‘the first day of class‘. I immediately went looking for Nick, the mentor and music teacher the school had assigned me. An incredible person who later came to be called friend, with a capital F. I poured my heart out to him, telling him: -I can't, Nick, I just can't do this-. He knew how to calm me down and revealed that the very year before, the same thing had happened to him, that it was normal for sensitivity to surface in such an instinctive way. Everything felt so different and arduous that the sad X-ray of what that school year could mean for me quickly took shape in my mind, and then, against all odds, I collapsed. Nick, known around the school as Mister Dehnam, told me that the verb ‘to cry‘ was also in the dictionaries and suggested I make up my expression with the grimace of a new smile. I left his classroom convinced that I had to approach the last class differently, that it had only been a bad first half. So, like a good chameleon, I disguised the frustration on my face with a bit of cool water and started practicing my smile in front of the mirror. I laughed at myself, wondering: –and what am I doing here?-. Meanwhile, the redness in my eyes wouldn't go away and the next match was kicking off in a few short minutes. -What I'd give for a little bottle of eye drops right now-, I thought fleetingly. Note it down, coach: eye drops for the first-aid kit.

a faint trickle of tears welled up from the sockets of my eyes. The situation had overwhelmed me. I was the doubly rookie teacher, and to them that meant prime meat.

How was it possible that a bunch of little rascals of just seven to nine years old managed to wear down my patience as much as or even more than my dear teenagers from Basic Vocational Training back in Spain once did?

First day, first round of shrapnel. Between them and me I sensed a great gap in understanding — linguistic, cultural, and generational alike. But there stood the teacher, precisely to work miracles. From that moment on I was very aware that the school year could be a rough one, where on top of it all the jar of emotions could overflow at any moment. I knew they would be testing me constantly until I managed to win them over. That would be the game, their daily mantra. And mine? To survive until the end of the school year.

I knew they would be testing me constantly until I managed to win them over. That would be the game, their daily mantra. And mine? To survive until the end of the school year.

During the second class, with the third-grade group, I was struck by one Nelson, an autistic kid who then, surprisingly, went on to apologize in the most tender and moving way I have ever felt. Apparently, at times he wasn't master of his own control, though he was very aware of his actions. His gaze was a whole plea of incomprehension and sadness.

he went on to apologize in the most tender and moving way I have ever felt… His gaze was a whole plea of incomprehension and sadness.

But it wasn't all hits and goals into the top corner. The last group, the 5th graders, felt like a bed of roses. It was like going from anguish to euphoria. In fact, the session flew by, with no desire for it to end. Later their homeroom teacher wrote to tell me her students had thoroughly enjoyed the session. I managed to reinvent myself. That reinforcement, that feedback, came to me like water in the desert. And like water came the two pitchers of beer I had to drink with Nick after leaving school, at the famous Crazy Fox, with darts, pinball, pool. I feared they wouldn't be the last.

For the next day, I figured I should start getting a full metal jacket ready for the soul and a helmet for the mind. After that trial by fire I understood, once again, that a teacher is forged through the difficulties, challenges, and trials found along the way.

a teacher is forged through the difficulties, challenges, and trials found along the way.

The next day, against all odds, things changed — but for the better: 4 to 0 for the home team. With all four groups everything flowed like silk. It seemed that having a fixed classroom would mean getting good results. In Spain, however, it's almost always the other way around: it's the teacher who has to move from one classroom to another, losing valuable time and energy. This way, I would always have the security and control of playing at home, an advantage I had to learn to make the most of if I wanted to keep winning matches. 

The slightest lapse and they dribble right past you and score on you in no time. They quickly take your measure, and if you don't wise up fast, the rest of the goals are only a matter of time. That's when you find yourself seating and hushing children as if it were a board game — remember the hippos from Hungry Hungry Hippos? –Oh my Ghosh!-. Well, sometimes I feel a bit like that.

The week ended with an equally positive Friday. Let's say it settled at 3 to 1 for the teacher's home team. And I'll never tire of repeating it: what these little folks need are sky-high doses of discipline, but just as much affection, or even more. They're like super-absorbent sponges that leave you as drained of energy as you are swollen with love. I sense it the moment they leave and I put the classroom back in order, appreciating like no one else that immaculate silence that spreads once again through the room, freezing in turn under the powerful gusts of cold air that the ceiling calmly scatters.

The month of August was drawing to a close. I needed to pin down very carefully the activities and strategies to follow with these little characters, set the timing, be organized and as flexible as the context of the situation might require. It's a continuous job of analysis, searching, creation, and application; and if it doesn't work, readjust and start again: trial – error, trial – error, until you start hitting on the keys to the whole thing. 

It sometimes happens that some support teachers come into my classroom and stay with a student who needs help. At times you're grateful for their presence so things don't get too far out of hand, as was the case with Nelson; but in other circumstances you don't find it amusing at all, given the lack of privacy it can sometimes create inside the classroom. However, with time we all began to see one another more as colleagues than as strangers, and you even end up accepting them as one more student to whom you explain the lesson all the same. Well, at least that's how I go about it so it doesn't become a bigger obstacle.

With the last group of Friday, August 25, the fifth-grade one and one of the rowdiest, something similar to what happened to me with Nelson occurred again, and I'm referring more to that special communication and not to the act of violence. The magic of communication took place, or rather, of connection. It was with a boy with a gorgeous face, Nill, a redhead who immediately reminded me of the famous imp Pumuky; only this time his cognitive functions were severely limited. He started shouting as he came into class, disrupting the good rhythm I had just achieved. I knew it was his way of getting attention, or simply his way of saying: -Hi guys, here I am!- Of course, an aide with a serious, reserved countenance accompanied him at all times, which kept me from imagining any kind of cordial relationship with the boy. I grasped the situation at once, and as soon as I left the students some tasks to do, I went over to him to introduce myself and draw a few scribbles on paper. I took his weak hand and we began tracing hypnotic circles in different colors. As soon as I let go of him to supervise the other classmates' work, the boy called for my attention again with vocal sounds. He was calling me in his own way. He was asking for attention, or that's how I read it. I came back right away, took him by the hand, and we began strolling slowly through every corner of the classroom, introducing him to the furniture while he felt the objects I showed him. I suppose so he could get to know them better: we touched the whiteboard, a globe, the plastic head that kept changing color, the markers. I talked to him about the colors in English and in Spanish, in a sweet, gentle tone, while he let himself be led by my hand and I by his. Sometimes he would let go of it, but right afterward he would seek it out again. Did he need contact, guidance, understanding? I entered into a very special kind of communication with him. We spent only a few minutes together, though the exchange of peace and good energy was immense. When he got tired, he took my hand once more, led me to the door, opened it, and walked me out into the hallway. He wanted to leave, that much was clear. The aide came out then; he closed the door himself and, together with her, went off down that hallway, calm and happy. Later his homeroom teacher thanked me for the work I had done with him, since he is considered one of her most difficult students.

I humbly think it was the surprise effect that kept him so agreeable with me, and of course, introducing him to the classroom objects once again helped the communication too. I trust this good start will help Nill and me forge a good friendship, one I will have to keep learning how to nurture. He truly valued my devoting part of my class time to him. I know it. For me, it was a gift that he granted me those minutes of his silent communication. These were the lessons you don't learn in any book; life hands them to you unexpectedly and spontaneously — either you feel them and accept them, or you don't even see them coming.

I knew it was his way of getting attention, or simply his way of saying:

-Hi guys, here I am!-

After school, I went with Nick to throw some darts at the Crazy Fox. There we recharged our batteries with the nice cool air conditioning, some chips, and his more-than-good company. It was the first time in my life I saw someone stick a dart into the center of another dart — and on top of a dart he had already stuck, in turn, into that very same center! Cheers Nick!

– Next installment (Saturday, December 30, 2023): Kentukiana 3: Teaching Spanish in a ‘Kentuckian’ Classroom