Jake the FIRRRRSSTT grader
“Hi my name is Jake, and I am in FIIIIIRRRSSST grade,” says a boy with the big smile and a bigger bowl of ice cream. He puts his hand out and I shake it like we are about ready to do business.
“My name is Linda.” I respond, realizing as soon as I say it that I should have been Mrs. English. But Mrs. English still seems as if I would be talking about my mother.
Jake is at that age where he probably has an entire secret lizard, insect, or frog collection under his bed, something I am sure his mother does not find a bit amusing. He is the master at torturing little girls. And he dreams of a being a fire fighter, an astronaut, or a truck driver. And he cannot sit still for more than possibly ten minutes, which makes the daunting task of going to school every day not trivial.
Jake waits for a bit and then says directly, “Are you a teacher?” I start to laugh and find myself explaining that I am at the open house of his school because my husband is a teacher. Jake is disinterested now that he has realized I am of no value. He cannot charm himself out of trouble for running down the halls, bringing his favorite pet to school, or pestering the girl next to him. I move on to get my own bowl of ice cream.
Two volunteers, parents I presume, scoop out small bowls of vanilla ice cream. I pick up my bowl and head over to the “goodies” table that is void of any adults. This area is packed and there’s little movement away from the table. The goodies include all sorts of candy, chocolate sauce, marshmallows, and whip cream. Kids dish on candy parts in mounds that make me feel ill, just the site gives me a sugar headache.
After I decide on a few chocolate chips to compliment my ice cream, I wander through the halls of the school. One room has a large sign that says, “Music class: PARENT VOLUNTEERS NEEDED,” and contains 5 kids who are blasting away in something that vaguely sounds like a song that I just can’t quite get. The noise is piercing and I quickly walk down the hall, noticing that the volunteer sign up sheet is blank.
Just as I find the classroom that is labeled math, the room where my husband will be teaching, a lady walks up to me. “Are you THE new math teacher?” she asks me.
I laugh and say, “No, but I sure can help you find him. He’s my husband.”
“Oh, that won’t be necessary.” She responds nervously. She lowers her voice to a whisper, “Do you know if he’s ANY good?”
I laugh about the question; as if I am suppose to say horrible things about my husband’s abilities. But I respond in a whisper, “Well, the kids who typically hate math really like him because he’s all about how they apply it. And they get to do crossword puzzles and games as part of the class.”
And then I find myself in some insane sales mode, like I am at work presenting a concept to my senior management team. I review his entire life history, including his educational background. I feel naked without some sort of handout, key points in a bulleted format and a picture of him so she doesn’t confuse him with the new music teacher.
She continues to ask questions and I wonder if I will ever escape. But soon a disruption of more horrible music from down the hall seems to take her attention elsewhere. I excuse myself and keep wandering the halls, trying to gain an understanding of the educational system. I find my husband in a crowd of mothers who have entrapped him and are busy asking questions. Unless I stand in line, I doubt Kevin will even notice me and so I head back to the ice cream table and figure I might go talk to Jake again.
Jake is just finishing up what is probably his first bowl of ice cream, now ready for his second trip. An older kid sits down next to him and he repeats his intro, “Hi, I am Jake, and I am in FIRRRRRRSSST grade.” The other kids smiles briefly and starts eating a mounded glob of candy with ice cream. Jake squirms at the thought that he has been ignored, but the thought doesn’t concern him for long. After all, this is his FIRRRRST day of coming to school and he’s in FIRRRRST grade. Not to mention he’s on his firsssst bowl of ice cream.
By Linda English
