Jim Hare classic posts Archives

A Place of Honor

I am a bit of an oddity here in my school and in my community these days, but in a nice way I think. People are amused at the old guy with the little kids following him around to the library and cafeteria like ducklings. It is not often you see a sixty-year-old teaching first grade.

What a tough job though! I have nothing but respect and admiration for the first grade teachers who have gone before me. There is so much to do! First grade is the Mother of all multi-tasking!! Count the number of kids, raise it to the tenth power, and you have the number of tasks needing immediate attention.

So it was, last week, that I stood with four kids demanding attention at my side while I tried to call out directions to a couple of absentminded wanderers across the room, and all the while scanning the room for potential trouble. And then, here comes Darin. He presents himself squarely in front of me, holding up a scribble drawing in crayon. When they really want you to notice, they block your way. A quick glance and I can see we have yet another indecipherable jumble of chaos called “kid art”.

When we see kids’ drawings, we naturally want to go, “Oh, what is this?” and when they tell us, we go, “That’s nice. Is it for me? Thank you.” And then we move on about our business.

The more teacherly thing to do is to look with interest for a moment, and then go, “Well this looks interesting. Tell me about it.” That way you don’t let on that you haven’t a clue what this kiddy Rorschach that you are looking at is about. And then, of course, they get to practice expressing themselves verbally, and besides, you don’t want to damage their artistic creativity and yadda, yadda, yadda. But it is true. They have whole chapters in teaching textbooks about this situation. You wish you could just bypass the “right” way of doing it and take the quick way, because hell’s a-poppin’ all around you, and there are so many “somethings” you want to get on with.

So I’m looking at this "kid art" Darin is holding beneath his chin, and I see a stick figure walking over a zigzag line inside a big box, and above that another box with an orange scribble, the only vibrant color in the piece. The rest is in black crayon.

I rein in my high horse and look down at this little boy holding his drawing like an offering, and I see his shy eyes, and my heart is warmed, so I do the teacherly thing.

“Well, look at that! My, my, tell me about this.” When he hesitates, I go, “Who is this?” pointing at the stick figure.

“That’s you, Mr. Hare,” he explains, and he hesitates further.

“Tell me about this,” I say, pointing at the zigzag line under the stick figure.

“That’s grass. You’re walking on it. You are coming to school to teach us.”

How touching. Now I am reeled in. “So what is this orange?” I ask, hoping he’ll be a little more forthcoming.

“That’s a skyscraper.” He replies with no explanation.

Now I’m asking myself, do I want to go there? How long is this going to go on? It’s the anniversary of 9/11. Is that what this is about? But he has this imploring look on his face, so I ask, “Is there anything else?” hoping to get on with the very important task of running my classroom.

“Well, Mr. Hare, do you have a place where you live?” he asks, in what seems a most odd non-sequitur.

It brings to mind the surprising fact all teachers learn early on in their careers, which is this: Students, young ones, cannot conceive that their teachers have a life outside the classroom. They are shocked when they spot their teacher at a grocery store or restaurant. Jeez, would they ever be surprised to know we sleep in beds and use bathrooms!

So I go with it. “Do you mean, do I have a home?” wondering if he will ask me if he can come over and play.

I begin mentally to plan my exit strategy from this sweet little conversation, when, from atop the high horse upon which I am firmly seated, I hear, “Well, do you have a refrigerator Mr. Hare?”

What?! I am sure my mouth was hanging open, but my bewilderment lasted only an instant; about as long as it took me to take the fall off that metaphorical horse. The thud was palpable. I went right past the thought, “How could I be so stupid?” and right into Darin’s offering eyes.

The noisy classroom activity and my concern over it, the things I thought were so important just an instant before, disappeared, probably in the same way crowd noises do for an athlete during a peak performance. There was just Darin and I. Darin the innocent and I the student.

My heart smiled at the timid request he hinted at in his questions, and I saw that he understood that I understood.

We agreed. I would put his picture on the wall in the classroom for a few days before I took it to its place of honor in my kitchen.

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