“Do you teach middle school because you failed out of college and can’t teach high school?” a perky seventh grade math student asked a friend of mine who teaches middle school math.
“No, I teach middle school because I like middle school students.” Silence. Shock and awe among the masses.
Similarly, when I’m winding through an epically long grocery store line, sitting on an exam table, or reporting at a class reunion, I dread the inevitable question: “So, what do you do?”
People are stunned, really, to find there is a culture of teachers who not only choose to teach in middle schools but actually prefer it. And my response to their question usually elicits one of two types of responses:
1. A lineage of suppressed middle school memories pour out, usually including popular classmates ruining lives, sitting alone at lunch every day ruining lives, dreaded teachers ruining lives, or parents’ staunch rules...you guessed it…ruining lives.
2. Or, there’s the weird benediction: “Bless you. You do the work of the saints.”
My own middle school path was treacherous, to say the least, and involved the common adolescent phenomena of existing on a sine curve: “The best day ever!” or “The worst day ever!” I had my share of bathroom cries, door slams, and obnoxiously high-pitched shrieks. I survived, and reflecting, I thrived.
In fact, it was in middle school where—between getting braces and getting grounded—I fell in love with books and started finding my voice as a writer. My English classes opened my eyes to a huge world beyond the small town of Dunlap, Illinois. My middle school English teachers got me: hook, line, and sinker.
From middle school on, I knew I wanted to be an English teacher, but I envisioned myself enthroned with a Ph.D. (and maybe a scepter), mesmerizing high school seniors or college students with Renaissance poetry, gliding my pen across dozens of term papers contrasting Realism with Naturalism in American literature, counseling students carefully about “real” problems like where to go to college or how to get published. And to my disgust, I was placed in a seventh grade classroom as part of my Illinois teaching certificate requirements.
Under the guidance of a master teacher (with several advanced degrees himself but no throne to be seen), I witnessed the daily magic of working with middle schoolers. The classroom discussions were rich and inspiring; the students were astute and hilarious. They were candid, honest, insightful, and they certainly weren’t afraid to ask questions, take risks, and call me out if they sensed I was in the least bit unprepared. It was a challenge of stamina every day, intellectually and physically, and it was the greatest challenge I had ever experienced. Hook, line, sinker.
Now in my fourth year of teaching middle school English, there is nothing I’m not willing to try, including that Renaissance poetry I so love. There’s nothing more important that showing students the difference between a Petrarchan and Shakespearean sonnet and having them see those differences and eventually compose their own quite good sonnets. But I also get to dabble in the ridiculous, which middle schoolers always love, like having students recite Emily Dickinson poems to the tune of the Gilligan’s Island theme song. (It works...ever tried it? It’s hysterical.) I see students’ eyes illuminate when they “get” what happened the night of November 21st in To Kill a Mockingbird and those same eyes fall when they realize Atticus is going to lose and an innocent man is going to jail. I see the horror in their eyes when they finally realize what, exactly, is happening inThe Birds (not a bedtime read).
We read together. We write together. I get to know these students in a way that, at this age, even their parents often don’t. Nothing is too hard for them to imagine; there is no dream they can’t accomplish. There is no way they are going to survive the week if so-and-so keeps talking about them behind their back. It’s the best day ever. It’s the worst day ever. It’s sandwiches stuck in braces. It’s a privilege and an honor to work with them. It’s my job. I’m so lucky. Hook. Line. Sinker.
By Paige Sweet
Writing Exercise...
Bouncing on an Empty Stomach
Nothing was certain during those first years. Even the simplest of lessons (circle the noun or underline the verb or please write your name in the upper right hand corner) couldn’t be trusted. Anything was bound to happen: a fire drill, a lock down, a loss of electricity, an overheard projector malfunction. Jada forgot her pencil. Or, Adam forgot his meds. Or, Darius forgot his deodorant again. And today, with the Louisiana humidity that could penetrate even the thickest of concrete walls, the smell in your classroom is pungent and sour. It makes you gag. You realize that you should have had the foresight to wear a bandanna around your nose like the cowgirl teacher you want to be. Lassoing, wrangling, whipping sense into these unruly minds. Nothing was certain. Nothing was quite predictable. Insanity, yes. That was certainly predictable. But not its route, not the course it would take.
Nothing was certain during those first years. Except this. For whatever reason (because you’re young or stupid or eager) you insist on plunging into the hormonal hellfire of a middle school brawl. Girls on girls. Boys on boys. Sometimes, even, boys on girls or girls on boys. The logistics never mattered. Sixth graders. Eighth graders. Special ed. Regular ed. It is you who would abandon your classroom. As if to say to your class through the language of the honed teacher-look you deliver before you run out the door: Be good. Be still. Keep writing. I’ll be back once I bounce these fighting knuckleheads out of my hallway. It could be anywhere. Your classroom, the hallway, the gymnasium, the basketball courts. You take ownership over whatever space you occupy. You’re allowed to, you decide. You’re new. You’re young. But, you’re a teacher. And you will not stand by and watch even the most idiotic of adolescents beat each other while everyone else, teachers and students alike, stand by and take it for a show.
The administrators will continue to say, “Ms. Field, just stand back next time. Shout ‘Stop, stop’. That’s all we require of you. No need to get yourself hurt.” But, you’ll continue as a bouncer. Because of adrenaline or because you know that this is one surefire way to defend your authority.
# # #
It’s just past six thirty. The sun is mildly creeping upwards. A haze shrouds the sun, draping its offensiveness. Never mind the studies that repeatedly report that yes, in fact, adolescent development would appreciate a school day that began at a decent hour. The bell will ring at its programmed time, in just a few minutes, and our day together will start, whether anyone is ready or not. Once a week I stand on these basketball courts with three other teachers. We are to spread out. Spread our dominance over chaotic quadrants of students. Boys to the right, girls to the left, and separated by grade. Sixth, seventh, eighth. I’m always on the boys’ side. Ms. H. is always on the girls’. And the other two, when they show up, stand somewhere near the door and away from the kids. They sip coffee, yawn and talk about the stuckness of their careers.
I walk up and down the rows of the boys’ side. I’m like a warden, clasping my hands behind my back and lifting my chin toward the hazy sun. It’s just me and Ms. H. The other two won’t come out until the bell is thirty seconds from ringing. I suppose it is their veteran status that gives them this leniency.
There is more chatter from the girls’ side. It swells in crescendo. They are clearly more awake, or someone is stirring drama.
The boys’ side stands unaffected. There’s R. I was responsible for his expulsion last year. Once, he fell asleep in my class and when I gently roused him he lifted his hand, cocked his thumb and pointed his index finger right at my chest. He fired several imaginary shots at me, lifted his head, yawned and got back to work.
“How’s it going, R.?” I ask. “Good year so far?”
“It’s a’ight,” he says backing up toward the chain link fence. He’s eyes are half drawn shades. He’s sleepwalking or high or both. I continue my rounds.
There’s B. He was transferred to my class when he couldn’t hack it in the Advanced English class.
“What’s up, B?” I say. He high-fives me and smiles. “Do your homework last night?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” he says. “Did it like a rock star.”
“All right, B. See you in class.”
I continue to weave up and down the rows and address crucial issues like dress code and gum chewing. Spit it. Tuck it in. Pull them up. Hand it over. Put it away. I’m a series of incessant imperative phrases.
I look over to Ms. H. and the girls’ side. There is a cluster in the eighth grade section. Clusters are usually bad news. And then, the earrings come out. This is the worst indicator of all. Something messy is about to go down. The first girl rips out her hoops, throws them to the concrete below. The second girl hands her earrings to a friend who stands behind in support. They are each doing a familiar dance. Catcalling out to one another, inviting the other to start the show. Ms. H. is in between these girls. She looks so small. I eye my rows of boys as if to say: Be good. Be still. I’ll be back once I bounce those girls off these courts.
I run to join Ms. H. “Ladies,” she’s says. “Cool it. Not here. Not now.” Her arms spread to make invisible boundary lines.
“Back up, ladies,” I say. “This is not happening. Calm it down.”
The first girl, the one whose hoop earrings on are the ground, charges toward the other. I swing around her so as not to become swept into the messy vortex. I grab her from behind. I must look like I’m administering the Heimlich maneuver. Neither Ms. H. nor I know these girls. We can’t use their first names. “Uh uh,” we say. “Nuh uh, oh no. Oh no you did not.” We sassy up our dialect. It’s what happens. We can’t help it. But then Ms. H. goes quiet because my girl, the one I’m bear-hugging is already there, in the eye of the hurricane. Ms. H. is on the ground. I can see this because I’ve levitated upwards toward the hazy sun. I’m a parasite on the Girl With The Hoop Earrings. Feeding off her intensity. Yelling into her ear, “Stop! Stop it! Back down.” Imperative phrases are the most assertive. My cheek is nestled into her hair. It smells like strawberry. My stomach, prompted by my nose, sloshes in its emptiness. When your feet aren’t sure when they’ll touch down to the ground, you don’t interpret this sloshing as innocent hunger. It becomes nausea. It makes you sweat the kind of cold clammy sweat that comes before you pass out. Ms. H. climbs up the other girl like a tree. She swats Ms. H. away with her fingernails, which have been recently pressed on with glue. Ms. H. tucks her chin and uses her hands for eyes. She’s standing now. Our faces are close, but mine is still higher up. I’m still waiting for my feet to drop. The hazy sun becomes a pointillist painting. I’m no longer a bouncer. I’m bouncing on the back of an eighth grade girl.
# # #
Nothing was certain, except for the fighting. Those were bound to happen, and we, the young or stupid or eager new teachers stepped in. Every time. But, we couldn’t have predicted the divots in Ms. H.’s wrists. Or that she would have to be taken to the hospital for insurance purposes. We couldn’t have predicted that this morning of all mornings I should have eaten something. Bouncers don’t pass out on the job. “For Pete’s sake, ladies. You’re too little to be getting up in that mess,” the Principal would say. “Next time stand back and yell. Jesus. Stand back next time.” And then he laughs.
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