Five weeks ago I skipped a whole bunch of years. I'm talking 40 or so. My new students, the young ones, are in their mid fifties. I can't be exact, but I think my oldest might be nearing 80. I have entered into the world of adult education, and have never been more terrified in my life. Sure, middle schoolers have the potential to randomly snot rocket on top of their desks, punch their neighbor just for kicks, light a bathroom trash can on fire. There are weapons and fist fights and blood and bomb threats. There are nasty notes and vomit and a soiled pair of pants or two. Middle school is scary. Being a middle school teacher is scary. But, teaching people who are experienced and worldly and wise and who have lived a hell of a lot more than your little 25 year old self? Now that is terrifying.
"It's aaaa-lude, not eee-lude. You typed here elude but you meant allude." J. points this out before I even finish reading the sentence out loud.
"You're right. Woops!" This is not the only typo I'll find today, and this makes me cringe. I am a writer teaching a writing class. Typos are for amateurs. I continue reading aloud, scanning for errors and slinking downward toward the floor.
In a 6th grade classroom, if my students weren't so busy hanging off the sides of their desks they still wouldn't have noticed my slip in vowels. My high schoolers might have, but rather than pointing out the error mid-lesson, they have the courtesy to simply snicker after class at the teacher's clear ignorance of the English language. My new students call me out immediately. Every time. Every typo. Every slip. To young students, seeing a teacher make a mistake is a valuable lesson: this teacher is human, she doesn't know everything, it's okay if I make mistakes too. For my new students, I'm afraid every little slip, every little typo just accentuates the fact that I'm only four years out of college. I'm young and unmarried and childless and all I have to offer is the wisdom I've learned from my published professors rather than my own published life.
Before class has even officially begun, J. leafs through the packet I'd made for today's class. I am proud of this packet. It is organized, follows the order of the topics we will discuss. It will make it easier to lunge into the material rather than waste time handing out papers every five minutes. But, there is already a problem on the second page. And J. is not ashamed to point it out.
"If you want to start the opening exercise," I tell the few students who are at least 25 minutes early, "go ahead and turn to the second page where you'll find a brainstorming chart. I want you to brainstorm some topics for your first piece of writing. You'll see columns for listing the conflict and characters as well."
"That is not a brainstorm," J. quips. "A brainstorm is a group of people shouting out ideas together. It's a group activity. This is not a brainstorm."
"Well..." Class has barely started and already my heart rate and blood pressure are inching upwards into dangerous territory. "Well, that might be one kind of brainstorm. Today I want you to do more of an individual brainstorm - a listing of ideas for your piece of writing."
I want to tell him that 6th graders do different types of visual or written brainstorms all the time. We draw bubbles and maps and arrows and write down our ideas so they are there when we forget them three minutes later. But, J. has not been in 6th grade for quite some time. Perhaps he's just not used to the various tricks teachers have up their sleeves to reach all types of learners. Still, I get the feeling he thinks I'm a kid and not the qualified instructor of this course.
But, alas, there are no referrals in adult education. No principal's office or phone calls home. I smile at J. and tell him he can do his own brainstorm out loud when he goes home. Today he will be writing it down.
When your students are older than you, the best defense you have is proofreading your materials seventeen times. Those eyes may be 40 years older than your last group of kids. But, boy are they sharp.
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