Observation Day Part of my current class requirements includes an observation at a local school. Now, observations are tricky in this state during the regular school year, and during summer it's even trickier. Mostly this has to do with school availability – there simply aren't enough classes going on within a reasonable distance. The only schooling going on in town right now is at the elementary school; our class is filled with Secondary Ed. majors, so observing wee little tykes didn't make a whole lot of sense.

Of course, that didn't stop us from trying it anyway.

Now, I'm terrified of all little kids to whom I am not directly related. They scream when they feel like screaming. They say wildly inappropriate things. They smell. Which I guess is to say, they're just like grownups but without all the layers of grownup bullshit. And so on the car ride over to the school I had visions of being traumatized by unholy terrors who would peer deep into my soul and promptly rip it out.

After a quick meeting with the principal, we picked rooms with corresponding grades we thought we'd like – which struck me as similar to asking which method of torture we'd prefer. Seeing no difference between bamboo shoots and cold pliers, I sat back and waited for everyone to pick first. When it came my turn I had a choice between 3rd graders and a mixed class of 4th and 5th graders. Thinking back to my elementary school days, I remembered that my 3rd grade year was very, very bad. I hated my teacher Mrs. Jensen. Oh, how I hated that woman and oh, how she hated me. She sure was mean for a grandmotherly type.

Hell, I thought, might as well face those demons. Forget the bamboo and pliers, comrade, I'll take hard labor in the gulag! And so off to 3rd grade I went, prodded and joined by my classmate A., whose sister is a teacher at this school.

After brief introductions with the teacher and paraprofessional, the kids came in, keyed up and sweaty. This class always begins with a community circle, which is designed to start the day on a socially positive note.

As we stood in the circle, a girl with stringy hair and big eyes looked up at me. I smiled. She moved two steps away, hiding behind the boy next to her even though she's the tallest kid in the class. The idea behind the circle is that each person holds an inflatable rabbit head ball, tells the group their name and their favorite place (that second part changes daily), and then passes the rabbit head to the right. When it came to the little girl she passed immediately, and it was my turn.

I stammered. Who am I? How do I want these kids to address me? Until that very moment, I hadn't thought about it one damn bit. I looked at A for support. She shrugged. I looked, panic-stricken, at the teacher.

"Just tell us your name," she said.

"I'm Mr. P.," I said. Forgetting that I was supposed to also share my favorite place, I passed to the boy next to me.

We went around the circle like that, kids telling their names and favorite places, me standing there terrified but projecting confidence. Hey, when all else fails, act like you're in charge.

So I was standing there with my hands on my hips, and soon I felt a tickle on the back of my left wrist. I looked down, and the previously shy girl was trying to stick her head through the gap between my arm and torso. I smiled but moved my hands into my pockets. She pulled my hand out of my pocket, put it back where it was, and stuck her head all the way through.

Panic, Hunter S. Thompson once wrote. It crept up my spine like the first rising vibes of an acid frenzy.

Now, I've never done acid, but goddamn if my spine didn't get chilly as the girl kept playing with my arm.

"Amanda*," Mrs. C said. Amanda didn't respond. Amanda was clutching my wrist and staring at my watch.

"Amanda," Mrs. C. said again. Amanda hid behind me.

"AMANDA," Mrs. C. said, "you are disrupting the community circle. George is waiting patiently for his turn but he can't go because you're not paying attention."

Amanda let go of my arm but didn't exactly stand at attention while George spoke. The community circle wrapped up, and then the kids broke into groups for their reading project.

The reading project basically involved groups of three kids taking sections of a book, reading and/or memorizing lines, and then acting out those lines in chronological order. A and I worked with the same group of three boys because it was pretty obvious they needed help (I should mention that a pretty high percentage of the kids attending summer school at this school have mild to severe emotional and/or learning challenges). As we watched and tried to keep them on track, though, I noticed it wasn't that they couldn't read – one of the kids who had struggled in the community circle could blaze through his parts without any problems – they simply had a hard time concentrating.

And actually, even that's not accurate. Saying they had a hard time concentrating makes it sound like they knew they were supposed to be concentrating. Without being unduly harsh, I'm not convinced these little guys really understood what was going on.

The recess bell rang.

I saw teams forming up in the field beyond the playground. The principal held a red playground ball and was generally leading traffic from the pitcher's mound. Is it? Could it be? Why yes, yes it is. It's a game of kickball.

Once I got within about 20 feet of the field, kids from the class (including two from the reading group) asked me if I wanted to play. I wasn't dressed for it, but try telling that to a swarm of excited kids. Besides, I was planning on playing the second I saw the red playground ball. I can buy new pants; I can't let this experience get away.

A. joined in on our team, too, with a few other adults helping the opposite team. I joked with my instructor, who had come over to watch, that this would be a perfect Adam Sandler moment – just take that playground ball and start beaming little kids in a random demonstration of might. Instead, I kicked a few weak foul balls until finally poking one into shallow right.

A. followed and blasted one into deep right. As I was rounding second base, one of the kids pointed up at me and said, "She kicked it harder than you did!" And as much as I wanted to turn that great teaching moment into a lesson about gender expectations, I was too busy trying to get to third base wearing dress shoes and slacks. I had a kickball game to win.

Actually, there were no clear winners. The principal made sure each and every kid got a chance to kick, and pretty soon the bell rang.

After recess the kids presented their sections of the book. Mostly the kids just got up and read from their book, hopping around the room when prompted either by the plot or by the teacher. Our group was by far the least prepared, but also the most willing to improv. In the midst of a story about an alligator that decides to add children to its daily lunch menu, the kid acting the part of the alligator said, "I have clever tricks and nasty plans, and I'm hoping to find a little child to eat who has a whole bunch of extra chub."

Some of the adults in the audience cried from laughing so hard.

After the presentations we only had a few minutes left, and the kids worked on math flashcards. Once again A. and I worked with the same three boys, who just weren't interested in flashcards. Pretty soon it was time for us to go.

(We returned the next day and observed other classes; this time I went to that mixed 4th and 5th grade class, which presented its own unique set of challenges and experiences – but I'll skip the details on that one.)

Lessons I Learned From Observing Elementary Kids

1. Any activity that lets kids share their personal experiences is guaranteed to have great participation.

2. Boys really seem to need physical activity at recess; they also really liked and respected (as best as that term can be applied to 7 year olds) the teachers/administrators who participated with them.

3. This experience went a long way in alleviating the fears I had about kids. I'm even thinking about dedicating some of my non-existent spare time to volunteering at the local Boys & Girls Club.

4. Elementary education is all about soul. There's simply no other way to put it.


[*Obviously, names have been changed.]  ¶ 11:46 AM