Welcome to Kindergarten

The response I received after sharing my news of relocating to New York from Michigan was much the same across the board. “Wow, teaching in New York . . . why?” With expressions muddled with confusion and wonder, my friends and family listened as I explained my motivation for moving to Brooklyn to teach kindergarten. “I need to make a difference – I want to care for children who aren’t receiving much love from home.” That was a lot to ask for, but I had no trouble finding it.

Entering my first year of teaching, I knew that facing challenges and overcoming obstacles were part of the job description. Fitting in with the other teachers and finding a way to overcome my fear of four- and five-year-olds were a few concerns keeping me awake at night. Turns out, I was worried about all the wrong things.

As with any emergency, such as a sinking ship or a house on fire, one reacts with the split second response, “Bail! Bail! Bail! Must get out!” Let’s just say I was in emergency-mode for the entire month of September — 19 days of agony — the details of which are too gruesome to relate here. I came to New York with a bit of teaching experience, but unfortunately my middle-class, well-to-do student body with an organized and happy PTA did not prepare me for what I faced on the first day of school.

I spent my first few months thinking I was doing everything wrong. Why are my children dancing down the hallways? Why are my children leaping over chairs? Why are my children using their middle finger to offend?

I was quick to realize that I had not been prepared to interact with, understand or teach children from Brooklyn. “Hey there little guy, wouldn’t you rather write your name on the paper instead of tearing it to shreds?” Kept shredding. “Do you really think rolling across my floor knocking over chairs is the best idea?” Still rolling. “Tell me what I can do to help you calm down.” Not even a glance.

The truth is, students always smell new blood — they certainly picked me out right away. I was trampled, I was trodden and they saw right through my inconsistent behavior management plan (plan? what plan?) and my structured activities. “You want structure, you want control?” they seemed to mock. “Then come and get it.” These children of lower economic status from unstable home lives quickly inspired me, or rather, forced me to teach differently then I ever could have anticipated.

Coming from Michigan, I had stored up teaching methods and techniques from teachers with whom I had observed and taught. Giving students choices, asking instead of demanding, using a calm and polite voice . . . no no no. That may have worked in Michigan but certainly not in Brooklyn. The first hour of my first day of class promptly showed me that I had no idea what I was up against. My students were whizzing around the room, stealing drinks of water and trips to the bathroom without my permission.

“Five-year-olds,” my friends laughed. “Really, how bad can they be?” They had no idea. I was trying to create and enforce routines and make sure the children knew limits, but I struggled to know how to make them believe me and respect what I had to say. They were simply impossible.

I talked with other teachers (more like pleaded), I observed, and I was quite like a sponge, soaking up each new technique I came across so I could squeeze it out on my class. I learned very quickly to be firm in my word. In fact, I picked up a completely new tone of voice (stern, quite scary). I learned how to give tough love. “Glue your bottom to that chair and start writing.” “You can put those tears away; they’re not impressing anyone today.” What sounded like verbal abuse to me was what finally got my students’ attention.

The children I taught were not accustomed to polite voices, and they were not accustomed to the choices I was so graciously trying to offer them. With a change in tolerance, I was finally able to get through a lesson without a fight, a temper tantrum or some child running laps around my room, hurdling up and over chairs. I was in control, but not commando. I felt horrible in the beginning, but soon realized that my children were more responsive than ever, learning without the distraction of students steamrolling over tables or throwing chairs across the room. Being firm was key.

All of this is not to say that I have these students figured out. My five-year-olds still swear, punch, snatch, give cold stares and refuse to comply, but now I know where they’re coming from. What they have already witnessed is more than I could have imagined at their age and the best thing for me to do is to continue to learn about them in order to help me teach them. Had I walked into my job knowing that I was in for quite a surprise, I could have saved myself a lot of self blame and suffering, but I believe I have become a stronger person because of that. Either that or I’m still making up excuses to justify the nightmare that was my first few months of teaching.

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