LITTLE LAMB

A week before school started I was in my classroom working when I heard a gentle knock on the door. Standing in the hallway was a pretty, petite and visibly pregnant woman with two small children. She held one child, about three years old, in her arms while the other child, a little blonde girl, was trying her best to conceal herself behind her mother.

The woman introduced herself and informed me that the shy girl’s name was Jessica, and that she was going to be in my class this year. Jessica had never had a “boy teacher” before and she was very nervous about it, so her mom decided to bring her in to meet me. Her mother and I spoke for a few minutes and I tried to ease little Jessica’s fears but she wasn’t having any of it. Despite my best efforts to make her feel more comfortable she was genuinely afraid of me. She wouldn’t even look me in the eye.

There’s an old expression popular among teachers that you shouldn’t let your students see you smile until Christmas. Sternness is supposedly a virtue, but I didn’t become a teacher to spend my days scowling at small children. Respect is a good thing and a little fear can be helpful in keeping order, but I didn’t want Jessica to be afraid of me. My job was to make her feel safe.

The first few days of the new school year are always awkward, even for the teacher. Despite my education and experience and alleged maturity, in the beginning of the school year I still feel the same butterflies in my stomach that I felt when I was just a little tow headed, freckle faced kid who’d lost enough teeth to earn frequent flyer miles for the Tooth Fairy. But Jessica couldn’t know that. To her I must have seemed like some angry giant. She wouldn’t talk to me unless I asked her a question, and even then she’d race through her answers as if I might devour her at any moment.

As the days stretched into weeks Jess and I gradually became closer. While walking her to her bus she’d actually reach up to hold my hand, and she even began to give me hugs before she got on her bus. On the playground she’d wander off in ellipses slowly stretching out her orbit, but always return to me for reassurance. She would be safe, she wouldn’t always fear me, but in a way I feared her.

It seems like every year they get smaller. After several years teaching in an elementary school you’d think I’d be used to their size, but every fall I’m amazed by how tiny they are. I try to focus on the curriculum and to concentrate on educating these future leaders of America, but then I see them for the first time and realize they’re only little children.

I’ve worked with teamsters and construction workers. While working at a pizza joint after high school I literally managed felons and strong armed robbers - no one else would risk their lives delivering pizzas in the neighborhood where I lived and worked. I’ve had employees defy me while wearing Nazi uniforms, I had a gun held inches from my face during a robbery, but nothing is as intimidating as trying to lead small children. It’s easy to bully adults. If they don’t listen you can fire them. But you can’t fire your students. You can’t even yell at them or they’ll cry. You’re disarmed. I didn’t want to make Jessica cry.

I could at least offer guidance to boys. I wasn’t exactly an angel myself when I was in school so on some level I related to the bad boys because I could seem myself in them. But a little girl, so tiny, so fragile . . .

Despite my best efforts to maintain a positive atmosphere in the classroom incidents and accidents occur once in a while that quickly blow a hole in my plans. It can be a fight on the playground or an inappropriate comment by a student; everyone has a bad day sometimes. But for teachers our bad days occur in front of an audience and our frustrations are given voice in front of our children. It’s during times like these that I feel most susceptible to falling into the role of classroom ogre. It doesn’t happen often, but after a withering tirade I invariably find myself feeling guilty. Having dealt out schoolroom justice swiftly and effectively I may see the recent offenders of the school rules along with a random assortment of the innocent in tears. Children who did nothing wrong are nonetheless swept up into the maelstrom - children like Jessica. I always do my best to apologize to the “good kids” who weren’t a part of the most recent conflagration but that doesn’t do much good.

A few months ago just such an incident occurred. While picking up the kids after recess I was told that my class had been very noisy and disruptive in the lunch room. Having heard a similar complaint just a few days before I was determined to voice my displeasure when we got into the room. I greeted the class on the playground in silence and with cold stares for the few students who had been mentioned by name. When we got into the classroom I quietly closed the doors and began a tirade that would have made John McEnroe blush. When I finally finished we lined up for a bathroom break. I was already feeling guilty. Despite my best efforts to isolate the kids who had been accused of misbehavior everyone in the class got an ear full. I tried to tell them that I knew not everyone was being bad but it didn’t do much good. I felt terrible.

As we walked downstairs in single file toward the bathroom something happened. Just when I had begun to think I’d completely terrified the entire class I felt something. It was Jessica’s hand reaching up to hold mine. Despite my scariness she wasn’t afraid. She knew I wasn’t mad at her and she may have even known how bad I was feeling. She smiled up at me and my frown melted.

Since that day we’ve had other awkward afternoons. Every teacher must reassert his or her authority from time to time. But I have an unlikely ally now. During those difficult times when I feel like I’m fighting an uphill battle to steer a large of children in the right direction and I’m failing, I find myself looking for reassurance from the hand of that shy little girl.