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| Sixth-grade me |
I have returned to middle school. Willingly. Cheerfully, in fact.
In the past few weeks I've made the transition from elementary school teacher to middle school teacher. I'm at the school down the street, where the fourth-graders I once taught are now sixth- and seventh-graders. We're growing up together. And while I adore elementary school culture, with homerooms and Friday morning assemblies and recess every day, I'm feeling right at home with lockers and pep rallies and P.E. every day (which requires no whistle from me).
In some ways, I've been preparing for this role since 1982, when I started sixth grade at Belton Junior High. My life at home was often challenging, but I was soothed by the hours I spent each day at school.
I loved everything about it: changing classes, making new friends, singing with the choir. Most of all, I adored my teachers. They were my refuge.
Mr. Finney conducted his singers with passion. He told goofy jokes. He asked interesting questions and remembered answers and made strong connections with his students.
Mrs. Emmert taught math with passion. She talked quickly. Chalk flew from her fingers onto the green board. She had high expectations for her students, and we didn't want to disappoint her.
Mrs. Creek taught reading and writing with passion. She encouraged us to explore multiple genres. She pushed us to write with clarity. She celebrated our progress.
Those adults were heroes. I've carried them in my heart for 35 years, and those fond memories helped lead me to my own middle school classroom.
Of course, life is significantly different today. My students can't imagine a world without smartphones. (Some don't even fathom the concept of a home telephone.) They have no understanding of a television that receives four channels via rabbit ears and needs to be changed with a manual dial. They've always heard the words "social" and "media" smooshed together.
Yet preteens are almost exactly the same today as in 1982.
They visit in the hallways.
They get flustered when their lockers won't open.
They want to be recognized as individuals, and at the same time they want to completely blend in with the crowd.
They laugh at goofy jokes.
They rise to high expectations.
They blossom when an adult celebrates their progress.
They are mercurial creatures, each and every one.
Some people are slightly frightened of a mass of middle-schoolers (I myself and slightly frightened of a room full of kindergarteners), but I'm fascinated by them. They are forming strong opinions and express them with vigor. They are a developing a sense of self-awareness, trying to figure out where they belong, which group they should join or which group they should create.
They're a little like puppies with long limbs and big paws: eager to move and explore, yet still unsure of how everything connects and how much space they take up in the world.
Every middle school student deserves a Mr. Finney, a Mrs. Emmert and a Mrs. Creek to provide levity, define boundaries and encourage excellence. I'm thrilled that I get the chance to pay homage to these heroes.
Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. She can be reached at tyradamm@gmail.com.
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