The first seven weeks

Opening excerpt from a "journal entry" required by the Intern Program; the "Mary" in the second paragraph is my mentor teacher.

Most of the past seven weeks (only seven?!) have felt like a landslide of surprises. All of them have been pleasant, intriguing, or a combination of the two. The most wide-reaching surprise is that teaching young kids involves a set of skills or habits which I love and perpetually practice with adults : watching people closely; trying to understand mannerisms, motivations, and modes of thinking; observing interactions and considering how or why they work or don’t work; imagining how the thinner parts of a person’s character (or modus operandi) might be encouraged to change; and perpetually re-organizing my theories and hypotheses whenever I have new data. I knew that I’ll need this mode of thinking when I start ministry--but I had no idea how important it is for teaching kids!

So many conversations between Mary and I are about interactions, events, and expressions we observe in the kids. We talk about how we read their motivations, and how the other kids seem to perceive them, and about what we might do to change or encourage things. I find this endlessly fascinating, and am so pleased that it’s a part of each day. (Of course, now that I’ve been in Mary’s classroom for seven weeks I feel foolish for never having thought of this before; what did I imagine elementary teachers talked about?)

Another surprise has been about myself. Since finding out that [this program] had hired me, I’d been a bit worried about having to be a figure of discipline. By which I mean, I was afraid of having to say “Be quiet”, “Stop fidgeting”, “Stay in line”, “Do your work”, et cetera. My own executive function is quite minimal, and in the daily life of university, I always felt myself to be on the side of chaos rather than perfect discipline. So what a surprise to learn that I can be quite mean! Or if not “mean”, then at least “strict”.

I attribute this hidden talent to two things: First is the absolute terror of standing in front of a bunch of kids and not knowing if they’ll listen to me or not. This seems to cause a huge overcompensation or overcorrection in the “control” part of my brain. (In the last week or two I think I’ve found a balance here, happily, and am strict but not excessive.) Second is my discovery that it’s easy to help others focus if I find value in the object of that focus. The rules at [this school] are not like the rules that I and other kids/adults struggle with--rules whose motivations are dubious and potential outcomes useless, rules which are enforced sporadically or carelessly. I’ve been so happy to find that the rules (or expectations for behavior) in Mary’s classroom are applied evenly and continually, so that no one can doubt where they stand; the rules have explicit purposes which we can express (“Stop talking now so that everyone can hear”, “Don’t put your bag there because people will trip”); and, most importantly, Mary uses rules which she agrees with and believes in and finds valuable. She never apologizes for them, or hints that some higher authority has decided it’s useful while giving a conspiratorial glance, or applies them only when irritated or tired. Because of her attitude and her skill, I’ve found it easier than I thought to follow her excellent example.

And finally, I’ve been surprised to find that there are many similarities between being in a classroom and being a part of a Christian liturgy. The most practical is the advice my priest, Steve, gave me right before I served as acolyte and chalice-bearer for the first time : “When in doubt, move slowly and look like you mean to do whatever you’re doing.”