Smith-Barnes Choir

Annie

Last Tuesday night Smith-Barnes Elementary School put on a smashing performance of “Annie,” an elementary musical, to a packed house. The crowd was enthusiastic and the cast received a standing ovation.

It all started with an idea and a dream. Smith-Barnes’ own art and music teacher, Charles Clinkenbeard, took on the project with a vengeance. With help from other teachers and the support of the administration, he began holding try-outs for the parts. There was an overwhelming amount of talent that showed up to audition. Mr. C, as the children call him, had some tough decisions to make. After the parts were cast and the stage hands picked, they embarked on their musical journey. Jason Wright, a Title One teacher, took on the role of drama teacher. Zabra Rice, the computer lab teacher, designed and sewed all the costumes. The three spent countless hours before and after school getting the students ready for the performance. The cast and crew worked endlessly on learning the songs, choreography and lines.

The play was performed in the Smith-Barnes cafeteria. The staff had to turn away people at the door because there was no room for them to stand. Annie, a 4th grader, performed by Siennna Chevere, with her enchanting voice gave a stellar performance. The entire cast was brilliant. The play was enjoyed by all who were able to make it into the school to see it.

The students plan to give an encore presentation at the request of Stockbridge Elementary next Tuesday.

SIDE NOTE: Not only did Mr. C have the satisfaction of a job well done, his wife congratulated him by giving birth to their second daughter, 10 hours after curtain call

Cheese Boy

Obsession, fascination, fixation, appeal, favorite, partiality, predilection: cheese.

Have you ever loved something so much that you talk about it all the time? Have you ever loved a food so much that you wanted to eat it every day? Well, Brandon does. He loves cheese. He craves cheese. His little face lights up when he thinks about cheese.

Brandon is a small, lively African American boy, with the cutest, most magnetic, toothless grin that just makes me melt. He bounces into class each morning euphoric and eager. His curiosity and character are contagious. His questions and comments are unexpectedly witty. Even though he is only six, his disposition is quite charming.

The day that I realized he had a peculiar, perplexing interest in cheese was the day they served chili in the lunch room. That morning Brandon stood at the lunch choice board and muttered under his breath with a hint of anticipation “Yes! Chili with Cheese!” and then swiftly, yet carefully, moved his name under choice one. Later, as I was lining up the children for lunch, I could hear his whispers “We are having chili with CHEESE today! We are having chili with CHEESE today!” When in the lunch room, Brandon being the competent little line leader that he was, was in line first to acquire his lunch choice. However, when the trays were being passed out he stood back and let the other children go before him. He just stood there against the wall with his shoulders slumped, his chin on his chest, and tears forming in his disappointed eyes. When I questioned him about his unanticipated behavior, he looked up at me dejected and astounded and between snivels mumbled “but there is no cheese on the chili!” and with that he began to cry. I just stood there in the heat of the cafeteria, bewildered, trying to think of a solution to this never-had-before dilemma. Never had I had a child’s world crumble because of cheese. But I felt compassion for little Brandon. I helped him take his classic yellow lunch tray that contained the cheeseless chili and guided him through the line. As I was walking him to his seat I spotted the staff salad bar - that must have cheese on it – I muttered to myself. I then took Brandon over to the salad bar and scooped up a whopping spoon full of cheese. Brandon’s eyes got wide and his smile grew with jubilation as he watched the cheese start to melt on top of his chili. He sprinted to his seat with his meal, then suddenly got up and rushed back to me, giving me the biggest, greatest hug and exclaimed “thank you Ms. Dubois, I love you!”

And from that day forward the two (Brandon and Cheese) became inseparable. I have had countless cheese conversations with Brandon, about which cheese he likes best, what color cheese he does not like, and which lunch choices contain the ingredient. But nonetheless it always puts a little cheer in my heart when I see his face light up at the thought of CHEESE!

Picture Day

In the fall we take pictures. This is a ritual practiced in pretty much every school in the U.S. of A. This is the time parents can buy their precious child’ portrait. This is the picture that will go in the year book. This is the all important photo. This is picture day. Every year I get a little apprehensive on picture day and this year was no different from any other…

As we are all awaiting that imperative call from the front office, I decided to read my students a few stories so that they would not get glue, pencil, crayon, marker or dirt on their clothes before getting their picture taken... As I was reading I looked patiently at my 20 wiggly, jiggly students. Jordan had a pair of scissors and was impetuously cutting a piece of white paper into tiny little triangles which she instantly placed in her shirt pocket. Joshua was spinning senselessly, spontaneously around and around in circles but staying uncontaminated. Addison sat kris-cross-apple sauce and quiet as a mouse hoping the other kids wouldn’t disturb her perfection. Kelsey was sitting proudly in a chair instead of the floor because she was wearing a new dress. Marlon sat still for the first time in days; it must have been the new hair cut. Justin sat away from the group in his brand new jeans. Earlier, Sarah had shown me her new shoes and Logan arrived beaming with delight because his dad put gel in his hair that morning. Now, Sarah was ripping the Velcro on her shoes repeatedly making an irritating reverberation and Logan was gently yet incessantly taping the top of his own blond head with his fingers.

The rule is, when the front office calls the room, the teachers are to line the children up by height. I have yet to figure out why. I understand why in the spring, because they take a class picture and need to stand on the risers but why in September? But I did it anyways. Barley. It all started with Brandon: “I’m the line leader, I need to be first.” “Sorry, not today, Jordan is shorter than you.” “But who’s going to lead the line?” Then the others joined in with happy chorus: “I don’t want to stand next to her,” “Can I go to the bathroom?” “My shoes are untied; can you tie them for me?” “Joshua cutted!” “Why are we going to the gym? It’s not time for PE!” “He’s taller than me, you put him in line wrong,”“she pushed me,” “Are we going to lunch?” “I’m hot!” “Nadia’s crying because she lost her hair bow!”

We finally made it to the hot, scorching gym…late. We immediately got in line behind a kindergarten class. After putting my class back in height order for the second and third time, and chasing Joshua back in line, each child had the opportunity to sit on the stool, back straight with a big smile. By the time it was my turn, I was red, hot and sweaty from the oppressively muggy gym. By the time it was my turn, my hair was going in every direction. By the time it was my turn, my shirt was wrinkled and bedraggled. By the time it was my turn, the photographer had developed a tick. He promptly flashed his camera and sent me on my way with my jumbled, muddled class. Picture day, is always and adventure.

Foil Boy

One of my favorite parts of teaching first grade is the fact that it is never ever boring. Each new year as I embark on a new educational journey I learn to embrace another set of children and undertake all the peculiar and humorous character traits of each of them. This year I have come across a curiously amusing child named Malachi. Malachi is a relatively tall, lanky African American boy whose big brown eyes seem to glimmer with mischief. In the classroom he is a well-behaved, rather quiet child. When I first met Malachi I considered him to be a typical six year old child, until I sat next to him at lunch.

On the first day of school teachers have to sit in the lunch room and eat with their students. This of course, is torture for the teachers, but it has to be done. Once I settled all my squirmy, restless pupils at the table with their square, classic yellow lunch trays I myself sat down to eat. I took my seat at the end, across from two boys and next to Malachi. What possessed me to eat so close to little boys is beyond me. Little boys are not the most well mannered eaters. It’s not their parents fault, they are just boys. As they wiggled, jiggled and convulsed with excitement of the over stimulating cafeteria, their lunches trickled on to the table, floor and their clothes. After reminding the boys to quiet their sharp, penetrating voices and to close their sandwich packed mouths, I settled in to work on my own lunch. But just as I would take a minuscule bite, an eager hand would fly into the air to tell me they needed a fork, or napkin or something painstakingly important that they had to have at that exact, precise moment. As grape jelly was oozing on to the table, and chocolate milk dribbled down shirts, Malachi sat poised on the bench alongside me. As I was choking down my last bite of sandwich, I felt a slight, subtle tug on my shirt. Malachi asked me if I would help him with his yogurt lid. As I carefully tore the foil off, he informed me that he could make anything out of foil. “Really? You can?” I questioned. “Oh yes!” he replied, beaming with pride. Within minutes Malachi had transformed his yogurt lid into a turtle. Each day since, Malachi finds some sort of foil from the lunch table and makes it into an animal. I now have a rather extensive collection of dinosaurs, snakes, elephants, giraffes, alligators and turtles all made of foil that I will, of course, treasure always.

Open House

The school year began like any other year, with the highly over-rated, dreaded open house. This year was no different and as I looked around I could see the same plastered smiles on each and every teacher, the square tiled floors with a fresh coat of wax, the walls still bare, waiting for another round of carefully written seat work to be taped to their cold, lonely crevasses. The classrooms full of a fresh supply of crayons, glue sticks, scissors and pencils. The desks scrubbed down with a clean, sterile coat of Lysol, awaiting their bright, untarnished name tags. The alphabet neatly glue-gunned above the dry erase boards, vibrantly colored posters of numbers, phonics and classroom rules methodically, strategically placed throughout the rooms to ensure that every child could reference to them. As students and parents began to arrive, I anxiously waited at my door, imagining the year ahead of me, the 10 months I would be liable for a new set of children. I had 17 on the roll, 7 girls and 10 boys. I was pondering what I would say to them, as I recognized how important first impressions are. It was my first chance to gain parental support, create a personal connection with them, to establish ways for continued communication during the school year. Throughout the night it was more of the same superfluous conversation welcoming each parent and child into the, warm, inviting, engaging world of first grade. I chuckled to myself as the majority of the children feigned shyness. I knew that would not last very long. As the evening was winding down the debatable words of the parents were echoing through my mind, “My child loves school”… “My child is well behaved”… “My child likes to draw”… “I would love to volunteer in the classroom.” In all, 12 parents showed up.

I am a first grade teacher

I am a first grade teacher

I give hugs and I give tissues. I give candy and I give time out. I think to look in the toy section for small treasure box toys. I am up on the latest cartoons and movies. I have seen High School Musical.

I write notes home to parents and notes to the tooth fairy. I believe in Santa and the Easter Bunny. I have met the clean desk fairy.

I fix jammed up book bags, crushed up lunch boxes and twisted up shoe laces.

I get excited when I open a new pack of dry erase markers, and I get upset when I lose my favorite grading pen. I’ve been pulled to the side at the airport for trying to take a pair of purple handled fiskar scissors through security.

I am a first grade teacher.

Words such as “blow your nose,” “tie your shoes,” and “please sit down, Joshua” are part of my daily vocabulary. I even find myself talking to kids in the grocery line. Maybe that’s why I don’t take off my name tag until I get home.

When I get home and I empty my pockets, I find erasers, rocks, flowers, quarters, tickets, toys and sometimes lost teeth (theirs; not mine).

I am a first grade teacher.

I can listen to a story about a dead fish while another child tells me he brought his lunch and another child explains to me in detail about how her brother threw up in his bed, all at the same time.

I know the difference between a vowel and a constant, a digraph and a blend, and I can tell the Sprouse twins apart. I know to walk in the third square.

I am a first grade teacher.

I can listen to a story about a dead fish while another child tells me he brought his lunch and another child explains to me in detail about how her brother threw up in his bed, all at the same time.

I call the clock hands big and little, I know “stupid” is a bad word, and I can do the ABC disco.

I have an endless supply of band aids. I forget to use gloves when rushing a child to the nurse with a bloody nose. I think I have head lice.

I own 9 pairs of tennis shoes and no shoes with heels. I wear jeans on jeans day, red on Valentine’s Day and green for St. Patrick’s Day. Once, I forgot to change my clothes before going to the store, on pajama day. Good thing I have a name tag.

I am a first grade teacher.

I pray for my students’ safety. I pray for snow days. I pray that Joshua will sit down. I am thankful there is a vaccine for chicken pox.

I buy books about crazy first graders, talking ducks, and farm animals that can type. I attend soccer and little league games. It never fails, each time I go to the field, I hear a little voice say “hi Ms. Dubois.” I don’t need a name tag there.

I answer to “teacher,” “Miss,” “Mommy,” and even sometimes to “uhhhhhh.”

I am a first grade teacher.

I can add without using my fingers, I can color inside the lines; I can cut a straight line. I am allowed to use the stapler, hole-puncher and the copy machine. I know when to say the magic words.

I get energized for the 100th day, even though I know there is still 80 days left. I dread April 1st.

I have and endless supply of stickers. I am allergic to chalk. I hate glitter.

I know the difference between a noun, verb and adjective. I can make an anchor chart. I always start my sentence with a capital letter and end it with an end mark. I know what an end mark is.

I know when a child does not understand. I know when I am being lied to. I know when a child needs a hug.

I am a first grade teacher.