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W. Marik

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Posted Thursday, May 31, 2001, at 9:00 PM ET

I am always surprised when the kids remember my name, since substitutes to me seem a lot like patterns in the sand, but this class remembers. "We know that," one of the kids chastises as I write it on the board. This is the first grade, and we have all, clearly, made each other's acquaintance before.

Last time I was here was over the winter, some time after the election and not long after some smart sixth-grader had pointed out that my name, with the addition of a couple of A's, turns into Miss America, a win-win situation all around. In this particular first-grade class, though, Miss America transformed into Mr. President's Wife, understandable, I suppose, though not entirely endorsable. Apparently, no one in this class voted for Bush, which may come as a surprise to both parties. It certainly should come as a surprise to Nader, who swept my unofficial poll.

In any case, they remember who I am, for which I am secretly grateful.

The first subject is writing, and the assignment is for the kids to design a business. They get to work as I wander the room, looking over their shoulders and deciphering their crooked handwriting. I tell them I will only buy stock if they don't have an Internet business, which is just fine since at least half of them seem intent on opening spy shops, a fair number of which also, I assume from the lettering, will be co-owned, or at least co-branded, by the FBI or the CIA. I like teaching the youngest kids. They are funny, eloquent, and they teach me a lot of things too. If there is something they don't like, they will let me know, and bluntly, just as surely as they will also tell me when I am doing well, at least according to them.

What makes these youngest kids most interesting, though, are the things for which they have no words. At ages 5 and 6, they are still struggling to find the language to name the formal things they see. Abstract ideas often defy their vocabulary. And yet they very much exist, a kind of pre-linguistic sixth sense. A 12-year-old will name something, a 6-year-old will know it. The pity is that by teaching one, we tend to diminish the other.

Later in the morning we have dictation, which the kids decide is a little dull. Since they have been giving me the words (action verbs), I tell them it is they who are dull, and not the exercise. They try for better words: run, jump, swim—not exactly what I had in mind—and it occurs to me that they have, perhaps, been taught to be entirely too respectful in a classroom. I give them a lead: "throw up," and soon we are on to "poop" and "murder," and things are no longer quite so dull. They even manage to talk me into giving extra credit for spelling constipated (go figure), which no one actually spells correctly, much to my relief. Try explaining that one to the regular teacher.

After lunch, which every parent in the school will know was spaghetti from the stains on every shirt, we go out to recess, my favorite subject, in which opinion, very clearly, I am not alone. Even in first grade, kids will try to talk the substitute into an extra recess ("But it's better than math!") or use it as a bargaining chip for improved behavior. Somehow these kids have already learned how to negotiate; when I remain steadfast on math, they drop their price to an extra snack, which is probably what they wanted all along.

Recess is all about kickball, to them. To me, it's a much more complicated thing. They are very passionate creatures, these kids, and nowhere is this more evident than on the playground. A bad pitch is cause enough for tears; a caught fly leads to jubilation. I watch them closely because, I know, I am envious. I have lost the ability to feel the way they feel, to feel the way I know I must have felt, and I am sorry for it. They have only learned kickball this year. By the time they learn words like "sportsmanship"—which, don't get me wrong, is essential—they will begin to forget the tears and the jubilation.

"Goodbye Miss America," they shout as they drift out of the playground toward waiting buses and parents. "Goodbye, goodbye," and I am reminded of Charlotte's baby spiders, drifting away in the wind. These kids, though, will come back; tomorrow, next week, next year. Maybe they will remember my name. Perhaps they won't. But fair is only fair; I cannot promise that I will remember them either.

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Posted Thursday, May 31, 2001, at 9:00 PM ET
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W. Marik is a substitute teacher in New York City.
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