A Day in the Life - 5th grade

I have asked fellow teachers to write about their daily lives in the classroom because I think the public does not have a clear and true picture of what goes on every day in public schools in this district, state, and country. We all hear about the bad, crazy, worn out teachers everyone agrees should go but because of those damn unions and their seniority rules, we can't move them out. Those are the easy stories to highlight and they make good copy in the news but that does not paint a true picture of the vast majority of hardworking, constantly developing, collaborative teachers that exist in my world. I live in a world filled with dedicated, loving, compassionate teachers who work long hours trying to figure out a way to reach each and every student despite the conditions of the school and the pressures from the district, state and federal government.
Without further ado, I am proud to present to you the story of one of those teachers. I hope to have many more to share with you in the days to come.

A Day in the Life by Noelle Ikkanda

It’s easy to hit the delete button. Nobody screams when they’re being erased. And on the computer monitor, state education only appears as dollars and cents -- lifeless -- a reduced reality. Allow me to present this in high definition for a moment. That delete button will be there later, for certain. I, on the other hand, may not be, because I’m a teacher. Live one day with me. Then recalculate the true cost of attrition. Don’t simply set the economics on autocorrect.

Like my fellow teachers, I arrive at school at 7 a.m., an hour before work begins. I flush my sink for the required amount of time, write the daily agenda, check in at the office, photocopy any necessary handouts, and make sure to say “hello” to in my teaching community. From time to time, I even have a student who comes in and finishes her homework with me.

On rainy or very cold mornings, some students get there at 7 a.m. or earlier. The teachers, other school officials, and I open the classrooms and auditorium early so that the students have a warm and safe place to be until school begins.

Before the first bell has rung, we, the teachers, have done all of the aforementioned tasks, graded papers, organized materials, made phone calls, shot out emails, spoken with colleagues, and watered the plants.

I have also greeted each child by his/her name, answered a thousand questions from “Can I go to the computer lab at recess?” to “Will we really have to dance with boys during music class?” I have taken attendance, completed the lunch count, checked in homework (9 missing assignments again), consoled an upset child who has frequent anxiety attacks, taught a writing lesson, read with my students, challenged their brains and encouraged, loved, and respected everyone of them.

The recess bell rings at 10:00 a.m.

By the end of recess, 10:20 a.m., I have loaned out money for a snack, gone over missed problems with a student upset with her math test grade, walked my students up to the playground, run to a meeting for our new library committee, left a message for a parent about an upcoming field trip, hurriedly consumed a yogurt, and used the restroom.

Between recess and lunch, I pick up my students, deal with any issues that have occurred at recess (usually basketball-related), finish my writing lesson, carefully transition those of my students who have difficulty with transitions, go over math homework, teach a math lesson, and differentiate for the different levels of my students -- a colorful collection of 33, four of whom have IEPs, one of whom came in September without knowledge of English. The remaining students run the gamut, from highly gifted to “typical” learners.

As we get ready for lunchtime, cleaning up all of the math projects, putting them into the correct places, I know that I have encouraged, loved, and respected every one of my students.

The lunch bell rings at 11:50 a.m. I am encouraged by this sound, as I always think that it will offer some “downtime” and yet, everyday I am not shocked when it doesn’t. I have made a lunch date with some girls who are having “5th grade girl issues.” We sit and come to agreements over lunches served in Jonas Brothers lunch boxes (not mine). I work straight through lunch, even well after the girls have gone, giggling and speaking of play-dates ahead. When we have the chance, some days my colleagues and I get to meet during the school day. If not, we communicate via emails during the dinner hour -- something my partner doesn’t understand. “They were at work,” I always tell him. “We just didn’t have a minute to talk.”

When the students come back from lunch and all playground issues have been sorted through, there are only 2 hours left in the day. We have science, history, art, and oral presentations to sort through.

Each subject requires our focused attention and my students are eager to begin the final Biology inquiry. Today we take on cellular respiration. Our room is filled with sounds of exploration as bags are filled with yeast, activated from its dormant state. Sugar is added and carbon dioxide is released. The investigation is a hit and the students are engaged. I move around the room, managing each of my ten groups, questioning each based on the kid’s discoveries and understandings. Some groups need more refereeing than others. Some need more depth and complexity in their understanding. The lesson has been a success as students were challenged to think critically and required to make observations.

We fill the remaining hours with hard work. Still, I feel that we are behind, knowing that I will not be able to get to all the projects I have planned. We are digging deep to get through all of the material that will be covered on the second of our three district-mandated science tests. At the end of the day, we write down homework, return tests, gather materials, and pack up backpacks. The school day is done for most of the students, but hardly for the teachers.

By the time the bell rings its final toll and the kids pour out of the classroom, there are stragglers to attend to, parents who want feedback, trash to be taken out and the floor that still needs to be swept; recent janitorial cut backs have created this additional duty for teachers

After “work,” I tutor two of my students who are on the brink of failing 5th grade. Without my extra help and attention, these kids will have to repeat and not move onto middle school with their peers. I spend almost 3 hours a week, of my own time and for free, getting these students back on grade-level. I do this because I want to encourage, love, and respect them. I do this because I do.

By the time I leave the school campus, usually around 4 p.m., there are still a few of cars in the parking lot.

We are not an 8 to 3 crew with summers off. (Actually, teachers are unemployed by the district during the summer months, not “on vacation”.)

I do not know one teacher who does not work in some way over the summer, whether teaching summer school (unfortunately no longer available for elementary school), working at the mall, tutoring, attending seminars/workshops, or creating new lesson plans. Teachers work whether or not students are present and we will continue to work hard even with class sizes soaring, students busting out of the seams of the too-tiny-classrooms. Teachers do what we do because we believe that what we are doing every day is for the benefit of our society.

When I make it home, at the end of this single day, I am exhausted. I carry the day’s projects home in my “teacher bag” and the day’s adventures in my heart. A student of mine has not turned in his homework for a week straight and his parents have not responded to any of my attempts at contact. I fuss over the right way to reach him and fear that he will slip through the cracks. Like many teachers, I fear failure. It haunts me, resting on the faces and in the lives of my students. Will I reach him? This student is one of the kids I bring home from work with me. On my hour-long drive from school to home, I am usually planning strategies to tackle the issues my students face. While at home, for Valentine’s Day, I hand write all 33 of them handmade valentine cards.

This is my day.

This is what it asks you now:

• Who will do this, if I am no longer employed?
• Who will care as much as I do?
• Are we really ready to let over 1,800 teachers go?
• If I lose my job, which is likely, who will greet your child in the morning?
• Can we really let a generation of our future society members be forced into classrooms that are too small and class sizes that are too large for real learning to occur?
• Where is the encouragement, love and respect for our kids?
• It is in my classroom this year, but will it be there in the next?

I fear that in a classroom of 40 plus students, there will be less time for the encouragement, love and respect that I am able to give my current 33. I fear that in a room of 40 plus students, I will not be the teacher I am today.

I love my job more than I could ever explain. The words always seem to escape me when I try. I am not a writer but a teacher. There is no other job that I would rather do, nothing that fills me with more joy than being a part of a group of young people for 9 months and then some. I get to work at 7 a.m. not because I have to, but because if I don’t, I feel that I would not be doing my job. I do not work harder than other teachers, nor do I give more of myself than any other.

No word that I have written is in complaint or from anger or regret, because I would have my life no other way. So how would you have my students live their lives? Who will be there, if not me, at 7 a.m. on a morning of torrential rain to open the door for them? Please help me serve them and in turn, serve the state. This is not an appeal so much as it is the proof of life -- the proof that my day is also the students’ day, which encompasses the parents’ day, and ultimately your day.