The First Day

Yesterday was THE first day and I'm still alive to tell about it.

The short of it:
I forgot my lunch.
I hate the seventh and eighth graders.
The eighth graders never shut up (of course I have them first period every day) and I was shocked at the immaturity of the gifted seventh graders.

I freaking love the third and fourth graders.


The long of it:
I taught the whole day.  This is not at all normal, and all week I thought it was a big ask, but once I arrived at the school I was excited about it.  Each class period went like this: I wrote my name on the board and was introduced.  (I had the little kids repeat my name a few times, getting louder each time.)  I invited them to ask me questions about myself, with the warning that it was the only day they would have the freedom to do so.  In the eighth grade I was asked both my height and my weight, but I was expecting much worse, so I was happy.  Afterwards, the students saw a one-slide powerpoint of pictures of my family and were invited to ask any additional follow-up questions.

I then did a 10-minute lesson on Venn Diagrams and was surprised to learn that even the third graders were very familiar with them.  Then I put them in pairs and they did Venn Diagrams of themselves, which I thought was a very cool activity if I do say so myself.  They learned things about one another they didn't know and I got to associate interesting things with the students and their names.

The fun of it:
After class, one eighth grader ran after me and the following is our conversation.

"Miss Peaches, are you and your boyfriend getting engaged soon?"

uh hem.  "What?"

"Are you and your boyfriend getting engaged soon?!"

A sign of my maturity is that the response that flashed through my mind was, "WHAT DO YOU KNOW, WOMAN?! TELL ME WHAT YOU KNOW!"  What I actually said was, "Hmm, I don't know- why do you ask?"

"Because it would be romantic."

This word, romantic, was said in the swooniest voice I have ever heard.  It was adorable.  Maybe I liked some of the eighth graders.

----------------------------------------------------

My next class was awesome, a mixed third and fourth grade gifted class that- very unfortunately- I only have once a week.  When asked where I go to school, I always followed it up with "Who has ever heard of My University?  Raise your hand if you have ever been there!"  Then I would ask each child why s/he went there.  One third grade girl responded, "My mom had a drug delivery."  Maybe she's a pharmacist?

My favorite comment of the day came from another third grade girl.  During the Q&A, one child asked this question: "Are you Hispanic?"

Dear Reader, if we have never met, you cannot possibly understand how funny this is.  I am The Whitest Girl Alive. I've won awards for being So White.  So white that when I was in England I kept joking that I felt "home."  So white that the color of my CoverGirl foundation is called "Translucent," and it ain't clear, folks.  I looked at my mentor teacher, The Whitest Girl Alive Runner Up, with a huge smile and said, "Believe it or not, I am not Hispanic."

It was at this moment a very angry, very tiny hispanic girl with long, curly hair jumped out of her seat and ran toward the board.
"Ex-cuse me! But this name is hispanic!" She yelled at me.


I slowly turned toward the board confused about what this poor, confused child was seeing.  I glanced at my own name, written as soon as I walked in.

Señorita MostEnglishLastNameEver

I managed to mutter, "Um....well...that name is English...it's from- it's from England," unsure whether or not the kids even understood that was a place.

"No, THIS name!"

My eyebrows furrowed as I turned around again.

She was pointing to "Señorita"

I like the third graders.