Class Acts

It started the summer after third grade. I corralled my sister and some hapless neighbor kids into playing makeshift school. As a bossy soon-to-be fourth grader, armed with an official, recently purchased teacher kit (chalk, slate, ruler, and pointer), I rode herd as teacher, never once relinquishing that pointer. However, contrary to what my sister alleges, I have absolutely no recollection of rapping any knuckles with that stick.

I popped with pride in my ‘teaching’ that summer. Homemade worksheets weren’t good enough for my students. After teachers at the local elementary had cleaned out their rooms that year, I dumpster dived for genuine mimeographed practice sheets.

Years later, as a high school student, I landed my first paid gig teaching music notation in the basement studio of my piano teacher’s house. Each Saturday morning, fresh-faced kids packed the classroom, chanting notes, and practicing keyboarding on their fold-out cardboard keys.

I eventually found my way into teaching as a career. The first day of the only year I taught kindergarten, I opened the classroom door and was blinded by a flurry of flashbulbs. I basked in my diva moment as parents and grandparents wielding cameras stood with eager students dressed in their new outfits, clutching shiny lunch pails and backpacks.

Many years later, I taught reading and language arts in the College of Education at the University of Arizona and mentored student teachers in local school districts. Passing on the torch to the next generation of promising teachers, I closed the circle begun in that pretend neighborhood summer school so many years ago.