By Ashley Kleisinger
Special to NKyTribune
Every year for the past three years, I forget how much I fear the day that IS having my first grade students practice my classroom early finisher stations.
A little background on my role and classroom would probably help you understand the unique position I currently hold at the very elementary school I attended myself.
I teach STEM Lab. It is one of their special area classes. STEM, or STEAM, is all the latest rage in science instruction.
You can read about all its necessary components on Google.
Incorporating all of these necessary components is what causes me to talk to the Einstein canvas in my classroom.
Ashley Kleisinger
I only see my classes for 40 minutes, for 5 days in a row. Then they visit their other “specials” for 5 days each.
Five weeks later – wash, rinse, and repeat.
I see them again for a week, and the cycle of “specials” continues to enrich their little minds with all things art, music, physical education, foreign language, and library related.
“Specials” teachers also like to throw in some reading, writing, and math every now and again so we can use big words like “collaborate,” “integrated,” and “embedded” in our weekly lunch meetings known as “PLCs.”
Most recently, we were told that as a group we would no longer be referred to as “specials,” and instead be called Unified Arts.
This was a very exciting time for us.
A year later, I found I prefer “specials.”
Regardless of our title, you’ll find us in every elementary school around the nation, completely owning the fact that we know more about the 850 kids in our building than any other staff member or team.
If your family has a number of children and stays in our school for multiple years, I probably know your life story and use your child’s middle name when I really need to get their attention.
And these 850 kids of ours, man do they love us.
I mean, I’m talking full-fledged worshiping happens.
In their tiny little lifetimes, their “specials” teachers are seen as the Gods of their crafts.
Especially to the littlest guys, we are held on pedestals with the other all-knowing, world famous professionals in our fields.
Don’t think for a second I don’t have the answers to all your science related questions when I spend my afternoons singing the Water Cycle song.
Please, step right through that door decorated with the life cycle of a frog, let me wash the Oobleck off my hands, and I’ll get right to explaining string theory to you.
I am a scientific genius, just like your 6-year-old tells you.
And it is these very 6 year olds who may very well kill me.
The first full week I see my precious little first graders, I introduce them to my “early finisher” stations.
These are hands-on things around my room they can freely do for a few minutes if they finish their work early.
It should be noted that they do not have STEM in kindergarten.
When they first walk into my room, they freak out at the sight of a 6-foot butcher paper volcano I had made to cover my filing cabinets.
Once they came down from that shocking high, they see a Newton’s Cradle on my desk, and every fiber of their being yearns to get their hands on it and tangle it up.
Some start shaking.
They walk dumbfounded to the carpet, taking in the sights of a Lego wall, hanging models of the Earth, moon, and sun, and a human body model that shows all the inner organs, and I remembered I probably needed to give them a few minutes before I started instruction.
They just point, sometimes speak in incoherent tongues of awe, and I start to explain who I am, what we do in STEM, and watch the worshiping begin.
So a week later, when they return, and I open curtains to reveal never-before-seen hands-on science materials, and some begin blatantly drooling.
When I hold up a pencil with two circle magnets on it, the top one floating above above the bottom one, they gasp as though I’m juggling flaming knives.
One little guy today shrieked, “THIS IS NOT HAPPENEING!!” and threw both hands in the air like a church lady on Sunday morning.
After I spend a droning 25 minutes showing each material and explaining its use, clean-up procedure, and safety measures surrounding it, I give them each their respective materials and the okay to dive in. It’s like watching soccer moms at the Gap Outlet on delivery truck day.
They dive in as though they’re starving hyenas fighting for the last animal carcass in the prideland.
I spend the next seven minutes roaming about the room.
My lesson plans say that is during this time that I suggest different things for them to try, remind them of proper use of the materials, praise proper procedures, and ask higher level questions to scaffold their learning.
The truth is though, toward the end of those seven minutes, you’ll find me hanging out the window, contemplating if it is too high to hang from the sill first before letting go.
I consider the fact that a broken leg is likely worth the freedom.
Because within one set of seven minutes of these early finisher stations, I managed to witness and assist in the following (just to name a few)…
1. Ask student not to lick Legos.
2. Ask students to stop sniffing Expo markers.
3. Kindly explain that what they are laughing at is the human body model’s large intestine, and not his penis.
4. Kindly explain that we don’t say penis at school.
5. Remove a caterpillar magnet that is lodged in the human body model’s heart chamber.
6. Reattach the human body model’s head when it falls off.
7. Place my head into a cabinet, and whisper scream curse words directed at the lifeless human body model.
8. Explain 4 times that if the wire from inside the magnetic test bag hurts when you poke your finger with it, then you should stop purposefully poking your finger with it.
9. Pick up no less than 26 items off the floor.
10. Dodge flying rubberbands coming off Geoboards like a Navy seal.
After seven minutes, the kids switch to a new table with new materials, and I start bouncing around the room, talking to myself to psych myself up like a boxer does in his corner before the bell rings.
I know I can get through two days of this, and then I get the sweet relief of 5 days before I have to do it again.
We all somehow survive the 40 minutes, mostly unscathed.
All but the human body model, whom we call Larry.
As we wait for their teacher, I see Larry’s brain is on the floor, shoved under the large air vent, repeatedly vibrating with its constant hum.
It seems appropriate.
When their teacher comes, it’s praises and happy congratulations on a job well done in STEM Lab today.
When my 4th graders walk in a few minutes later, they seem confused as to why I’m embracing each of them individually, and thanking them for not licking Legos.
And then, 20 minutes later, as they work quietly and responsibly on their assignments, I face the constant struggle that IS teaching “specials.”
While my fourth graders hold an oh-so-special, and oh-so-very needed place in my heart for their increased maturity and work habits, I suddenly want the always hugging, teacher worshiping, Lego licking, and incredibly needy first graders back.
Their innocence, eagerness, and excitement is something to marvel at, I tell you. At least for
40 minutes.
Anymore than that, and Larry and I are risking the second floor window drop.
He’s the only one who understands me most days. We’re heading for the border before that wall gets built.
Ashley Kleisinger is an elementary school teacher in Boone County, as well as a writer. She has been published on Scary Mommy, Her View From Home, and the Huffington Post. You can find more of her writing on her page, Back Stories First.
Voices from the Classroom is a new feature at NKyTribune, thanks to Beechwood teacher Amanda Klare’s initiative. If you are a teacher and would like to contribute to the column, please submit it to judy@nkytrib.com
