Teaching nine-year-olds

It’s been a while since I wrote about my teaching experiences. That’s partly because I’m tired when I get home on Tuesdays, and partly because I am more and more wary of giving away confidences. Some of my parents read this blog, as do members of my congregation. I find the best defense in this case is a good defense: If I don’t write about the kids, I can’t say anything that will get me in trouble.

Not that this class does anything bad. As a matter of fact, they are the best-behaved class I’ve had in my four years of teaching at my synagogue. I realized halfway through October that I had given out zero negative points, and told the students that if they made it to the end of the month without a negative, I would start issuing five points per student per month that they go without any negative points, retroactive to September. Their hands shot up immediately.

“Yes?”

“What’s ‘retroactive’ mean?”

Fourth grade. Nine years old. A couple are already ten, and let me know every time I say “Because you’re only nine years old.” One in particular, actually. Every single time I say, “You’re nine years old,” Hannah immediately pipes up: “Ten.” [Insert silent teacher sigh here.]

Well, they’ve made it through November without getting a negative point, so they’re getting five more points each come Sunday. Sunday is the longer day, a three-hour class, but it is by far the easiest day to teach. On Tuesday, the children have been in school all day, have a brief respite between the end of day school and 4:15, then have to sit in class for two more hours. It’s a pretty long day for a bunch of nine-year-olds. (“Ten!”)

I have figured out my Tuesday strategy. It really helps that this is my best-behaved class, but I think it’s also the experience of my fourth year in class. I know, for instance, that fourth graders like to hide. It drove me crazy the first few years. I’d come into class, and any students there early would hide in various places around the rooms. If I left the room, they’d run and hide as well. Now, I enter the classroom on Tuesdays and say, “Olly-olly-oxen-free,” and watch half the class come out from where they’re hiding, and then say, “I see you behind the door. And over by the back wall.”

It’s funny, really, but every single time, they ask, “How’d you know where I was?” It seems perfectly logical to us, but then, we’re not nine. (“Ten!”) Apparently, nine-year-olds are still at the point where if hey think they’re being incredibly crafty and sneaky, then dammit, they are. It makes me smile every time. I tell them I’ve never forgotten what it’s like to be a kid. That’s actually true. I may not remember nine very well, but I sure as hell will never forget being fourteen.

So, my Tuesday strategy: It’s giving them their heads, so to speak. They’re going to be livelier and rowdier and less willing to delve into serious topics, so we’ll play Jewpardy (knowledge for points; I ask them to tell me the name of a Jewish month or three things about a holiday, or read a short prayer and they get points), write cursive, and leave the heavy-lifting for Sunday classes.

Last week, I got one of the best compliments I’ve ever received as a teacher. It happened after I let out the d-word for the second time that afternoon. I almost never swear around the students. They’re only nine years old. (“Ten!”) Swearing is generally frowned upon by my supervisors. And it’s the one thing they’re going to remember when they meet their parents at 6:15 and hear, “So, what happened in class today?” “Miss Yourish used the d-word!”

After I said it the second time, I said to the kids, “Would you all please do me a favor?”

“Don’t tell our parents?”

See? They know the score. Anyway, I asked them nicely, and reminded them that I was one of the best teachers they were ever going to have, who buys them snacks out of her own pocket before asking the parents to kick in. (Yes, I can pour on the guilt with the best of them.) They were all amenable. Then Michael told me, “You’re one of the best teachers I ever had. I like you because you’re not too hard and you’re not too soft.”

That’s an incredible compliment from a nine-year-old. No, wait. Michael’s ten.