I
enjoy substitute teaching because it changes almost daily. I completely control
the schools where I work, the grade levels I teach, and even the teachers I sub
for. Sometimes, my days don’t progress as smoothly as I’d hoped, but most of
the time I enjoy the fact that I get to satisfy the educator within me.
A
few weeks ago, the assignment I took turned out to be different from what was “advertised”.
Instead of teaching a fifth-grade class for the entire day, I found myself
changing grades every ninety minutes. I started with the older kids and ended
my day with first graders. When a principal makes this kind of modification to
the schedule, I simply go with the flow. I don’t mind a little unexpected
variety to my day.
When
I arrived at a second-grade class, the teacher instructed me to finish a
science activity she had in progress and then to shift the students into a
social studies lesson. It wasn’t long before I projected the text on a lesson
about Phillis Wheatley. I read to the class that she was taken from her family
and home in Africa and brought to the states as a slave when she was seven or eight
years old.
And
the assignment within the book stopped at that moment.
“What
do you mean, Mrs. Chapman?” one girl asked. “Were her mom and dad with her?”
“No.
She was brought to the United States and sold to a family in Boston.”
“But
she was little. Like us.”
My
eyes smarted. My throat constricted. “I know.”
The
same little girl continued in disbelief, “But weren’t there those things back
then to protect her?”
“Things?”
“Those
things. Rules. Rules that say you couldn’t do that.”
“Laws?
You mean laws?” My heart weighed down.
Every
educator hits those points in instruction that whatever you say becomes a
lesson that the children will carry with them, possibly for a very long time.
The lecture or instruction becomes unique and pulls away from text or curriculum.
We refer to this as a teachable moment.
“Our
laws are supposed to protect people, but some laws were unjust. Wrong.”
Another
student joined in, “So the laws let people have slaves? How could that happen?”
Another
boy popped out of his seat, “My dad had me Google slavery! We read all of this
stuff together. But you know what it all came down to?” He drew a huge dollar
sign in the air, “Money!”
The
classroom teacher slipped into the room as he made this proclamation. She
couldn’t ignore the tears that smarted my eyes as I continued speaking about
the concept of chattel and repeating again that just because something was
legal didn’t mean it was right or just. From her vantage in the back of the
room, she listened as this room of seven and eight-year-old children grasped
that these horrendous happenings occurred to someone close to their own age.
I
glanced down at my schedule and realized I needed to move onto the next class
on my list. As I gathered my tote, I listened to the kids bombard their teacher
with more questions and knew she’d chuck the remainder of her lesson.
Copyright 2018 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
