Chicken Soup for the Soul Celebrates Teachers by Jack Canfield

THE FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL
    I t was the first day of school, the first hour to be exact, and I sat at my desk in the front of the room surveying the class before me. The motley crew of five-year-olds scattered in front of me created this year’s kindergarten class. The names and faces change from year to year. They are boys and girls, tall and short, plump and thin. They are blonde and brunette (one is always a redhead). Their hair is short and long. Their uniforms are neatly pressed and wrinkled. They come bearing supplies (everything but the kitchen sink) as well as empty-handed. They are always very different from, yet very similar to, last year’s class and very different from, yet very similar to, one another. However, although each comes in a unique outer wrapping, inside they are all five-year-olds. And I have found five-year-olds to be a very good thing.
    They sat before me, each coloring a paper caterpillar with their name printed on it. This was one of my favorite“getting to know you” activities. I have found through the years that there is nothing children enjoy more than seeing their name anywhere and everywhere. Printed big, bright and bold. They enjoy it; they are flattered and proud.“If my name is here, I must belong here,”their eyes seem to say.
    I studied them with interest noting how uniquely they approached the task assigned to them. Some sat straight and tall coloring perfectly and confidently inside of the lines as if they were modeling for a Norman Rockwell painting. While others looked more like one of the Little Rascals, slouching, wielding each crayon wildly like a sword.
    I rose from my desk and walked around the room offering encouragement through positive words and gentle touches on the shoulder. “These are simply the most beautiful caterpillars I have ever seen,” I gushed.
    As I continued to weave in and out of the desks, a clamor from the hallway drew my attention. Another class was passing by my doorway on their way to gym. I did a double take as I realized it was not just any class but my kindergarten class from last year, this year’s first-graders. I paused and watched as they scampered by, some of them waving. They had outgrown me. My heart melted and a lump formed in my throat as I watched them. A flood of memories washed over me. How they had grown! They had stumbled in last year so young, so insecure with wide eyes and cowering shoulders. And throughout the year they had grown, and by June their eyes became sure and their shoulders straight. As the line of children dwindled, the flood of memories dried leaving just a drop in the corner of my eye. I sighed and wiped the tear away with a quick hand.
    â€œTeacher?” My thoughts were interrupted. Last year disappeared.

    â€œTeacher?” persisted a voice from a straight and tall, inside-ofthe-lines colorer in the front row. “If we are caterpillars now,” she asked with her blonde ponytail bobbing, “will we be butterflies when kindergarten is over?”
    I smiled at her as she tilted her head to admire her perfectly crayoned caterpillar. “Yes, Lauren,” I said, reading her name off the page. Her eyes darted to mine at the sound of her name. She smiled and blushed, surprised that I knew it.
    â€œYes,” I said again, smiling to myself enjoying the irony of the thought. I savored the image in my head for a moment longer, then as fast as the last first-grader flew by my door I said, “Yes, I believe you will be.”
    And with that, I somehow had a new understanding of the work set before me for the next ten months—nurturing wiggling little caterpillars into beautiful baby butterflies.
    Christine Pisera Naman
Excerpted from Once Upon a Classroom
    (Thomas More, Spring 2004 Release)



A TEACHER’S LAMENT
    Is it already August? It blows my mind.
    Soon we’ll be back to the same old grind
    Of putting up bulletin boards, papers and such—
    Who knew