Not Just Yet

“Some people play very, very well just so they won't get embarrassed.”

– Lynn Swann, American Football Player, Sports Commentator

This morning I was called to sub at my children’s school. Because of their reliance on teaching assistants and the number of interns they have from Lesley University (the campus surrounds the building), the school doesn’t require as many substitute teachers as some of the other schools in the district. I was glad that Friday is the only day my kids don’t have Physical Education, so I wouldn’t be their sub. Last year, my son was proud when I subbed his music class, but this year he once mentioned that he didn’t know if he liked the idea of me subbing his class. I knew this time would come.

My son let me borrow a real whistle when I taught gym many days last spring, but I haven’t been able to locate it since this school year began. This is only my third time subbing gym since September, so I haven’t missed it. Besides, I’ve been lent an alternative, an olive plastic whistle that must’ve come with an army set my son received when he was four-years-old. It’s okay, but it’s not loud enough to make all the students stop in their tracks.

When I got to the school, the secretary gave me the plans. It would be “open gym”, which means that the teacher sets up stations, in this case:

jump ropes

hula-hoops and hoppers (A bouncing ball with a handle)

Nerf footballs

basketballs

Unfortunately, the office and equipment doors were locked, and by the time the custodian opened them, the first class had already arrived fifteen minutes earlier than expected. This made the class run less like a well-oiled machine because they filed in before I gave them the instructions.

Below is my shpiel that I gave late, but was able to say to the other five classes before we began:

“Hi. My name is Ms. Milstein, but you can call me Ms. M. Mr. (Blank) couldn’t be here because his son is sick. You may recognize me because my two children go to this school. We will start with three minutes of running, then we will do stretches, and after that we will get to the four stations. Do not touch any of the equipment at the stations until I give you permission. If you need to use the bathroom or get a drink of water, ask me before leaving the room because it’s my job to know where you are at all times.”

Then I gave instructions for running. After stretching, I gave instructions for stations. When any of these steps are skipped, chaos ensues. No teacher wants to bark out commands for forty-five minutes because twenty kids are doing things that you won’t allow (Running the wrong way, sliding, slamming into one another, using the bouncers as weapons, tying jump ropes to bouncers and hula hoops, sneaking into the equipment closet, and sneaking out of the room). These are all rules that the regular PE teacher has gone over, but they will “forget” when they have a sub.

A kindergartener asked, “Your name is Mizzum?”

My cursed New Yorker mumbling. “No, Ms. M.”

“What?”

“Miss (big space) M.”

“Oh.”

All day, children let me know that they knew my kids or me, and how they knew my kids or me. The six classes were third, kindergarten, and first-grades, so they were young, and tended towards silly and inappropriate comments:

“Do you dye your hair?”

I actually answered this. “No I have grays sticking out.”

“I have two wiggly teeth.”

Don’t lose ‘em and bleed during class.

“Thank you for being our teacher today.”

That’s a first.

“Are you the gym teacher’s mother?”

Yes, that’s EXACTLY how the system works, and YES, I look that old.

And I got A LOT of:

“Watch me.”

“Look what I can do!”

“Will you play with me?”

The three groups after lunch ranged in age from four to six, but I wouldn’t know it from the comments:

“My knee hurts.”

“My foot hurts.”

“I’m too tired to run.”

“Are we in a nursing home?” I responded each time. Then I’d add, “If you can’t run in the beginning of class, you’ll have to sit out when we get to stations.” Their maladies were quickly forgotten.

Often, I’d find a gaggle of girls, gabbing instead of gyming, so I’d say, “It’s not called conversational education, it’s physical education.”

When I’d catch students misusing the gear, I’d say, “Use the gym equipment for good, not for evil.”

Each class gravitated towards different stations, which caused different issues, like who was encroaching on whose territory and who was hogging which pieces, but all in all, the day went well. I even had children who had reputations for being difficult (I’d seen a few in action over the years), but they were dreams for me. Especially with young kids, it didn’t get much easier than this day.

I saw my son’s teacher near the end of the day. She said that she was taking off on Monday, and that my son told her to request me to sub. I doubt she will, and if she did, who knows if the Gate Keeper will assign me, but it was nice to know that my son isn’t embarrassed by me. That time hasn’t come just yet.

Numbers

“I watch the ripples change their size

But never leave the stream

Of warm impermanence and

So the days float through my eyes…

Time may change me

But I can't trace time”

- Bowie, David, Song “Changes”

Yesterday, I finally got another job at the high school, this time for Math, which wasn’t a subject I could be of much help, but it was in my favorite Learning Community. On the way out the door, I longingly eyed my bicycle, regretful that there was too much snow on the ground for me to feel comfortable riding to school. Perhaps it should hibernate in the basement until spring, instead of being a prop for snow shovels. When I was an assistant, I walked to work every day. This fall, I regularly rode my bicycle, but since November I’d done little aerobics and my skin beginning to react like one of those memory foam pillows with the plush top.

The classroom was near the office and easy to locate. (Huzzah!) In the room, the plans indicated that I’d have three blocks (as expected), which would entail one Pre-Calculus and two Mathematics 2 classes, whatever that meant. Last period, in Mathematics 2, had two students I’d previously taught in the fifth-grade, who had been high achievers, so I hoped that was a good sign. At least all of the classes were small. I could take on ten to thirteen students, right?

First period, the students were quiet, but bored. Most did their work, some so quickly that they began their homework packet. Others were lethargic. Two fell asleep. Since I was at the tail end of a cold, and my daughter had a nightmare at 4:12AM from watching the “Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince” DVD, I was tempted to join them. I wasn’t on top of my game, and feared I’d slide even lower as the day progressed.

One student asked, “Is there an answer key?” I told her there wasn’t and was tempted to add, “Don’t look to me for help.”

Second period had a support teacher in the room as well. I think the class would’ve run smoothly anyway, but it was nice to have an extra person.

I thought about going home during my long break, but decided to stay to write and read. Truthfully, the thought of walking to the car, driving home, doing chores, driving back, and walking again seemed like too much exertion. Because I’d been at this school a number of times, I decided to be social for lunch and eat in the teacher’s room. I could say it was cold or use a dynamic adjective like frigid or glacial, but I’ll just say that the ongoing construction, with the adult-sized rubber doggie door through the glassless window would make eating in the room analogous to picnicking outdoors on a day when snow refused to melt under a cloudless sky. No wonder the room was bereft of teachers. I microwaved my lunch and fled.

My favorite thing about working at the high school (besides the relative maturity of the students) is that there’s a Starbucks across the street. This wouldn’t be much of an anecdote except that a police officer was at the cross walk, and when he stepped out so I could cross, a car missed him by inches. When the officer made her roll down her window, I thought the driver was going to give her a ticket, but instead he reprimanded, “Don’t look down when you’re driving, even for a second.”

During last period, my former students had a tough time grasping that I was:

1) Not working at the old school in the fifth-grade although I

was standing right in front of them.

2) A substitute teacher, even though we’ve greeted each other

in the high school halls over these past months.

I guess students picture their teachers frozen in place, in the same way that teachers imagine students frozen in time. In kindergarten, my son thought his teacher lived in the classroom, waiting for students to return because she only existed as “teacher”. For me, it’s a jolt to see former students in the future, older and taller and different. These tenth-graders are light years from the children they were a mere five years ago.

While the students’ physical and mental changes are more obvious, I think back to who I was five years ago, teaching Poetry, Word Study, running a reading group, and also teaching Social Studies to fifth-graders for the first time. Back then, I didn’t understand how young ten and eleven-year-olds really were, and I expected more than I should have. I’ve gained much confidence in my teaching abilities since that year. (I’m also a calmer parent, though that may be because my children are older and easier rather than self-improvement). Five years ago, I hadn’t yet let myself be a writer. When I look at it that way, it feels like I’ve accomplished a lot in five years. What will I accomplish in the next five years?

My Work

“Knowledge truly is power and literacy is the skill that unlocks the gates of opportunity and success.”

- Barack Obama (President of the United States and also a Red Room author)

This quote appeared on the homepage of http://www.redroom.com/

This is my ninety-eighth post in three months, today marks the three-month anniversary of my blog, and I have thirty followers. (Don't ask me how many hours I spent yesterday changing the template and font colors, especially when each post didn't take the new color and all of the paragraphs were spaced too far apart, so I went into each post to fix them. But now my blog is easier to navigate). I’m wondering what my blog has accomplished and what I hope to achieve as I continue.

As I’ve mentioned, in September I began this blog to share my zany life as a substitute teacher, going from tucking in three-year-olds for naptime to teaching twelfth-graders Advanced Placement Chemistry. My alter ego is the superhero, Substituteteacherwoman.

Before I became a substitute teacher, I never imagined I’d become one. After I started, I thought I’d quickly obtain full-time employment or at least a children’s book contract. Almost a year later, because of the economy, I’m still doing the same job (which is actually a different job every day) and there’s no end in sight. It could all change in a flash, but that moment hasn’t arrived.

Most of my posts are about teaching, but many are devoted to writing (Writer), family (Domestic), and often, a mix of all aspects of my life (Miscellaneous). My fewest posts are under the label “Writer”, though that’s what I consider myself because each post is a writing exercise and most posts touch on my writing. I’ve logged hundreds of pages on this blog, and I’m wondering if the life of a substitute teacher, my life, would make an interesting memoir. And like good memoirs, I need to be honest about my life, but want to avoid being exploitative. Just like fiction, I need to experience personal growth. What is the end to my story? I believe it hasn’t yet come, so I’ll spend more time contemplating the value of the endeavor. Perhaps if I begin the manuscript, it will be like anything else I’ve written, where I don’t know the end until I’m there, and at that moment, it all comes together.

Red Room has announced a two-day contest to write about “My Work Blog” and the winner will get their blog sent out to 25,000 members. But my post needs to mention what I want out of winning this contest. So, what do I want? I’d like to get a job interview that turns into full-time employment teaching Social Studies, but I doubt Red Room can help me to that end. If I win, and this e-mail goes out to agents and publishers, I hope that something about my blog will impress them and…. you never know.

Surveying the Squares

“There is no neutral ground in the universe; every square inch, every split second is claimed by God and counter-claimed by Satan.” – C.S. Lewis

When you think of Cambridge, do you think of Harvard? That’s the only place I was familiar with before my husband and I considered moving here. We vacationed in Boston many years ago, and as part of our trip, we took the T (train) over to Harvard Square in Cambridge. At the time, my husband was in graduate school, and I said, “If we ever have to move, let’s go to Boston,” because it reminded me of Queens, NY, where I lived as a child and where we lived after we were married. My favorite memories are of the two years we lived in Forest Hills in Queens.

Years later, we finally considered moving. My husband, son, and I took a trip to visit a friend in Cambridge. We drove through rundown parts I’d never seen down Prospect Street, through Central Square, but I still loved the area, so we moved, and my husband began his post-doctoral work in Boston.

Harvard Square is the most picturesque, though it has its share of poverty as evidenced by the homeless people that congregate in a couple of areas. One person has a sign asking for donations in order to support her and her cats that live on her cart.

There’s Kendall Square to the east, which may at one time been grimier when it was full of candy factories, but with MIT and biotech companies in its vicinity, it’s nice and clean, and quiet when office hours are through.

To the North is Porter Square, which kisses Harvard Square, has lots of nice shopping, and a more suburban feel (Read, large parking lot). It’s where businesses move from Harvard Square when the economy is doing well, and its rents go up. When the economy goes down, businesses migrate back to Harvard Square. Porter Square boasts a deep station that rivals the London Underground (And demonstrates how out of shape I am). And, for some reason, my friends who live there rarely want to meet at any other Squares.

Inman Square is small because it has no T, but it’s as close to my place as Kendall and Central Squares, but I still like it with its practical and quirky stores, and a few good restaurants.

I’m not counting Huron Village, which doesn’t even have the word “Square” and whose shops sell items out of my price range. I remember looking at the first floor of a house for sale in that neighborhood and saying, “They’d never let me move here.”

If I had to say why I hold Central Square dear, it would be the conversations overheard there. Just this afternoon on the way to the bank:

Hobo One: “I got all of these cuts and bruises on my arms and shoulders, but I don’t know where they came from.”

Hobo Two: “You were out cold! The police had to drag you away.”

Hobo One: “No shit?!”

Another time, on the way to the same bank:

“You’re a big fat bitch!” screamed a standing man to a woman sitting with another man on a park bench.

“Fuck you, you skinny bastard!” she yelled back.

“Go to hell!” the man bellowed, and then stomped off.

The woman turned to her bench-mate and said in a syrupy voice, “I’m sorry. He’s my husband.”

Maybe I should switch my bank location.

This summer, my husband, daughter, and I were sitting on the expanse of grass in front of Town Hall, when a man who’s always in the area with his boom box, was sitting on a bench below us, playing Motown near a couple in the midst of an argument. I don’t remember the problem, but at some point the man took a vodka bottle in his pocket and slammed it onto the ground. His woman was upset over the loss of said vodka. The man left for a few minutes, to return with a fresh bottle of alcohol and they made up. Ah, love.

My husband and daughter witnessed a scene between a well-dressed man and a napping, homeless woman in Dunkin’ Donuts. The man woke the woman and asked for money, which struck my husband as odd, since it seemed that it should’ve been the other way around. When she refused, he kept hollering, “Give me some money for a hamburger!” Apparently, each time my husband daughter go into that Dunkin' Donuts they witness some altercation.

Today, I stopped at Walgreen’s after the bank. While I was on line, a large man walked through the electric door. At the same time, (apparently) an advocate for the man entered through the revolving door and began to yell at my cashier, “This man is handicapped. He has a wheelchair, but he had to walk in because of your door!” I didn’t understand what the issue was since there’s a handicapped button. Was it broken? Couldn’t the advocate hold the door open while the man wheeled through the entrance?

“Do you want me to get a manager?” asked the cashier, barely paying attention.

“No,” said the large man, disappearing down an aisle.

His advocate was not satisfied. “Yes. He’s going to fall and his brains will be all over the floor.”

I decided to leave to avoid seeing the brains and went on my way.

The Square isn’t scary, but it is gritty, and full of wealthier Cantabrigians exiting the T to go to the tony Cambridgeport area, students going to and from MIT and Harvard, and others heading to my neighborhood. Then there are the homeless and/or alcoholics with familiar faces who populate the streets, often haggard and unkempt. While diners eat at tables in front of restaurants, the indigent are seated on the other side of the rope boisterously chatting away. Enter Supreme Liquors to get a survey of all Cambridge residents, from those buying expensive wine behind the locked case, to those buying lottery tickets from money they’ve begged for on the street, to all of us in between. Central Square is Cambridge.

“I have an affection for a great city. I feel safe in the neighborhood of man, and enjoy the sweet security of the streets.” - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Breakfast and Other Calamaties

"'There is no use trying, said Alice; one can't believe impossible things.' 'I dare say you haven't had much practice,' said the Queen. 'When I was your age, I always did it for half an hour a day. Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.'"

- Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

This has been a long Christmas break because, as a family, we spent about thirteen days together. My husband worked two days in this period, but he didn’t log in his usual number of hours per day. Yesterday, my thoughts were, let the children go back to their classrooms; my husband can go back to his lab and I will return to subbing. But I was sure that I wouldn’t work the first day back after a long break because few teachers are going to need a mental break after a vacation and how many could possibly be sick? I’d get to stay home and recover from my cold while the snow melted.

Still believing this, I got up today at 5:25AM, but took my time showering. Standing in my underwear, I was about to choose my casual shirt, when the phone rang. The Gatekeeper gave me an assignment at the school I’d just subbed at before break, where I seem to be getting the most gigs. Since it’s an early school, I made the mad scramble to finish getting ready, wake the groggy kids, put together breakfasts and pack lunches for the children, and pack my bags.

I arrived at the school just before the bell, and was told by the secretary to wait while she printed plans. Since I didn’t have high hopes there would be plans, I was pleasantly surprised. I’d subbed for this Humanities teacher once before, and I didn’t mind the middle school here, though I wasn’t thrilled about how gleeful students were that there was a sub when they poked their heads into the classroom. Because this school has a block schedule, I’d have a long break and long classes.

Near the end of my morning break, I went to grab breakfast out of my bag to find out that I’d forgotten my yogurt. All I had was lasagna, a V8, and two clementines for the whole day. I didn’t even take a granola bar that could replace breakfast because I didn’t want to be tempted to eat too much. I considered asking the Spanish teacher for whom I’d subbed for just before break, since she’d offered me snacks in her plans, but I hadn’t taken any. I decided that was NOT professional.

The teachers’ room! I’d spent all of December 23^rd making photocopies in that room, while students and teachers had piled the table with cakes, cookies, and sweets. Surely there was something left. I sped to the room, only to find an empty table. On the shelf were: a ketchup packet, sugar and sugar-free packets, salt and peppershakers, and a box of baking soda. I wasn’t that desperate. Then I found a can of soup with a note that read, “Free. Take me.” I felt like Alice in Wonderland. Unfortunately I was without a pot, bowl, or can-opener, though I had a spoon for the yogurt I’d forgotten.

I returned to the classroom in defeat, wondering how I’d handle a two-hour class with only two pieces of fruit and one stuffy nose. Then I ate my clementines.

The eighth-graders were a little difficult to settle, mostly because the assignment packet was confusing. The teacher had said it was a “pretest” and they should separate their desks even though the packet instructed “group discussion”, so I had assumed they’d already brainstormed play ideas. Turns out, NO. Because they thought the work was stupid, the eighth-graders were noisier and less focused than usual. Great.

The second assignment was to do a short story on a time the student had stood up to something s/he thought was unfair or unjust or create a fictional story. I shared two memories: one about my sister’s friend, a graveyard, and a swastika; the other when I was in a creative writing class in high school, and called a lesbian by a jock who asserted that all gays should be shipped to their own island because of Aids, and I disagreed with him. These tales got their attention, so most of them began writing immediately. I walked around, encouraging them to keep writing and to refrain from talking.

One student wrote while he talked to everyone around him.

“You’re an enigma,” I said.

“A what?”

“An enigma. A mystery wrapped in a riddle. You’re the only one who does his work while he distracts others. Everyone else either quietly works or talks and does no work.”

He smiled. “I like that. Will you write it down so I can put it on my My Space page?”

I wrote it down. After that, he talked less.

By 10:20AM, my stomach grumbled, and by 11:20, I was ravenous. After class, I had Advisory for fifteen minutes, and then rushed to the teacher’s room to eat some lasagna. When I got there, half a coffee cake, some cookies, and four Lindt truffles had mysteriously appeared on the table. Where were they when I needed them? I swiped a truffle just before the start of the next period, because although there was no sign that ordered, “Eat me”, it was implied. I think.

The seventh-graders began with their Word Scavenger Hunt assignment, rather than the confusing one, and after several minutes, everyone was working quietly. I shook my head when I saw that most students struggled finding words in the dictionary.

“It’s not here,” more than one student said regarding cheerful.

“I don’t think any dictionary would skip that word.”

“Has anyone found nervous?” a student called out.

There was a chorus of, “No!”

“Under sad it says ‘dull’, but that means ‘stupid’,” two students insisted.

“Look at the other definitions for ‘dull’.”

“I can’t find sorrow,” a student said.

“It makes me sorrowful that you can’t find sorrow.”

“I can’t find mournful,” I student complained.

“That’s because you spelled it ‘mornful’. It’s not like morning and night.”

When we got to the play assignment, I had it be a group discussion, which worked better, and I hoped the teacher didn’t mind that I veered from her lesson plan. I left my usual note, giving details of the day. Then I left to pick up my children, drive home, take some medicine, and eat a snack.

Resolute without Resolution

“Sally: AND, I'm gonna be forty.

Harry: When?

Sally? Someday.

Harry: In eight years.

Sally: But it’s there. It’s just sitting there like some big dead end. And it’s not the same for men. Charlie Chaplin had kids when he was 73.

Harry: Yeah, but he was too old to pick them up.”

- Film “When Harry Met Sally” 1989

In the last month, I’ve made an effort to peruse more blogs about writing and teaching. I’ve noticed that in the last few days nearly all of them have declared a New Year’s Resolution or list of them* (one was tongue-in-cheek**), which, at first, took me by surprise. I confess that I almost never think about making a resolution until it’s too late. Invariably, someone asks me on New Year’s Eve or New Year’s Day, taking me unawares. “I don’t make them,” is my usual reply.

The truth is that I don’t want to make them. Lose ten pounds? Exercise? Yell less? Organize more? I make these resolutions nearly every day, and then fail to exercise them nearly every day. Each September, when it was “Back to School” time, I’d resolve to be more organized, do all of my homework, and become a straight A student, but it wasn’t until college that I attained these goals.

January 1^st is an odd time to make a change because it doesn’t feel much like anything new has started (except for snow), though between Halloween and Christmas, there’s too much excess, making us feel like we should slim down and shape up. But my issues are larger than my appearance (I know, shocking). And my resolution is coming up near the end of March when I hit a BIG birthday. Truth is that for sometime now, I’ve wanted something to change by then, and I’ve been working towards it.

If you’ve read my blog, my goals are obvious: get a full-time teaching job, land an agent, and be bestowed a coveted publishing contract (A decent advance would be nice too). Since last March, when I turned one year shy of the BIG birthday, and had recently started subbing, I’ve been working hard to step up my game on the writing front: editing manuscripts to death, reading books on writing, following advice from agent blogs, and beginning my own blog. I can’t make jobs appear out of thin air, and with a Master’s degree plus thirty credits, I’m not even sure what to do to improve my marketability other than getting known (and doing the best job I can) as a substitute teacher. And although I can’t (legally) force someone to love my query or writing style, I’m being as critical as I can about what I write.

Since I lost my old manuscript exchange partner, I’ve relied on family and friends for feedback. No more. Now I’ve gotten a new partner, and we have guidelines and deadlines. I’m excited to be working with a writer again. Her query blew me out of the water, and so I’m inspired to improve my query. I’ve also resolved to make more contacts (and perhaps start a local critique group. I have all of the paperwork to begin through NESCBWI) in my area, so the conference I attend in the spring will be more fruitful. I’m also on the volunteer list for the NESCBWI spring conference.

There’s a conference in New York this summer for female bloggers, called BlogHer, and I’ve been toying with the idea of attending. Do I have enough followers to even consider it? What do I want out of my blog? What would the conference do to that end? These questions elude me. It’s another expense, and I don’t know if it’s worth it, but I need to decide by February 28th to get a discount. I fear that each attendee would say, “How many followers do you have?” Then they’d ask me about Twitter, and I’d feel woefully out of my league. At least at writers’ conferences, the usual question is, “Are you published?” and since most aren’t, it doesn’t feel like such a failure, though with each passing year, I’m getting more anxious.

I’ve been hearing a lot about blogs asking for six-word memoirs because a book just came out compiling a bunch***, and there was also a call for six-word New Year’s resolutions, which I didn’t know about until it was too late. Mine would be:

Want my life to take off.

Let’s see if I can accomplish this by the end of March.

*http://daretobedomestic.blogspot.com/

**http://www.vodkamom.com/

***http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0061719439/ref=s9_simp_gw_s0_p14_i1?pf_rd_m=ATVPDKIKX0DER&pf_rd_s=center-2&pf_rd_r=1195RAC9EBCF895M5V8R&pf_rd_t=101&pf_rd_p=470938631&pf_rd_i=507846

Raised Right

"This is an earthquake issue. This will change our state forever. Because the immediate consequence, if gay marriage goes through, is that K-12 little children will be forced to learn that homosexuality is normal, natural and perhaps they should try it."

– Congresswoman Michelle Bachmann (R-MN)

During the last presidential election, I was excited to be teaching because it was the first time I had greater control over lesson plans. The teacher who shadowed an autistic student in my class offered to get me ballots and “I voted” stickers since her mother worked at the polls, which I thought was a great idea. I decided we would do a mock election, talking about the candidates and ballot questions beforehand, and sharing the results the day after the election. The fifth-graders were excited too, paying attention to the candidates and the issues.

As expected in Cambridge, the results were pretty one-sided. John McCain got one or two votes, the Rainbow Party candidate received one vote, and the rest went to Barack Obama. One of the ballot questions asked whether to change the possession of a small amount of marijuana from a felony to a misdemeanor. This passed, making one of my students cry when I announced the results on the rug. Although her classmates didn’t know, I knew that she lived with her father because her mother had substance abuse problems. I tried to soothe the girl by saying this wouldn’t change the consequences for people with using more dangerous drugs. It’s hard to know student secrets and adequately address their needs in front of others.

After national and Massachusetts election results were covered, I was ready to move on when a student asked, “What about Proposition 8?” For those of you who don’t know (living under a rock) that was the “California Marriage Protection Act” to determine whether or not gay people should still legally be allowed to marry. This was not something I wanted to discuss with ten-year-olds. As a teacher, it’s my job to keep my opinions out of discussion as much as possible. Ten-year-olds tend to echo their parents’ opinions, and may or may not challenge those beliefs when they’re older. As a Social Studies teacher, I’m supposed to open the realm of possibilities, so they don’t take ideas they’ve been spoon-fed for granted, and make their own decisions. This is why I’d rather teach older students.

“The gay marriage law was overturned, which means that gay couples will not be able marry in California for much longer. And there’s a question whether those who did get married will still have valid marriages.” I was hoping we could move on, but these students had more questions. And they always wanted to know my opinion. While I tried to keep my opinions out of my lessons, they knew I have a live and let live philosophy. I’d brought it up when teaching them about the importance of separation of church and state, especially in light of what had preceded the amendment.

“I don’t want to tell adults they can't marry,” I said. “If they’re not hurting anyone, it’s not my business. I know some people don’t believe it’s right because of their religious beliefs, but I don't believe they should force their beliefs on others.”

A girl raised her hand, so I called on her. “But if we let gay people have children, they won’t be raised right.”

“That’s not true,” blurted another girl. “I have a gay uncle.”

I looked over the sea of impressionable students, who were looking to me and who could relay whatever I said to their parents. It was a room with a mix of twenty children who represented about thirty nationalities and religions. And in that sea was one adopted child with two fathers, but none of the other students knew that. How was I to deal with this issue without offending any child or parent who disagreed with the family unit of that boy and his fathers, while not damaging him? Whatever I was going to say, I had the space of a sigh to answer.

“How many of you are raised by just one parent?” I had a smattering of hands. “Keep your hands up. How many of you are raised by someone other than a parent? Keep your hands up.” I paused. “Look around. It’s almost all of you.”

I continued, “When I was a child, almost all of my friends were raised by two married parents. Do you know that thirty years ago, you would have been the exceptions to the rule instead of the majority? Do you know that your families would’ve been judged by most people for not having the right kind of family?”

The boy had no change in expression, and I made sure to not look at him any longer than the other students as I surveyed their attentive faces. I lowered my voice, “Any place where you are cared for and loved is family. It doesn’t matter how you’re related, just as long as you are loved.”

Many of my students come from fractured families with drugs, alcohol abuse, prison, and having babies too young, making one parent or both parents unfit to raise their kids, and so someone else takes them in, not always benefiting these children. What’s the likelihood that grandparents who didn’t do so well with their own children will do better with their grandchildren?

Then there’s this boy of gay parents, a straight A student who did every assignment thoroughly, with perfect penmanship like he’d gone to Catholic school, and who doodled guns and soldiers in the margins (Just like my son does). He always participated in class and was one of the only children I could seat next to the autistic kid because he could put up with his idiosyncratic behavior. It could’ve been any child with two fathers, but it wound up being the model student and person, debunking the myth he wasn’t “raised right”. Sadly, he had to hide who he was from his peers because of preconceived notions about the legitimacy of his family.