Preferential Seating and You (Part Two)

Hey, it's a school! A school of sardines. I'm winking at you in an exaggerated fashion right now, via the internet.

Anyone reading this blog feel as though they've got a lot of extra space in their classroom? Anyone? Just, you know, raise your hand... lots of room to move around... empty desks...

(crickets chirping)

Ah.

I got to chat a little with one of our mainstream teachers today, taking a small bite out of his already short prep period. I still marvel at the many teachers I meet who give of this precious time so gracefully. When approached during those measured, quiet minutes of thinking and planning time, my reaction is similar to a cat who is approached by another cat while eating. A growl forms deep in my throat, giving warning to all those nearby that I'm feeling threatened; if the intrusion continues, I bat repeatedly at the interloper's head with both paws (!) until they go away and I can resume my photocopying.

To the point: this teacher is a prince of a human being: a gentleman who always greets me with a smile, even when it's early in the school year and he knows that I'm walking up his ramp to nibble away at his prep time. He knows I'm stopping by to add stress to his life. He would be well within his rights to greet me at the door with a can of pepper spray.

Stepping into his classroom, I look around. Desks. More than thirty desks. They have been pushed into neat rows, tight walkways winding their way up and down. There is, maybe, two feet of space between the frontmost desk and the whiteboard. There is, maybe, two feet of space between the rearmost desk and the back wall. Near the entrance, the teacher has carved out a small man-cave of space, replete with books and teaching implements: yardsticks, hole-punches, small brass devices for calculating the position of the stars while saving the world each day. A large table is covered from end to end with large stacks of photocopied something.  I ask if I can help with anything while we talk, tilting my head towards the stacks of something. He politely declines my offer of help, much as a drowning man might politely decline the offer of a thrown life-preserver from the side of a rescue vessel.

I am struck by how many kids -- how many brains and bottoms -- must occupy those seats during any given lesson.

During my most horrible, run-crying-to-the-union school years, I've never counted more than thirteen heads in my room during morning attendance.

This teacher says: "On your student's first day in my classroom, I don't think I actually made eye contact with him once during the entire time he was here. The other kids with special needs consumed almost all of my time, attention and energy during our lesson."

I forget, sometimes, how much - how much, how many, how? Just - how?

My entries on preferential seating will continue in a future "Part Three" with all those tantalizing details that I teased in my last writings. For tonight: just this simple thank you to all the mainstream teachers who take on so much for so little. I feel honored and humbled to work with you.