My class tends to walk in casual straight line. I know they’re supposed to be super straight, (I see a few (or at least one) intense judgy looks). The problem is that I always think of a Georgia Heard poem I once read. The poem, titled Straight Line, begins like this:
All the kindergarteners
walk to recess and back
in a perfectly straight line
no words between them.
They must stifle their small voices,
their laughter, they must
stop the little skip in their walk,
they must not dance or hop
or run or exclaim.
They must line up
at the water fountain
straight, and in perfect form,
like the brick wall behind them...

See what I mean? Ever since reading that poem, I’ve cared a little less about how straight my classroom line is. I more suggest a straight line than require one. I mean it’s a goal, because it’s technically a school expectation, but it’s not one I’m too fussed about. I do want the kids to be quiet, because there’s other learning going on around them, but I don’t require military precision in our formation.

Unfortunately, lately we have become a large, amorphous mass, taking up more than our fair amount of hallway space. Reminders haven’t been working. It was time to straighten up our act, so to speak.

So, as we headed out to recess one day last week, I reminded the class that our goal was to walk out to recess in a single file today and to be quiet while doing so. We lined up in the room, and after another reminder, we headed out of the room and into the hallway. The class was doing pretty well. I gave them a thumbs up. One student edged out of line.

“Get back in line, G.” shouted N, another one of my students, who consistently vies for my job. It was not even 10 am and this was the 178th time he’d redirected classmates. Or was it the 179th? It should be noted that he doesn’t mind attempting to redirect me, too, if he thinks I’ve gotten out of line.

I pushed repeat on my regular refrain, “N, you’re responsible for you.” Then in a bid to change things up and maybe add a bit of humor to the mix, added, “That’s my job. That’s why they pay me every two weeks.”

Several of the students looked up at me quizzically. Especially O. He opened his mouth to speak, but I put a finger to my lips as a silent reminder. We kept moving forward, down the hallway and around the corner. Our line was looking pretty good, and it was quiet, too!

“Wait!” O. suddenly burst out, a few steps later, apparently unable to do so any longer. “Do you pay to come here or do they pay you?”

I stopped in my tracks and looked down at him. My brain struggled to make sense of what he’d just said. Clearly, I needed to clarify. “O., are you asking if I pay to come to school and teach or if I get paid?”

O. looked at me earnestly and nodded. A few kids near him nodded, too.

After a speechless moment or two, I asked, “Well, what do you think?”

There was a pause and then C. spoke up. “I think you pay,” he said. A few other students nodded in agreement.

Replay that speechless moment or two.

“Well,” I finally said, as I started to move forward again, “This is my job, and most people get paid to do their jobs, right?”

“Yeah,” O. said somewhat doubtfully, “But you had to pay to apply, right?”

“No, actually I didn’t.”

They looked at me like they didn’t believe me, or like I was the confused one. We’d already clearly lost the battle on a silent walk, and to be honest, I’d contributed to the conversation as much as they had. As I gathered up my spinning thoughts (Are they that confused or do they think they’re that cute?), we continued moving forward.

We were out the door to recess before I could clear my head enough to determine if our line was straight or not. I’m pretty sure we were in a clump again, my straight line ambitions blown to the wind.

This all reminded me of an anecdote my colleague shared last year. She was drinking an iced coffee at recess duty. One of her second grade students approached. “What’s that?” he asked.

“It’s an iced coffee,” she answered. “I picked it up on the way to work.”

“Oh,” he said. Then, after a brief pause, he asked politely, “So, where do you work?”