*

*

Praises to the kindergarten teachers! Here is an article from my teaching archives.

Carlitos’s twelve-year-old cousin warned me about him before school started. 

         “He’s really bad,” she said in her lilting Mexican accent.  “He don’t listen to nobody.”

         She was right.  The first three days of kindergarten, this little dynamo only wanted to play in his newfound heaven of toys and kids.  The fact that he spoke only Spanish had nothing to do with his wayward behavior, since he would ignore his own name.  Carlitos did not want to have a moment of silence or a quiet time after lunch, and he certainly did not want to sit still and listen to stories in a foreign language.

         The first major meltdown must have happened in P.E. because I soon got word that Carlitos was crying and didn’t want to go to the gym.  But that was just the beginning.  In less than a week the rosy glow of kindergarten’s novelty wore off for this five-year-old.  There were too many rules, too many people saying, “do this” and “don’t do that”, and way too much English.  Staying home with mom was much more comfortable.  So Carlitos became a crier.

         Carlitos cried when his parents put him on the bus.  He cried when he got to school and he cried on the way to his classroom.  Just when he’d settled down to “pintar” (color), an activity that he liked, along came another teacher to take him away for ENL class.  Then he cried some more.

         Usually it was Mrs. D., my ENL student teacher, who picked up Carlitos and a handful of others from the upstairs teachers and walked them to our improvised classroom on the stage.

         One Monday Carlitos was having an especially hard re-entry after the weekend at home.  I could hear him wailing as I led my group of students up the stairs toward the hallway between the main building and our end of the school.  At the top of the stairs, we all stopped short.  Mrs. D. was trying to keep one hand on the sobbing Carlitos while preventing her little group from walking into the pool of his vomit.  Carlitos continued to weep and wail and choke while the nurse, and then the principal, came to investigate the ruckus.

         One of the steadfast custodians was called for clean-up.  Principal Mrs. K meanwhile ascertained that Carlitos was not ill, only overwrought.  She took him for a wash in the boy’s room.  The rest of our brood, considerably subdued, made its way to the stage and began the daily calendar lesson.

         Soon Mrs. K appeared with Carlitos, who was still shrieking in major Spanish decibels.  She brought a chair to the edge of the carpet, saying to the pint-sized siren, “Carlitos, this is the crying chair.  You may sit here until you are finished crying.”  She put a box of tissues on the table beside him and a trashcan next to his chair. 

         The class was agog.

         In between gagging and retching, Carlitos wailed on.

         “Quiero mi mami!  Quiero mi mami!”

         The rest of the kids were frozen by the display, so much so that there were no sympathetic tears, just wide eyes and awed silence.

         Over the piercing noise, I made a futile attempt to be heard.  Holding up a letter card, I said, “This is the letter D.  It sounds like /d/.”

         Not a head turned my way. Not an eye blinked.  I forged on.

         “Here’s a picture of something that begins with D,” I called out, louder now, holding up another card.  “It’s a kind of pet—“

         “Quiero mi mami!” Carlitos screamed and vomited into the trashcan.

         “—that says ‘woof, woof!”

         “—mi mami!”  Gag.  Wretch.

         Ms. G., the basic concepts teacher, poked her head around her door, stared for a moment, and retreated.

         I looked at my watch: twelve more minutes of class.  Reaching behind my chair, I grabbed my guitar and checked the tuning.

         “If you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands,” I warbled.

         No response.

         “If you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands.”

         Two heads turned.

         “If you’re happy and you know it—“

         Slowly the heads of the kindergarteners rotated toward me.  Some hands clapped.

         Carlitos’s volume lessened.

         Second verse: “nod your head!”

         Carlitos’s crying was equaled by some voices singing along.

         Third verse: “stamp your feet!”

         The wailing changed to whimpering.  We finished the song with a flourish: “jump up and down!”  Everyone but Carlitos jumped up and down with vigor.

         Ah, the power of music!  Pete Seeger would have been proud. That legendary folksinger has always claimed that music can make a better world.  It sure worked for me.