best month of the year

March Madness has arrived. Some of my current friends don't understand my love of the game of basketball. It's funny to me because I grew up in a family that loved this time of year...and with friends who loved this time of year. We were looking at Tourney brackets when we were in 6th grade, picking our favorites and talking every morning about the results. This weekend has been thrilling--way too much time spent in front of a television, but it's March! It makes me miss coaching.

Anyway, more March memories...

March is a horribly long, painful month to be a 2nd grade teacher. In Los Angeles, there is no February vacation or "ski week," it's a straight haul from New Year's til Easter. January and February passed quickly, as Sara's school prepared for the Black History Program. Afternoons were spent learning the African dance that her 35 smiling 7- and 8-year olds would perform in front of their family and friends at the end of February. An African dancer Sara was not, so many days the music teacher or a few 8th grade girls would come and collect her class for practice in the gym. Sara would get a few minutes of quiet to herself, grading papers or planning the next day's math lesson.

By March, though, all of that was over. Days were spent confined to the four walls of her classroom and the kids were usually restless. To top it off, the month of March meant the Season of Lent in this Catholic school, so a week was spent explaining why the students would all get ashes on their forehead and why they couldn't rub them off, even if they itched. The rest of the month was spent trying to answer questions about the crucifixion and the Ressurection--big topics for 8-year old minds.

And if March is no fun for a 2nd grade teacher, the month is an even bigger problem for her kids. One boy in particular seemed to be having a rough go of it. Reginald was a bright kid--one of the smartest in the class. Focus, however, was not his strength. It seemed like every time Sara turned around, Reginald was on the floor. Not being particularly loud or disruptive, but he certainly drew some attention. Patiently (well, usually patiently), Sara would ask him to sit in his chair and do his work. By the end of the week, Sara realized that all this rolling around was leading to no work from Reginald. Math sheets were half done and workbook pages empty. He could not sit still long enough to get anything done.

The following week, it was more of the same. Finally, as she was about to tell Reginald in a less than patient tone to sit in his seat and do his work, she looked from the math book on her desk to the smiling boy rolling on the floor. Taking a deep breath, she picked up the book, sat on the floor next to Reg, handed him a pencil and quietly told him to get his work done. In the end, after all, it mattered more that the work got finished, right? Just because Sara's own 2nd grade teacher, Sister Daniel, made her class sit up straight, 2 feet on the floor, looking straight ahead, that didn't mean that Sara's classroom had to look the same way. She needed to quiet Sr. Daniel's stern voice in the back of her head and do what was best for her students.

For the rest of the week, Reginald did most of his classwork on the floor. When the kids worked in small groups, Reg's group worked on the floor. Sometimes, everybody worked on the floor. It was less than conventional, but they were learning and they were having fun. Sara spent less time correcting students on their behavior and more time teaching them how to use adverbs and regroup with subtraction. She was learning that being a teacher meant more than transferring and building knowledge. It meant knowing your students and doing everything necessary for them to be successful.

not much of this makes sense to me, river leaves (happy frappy, guster)