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Call me Mufasa
There are some things in education that only those with experience in the classroom can relate to. I don’t care how prepared you feel from your college days, how good your mentor teacher is, or how mean you plan to be; the first year will knock you into a new reality very quickly.
Seventh-graders are, hands-down, the most wonderful, horrific, mystifying creatures walking this earth. For most people, the 7th grade school year leaves such awful emotional scars, they don’t understand why I would, essentially, commit to reliving that year over and over as a career. Yet, since dedicating over a decade to these mysterious humans, I can confidently declare that I would rather have daily interaction with 160 seventh-graders than deal with most adults.
In 2011, I embarked on my first year, wide-eyed and sweaty. Literally. My first week was sprinkled with many unexpected circumstances, both good and bad. For example, there’s nothing like finding a hand written note on the ground, expecting some juicy pre-teen gossip, but then reading, “Why are Ms. Williams’ armpits so sweaty?” Neat-o.
To this day, calling out student names for attendance raises my anxiety level. The last thing I want to do is embarrass a student (and myself) by butchering their name. Though, to play devil’s advocate, there are some very…unique…names floating around.
