Why elementary school is so much better the second time around

Some of the best friends I made this past semester were seven years old. Tuesday afternoons were the highlight of my week as I headed down to a local elementary school to spend time with these kids.

 

The after school program started off with snack time. I sat with my second graders at our table and talked with them about field trips, school, friends, movies, and whatever great stories they happened to invent.

As we got to know each other better over the course of the semester, some of the kids became adamant that I would sit by them during snack time. One day, my second graders decided that there was a “girls’ table” and a “boys’ table.” And in second grade, cooties are a very real danger.

“Nay, come sit with us!” a little girl yelled as I approached.

“No, Mrs. Nay, sit by me!” pleaded a little boy.

I stood between the two, torn because I didn’t want to play favorites and risk making some of my little friends hate me. But the girls made my decision for me by surrounding me and dragging me to their table – it’s really hard to resist a cute little herd of girls grabbing your hand to sit by them. Not to be deterred by the girls’ triumph, one little boy decided he would rather break a social taboo than not sit by me, and he moved to the girls’ table amid taunts from both genders. I’m not that far removed from second grade to forget how important peer approval was and how hard it was to do something you’d be taunted for. So I was impressed and touched that my little friend would rather be teased than not be able to talk to me. Maybe those kids thought I was doing them a favor by sitting by them and helping them open their water bottles, but I was really the one that was being served as the love and friendship they extended to me touched and healed my soul.

Recess was our favorite part of the whole afternoon. When the kids were turned loose to go outside, a little girl would usually grab my hand, or a little boy would run over to me to make sure I was going outside with them to play and not staying inside doing boring grown-up things like the teachers or other tutors did. The kids never grew tired of playing tag (although they had unusual names for it – “evil” and “the touching game.” I think I’ll stick with the more politically correct appellation of “tag.”) I inevitably was “it” every time, and the kids screamed as I chased them onto the playground and up the jungle gym. From the top of the equipment they would taunt me “You can’t get me, Nay!” But they weren’t completely confident in that assertion, for they’d squeal whenever I got near. Being the fastest runner, I easily passed on the tag, but no matter how many times I tagged one of the kids, it always came back to me. Something about being the big kid makes you everyone’s target.

Inevitably, a child or two would run up to me in the middle of the game, tug my jacket and ask “Can you give us a push on the swings?” I would dive for and tag the closest kid, temporarily passing off my tagging responsibilities and giving myself approximately forty seconds to push the kids on the swings before my tag-playing mob rushed after me.

A couple of times, our tag games got a little rough, and more than once I had to take a student inside for a band aid. But sometimes the band aids were needed less for physical scrapes and more for obtaining one-on-one attention from an “adult.” But I was fine with that and gently covered owies where no skin had been broken. I like to think that those band aids were healing more than just scraped hands.

One day at recess, during our usual game of tag, one third grade girl began trying to climb on my back for a piggy-back ride. I am still perplexed as to why she thought I was a good candidate for giving her a ride, but she was persistent in trying to get on my back. I wriggled out of her grasp a few times but she would not desist. In a moment of foolish naiveté, I thought she would leave me alone after one ride, so as I was recruited for my usual under-doggy routine on the other side of the playground, I gave in and let her remain on my back as I ran to the swings. I guess that goes to show how little I understood elementary schoolers. Once my little gaggle of children saw one of their comrades receive a piggy-back ride, they suddenly all wanted one. They gathered around me yelling that it was their turn. What was I to do but give them each the turn they felt was fair? Six or seven running trips around the playground later, I was spent. Another thing I should have realized about elementary schoolers is that they don’t understand what “tired” means. I tried to explain to my clamoring kids that I physically could not run with any more of them on my back, but they wouldn’t hear it and begged for a second (or third) turn. Thinking to trick me, a few of them stood up on the low cement wall surrounding the playground. “Come here!” they demanded. “And turn around – we have a surprise for you!”

“Oh, I bet you do!” I replied half sternly but half laughing as I walked away.

It only took ten extra years, but I had finally become the most popular kid at recess.

After the whistle blew that ended recess, it was homework time. I loved working with the kids, helping them understand how to tell time or count money. One of my little boys simply struggled with school. It didn’t come easy to him, and I remember just laboring with him over counting by threes or doing simple sums. Three years ago, I would not have understood his difficulties – academics had always come easy to me and I couldn’t understand why people couldn’t see what I was seeing. But after I have taken calculus, chemistry, and cell biology at BYU, I understand that feeling of complete confusion with absolutely no idea how to find the answer. I knew where my little friend was coming from, and I just wanted so badly for him to understand and to learn. One day we were working on addition. He had gotten a couple answers right, but was beginning to struggle again. I silently prayed that he would be able to figure it out, and I almost cried with joy when his eyes lit up and he said the right answer. Their success had become my success. And I felt what I had always known – the meaning of life lies in touching the lives of those around you.

My last day at the school was bittersweet. I had grown to love these children dearly and knew I would probably never see them again. As I was saying a final goodbye and preparing to head out the door, one little girl grabbed my hand. “I’m going to miss you!”

I smiled. “I’m going to miss you, too.”

I’m going to miss playing tag with you and having you all clamor for my attention.

I’m going to miss seeing your eyes light up when you understand something difficult.

I’m going to miss trying to make you sit in your seats when you have too much energy to do homework.

I’m going to miss how you always made me feel better about myself and how you always reminded me what life is really about, because you honestly got me through a tough semester.

I’m going to miss your jokes and your laughter and your little hands reaching for mine.

I may have taught those kids that the small hand points to the hour, but they taught me in a very real and poignant way that life is about love and service. They constantly helped me to refocus on the things that matter most and reminded me that worldly accolades and accomplishments are nothing compared to making a difference in the life of another. I have no doubt that I received more than I gave this semester. And I got recess – what more could you want?