Poem: How to Teach

How to Teach by Heather Jerrie

Imagine taking twenty puppies for a walk,
without a leash.
Imagine trying to catch 31 fireflies in one jar.

Now imagine 24 expectant faces,
all turned toward you,
waiting.

Remember what you're going to teach them today?
Let them in on the secret.
Explain it in small steps.
Better yet, show them.
Better yet, get them to do it.

Don't just drone on and on.
Be interesting. Be real. Be creative.
Balance a desk on your head.

Don't just let them sit there.
Get them talking, get them moving,
get them doing.

Know that stuff you want them to learn?
How will you know if they know it?
Make sure they show you, somehow,
whether they learned it.

There'll be at least one kid who isn't paying attention.
Don't let it break your stride.
Walk over and stand by him.
Be casual. Let him know he's busted.
Don't leave until you know you've got him back.

There'll be at least one kid who already knows this stuff.
Be ready to give her something else to chew on.

There'll be at least one kid who doesn't get it.
You'll be able to tell because if you call on him,
he'll get the “deer in the headlights” look.
Have pity. Plan for him up front,
and be ready to reteach.

There'll be at least one kid who likes to goof off,
or talk back,
or do his Elvis Presley imitation when he answers you.
Be ready.
Laugh, be pleasant, but don't let him take you off the trail.
Be firm.
When the group starts wandering off,
rein them in.
When they stampede,
head them off.

Now, when the bell rings,
and the crowd rushes out,
and you're left with a cloud of dust
and a litter of pencils on the floor,
sit down and go through your papers.
Call some parents.
Plan your next attack.

Then go home, and get a good night's sleep.
And be ready to do it again,
and again,
and again.

Congratulations.
You're a teacher.