“You know the secret, right?” my colleague asked with a sparkle in her eye.
I listened attentively, curiously. Was she asking deviously or supportively? I wasn’t sure. But I was sure that I didn’t know the secret. To be honest, I didn’t know there was a secret, but at this point, I was looking for any help I could find.
She answered her own question: “Whatever you do, don’t laugh before Thanksgiving.” She answered so confidently.
The cooler evening air of late August was a reminder that September was near, and this September would be my first time in a middle school since I was a middle schooler myself. Now I was the teacher. For years, I had imagined that first moment of entering my own classroom, like Mr. Keating in Dead Poets Society but with a cool walk-up song like a Major League Baseball player stepping into the batter’s box.
This was my dream, but all I felt was doubt. I had been a student, but could I teach? I knew how to write, but could I articulate the difference between a phrase and a clause? I knew how to read, but could I unpack the complexities of To Kill a Mockingbird with eighth graders? I had always been a leader, but could I manage a classroom of teenagers?
Thanksgiving? I thought to myself. That sounds like a long time. But, boy, she sounded confident.
"Thanksgiving," I silently repeated a few times in my head, convincing myself that I now possessed the Holy Grail of secrets to teaching middle school—to earning respect and being in charge. I felt something new: resolve.
The First Day of School
I tossed and turned that night before my first day—my first day as a teacher, my first day with 17 sets of 13-year-old eyes looking to me for homework, answers, bathroom breaks, and learning. I didn’t need an alarm. I’m not sure I slept.
I obsessively reviewed each detail of my class plan and the order of activities. As I pulled on a new pair of khakis, a pressed shirt, and wildly uncomfortable shoes, I took a mental inventory of everything I had already photocopied and placed in color-coded file folders ready to hand out. In the car, on the way to campus, I rehearsed my introduction out loud and how I planned to set the course for our year together. Everything was ready.
Along the way—as I tossed and turned, buttoned my shirt and tied my shoes, and drove toward my new school—I reminded myself of the secret: “Don’t laugh before Thanksgiving.”
On that first morning, arrival came and went. I smiled. I waved. I greeted parents and students, hoping to catch names here and there. And still, I waited to enter my classroom and greet my class for the first time as I had planned and practiced. I checked over my materials and then checked again.
The clock hands seemed to move a little faster that day, and soon it was time to make my way to my classroom. I took a deep breath and headed down the short locker-gilded hall toward the din of voices emerging from the open door. When I entered the room, some voices quieted, but not like they had for Mr. Keating, and there was no grand entrance song.
I made my way across the front of the room, set my things down on the front table, took another deep breath, and turned on my heel like a soldier on watch to face the group. There I was in my classroom, in front of my students.
As the room grew silent, I introduced myself, I talked about the year and our goals together. I was clear. I was direct. I was firm. It all went according to plan.
And then, as I began handing out my first perfectly collated and stapled reading to the students, it happened. A voice from the back said something—I’m still not sure what—and the straight faces of the group sitting at their tables turned to smiles, which turned to giggles, and then laughter. And inside of me, I felt it. I couldn’t not feel it, and I didn’t really try.
Helpful secrets, photocopies, ironed shirts, and new shoes; all of my planning and all of my reminders disappeared into the middle school ether. In that moment, it was just 17 students and one nervous teacher; it was 18 learners; 18 wonderers together in a classroom.
I laughed. And we laughed together.