I recently checked out The Little Book of String Theory from my local library. Despite its unassuming title, that book is heavy with such concepts as twenty-six dimensions, black hole horizons, and time dilation. It's that last that I wish to discuss. Time dilation–from what I gathered (which can barely be deemed a surface understanding)–is basically the fact that time slows down when you're moving. No shit. Einstein predicted it, and it was proven when smart dudes took two atomic clocks, flew one of them around the world, and then reunited them to see how much time they had both logged. The one that went for a ride was ever so slightly behind the one that didn't, meaning that time does slow down, if infinitesimally, when you're moving.
And boy do I feel it in the first minute of each and every class I teach. In that first minute, the novelty of a horde of new faces, the barrage of inane questions, the spiking misbehaviors, the daunting reality of sixty more minutes before a twelve second break, and myriad other things all contribute to one heck of a one-minute ride, and one that is perceptively slower than most other, more mundane minutes of my life.
I want to take you on that ride, dear reader, if in more of a compiled but largely accurate sort of way. So please enjoy the following examples of what the first minute of class can feel like.
Example One
Students filter into the classroom before I get to the door with a worksheet. I panic; each student needs a worksheet so class can start on decent ground. Adding to the panic, students from my previous class are trapped in my room as the new, entering bodies are unassumingly clogging the exit. L. says, "What are we doing today?" I say, "You'll find out." T. says, "C.! Give me back my pencil!" S. says, "Can I leave my backpack on your desk." I say, "If the pencil isn't yours, give it back to T. Yes, leave it on my desk. And people, let these students from my last class leave the room!" One mindful student stops outside the doorway, damming the flood, allowing the three students trying to break out to break out. I say, "Thank you, mindful student." She says, "Mister, when are we going to get grades?" I say, "Soon." By now I've wiggled my way to the door, but much to my chagrin, I notice three students slipped by me without taking a worksheet. I turn back to mindful student, asking her to hand students in the room a worksheet if they don't have one. I give her half my pile. I turn back to the hallway, handing out a worksheet to everyone entering even if I have to ask them three times to take it. I sneak a peek back into the classroom. I see that mindful student has given those three students a worksheet, but mindful student no longer has the rest of the pile that I gave her. I wonder where mindful student placed the pile, knowing I'll need it for my last two classes that are eons from now.
Example Two
This time, I get to the doorway with time to spare before the children come. Sometimes, like in this constructed anecdote based on real events, I like to call out to the teacher adjacent me, "The children are coming!" in an enthusiastic and accented voice. She then repeats, "The children are coming!" It's funny. And fun. Then the children do arrive, and I hand each a worksheet. As my internal clock closes in on the end of their passing time, I notice with euphoria that there may be as many as five students absent from this class. It's not that I rejoice at the students not being in school, but at the fact that with a smaller class I will have a stronger influence over their wandering minds. You can think of it as less stimuli competing against my lesson. All this, in an abstract and undefinable way, is soothing my nerves and giving me that can-do feeling as I shut my door and walk to the front of the room, ready to teach. Not twelve seconds later, after I seized everyone's attention abnormally quickly, my door opens and in walks five tardy students, and though it's very likely that I generally like these students, in this moment I am totally revolted by them, to a degree that is much higher than being tardy warrants. They enter noisily, adding to the crash from the high I had been on a mere thirteen seconds before. I watch them with the meanest face I can muster. I give them a consequence for being tardy. Some may laugh. I look back at the laughers with an ever meaner face. Before I speak, I realize something, and that something is that it's showtime, and my Expo is going to be floating across my consequence board. And then I realize this is my third-to-last Expo, and I really don't want to buy any more damn Expos. But I must. I must.
Example Three
I stand at the doorway, this time sans worksheet. Today, during this class period, I will have guest speakers, and I am nervous that the students will talk so much that one of the guest speaker's faces will flush red and I'll see fear in his/her eyes. I really don't want that to happen, so instead of a worksheet I give each student a stern statement: "We're having guests today. We're going to give them our respect." I nod as I say this, hoping that the student will nod back and feeling much foreboding if they don't.
The bell rings. I had asked the guest speakers to give me a minute to ring off a few consequences before they enter the ring, uh, class. So after walking to the front of the room and telling two students to find their correct seats, I begin what I like to call my onslaught, although it can easily morph into a sally (a sudden charge out of a besieged place against the enemy*). Anyway, this anecdote will be in the middle of an onslaught and a sally, and it sounds something like this: "All voices off, all eyes on me in FIVE...FOUR...THREE...S. has her eyes on me, G. has his voice off, L.'s voice is off...TWO...ONE...ZERO. M. that's a redo. At zero I expect your voice to be off. H.'s voice is off. T.'s voice is off. Y.'s voice is off. W. that's a redo. I expect your voice to be off. R.'s eyes are on me. Okay, we're going to have guest speak–" "Not again. This sucks!" B. interrupts. I say, "B. that's a redo. We're going to have guest speakers in, and we're going to give them our respect and atten––" "I want to give my attention to my PHONEEEE!" K. interrupts. I respond, "K. that's a redo and first warning on your phone. We're going to treat them respectfully by not talking when they're talking and raising our hands." (Guest speakers enter classroom. All heads turn to them, curiously unnerved by the strangers. I smile, introduce the guests as best as my limited memory of our month-old email correspondence will allow, and hand the wolves, uh, students over to them. I smile, reveling in being relieved of my duties if only for a period. I observe the speakers, easily picking up on what each guest is doing well or so obviously poorly. I plead today will bring my students closer to rapt attention than inundated mayhem, as that flushed, horrified face is a hard one to watch come over a guest speaker.
And boy do I feel it in the first minute of each and every class I teach. In that first minute, the novelty of a horde of new faces, the barrage of inane questions, the spiking misbehaviors, the daunting reality of sixty more minutes before a twelve second break, and myriad other things all contribute to one heck of a one-minute ride, and one that is perceptively slower than most other, more mundane minutes of my life.
I want to take you on that ride, dear reader, if in more of a compiled but largely accurate sort of way. So please enjoy the following examples of what the first minute of class can feel like.
Example One
Students filter into the classroom before I get to the door with a worksheet. I panic; each student needs a worksheet so class can start on decent ground. Adding to the panic, students from my previous class are trapped in my room as the new, entering bodies are unassumingly clogging the exit. L. says, "What are we doing today?" I say, "You'll find out." T. says, "C.! Give me back my pencil!" S. says, "Can I leave my backpack on your desk." I say, "If the pencil isn't yours, give it back to T. Yes, leave it on my desk. And people, let these students from my last class leave the room!" One mindful student stops outside the doorway, damming the flood, allowing the three students trying to break out to break out. I say, "Thank you, mindful student." She says, "Mister, when are we going to get grades?" I say, "Soon." By now I've wiggled my way to the door, but much to my chagrin, I notice three students slipped by me without taking a worksheet. I turn back to mindful student, asking her to hand students in the room a worksheet if they don't have one. I give her half my pile. I turn back to the hallway, handing out a worksheet to everyone entering even if I have to ask them three times to take it. I sneak a peek back into the classroom. I see that mindful student has given those three students a worksheet, but mindful student no longer has the rest of the pile that I gave her. I wonder where mindful student placed the pile, knowing I'll need it for my last two classes that are eons from now.
Example Two
This time, I get to the doorway with time to spare before the children come. Sometimes, like in this constructed anecdote based on real events, I like to call out to the teacher adjacent me, "The children are coming!" in an enthusiastic and accented voice. She then repeats, "The children are coming!" It's funny. And fun. Then the children do arrive, and I hand each a worksheet. As my internal clock closes in on the end of their passing time, I notice with euphoria that there may be as many as five students absent from this class. It's not that I rejoice at the students not being in school, but at the fact that with a smaller class I will have a stronger influence over their wandering minds. You can think of it as less stimuli competing against my lesson. All this, in an abstract and undefinable way, is soothing my nerves and giving me that can-do feeling as I shut my door and walk to the front of the room, ready to teach. Not twelve seconds later, after I seized everyone's attention abnormally quickly, my door opens and in walks five tardy students, and though it's very likely that I generally like these students, in this moment I am totally revolted by them, to a degree that is much higher than being tardy warrants. They enter noisily, adding to the crash from the high I had been on a mere thirteen seconds before. I watch them with the meanest face I can muster. I give them a consequence for being tardy. Some may laugh. I look back at the laughers with an ever meaner face. Before I speak, I realize something, and that something is that it's showtime, and my Expo is going to be floating across my consequence board. And then I realize this is my third-to-last Expo, and I really don't want to buy any more damn Expos. But I must. I must.
Example Three
I stand at the doorway, this time sans worksheet. Today, during this class period, I will have guest speakers, and I am nervous that the students will talk so much that one of the guest speaker's faces will flush red and I'll see fear in his/her eyes. I really don't want that to happen, so instead of a worksheet I give each student a stern statement: "We're having guests today. We're going to give them our respect." I nod as I say this, hoping that the student will nod back and feeling much foreboding if they don't.
The bell rings. I had asked the guest speakers to give me a minute to ring off a few consequences before they enter the ring, uh, class. So after walking to the front of the room and telling two students to find their correct seats, I begin what I like to call my onslaught, although it can easily morph into a sally (a sudden charge out of a besieged place against the enemy*). Anyway, this anecdote will be in the middle of an onslaught and a sally, and it sounds something like this: "All voices off, all eyes on me in FIVE...FOUR...THREE...S. has her eyes on me, G. has his voice off, L.'s voice is off...TWO...ONE...ZERO. M. that's a redo. At zero I expect your voice to be off. H.'s voice is off. T.'s voice is off. Y.'s voice is off. W. that's a redo. I expect your voice to be off. R.'s eyes are on me. Okay, we're going to have guest speak–" "Not again. This sucks!" B. interrupts. I say, "B. that's a redo. We're going to have guest speakers in, and we're going to give them our respect and atten––" "I want to give my attention to my PHONEEEE!" K. interrupts. I respond, "K. that's a redo and first warning on your phone. We're going to treat them respectfully by not talking when they're talking and raising our hands." (Guest speakers enter classroom. All heads turn to them, curiously unnerved by the strangers. I smile, introduce the guests as best as my limited memory of our month-old email correspondence will allow, and hand the wolves, uh, students over to them. I smile, reveling in being relieved of my duties if only for a period. I observe the speakers, easily picking up on what each guest is doing well or so obviously poorly. I plead today will bring my students closer to rapt attention than inundated mayhem, as that flushed, horrified face is a hard one to watch come over a guest speaker.
Bonus Example!
Another teacher is among the flood of students entering my room. I smile at him, for he will be covering my room for the duration of some meeting that I must attend. I give him a paper with some quick directions on it, tell him thanks, and leave the room, gushing with the warm waves of freedom. I walk along the empty, uncharacteristically quiet hallway, pausing just long enough to allow the sun rays pouring in through a window to bathe my face until it's hot. I smile. A bird chirps somewhere. I smile wider. I think of my old Nissan 300ZX, my first car and in a way one of my first loves. I think of driving summer highways with its T-tops taken off and the sun, the same sun (how splendid!), bathing my head in warm light. I am moved to tears. A student exits a nearby classroom, presumably to go to the bathroom or skip class, and immediately sees me and the tears streaming down my face, and laughs loudly, awkwardly, wanting to console but perhaps not yet knowing how. I smile at the student, say that sometimes people need a good cry, and walk away, toward that meeting I must attend.
*My students are not my enemy, nor am I theirs, as I often remind select students, but you know what I'm talkin' 'bout.
Another teacher is among the flood of students entering my room. I smile at him, for he will be covering my room for the duration of some meeting that I must attend. I give him a paper with some quick directions on it, tell him thanks, and leave the room, gushing with the warm waves of freedom. I walk along the empty, uncharacteristically quiet hallway, pausing just long enough to allow the sun rays pouring in through a window to bathe my face until it's hot. I smile. A bird chirps somewhere. I smile wider. I think of my old Nissan 300ZX, my first car and in a way one of my first loves. I think of driving summer highways with its T-tops taken off and the sun, the same sun (how splendid!), bathing my head in warm light. I am moved to tears. A student exits a nearby classroom, presumably to go to the bathroom or skip class, and immediately sees me and the tears streaming down my face, and laughs loudly, awkwardly, wanting to console but perhaps not yet knowing how. I smile at the student, say that sometimes people need a good cry, and walk away, toward that meeting I must attend.
*My students are not my enemy, nor am I theirs, as I often remind select students, but you know what I'm talkin' 'bout.