Close Encounters of the Third-Grade Kind (19 page)

Some of the kids’ requests are pretty offbeat: “Please replace my younger brother with a dolphin.” “Can you send a spaceship?”
“I’d like my own planet. Mars would be nice. It’s close to Earth.” Other letters come with pretty tall orders: “I want to
meet Batman.” “I’d like an igloo.” “If you give me an elf, I promise not to let my cat near it.” This season, Monica requested
a flat-screen TV, a new laptop, a pogo stick, an iPhone, a camera, an iPod Nano, and a helicopter. Monica is six. Oftentimes
children will put in requests for their parents and siblings. This year’s top requests for moms: jewelry, maids, Hummers,
and panini makers. For dads: socks.

The kids’ letters are also good indicators of what’s hot and what isn’t. LEGOs, Barbies, PlayStations, stuffed animals, and
new baby brothers are always popular. So is money. (They never ask for less than a billion.) Real animals are consistently
at the top of the list, too. This year’s letters included requests for puppies, kittens, ponies, monkeys, penguins, pandas,
baby hippos, and the killer whale at SeaWorld.

There are always lots of questions for the man up north: “How’s Rudolph?” “How’s Mrs. Claus?” “Do reindeer really fly?” “Was
I nice or
notty
?” “If I’m on the naughty list, what can I do to get off of it?” “How do you fit down the chimney?” “Do you know the Easter
Bunny?” “How many elves do you have in your workshop?” “Are you older than Jesus?” and “Could we set up a Web cam?”

Kids are smart. They bring up Santa’s snack
before
they make their requests: “Santa, how many cookies do you want?” “Please feel free to raid the fridge when you’re here.”
“What do you like — milk, juice, or whiskey?”

I’m always surprised at how many children tell Santa that they
love
him. I never wrote that I loved him when I was a kid. I was too busy listing what I wanted. In fact, one year after writing
my thirty-seventh request, my mom warned me that Santa might think I was being greedy and take me off his good list. Concerned,
I crossed out half the items and asked for world peace.

M
y school participates in a charity program that provides food and toys for families in need. Our PTA sponsors about fifty
families. Each receives a bag of groceries for Christmas dinner, a gift certificate to Safeway for a turkey, and toys for
the children.

This year on bag-filling day, the volunteers gathered in the multipurpose room after school. I had invited two of my students,
Robbie and Stacy, to help. When we walked into the room, stacks of cans and baking goods were piled on long cafeteria tables.
Two tables piled with toys — one marked “Girls” and another “Boys” — stretched against the wall.

One of the PTA moms handed me a list of food items and some cards. Each card had the number of children in the family and
their ages. All the families were assigned numbers. No names were used.

Soon Robbie, Stacy, and I started filling bags. The kids ran around the room collecting cranberry sauce and green beans and
bags of tangerines. I checked them off the list.

“Okay,” I said, “all we need is one box of stuffing mix and we’re done with the food.” I pointed to the stuffing. Both children
ran and picked it up. Together they placed it into the bag.

“Great! Now we need to get the presents.” Robbie and Stacy fixed their eyes on the toys as I started reading the card. “We
need gifts for an eight-year-old girl and a nine-year-old boy.” I looked at Stacy. “You be in charge of finding something
for the girl.” Stacy ran to the girl table. I turned to Robbie. “You’re nine, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Find a gift for a nine-year-old boy.”

Robbie dashed off to the boy table. In a few moments, Stacy returned with an art set and held it up.

“Would an eight-year-old girl like that?” I asked.

“Definitely!”

“Great.”

She set it into the bag.

Robbie ran back. He was holding a basketball.

“Are you
sure
about this?” I said, smiling.

“Oh,
yeah
!” he exclaimed. “This is the
best
present for a nine-year-old boy.”

“Well,” I laughed, “you’re the expert.”

I held the bag open as he put it inside.

For the next hour, the kids and I filled several more bags. Other volunteers came by and wrapped the gifts that we had selected
then covered the bags with cellophane and ribbon. The family’s card was tied on each one.

The next day, I volunteered to help deliver the bags. The PTA gave me a list of addresses matched with the number assigned
to each family. The families knew that we would be dropping by. After school I loaded my car, put on my Santy Claus hat, and
dropped off bags all over town. Everyone I spoke with was grateful. Several invited me in. Most wanted to give me something
in return. One woman wouldn’t let me go until I filled a bag with persimmons from her tree.

About halfway through my deliveries, I stopped at an apartment building close to school. After parking the car, I grabbed
the correct bag, walked up two flights of stairs, and found the apartment. The porch light was on. A plastic wreath hung on
the door. A string of colored lights twinkled on and off around the window. I knocked. Immediately I heard footsteps running
to the door.
Children.
Someone peeked through the curtain. Then the lock turned quickly and the door flung opened. My heart stopped. There standing
in front of me was Robbie.

“I was hoping it would be you,” he said with a huge smile.

Before I could say hello, Robbie grabbed my arm and pulled me inside. The apartment was warm. The scent of something delicious
hung in the air. The window in the kitchen was steamed up. In the corner of the room, a small artificial tree stood on a table.
It was smothered with icicles.

“¡Señor Done está aquí!” Robbie shouted. Mr. Done is here.

Robbie’s mom walked into the front room, wiping her hands on a dish towel. We shook hands. I had met her once before at our
parent–teacher conference. Robbie had translated.

“Merry Christmas,” I said, removing my hat. Then I handed her the bags. “These are for your family. From the Angel Network.”

“Thank you,” she said.

She set the bags down on the table then turned to Robbie and spoke in Spanish. Robbie translated.

“My mom would like to know if you can stay for dinner.”

I looked at her. “Oh, thank you.
Gracias.
But I’m afraid I can’t.” I turned to Robbie. “Please tell your mom that I’d love to but I must get going. I have other deliveries
to make.”

He explained. She spoke to Robbie again.

“My mom wants to know if you like tamales.”

I smiled. “I
love
tamales.”

She covered her mouth when she laughed.

Robbie translated one more time. “My mom says that you have to take some tamales home with you.”

I put my hand on my stomach and shook my head. “No. No. Thank you.” But by then she had already walked into the kitchen. I
threw Robbie a smile. He returned it.

As I waited for his mom, I walked over to the tree. Robbie joined me.

“Nice tree,” I said. “Did you help decorate it?”

“Uh-huh.”

I glanced down on the floor. Presents tied with curly ribbon waited on a tree skirt made from a bedsheet. I pointed to one
of the packages. “I recognize
that.
” It was a gift that Robbie had made for his mom at school. The wrapping was white butcher paper covered with red and green
tempera paint potato prints. Robbie looked up at me and smiled.

Just then a thought popped into my head. I smacked my forehead and turned to Robbie. “Oh my goodness,” I said loudly. “I just
realized that I left one of the bags in the car. I’ll be right back.”

Quickly I left the apartment, ran down the steps to my car, and searched through the remaining bags. After finding the one
I was looking for, I grabbed it and raced back upstairs. Robbie was standing in the doorway.

“Sorry ’bout that,” I said, out of breath. I pulled a present from the bag and handed it to Robbie. His face brightened. “This
is for you.”

At that moment his mom walked into the room holding the tamales. He turned and showed her.

“Would you like to open it now?” I asked.

He looked surprised. “Now?”

“Sure. Why not?” I glanced over at his mom. Her smile was wide. “It’s almost Christmas.”

Immediately Robbie knelt down on the floor and started ripping open the paper. It was off in five seconds.

“Whoaaaaa!” he shouted, squeezing his gift.

His mom and I traded smiles as Robbie hugged the new basketball. He didn’t take his eyes off it.

“You know,” I said, “I hear that this is the
best
present for a nine-year-old boy. Right?”

His eyes were still glued to the ball. “Oh,
yeah
!”

January

“Do you know,” Peter asked, “why swallows build in the eaves of houses? It is to listen to the stories.”

— Peter Pan

O
ne day I was reading
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
with my class. Everyone had his own copy of the book. I read aloud while the children all followed along. After a couple
of minutes, I stopped and looked around the room for a kid I could have some fun with.

“David, would you read now, please?” I asked.

He began reading.
“‘Shut up!’ said Mr. Teavee.”

I stopped him. “What did Mr. Teavee say?”

“Shut up,” David answered, matter-of-factly.

I pretended to be shocked. “David, are you telling
me
to shut up?”

“No,” he giggled.

I continued my performance. “I
hope
not. Now read it again.”

David looked at the text and hesitated.

“Go on now,” I nudged. “Start reading.”

“Shut up,” he laughed.

“DAVID!”

Everyone shouted, “Can I read? Can I read?”

I love to teach reading. It is one of my favorite times of the day. I love when a child comes up to me in the morning and
asks hopefully, “Are you going to read to us today?” I love seeing a child look up from his book while I am reading and stare
at me with wide eyes and open mouth as though I really am Willie Wonka escorting kids through my chocolate factory. I love
flicking off the lights to announce that reading time is over and seeing that brief look of confusion on a child’s face because
she was lost in her book.

When I was in teacher school, I learned a lot about how to teach the different subjects. But most of what I know about teaching
reading, I’ve learned from my students.

My students taught me that when inviting children to the reading corner, it is much more exciting when the teacher hides a
book under his shirt than when he pulls it off the shelf.

They taught me that after gathering kids on the carpet — no matter how many times you say
crisscross applesauce
— someone in the front row will always sit on her knees.

They taught me that when the teacher shows his class a picture from a book, he must always move the book very slowly in front
of them or they will whine, “I can’t see.” And when the teacher is finished showing the picture, he will always have to show
it again to one person who says, “I didn’t see it.”

My students taught me that whenever the teacher reads the word
knock
aloud, he should hit the desk at the same time. When he reads
yawn,
he should make a good loud stretch. And when he reads
cleared his throat,
he should accompany it with lots of noise in the back of his mouth.

They taught me that
choir
and
bury
and
coyote
are hard words to read, that five-syllable words are more fun to clap out than those with two, and that sitting close together
on the carpet is as important as hearing the stories.

They taught me that a child can read an entire page out loud and not pause at one single period, and that kids will remember
exactly who sat on the beanbag chair during silent reading time yesterday, last week, and two months ago. They will remember
who held the stuffed animal last, too.

My students taught me that when everyone has a copy of the same book and the class turns the page together — if there is a
picture, always allow time for the children to look at it before you start reading again. Otherwise, the kids will lose their
place.

They taught me that when I am reading a book to the children and ask them to predict what will happen next, it is entirely
possible that one child will disregard my question completely and announce that she can see the skin above my sock and that
my leg is hairy.

They taught me that if an ant crawls onto the cover of a child’s book during reading time, she will not flick it off — but
will carry the book carefully to the front of the room to show me. When hearing that their lucky classmate has an ant crawling
on her book, the rest of the class will jump out of their chairs and run over to see our new visitor. Reading will resume
only after the dazed little guest has been carried outside to safety by all twenty children.