I look around the science lab I call my second home. It’s in order for the few minutes remaining before my first class arrives; microscopes covered atop the soapstone-black countertops lining the right and left sides, lab tables pushed back into the L-shapes I like for making small groups, floor swept clean of the myriad pens and pencils I collect at the end of the day left by unfortunate souls who can’t hang on to a writing utensil, and discarded papers that missed the recycling bin.
I power up my MacBook and smart screen and find the slides I need for each class period, then double check my google classroom assignments. They are all there. I’m not sure where I thought they’d disappear to last night when I powered down at 8:00 and escaped the building before the night janitor could lock me in. (That happened once. I set off motion detectors exiting, which caused all kinds of alarms and alerts.)
This teaching life leaves little time to reflect on or ponder the meaningfulness of what I do. The odd poem or prayer I collect about the importance of my work gives me occasional pause to contemplate the eventual consequences of doing the job well. I try to project myself into the future and imagine the successes of today’s students, but for the most part I can only hope the lessons I poured out will count for something to help them navigate this wild and beautiful world. I breathe a quick morning meditation and ask for that blessing in prayer, then face the day.
I prop open my classroom door and greet the first group here for their advanced math class. These fifth graders are so stinking cute and bubbling over with excitement about what fun they’ll have today. They haven’t yet caught on that middle school is the breeding ground of sarcasm and snarkiness. I soak in their sweetness, and we have fun solving math mysteries that sneak in the concepts introduced this week.
Next up is seventh-grade science. As soon as my fifth graders leave, I run around putting out MRE’s (Army meal rations my husband collected from Fort Dix) for today’s lab. We’re learning about energy transfers and transformations, and I thought it would be fun for them to see how soldiers heat their meals by creating a little “battery in a bag.” Soon, my classroom is so alive—full of noise and excitement of the kids’ discoveries. It might be more about snacking on the contents of their ration containers, but the change of energy from chemical to heat is the main point I hope they remember along with the spaghetti and pudding they enjoy.
The smells of beef stew and chili linger in the air as eighth graders saunter toward my room. Excited exiting seventh graders are jabbering about their lab all the way to the next class, and my older students greet me with, “Mrs. Cutts, why didn’t we get to do that last year?”
I sigh sadly. “I just thought it up. I’m sorry.” They look so dejected, like I held out on them on purpose. A few are downright indignant they missed the fun by being born a year early. They start their warm-up activity with a ho-hum attitude. When I introduce their lesson and show them the google-doc they’ll fill-in as they practice their microscope skills, they move to lab stations and quietly begin. I walk around checking in with groups to make sure they understand what they’re doing. Hannah turns to me and says, “Mrs. Cutts, does this count?”
It's my least favorite question: not because I’m tired of going over the point system employed to arrive at their grades; not because I know if I say, “No,” they’ll only halfway attempt to complete the assignment I painstakingly created for them; not because I’m frustrated at how grade-centric these kids became, who once enjoyed learning for pure pleasure; not because if I say, “yes,” I’ll have to grade it for accuracy more than completion. The real reason is greater than the sum of those parts.
I think of many responses this sweet girl doesn’t really want to hear. I could say, “Does your life count? Doesn’t every moment count. Don’t you want to soak up all this free knowledge and see where you might make it count?” Instead, I say, “Hannah, you know everything counts. All our learning activities have a point to teach you something.”
She smiles at my coy reply and says, “You know what I mean. Are you going to grade it?”
Dang it. Now I have to commit. I think quickly. “How about this. You guys do your best to complete everything accurately and when we check it, if you did well, I’ll use it for points.” She seems more satisfied than I feel right now as I turn to check on the next group. I’ll continue pondering my own questions endlessly: Does your life count? Do you want to make this moment count? How might you make what you’ve learned count? I hope in the end when I’m graded, grace will intercede for those times I didn’t answer well.
Your Turn: What do you do to remind yourself to make each moment count?
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