I’ve Taught All Three Grade Bands, and I Still Don’t Have a “Best” Answer
A student teacher shadowed me this week, and after school she popped the question I knew was coming: “If you could pick any, what grade level is actually the best to teach? Elementary, middle, or high school?” I was wiping spilled coffee off my desk, the half-and-half had gone weirdly creamy and sticky, and I just stared at her for a second. I’ve taught all three, over the past 12 years, and I still don’t have a snappy answer. Let me ramble, I told her. That’s what I do now.
I started with 2nd grade, straight out of college. The good stuff sticks with me more than I thought it would: every Monday, a girl named Mia would bring me a dandelion she’d picked on the walk to school, always already half-puffed, crumpled at the bottom of her sparkly backpack. She’d hand it to me like it was a diamond. Once I cried when I found a crayon drawing of us holding hands taped to my car window after school. That uncomplicated, loud affection—you don’t get that anywhere else. A kid will just run up and hug you mid-hallway because they missed you over the weekend, no questions asked.
But the bad stuff that no one warns you about sticks too. Your back aches so bad by Friday from bending down to tie shoes and sit on their minuscule carpets that smell like goldfish crackers and old glue. I found a dried booger on the leg of my desk chair once, three days after I’d been wondering what that weird crunchy thing was. Once, mid-lesson on compound words, a little boy sat down next to me on the carpet and told me his dad wasn’t coming to his birthday party, and I had to drop everything and just hold him while the rest of the class colored, and I forgot to pick up my own dry cleaning that night because I was still thinking about him. It’s all so raw, so immediate. The love is uncomplicated, sure, but the chaos is too. I left after four years because I started getting tension headaches every Sunday night, and I realized I didn’t have the energy for that level of constant need anymore.
Next I did 8th grade ELA for five years. Everyone warns you about middle school, right? They say they’re moody, they’re gross, they’ll eye-roll you into an early grave. And yeah, that’s true. I once had a sticky note that said “your sneakers are ugly” taped to my teacher laptop. I had to break up three fights in one semester over a TikTok dance that one person copied from another. Once a kid threw up all over his quiz during midterms, and the whole class lost it, and he just stood there bright red, too humiliated to move.
But here’s the thing no one tells you about middle school: they’re the most loyal people on the planet. After I walked that vomiting kid to the nurse and didn’t make a big deal out of it, just handed him my extra hoodie and told him we’d throw the quiz away, he left me a half-eaten pack of Sour Patch Kids on my desk every Friday for the rest of the year. They’ll yell at each other in the hallway, and then 10 minutes later they’re sharing fries in the cafeteria. They’re old enough to have real conversations about hard stuff, but still young enough that they still care what you think. I left middle school only because our district cut positions and high school had an opening, honestly. I still think about those kids sometimes. Last month I saw one of them at the grocery store, she’s 22 now, and she came over and hugged me and reminded me about the time we watched Bridge to Terabithia and I cried in front of the whole class. I forgot that even happened.
I’m in 11th grade now, going on three years. The best part here is that you can actually talk about things that matter. Last month we read Of Mice and Men, and a kid who never says a word, who sits in the back with his hood up every day, raised his hand and said he understood why Lennie didn’t know how to stop, because his little brother has autism and he’s always scared he’ll hurt him by accident too. I had to pause for a minute because my throat got tight. You don’t get that moment with 2nd graders.
But the hard part is that all the weight of the world is already on their shoulders. Half of my first period kids are asleep on their desks most days because they worked closing shift at the fast food place down the road until 11 the night before, helping their mom pay rent. I spend half my time writing college recommendation letters that feel like they’re going to make or break a kid’s whole life, and that weight never goes away. Last month a kid asked me for a rec, and I couldn’t place his name for 10 whole awkward seconds, even though he’d been in my class for two semesters. I still feel bad about that.
So when the student teacher asked me what’s best, I told her that. It depends. Some days, when I’m grading 40 essays at 9pm and my eyes hurt, I think elementary is the best, because all you need is a crumpled dandelion to make your whole day. Some days, when I have to wake a sleeping kid up for the third time that week and feel like a total jerk, I think middle school was the sweet spot—all that messy, loud, unapologetic energy that doesn’t feel like it’s hanging on the edge of something big. Some days, when we have a really good discussion about a book and a kid stays after to talk to me about something that’s bothering them, I think this is it, this is the best I’ve ever had.
There’s no one answer, honestly. It’s just about what you can carry that day. I still haven’t figured it out. And that’s okay, I think. (Word count: ~1120)
Please indicate: Thinking In Educating » I’ve Taught All Three Grade Bands, and I Still Don’t Have a “Best” Answer