I’ve Taught All Three Grade Levels. I Still Don’t Have A ‘Best’ Answer.
I was digging through my old canvas teacher bag this morning looking for an extra tampon, and I found two things I forgot were there: a crumpled sticker a 2nd grader gave me 10 years ago that says “You’re the best teacher!” in sparkly bubble letters, and a half-eaten peppermint that a 10th grader slipped into my bag after I cried in front of class the day my grandma died. People ask me all the time, since I’ve taught elementary, middle, and high school at different points, which one is the best to work with. I never know what to say, really.
I started out in second grade, straight out of college, 22 years old and convinced I was going to change the world one reading group at a time. The first month was fine, until one Tuesday before parent-teacher conferences when a kid got bored during math centers and upended an entire 1-pound jar of silver glitter all over the rug. I spent an hour vacuuming it, and still found glitter in my bra three days later. Another time, a quiet little boy peed his pants because he was too nervous to raise his hand to go to the bathroom, and I had to walk him down to the nurse’s office while the other kids yelled “HE PEED HIS PANTS!” at the top of their lungs. It’s not all cutesy crafts and story time, that’s for sure. You’re a janitor, a nurse, a part-time parent, a snack supplier, all before 9 a.m. I got strep throat twice in one year, because little kids put everything in their mouths and then touch your pen. But the high? When a kid who couldn’t even sound out their own name in September runs up to you in December, holding a sticky little comic book they wrote about their dog, and reads the whole thing out loud to you? That’s a high nothing else really touches. You get to be there for the first big wins, the ones their parents will frame on the fridge. I left elementary because of a layoff, but I still think about that kid sometimes.
Then I got a job filling in at 7th grade ELA, and everyone warned me I’d hate it. Middle schoolers are just moody little monsters, they said. They don’t care about anything, they’re rude, they’ll make you cry. My first month there, a girl named Lila threw up all over my desk right in the middle of her oral presentation, right on top of all the essays I’d just finished grading. The whole class snickered so hard one kid fell out of his chair. I walked Lila to the nurse, came back, mopped up my desk, threw the smelly essays in the trash to regrade later, and didn’t make a big deal out of it. A month later, she left a crayon drawing of my cat (I’d mentioned I’d just adopted a tabby that week) taped to my door, with a note that said thanks for not making me embarrassed. That’s the thing about middle school: they don’t gush and give you stickers. Their affection is quiet, awkward, a little stunted. They’re just figuring out how to be people outside of their parents’ houses, and if you don’t push them, they’ll let you be there for that. I once spent 45 minutes after school talking a 7th grader down from a panic attack because another kid made fun of her dyed blue hair. No one else had stopped to ask her if she was okay. It’s not all great, obviously. I spent half my time mediating fights about stolen TikTok followers and who liked who on the bus, and I’d go home with a headache so bad I’d fall asleep on the couch before dinner. But it’s not the nightmare everyone says it is.
Then I moved up to 10th grade English, stayed there six years. I loved that I could have actual full conversations with kids. We’d argue about the ending of The Great Gatsby, and one kid opened up to the whole class about how his dad had just left, and he got why Gatsby would hold onto a dumb green light so tight. I still think about that conversation. Kids bring you actual coffee, not just macaroni art. One kid remembered I liked root beer, brought me a cold can from the gas station after I mentioned I couldn’t afford to stop for soda that week with gas prices so high. But there’s awkward stuff too. I accidentally called a kid by the wrong name for two whole weeks, because he wore the same gray Nike hoodie every day and looked exactly like another kid from my earlier class. He never corrected me, just nodded every time, and I only figured it out when his mom emailed me about his midterm grade. I still cringe thinking about that. And the grading? 120 essays a unit, I’d spend my entire Sunday on the couch grading, no time for anything else. Half the kids are scrolling TikTok under their desks every day, and you spend half the period reminding them to put their phones away. You know they’re going to graduate in a year or two, and most of them will forget your name, not out of malice, just because life moves fast.
People always want a clear answer. One has to be better than the others, right? But I think it just depends on what you’ve got to give that season of your life. When I was 22, I had all the energy in the world to chase kids around the playground and clean up glitter and help tie shoes. Now I’m 32, I have a toddler of my own, my knees hurt, I do part-time at elementary now and some days I’m wiped by lunch. Some days I miss the deep conversations I had with 10th graders. Some days I’m glad I don’t have to grade 120 essays anymore.
The sticker and the peppermint are both still on my counter now. Both mean just as much. I don’t need a best. Just different kinds of good, and different kinds of hard. That’s teaching, isn’t it? (Word count: 1187)
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