I’ve Taught Elementary, Middle, and High School—And I Still Can’t Pick A Favorite
I was standing in the teacher’s break room yesterday, waiting for my leftover bean and cheese burrito to finish spinning in the sad, ancient microwave, when a first-year teacher tapped me on the shoulder and asked the question everyone asks eventually: which grade level’s actually the best to teach? I just stood there, watching the burrito go around and around, and couldn’t give her a straight answer. I’ve bounced between all three over 14 years of teaching, moving districts when my husband got a new job, switching grades when a slot opened up that sounded less terrible than the one I was in, and I still don’t have a neat little takeaway.
When I started out, I taught 2nd grade at a tiny rural elementary. The first thing that hits you about little kids is that everything is magic, even the boring stuff. I did a dumb little dance once to teach the difference between evaporation and condensation, and kids talked about it for months. A kid brought me a dead cicada in a sparkly pink jewelry box for my 26th birthday, and I kept it on my desk for a year even though it smelled weird after a while. But don’t let anyone tell you it’s all finger paint and recess hugs. I spent half my day wiping noses, tying shoelaces, changing clothes for kids who fell in the playground mud, and answering the same question (“can I get a drink of water”) 20 times an hour. I still remember the awkward parent-teacher conference where my student told his mom “Ms. Lee always smells like vanilla cookies” and his mom gave me this long, weird side-eye like I was slipping her kid treats to get good behavior marks. I still don’t know how I should have recovered from that. By the time I left elementary after four years, I was tired of being part nurse, part referee, part professional nose wiper, and I swore I’d never go back.
Next I got a job teaching 7th grade ELA, and everyone warned me middle schoolers were tiny demons. They weren’t wrong, exactly, but they were also the most honest kids I’ve ever taught. Once a 12-year-old slipped me a crumpled note in the hallway that just said “your striped socks are cool” and I still have that note taped to the back of my old work laptop. I once caught two kids making out behind my dictionary shelf, and I just stood there clearing my throat for a full 10 seconds before they noticed, and we all turned so red I think my glasses started to fog. I mumbled something about “not doing that between my reference books” and sent them to the office, and I hid in the teacher’s lounge for 10 minutes after because I was just as embarrassed as they were. The worst part of middle school is all the drama that doesn’t belong in a classroom—mediating Snapchat beef before first bell, listening to two girls cry for 20 minutes because their best friend won’t sit with them at lunch. But the best part? They’re just old enough to start having real opinions, and just young enough that they don’t care if they’re wrong. I asked them to write a poem about something that matters once, and one kid turned in a 4-stanza poem about how the cafeteria pizza is always cold and the pepperoni tastes like plastic, and it was better than half the poetry I read in college. I left middle school after three years because we moved again, but I still get Christmas cards from that pizza poet, now in college. He still makes jokes about the poem.
Now I’ve been teaching 10th and 11th grade ELA for seven years, and this is where I’ve stayed the longest. The best thing here is you can actually talk to them like people. Last week we had a 20-minute detour from our lesson on The Great Gatsby because a kid brought up how stupid it is that we still call rich people “old money” on TikTok, and we ended up talking about generational wealth and how nothing’s really changed in 100 years, and that’s the best lesson I’ve taught all semester. But it’s also heavy. Half my kids are up until 1am doing AP homework and studying for SAT practice tests, and they come in with dark eyebags and drink half my coffee before the bell even rings. Last month a 16-year-old asked me if I’d seen that new viral Netflix show that’s all about graphic sex, and I just mumbled “I only watch Great British Baking Show” and ran to the copier. Awkward as hell. I also hate that I can’t fix the pressure they’re under. All I can do is remind them their SAT score doesn’t define them, but I know their parents and their colleges don’t care what I say.
The thing is, that new teacher waited for me to tell her which one to pick right after my burrito dinged. I told her it depends on what you can handle that day, honestly. Last month I subbed for a 2nd grade class when their teacher had a doctor’s appointment, and a little girl held my hand the whole fire drill, and I left with my chest feeling all warm and soft, and I thought maybe I should go back. Then I remembered I had to grade 50 spelling tests that night, and my back ached from bending down to tie three different kids’ shoes, and I was glad to go back to my high school classroom. I complain about high school kids’ burnout, but I still get random texts from old students telling me they got into their first choice school, and that’s the best feeling in the world.
I don’t have a favorite. There’s good and sticky and awkward and amazing in all of them. I just told that new teacher to try whatever sounds interesting, and if it sucks, switch. No grade level is the best for everyone, anyway. I ate my burrito, it was still cold in the middle, same as always. That’s teaching, I guess. (Word count: 1187)
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