Maker Faire Orlando Is Hiring an Educator: Why It Matters for Local Kids
It was 2:17 p.m. on the Saturday of last year’s Maker Faire Orlando, and my sneakers were sticking to the concrete floor of the Central Florida Fairgrounds exposition hall. Fried Oreo scent drifted in from food truck row outside, a drone demo whined two booths over, and I’d already drunk three gas station iced lattes to get through my volunteer shift manning the popsicle stick catapult station. Ten-year-old Javi had hovered at the booth’s edge for 40 minutes, hood pulled up over his curly hair, while his mom stood a few feet back twisting a folded event map.
He didn’t talk when I held out a bag of rubber bands and a stack of sticks. His mom leaned in when he stepped forward to run a finger along the pre-built demo, quiet enough only I heard. “He watches catapult tutorials on YouTube every night after homework,” she said. “I wasn’t sure he’d actually get close enough to touch anything. Crowds are hard for him.”
For 35 minutes, he worked without a word. He pulled a beat-up nail file out of his hoodie to sand rough stick edges, swapped rubber band sizes three times, and replaced our standard plastic spoon launch cup with a crimped soda bottle cap he dug out of his backpack. When he set a neon pom pom in the cap and pulled back, it arced 22 feet to the edge of the local high school robotics booth. Waiting kids whooped. Javi smiled, so small you’d miss it if you weren’t looking.
Before I could walk over to ask about the bottle cap, my walkie crackled. The staffer running the educator resource booth had a family emergency and left. My only other station partner, a 16-year-old robotics student, had to leave in 10 minutes for his own demo. I had to lock our tool bin and cover the empty booth. By the time I grabbed my water and looked back, Javi twisted his catapult’s rubber band while his mom gestured toward the rocket exhibit across the hall. No one was there to tell him his bottle cap adjustment was the same trick middle school robotics teams use. No one handed him a list of free weekly build nights 10 minutes from his house.
A month later, Maker Faire Orlando posted a job opening for a full-time permanent educator. I’ve seen the posting shared a dozen times in local teacher groups, usually captioned “fun side gig!” Most people seem to think the job only means running craft tables one November weekend. It doesn’t. That gap between Javi’s best 40 minutes of the month and the quiet ride home? That’s what this role exists to fill, and it’s been empty all three years I’ve volunteered.
I teach fourth grade at a Title I elementary in east Orlando, so I see that gap every week. Last month we did a 30-minute challenge: build a chair from rolled newspaper and masking tape that can hold a stuffed teddy bear. Half the kids who never turn in math worksheets, who never raise their hands during reading group, were first to figure out tight-rolled paper is stronger, that angled legs hold more weight than straight ones. One girl named Mia, who rarely speaks unprompted in class, walked her whole table through cross-bracing legs to stop tipping. But I don’t have time to turn that spark into anything more. I have 28 kids, 12 hours of weekly grading, mandatory testing prep, and 45 minutes of daily planning time mostly eaten by meetings. I can’t spend three hours a week coordinating field trips, tracking free passes, or updating a list of low-cost maker programs across three counties.
Right now, all that work falls to volunteers, and volunteers can only do so much. Last year we had 200 free student passes for kids who couldn’t afford admission; half expired in a PTA folder at a local elementary because no one had time to drop them off and coordinate classroom visits. We tried a post-faire maker meetup at the downtown Orlando library in January; 12 kids signed up, but no one had time to send reminders or confirm the room, and only two showed up. During the faire, three kids had sensory meltdowns at our booth last year because the hall was loud and crowded, with no dedicated quiet build space; none of the rotating volunteers were trained to adjust activities for fine motor delays or sensory needs.
A dedicated educator doesn’t need an engineering degree to fix this. They just need time, the one thing no volunteer has. They can drive to schools during the week to lead 20-minute mini build challenges and hand out passes. They can stock the booth with pre-cut sticks for kids who can’t use utility knives, large wooden parts for kids who mouth small objects, and run a permanent quiet corner with fidget toys for overstimulated kids. Most importantly, they stick around after the weekend ends. They keep an updated list of free library build hours, after-school clubs, and community workshop nights, so a kid like Javi doesn’t leave with a cool catapult and no way to keep building.
For parents and teachers who don’t want to wait for the role to fill, small, low-lift changes work right now. I keep a bin of clean recycled materials—cereal boxes, toilet paper tubes, bottle caps, old rubber bands—by my classroom door, and any kid who finishes work early can tinker for 10 minutes, no assignment, no grade attached. If you’re bringing a kid who struggles with crowds or sensory overload to this year’s faire, email the volunteer team two weeks ahead; they’ll set aside a free sensory bag and pass to a small quiet room, even without a full-time educator. For local parents whose kids hoard Amazon boxes or take apart old remotes just to see how they work, you don’t need a $300 summer STEM camp. The Orange County Library System hosts free open build hours every Wednesday after school at the downtown branch, with all the hot glue and cardboard you can use, no registration required most weeks.
I ran into Javi and his mom at the Publix by Waterford Lakes two months after the faire. She said he’d kept his catapult on his desk and talked about it weekly, but couldn’t find any affordable programs near their house. I gave her the library info, and he started going a few weeks later. I stopped by last month after school, and he hunched over a table building a rubber band-powered car with three other boys, hood down, arguing about whether bottle caps or wooden spools made faster wheels.
That was luck, though. I happened to grocery shop at the same store at the same time. Dozens of other kids left that faire with the same spark, and no one crossed paths with them afterward.
As of last week, the educator role is still open, with applications under review. This year’s faire is three months out. I’m signed up to run the catapult booth again, and I printed 50 half-sheets with all the free local build info I know to hand to kids who linger at the edge like Javi. I’ll still miss most of them. I have grading after my shift, lesson plans to write that Sunday. If they hire someone soon, they can line up 20 classroom visits, build a cross-county program list, and get the quiet corner set up before gates open. If they don’t, the weekend will still be fun. Kids will still cheer for fighting robots, build cardboard forts, and launch pom poms across the hall. But a lot will go home, set their catapult on a shelf, and never learn that the thing they loved that one Saturday isn’t just a one-off craft. It’s something they can keep doing.
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