Which Grade Level Is Actually the Best to Teach? I’ve Tried All Three, So Let Me Be Honest
I got asked this question at a backyard cookout last weekend. My cousin’s girlfriend is thinking of switching into education, leaned against the grill next to me, and said straight out, “So which one is the best? I don’t want to end up stuck with the worst batch of chaos, y’know?” I froze mid-bite of a burnt hot dog, because I don’t have a neat answer for that. I did student teaching in 2nd grade, subbed a full year of 6th to 8th grade right after college, and I’ve been teaching 10th grade English for four years now. I’ve got the stained lesson plans and awkward memory scrapes to prove I’ve seen all three.
Let’s start with elementary, since that’s where I started. I thought it’d be all cute storytime and drawing rainbows when I student taught, and some days it was. There’s nothing like the way a 7-year-old looks at you when you finally explain how carrying the one works for multiplication—like you just pulled a rabbit out of a hat and solved all their problems. One kid gave me a gift halfway through the semester: a half-eaten bag of goldfish crackers, tucked into a crumpled sandwich bag with a crayon drawing of a cat on the front. I couldn’t throw it away, even after the crackers crumbled to dust. I still have that bag in a box of old teaching junk at my parents’ house.
But elementary’s mess is way more tangible than other grades. I spent more time mediating fights over who got the sparkly blue crayon than actually teaching some weeks. I once had to stop reading aloud to help a kid fish his lost tooth out of a cup of applesauce. Glitter gets everywhere. I still find random flecks of glitter on my winter coat from eight years ago. And don’t get me started on the unexpected hugs: some days it’s the nicest thing in the world, after a rough parent email, but some days you’re sweaty from standing in the hot playground, you just had a kid blow their nose on your sleeve, and you really don’t want a hug from someone who just picked their nose and wiped it on their jeans.
Next up, middle school—everyone’s favorite to hate, right? I went into that full-year sub gig ready to count down the days until I could get out. But it wasn’t the nightmare everyone says it is. Yeah, there’s hormones. Yeah, there’s attitude. But there’s also this weird, raw sweetness to it that no other grade has. I still cringe thinking about the time I walked in on two 7th graders making out behind the nonfiction shelf during silent reading. I just froze, cleared my throat way too loud, and babbled “I’m just here looking for the volcano book! …Just coming through!” and backed out. They never did it again, and both turned into my hardest workers that year. Middle schoolers just want someone to see them, not just write them off as moody brats. They’ll meme your bad haircut in the class group chat you accidentally got added to, but then they’ll leave a lemon drop they saved from lunch on your desk because you mentioned you had a headache that morning.
The chaos here is more emotional than physical. One minute a kid’s cackling with you over a bad joke, the next they’re slamming their locker shut because you asked them to turn in their homework. I broke up three fights in one single month all over stolen AirPod cases. I still get a little twitchy when I see a white wireless earbud in a case now.
Now I’m at high school, and this is where the good gets really good, and the hard gets really heavy. The best part is you can have actual conversations about real things. Last month we read To Kill a Mockingbird, and a kid who never says a word in class stayed after to tell me about how his dad is a small-town cop, and they’ve been fighting for months about racial justice, and the book made him finally understand why his dad thinks the way he does, even if he still disagrees. That’s the kind of moment that sticks with you forever, that you can’t get with a 7-year-old or even a 13-year-old who’s still scared to say what they really think.
But most days, half the class is half-asleep. They’re working 20 hours a week after school, playing two sports, cramming for AP tests, writing college apps until 1 a.m. I don’t even bother taking away their iced coffee they snuck in anymore, I know they need it more than I need to enforce the no-food rule. Last semester I got a personal narrative from a senior that was all about how he and his friends skip my first period class once a month to get Crunchwrap Supremes at Taco Bell. It was hilarious, really well-written, so I gave him a B+ and wrote “next time skip math instead” in the comments. But it also made me sad, that he needed that break that bad just to get through the week.
So when people ask which is best, I still don’t have an answer. If you hate the weight of all the heavy stuff kids carry these days, and you don’t mind glitter and lost teeth, elementary might be your perfect fit. If you love weird, dry humor and awkward 2-second side hugs, middle school might surprise you. If you love talking about books and ideas and real life, high school’s where that’s at. I’ve been thinking lately about switching to part-time elementary art next year, because I’m tired of grading 120 essays a month and writing endless college recommendation letters. But I know if I leave, I’ll miss that kid who stayed after to talk about his dad, I’ll miss the stupid Taco Bell narratives, I’ll miss the heated arguments about whether the ending of The Outsiders is actually sad.
There’s no “best” really. It’s just which mess you want to wake up to every day. Some days I want the glitter and goldfish gifts. Some days I want the screaming debates about poetry. I don’t think that’s a bad thing. I don’t need a perfect lane to stay in. I just need the mess that fits me that week, I guess. That’s as good an answer as any.
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