This morning, twenty-one boys and eleven girls walked into their third grade classroom. They sat down, nervous and quiet, trying to figure out their new man teacher with the tie and the glasses who for the first period told them to be thoughtful to oth¬ers, and use your time wisely, and follow directions, and raise your hands before speaking, and do not touch the paper cutter, and ask to go to the bathroom, and don't whine when you take out your math books, and respect each other's property, and who knows what that means? And don't chew gum at school, and don't exclude others from your games, and walk in the hallways, and don't run up the slide.
Poor kids. I would have left after the first ten minutes. Actually, I almost did on my first day of third grade. My teacher's name was Mr. Johnson. I cried when I found out I had him. My friends said he was mean. He gave homework. But my mom liked him because he taught kids their times tables and the states, and my mom said that teachers didn't teach kids their times tables and states anymore.
On my first day of third grade, Mr. Johnson lined us all up in front of the chalkboard and walked down the row like a sergeant. He stopped in front of me, bent over, and raised one eyebrow.
"Mr. Done?" he said slowly.
I froze.
"I had your older brother," he said.
I wanted to run out the door but figured that, being a ser¬geant, he could run faster than I could. So I stayed and learned my times tables and my states.
Now I like the first day of school. I like the newness of it all. The name tags aren't torn. The butcher paper hasn't faded. The pencils don't have teeth marks. The dry erase markers write. The glue bottles pour. The dodge balls bounce. The watercolor trays are clean. The rug smells like carpet cleaner. And the desks smell like 409-
The boys still line up with the boys, and the girls still line up with the girls. At nine o'clock they still ask me, "When's lunch?" and at ten o'clock, "When's school over?" They still laugh out loud when I read The Teacher from the Black Lagoon, even though they heard it in kindergarten and first grade and second grade too. They still forget over the summer how to do 500 minus 199. They still hope the new man teacher likes them.
And I do.
Today was a good day as far as first days of school go. I was lucky. One of Dawn's kids walked home after morning recess. He said he was tired. A girl in Kim's class screamed for three hours straight. A boy in Lisa's class had an accident on the rug. Marion had two criers. And a kid in Mike's room threw up three times before lunch (the custodian finally left the mop).
On the first day of school, kids usually fall in love with their new teacher by first recess. But for me, it takes about a week until they are mine. I always miss the old ones. I look at row two, sec¬ond seat from the end, and I still see Jesse from last year leaning back on his chair. I look at row one, right on the aisle, and I still see Alexandra with her hair in her mouth. I look at row three, middle seat, and I still see Mark surrounded by pencil sharpener shavings. But Mark is sharpening his pencils, Alexandra is eating her hair, and Jesse is falling over in another classroom this year. They all have their new favorite teachers now.
And that is how it should be.

Names

I entered teaching in the C years. The boys were all named Christopher. The girls were all named Christine. The hamsters were all named Cookie.
Pretty soon we started reading the classics again, and the room was full of Olivers and Elizabeths and Emmas and Nicholases.
Then came the J years. I had four Jacobs, three Jeremys, two Jessicas, and five Jackies in the same room. It made putting names in alphabetical order extremely difficult.
Some trends came and went. Once I had two Blakes, three Ashleys, and a Zack. I thought I was on One Life to Live. Another year I felt like I was working at a sweetshop. I had a Candy and a Coco. Then there was the year that I chased Maxes and Trevors and Rexes around all day long. The cafeteria may as well have served Kibbles 'n Bits.
Some years a few names are just too difficult for me to pro¬nounce. These kids quickly receive their new nicknames of Tiger, or Sweetheart, or Trouble.
One year it was May when Sam finally realized that Seung Bin's real name was not Tiger. That was understandable though. Sam thought my first name was Mr.
Sometimes I just don't want to say their names at all. Take the new student who arrived last spring. Guess what his name was?
His name was Phuc.
All day long I would say, "Sit down, Phuc," "Line up for lunch now, Phuc," and, "Phuc, it's time for reading."
I tried making the u in his name long. I pretended that I didn't see him raise his hand so I didn't have to call on him. He was my next Tiger.
Some years I swear that all the expectant moms on the PTA get together and say, "OK, girls, what name can we all give our new babies this year?"
One year they decided on Hannah. How do I know this? Be¬cause a few years later I had five Hannahs in my classroom, that's why. The only way I could keep them all straight was to number them.
"Hannah Number Three," I said, "would you please answer the question?"
I pointed to Hannah.
"I'm not Hannah Number Three," said Hannah. "I'm Han¬nah Number Five."
This year I keep calling Brian by his brother’s name because I had his brother last year. And I call Joshua "Luke" because Luke was sitting in that seat two months ago.
And forget the attendance sheet. Nobody wants to be called what it says on the attendance sheet anymore. Jenny hates the name Jennifer. Joey hates Joseph. Matthew wants to be called Matt now, Ronald wants to be called Ronny, and Justin wants to be called the Terminator.
The moms' names are worse. Half of them have different last names from their kids'. Patrick's mom got angry 'cause I wrote "Mrs." and not "Ms." And I'm sorry, but those hyphenated names drive me crazy. They do not fit on my name tags.
My brother Steve is a teacher too. He teaches the older kids. One day, when he and his wife were expecting their first child, they sat around the kitchen table trying to pick out a name. I was with them.
"What about Rachel?" my sister-in-law, Karen, asked.
"No way," said my brother.
"Why?" she asked.
"Because I had a Rachel in my room once," he answered. "She stole everything."
"OK, no Rachel," Karen said. "What about Rebecca?"
I screamed.
"What?" she asked.
"You can't name her Rebecca," I said.
"Why?"
"I had a Rebecca once, and whenever she didn't want to do something, she hid under the desk and barked."
"Oh my. Maybe we should try some boys' names then. I like the name Thomas. Do you like Thomas?" she asked my brother.
Steve looked at her. "Do you want to be penny-locked in the bathroom and pull toilet paper rolls out of the John?" he asked.
Karen made a nervous face.
"How about Jacob?" she suggested.
I pointed to the side of my head.
"See these gray hairs?" I asked.
"Yeah," she answered.
"They're all named Jacob. And see this?" I cried, pointing to the bald spot on the top of my head. "I used to have hair there until Nathan showed up."
Karen laughed.
"OK. No Jacob and no Nathan," she said. "But we have to name him something."
"I got it," said my brother. "Let's name him Martin."
"Martin? Why Martin?" she asked.
"Because I have never had a Martin in my class."
"But what if you get a Martin one day in your class and it ends up being the Year of Martin?" she asked.
"No problem." My brother smiled. "We'll just change our son's name."