Do you know that there are only six classrooms in the entire world? It's true. Visit any school, and you will see that all class¬rooms fall into one of six categories.
Like cars, classrooms have names too. The six models include the Shock, the Chi, the Natural, the Pile, the Hospital, and the Model Home. At my school we have all six of them.
My friend Kim teaches second grade down the hall. Her classroom is the Shock. Every wall, window, door, and cupboard in her room are covered with kids' work, banners, posters, pocket charts, and maps. Not one inch is left uncovered. Not even the ceiling. Of course everything is labeled too- the globe, the paper towel holder, the piano, the bunny.
Dawn teaches in the Chi. She hung mirrors to create balance, plants to soak up noise pollution, and wind chimes to absorb negative energy. Dawn plays soft music during silent read¬ing time. She has an aquarium with goldfish in the back of the room and a small fountain in the corner. She used to burn can¬dles, but once she set off the fire alarm, so she doesn't do that any¬more.
Mike's classroom is the Natural. Years ago he threw away all the Rubbermaid, poured everything into baskets, removed the carpet, and pulled out all the fluorescent bulbs. He wears hemp and his kids wear tie-dye. His students macrame their Mothers Day gifts and sit on stumps to eat their carrot sticks.
I am not like Mike or Dawn or Kim. I am a piler. I pile papers on my desk. I pile them on the floor. I pile them on the rabbit cage. I pile on my piles. I have three file cabinets. If you open them, you will see piles. But it is not easy to be a teacher and a piler. Filers are often misunderstood and made fun of behind their piles—especially by those who work in Hospitals.
Hospitals do not have anything hanging on their walls or ceilings or doors or cupboards. Hospital teachers do not lick their fingers to clean their overhead transparencies. And they do not add extra baking soda and vinegar into the papier-mache volcano to see how much lava will erupt all over the teacher's desk.
Someday I want to work in the Model Home. It is my fan¬tasy. (Filers are also dreamers.) My friend Lisa teaches first grade in the Model Home. I love visiting Lisa's classroom. She has fake ficus trees in the corners, plastic runners on her carpet, and guest towels by her sink. Her broom closet has a mirror on it (an up¬grade), and her books are all the same color.
Of course, one could be a combination of two classrooms. Mrs. Simon, the science lab teacher, says she is half Natural and half Shock. Marion, my friend who teaches grade two, says she is about seventy-five percent Chi and twenty-five percent Model Home. And Mrs. Fisher, the music teacher, says she is about one-fifth Shock, and four-fifths Pile. We get along well.
But certain styles are just not compatible with one another. For example, one couldn't be a Pile-Hospital. Well, I guess maybe you could. But your piles would smell like Lysol.

Mrs. Wilson

There are some teachers who make me sick. No matter how hard I try, I will never be like them. Never. Take Mrs. Wilson, for example. I hate her.
Mrs. Wilson's pencil sharpener does not have crayon in it. Mrs. Wilson’s smock has no paint on it. The handles of her paint¬brushes do not have paint on them either.
Her kids walk in a straight line, do not talk in the hall, do not pick mud off their shoes during story hour, always raise their hands, and never spill paint.
Everything in her room is in alphabetical order—her books, her encyclopedias, her files, her sticker box, even her students. Yes, Derek sits next to Connie, who sits next to Bryce, who sits next to Anna. It's enough to make one vomit. But of course you can't. No one would dare throw up in her classroom. No one has ever thrown up in her classroom.
Mrs. Wilson's celery always turns red when she puts it in food coloring. Her lima bean seeds always sprout in their Ziploc bags, and her salt crystals always grow. I'm convinced that Mrs. Wilson's bunny does not poop.
My compasses point everywhere but north. My batteries are always dead. My aquarium leaks. And my Venus flytrap is a vege¬tarian.
Mrs. Wilson changes her bulletin boards diligently each month. Apples make way for pumpkins, which come down for turkeys. When she's putting up snowmen, I'm taking down "What Did You Do This Summer?"
Mrs. Wilson has a box for everything (which she covered herself of course with contact paper)—a box for burlap, a box for felt, a box for orange juice cans, a box for popsicle sticks, a box for rabbit food, a box for straws, a box for yarn. She even has a box for her boxes. (Filers just cannot comprehend this.)
Her crayons are all in separate containers too. Blue crayons in blue tubs. Red crayons in red tubs. Yellow with yellow. You would never see a green crayon in the blue tub. Never.
My crayons are all in one box—the same box as all my yarn, burlap, felt, straws, orange juice cans, popsicle sticks, and rabbit food.
Once, just for fun, I snuck into her room after work and threw a red crayon in with the yellow ones. But that night I felt so guilty about it that I drove back to school after dinner and put it back.
Mrs. Wilson handwrites each Back to School Night invita¬tion, turns her room into a haunted house for Halloween, dresses up like a pilgrim for Thanksgiving, and has snow shipped in for her winter party. It's even been whispered that the thank-you cards for her Christmas gifts are written, addressed, and stamped before she receives the gifts.
Dear Student,
Tftank you so much for the beautiful gift. I absolutely love It.
I will put it in a very special place, and whenever I look at it, I will
think of you.
Love, Mrs. Wilson
How does she do it, I'd like to know? What is her secret? How is it that her stapler is always full, her glue bottles always pour, her pop-up books still pop up, and her paper clips never hook them¬selves to each other when you take them out of the box? How, after thirty-five years, does she still have all her checker pieces?

Teacher School

One day while the kids were writing in their journals, Brian shouted out, "How come every teacher always tells me to write in complete sentences?"
"Because that's what we learn to say in Teacher School," I an¬swered.
"What's that?" he asked.
"It's where all teachers learn how to be teachers," I said. "It is sort of like Parent School."
He stared at me.
"You're joking," Brian said.
"No, I'm not," I answered.
"What else do you learn at Teacher School?" Justin joined in.
I paused for a second. "Well," I said in a serious voice, "in the first year you learn how to push a stapler, how to turn a jump rope, and how to cut straight with a paper cutter. You also learn how to blow a whistle, how to put stars on papers, how to pull down a wall map, how to tug on the screen so it goes up on the first try, and how to turn the pencil sharpener really fast. Empty¬ing the sharpener comes later."
"Is this true?" asked Brian.
"Of course it's true," I said. "In year two you learn how to play red rover, how to unjam the copier, and how to change the bulb in the overhead projector. You learn how to make cursive Ws and 7s the right way because you forgot. And you practice saying, 'Walk!' until you can say it really loud. I was really good at that."
"We could have guessed that," said Brian. "What about year three?" asked Justin. "Well, your junior year is more difficult," I said. "In year three you learn how to pass out papers, how to write in a straight line on the board, how to carve a pumpkin, and how to tell if a child is not telling the truth." "No way," said Justin.
"Yes way. I studied it very hard. That's why I'm so good at it." "So is my mom," said Brian.
"See? I told you Teacher School is like Parent School." "What else?" Justin asked.
"Also in year three," I explained, "you learn how to make a Halloween costume out of a Hefty bag, how to clean a hamster cage, and how to cut a birthday cake into thirty-two pieces with a plastic ruler when a mom sends one in without a knife. Of course year three is when you learn your teacher jokes." "Teacher jokes?" asked Brian. "Yes," I said. "Every teacher has to learn at least three jokes in order to graduate."
"That's not true," said Justin.
"Sure it is," I replied.
"Then tell us one," said Brian.
I paused for a second. "OK. Where do all pencils come from?" I asked.
"We know that one," said Justin.
"Well, where from?" I asked.
"Pennsylvania," Justin said.
"That's very good, Justin," I said. "You could be a teacher."
He shook his head.
"What about the next year?" asked Brian.
"Oh, the last year is tough."
"Why?" he asked.
"Because in the last year you have to learn to read upside down during storytime, how to lick your fingers before you turn the page, and how to take a messy stack of papers and hit it on rhe table three times then pat it on the top three times so that it looks nice and neat and the corners are even so now you can staple the stack."
"What else?" asked Justin.
"In the last year," I continued, "you also learn how to open a Band-Aid so that the ends don't stick together before you wrap it around a finger, how to turn a shoe box into a mailbox for valen¬tines, and you have to learn to say all your times tables really fast without looking at the multiplication chart."
"I'm never going to be a teacher," said Justin.
I laughed.
"And," I continued, "seniors must also pass the following classes: Glaring at Children Who Play with Velcro during Story-time, How to Take Away Paper Clips and Rubber Bands, Advanced Juice Box Opening, and How to Make Boys Finish Writ¬ing in Their Journals When They Would Rather Talk,"
"Mr. Done!" screamed Brian.
"You're fooling us," said Justin.
I laughed. "OK, you two, that's enough. Now get back to work."
Brian smirked. "When did you learn to say that?"
"Day one." I winked. "And I was the best in the class."