It's taken me some time to be able to articulate a concise(ish) response to the questions I've been asked several times this year: why did you leave the classroom? Why did you decide to stop teaching kindergarten? I've got it as pared down as I can get at this point, with perhaps a seemingly trivial example to aid in illustrating my mindset during the decision-making process. This small detail was part of a much larger mosaic that will be recognizable at least to veteran colleagues, and hopefully satiating as a response to all other adults. I'm still working on the kid-appropriate version, because yes, they've been curious too.
I was in a groove, thanks to being a kindergarten whisperer for twenty-five years. Well-established expectations and best practices along with many, many incorrect assumptions from others about what my job entailed helped me to hum along for the most part in what became a comfortable teaching pattern. Administrators and colleagues who found that young learners made them intensely uncomfortable were, in time, able to trust (or simply hope) that my students were in good hands, inevitably deciding that in order to "support" me, the best thing they could do was to avoid my classroom at all costs. It worked.
As the teacher of young learners I advocated for developmentally appropriate practice (still do), and over time I balked at kindergarten being turned into the new first grade through the fear-mongering and lies spread by education publishers and perpetuated by education-fund-controlling politicians who were and are consistently reelected by parents. I disagreed with the acceptance by administrators and inexperienced teachers in community after community to which I moved to place funding considerations above all else knowing that the leashes tied to them in the system currently in place were increasingly becoming choke collars around the necks of both teachers and students. Perhaps even my age made several pet peeves unbearable for me to continue to witness daily through the lens of kindergarten. For example, early childhood and primary classrooms and bulletin boards full of substantial displays of affirming posters and signs... in c-u-r-s-i-v-e.
Let me articulate: most kindergarteners can't read. Those who can, can't read cursive. This means that much of the pretty-pretty-froo-froo decor isn't for students, it's for the teacher, and goodness, teachers shouldn't be the focus of the learning spaces, my friends. Work by students should instead be celebrated, focused upon, displayed and valued, and that work should be as diverse as the beautiful little spirits that arrive to learn every day. I'm not talking about matching bulletin board trimmers and calendar sets, I'm talking about these plastering the walls:
I *get* the sentiments, and I can see how teachers accidentally justify the purchasing and plastering of these posters in the heat of the moment, really, I do. "Growth mindset," "positive affirmations," "resiliency," yadda yadda yadda. However, that cursive "g" and the Ss that look like the number "88" are not the examples you put in front of early literacy learners who have just begun to examine and decode the chicken scratch of our written word. How do I know this? From reading. From mentors. From professional development. From regular reflection. From knowing young children. From experience. See? PEEVE.
The continuation of developmentally inappropriate choices for four, five, and six-year-olds became very painful flaws of a lens through which to focus my pedagogy after I spent many years teaching because of my Super Stars and their families and in spite of the detrimental shift in education policy and practice that I hoped would be short-lived. Thanks to a former colleague suggesting that my organizational inclinations, love of books, ability to find information, and skills as an educator would all lend themselves nicely to a career shift as a school librarian, I began my graduate program.
Now here I am with a new lens. It's not flawless and frankly, that one giant gouge of being a part-time librarian in a school of full-time needs is a tricky one to see past, but it's the one through which I am now viewing and reflecting upon my pedagogy. Instead of one class of students, I have twenty-two, with hopefully two more on the way if I can convince administrators that pre-school students should also have the opportunity to visit the library regularly. Colleagues with whom I had limited contact for over a decade are now getting to know me better, though I'm managing to throw them for a bit of a loop, since it seems my round-peg-square-hole tendencies continue to define me, much to their surprise. I'm now advocating regularly for all learners, and not just the youngest. I've discovered there are plenty of incorrect assumptions about what librarians do too, so instead of "just playing all day" with kindergarteners, many believe I "just check books in and out while kids play" now.
It'll take some time to develop my new groove and adjust to the new lens. It'll also take investing money into shoes with significant support and comfort to adjust to the physical toll of a much larger workspace and physically heavier loads. It'll take strategic decision-making to determine if I'll allow others to dictate to me that I no longer have the right or the responsibility as a member of the school "team" to advocate for young learners, since a few appear to be of the opinion that I should "stay in my lane." Surprise: school librarians are teachers too! Oh look, another peeve.
And that, in a not-too-small nutshell, is why I left the classroom. Rather than running and screaming to my nearest retirement program representative, I now have a new pedagogical lens through which to view and focus my efforts as an educator. It feels good. I still love working with young learners but let me tell you, fourth, fifth, and sixth-graders are awesome human beings too.
Now... if only handwriting for primary grades and penmanship for uppers would return as curricular components.
*wink*
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