Tomorrow the kids come. But only for 20 minutes. Then we leave two hours later. Another project done. Twenty-five projects so far. I may be getting good at this.
I’m not sorry to see every fifth grade class leave. I am sorry this year. They are a great mix of kids: Smart and not so much. Artistic and challenged. Goofy, mischievous and sweet. More than a few make me laugh every time I see them.
There are two boys who would stop by my room on their way to their patrol assignment to show me what they had for lunch every day and spend so much time doing at it that they always ended up being too late for patrol.
There is the kid with Aspergers who was assigned to tell a joke every day in order to get over his difficulty with appropriate social interactions.
“Hey, Mr. Klonsky. What’s the difference between brussel sprouts and boogers? Don’t know? Kids will eat boogers.”
Funny. Right?
There is the girl who put peace symbols into every single art project she made.
No matter what.
There is the student who read a civil war novel for her regular class that had a character described as “cantankerous on the outside but a softie on the inside,” and said, “Oh yes. Like Mr. Klonsky.”
Which made me realize that nobody under sixty is described as cantankerous.
There is the girl with Down Syndrome who came to Einstein’s with her dad every morning when I’m there having coffee and my Kindled NY Times. She was so excited this morning that she just ran over to share a hug just because she was so happy about going to middle school.
And yesterday, some middle school geeks were hanging around outside a fifth grade class. I was in the office so the secretary sent me out to deal with it. I told the middle school geeks that we still had class and they needed to move away, which they did.
Then I found out that when the teacher had asked them to move, they had flipped her off. So, out I went again.
“You flipped off a teacher?”
“Uh, no.”
“She said you did. Was she lying?”
Shrug.
I knew that if I talked about being disrespectful to a teacher, it would mean nothing.
“We don’t treat women like that at this school,” feeling a private internal wince as I heard my voice say those words.
But as I came back in the building, the fifth graders from that room came running out. With their thumbs pointing up jamming the air they chanted, “When you mess with the Klonster you’re messing with a monster.”
I’m going to miss them.
Fred Klonsky 