And Then, Magic.

A girl sits in the back seat of the car; mom and dad have just picked her up from school. She wears shorts and a polka dot t-shirt. Her purple backpack and matching lunchbox sit next to her car seat, with her name written in glitter. Her hair is up in a messy ponytail with curls escaping in every direction, signs of a busy school day. Mom and dad drive off, turn the radio down, and ask, “how was the first day of school, honey?” She responds in one breath, “it was good!” and then, silence. A few seconds later, mom continues, “just good? What did you do all day?” A smile on the rear-view mirror and the explosion of words that came after.

I don’t remember having the exact same experience as that girl, but after 15+ years of teaching little ones, I have collected several similar stories from parents. Those stories, though, were collected before the pandemic, before we were forced to abandon the classrooms and all the magic that took place there. I remember that last day together, it was a Tuesday. Our field trip had been canceled so my students and I decided to spend the day improvising lessons and hanging out. Some of us wrote stories, and others played cards games, the usual suspects read books by the couch. I can almost hear the music playing that afternoon. None of us knew that would be it for us being together in what one of the boys called “the best classroom ever, EVER!”

This morning, I walked into a strange-looking room. One that looked too similar to my third-grade classroom when I was a student, one that brings zero memories. Desks in rows, hidden libraries, and bare floors. I remember how liberating it felt to get the desks out of the classroom last fall, how wonderful it was to allow open spaces to build community; our island before COVID-19. The desks are back now and they feel cold, so I allow myself three minutes to honor those memories. I have a job to do. I quickly mourned the past to be emotionally ready for the little ones about to sit at these desks. For a moment, I imagined that scene in the car, mom and dad asking their daughter about her day at school, and I couldn’t picture that conversation. “Kids are resilient, you’ll see,” Ms. Badell told me; these words bring me back. Time to stop whining.

Our day went by quickly; all six students in my room knew exactly how to take care of themselves and others. They were comfortable with their masks and sang songs while washing their hands. They laughed whenever I got lost following arrows around campus and waved at other friends from restricted play areas during recess. The laughter, though, that joyous sound that fills school hallways and classrooms like no other. That laughter was exactly like it was before the pandemic. “Ah, there it is. Magic.”

We wrote in our new writer’s notebooks, built individual towers with pattern blocks, and grew taller in our chairs as we learned about the things third-graders get to do. These little ones made me realize something today. They reminded me of the kind of learner I’ve been in my adult life. I look back at the teacher I was before and notice so many differences. I see myself setting class rules before children even walked through the door on the first day, or placing erasers in their hands in case they needed to “fix” something during writing. I was young, eager, and inexperienced until I learned better ways. There I was today, unaware of how I was learning, yet again. I am resilient, just like them.

To wrap up our first day of school post-pandemic, we had a closing meeting, and I asked students to join me as we reflected on our day. I offered two questions and told them they could choose to answer one, both, or none. “I loved everything! Can I write ‘everything’ on my sticky note?” asked a girl with long brown curls standing next to the pink question. “What is everything?” I asked her. She smiled with her eyes, decided to list almost every activity we did, and placed her sticky note right in the middle of the paper. “Rest easy, Ana. Your fears weren’t unfounded, but kids are resilient. Look how happy they are.”

To end this post, I’ll share a short story I wrote with my students today because it came to me as only a few lines arrive, out of nowhere and in a rush to become something.

August 18th

My glasses get foggy with each breath. I inhale deeply as I share exciting news with the class. I try to slow down to remind myself of how I speak to third-graders, soft, reassuring, friendly. “We’ve got this,” is the message I hope to transmit as we launch Writer’s Workshop. Yes, on the very first day of school.

As they sit at their desks, their half-covered faces begin to transform. Their eyes get smaller somehow, showing a hint of a smile behind the fancy designs on their masks. “We used to write stories on lined paper!” one boy says while his hand dances in the air. “Yeah, and we also used pens like these,” another writer responds from the desk by the window. They all continue to share what they know about Writer’s Workshop as I hold the treasure chest on my lap.

They stare at this cardboard box disguised as a surprise keeper, wondering what’s in it. What golden wonders await to be discovered? I hold it tight and say some magic words, words that only third-graders get to hear. I tell them this year they will begin a new chapter in their lives as writers. They will get their very first writer’s notebook. Some gasp, some look confused, one of them tries to pick from the side.

I sit up, open the box, and reveal the treasure, brand new, ordinary-looking notebooks that have never been touched by any other writer. I hold the notebooks close to my chest and I say, “these notebooks have been waiting for you, their blank pages desperately await your ideas, your stories, opinions, and thoughts, your magic.”

They all listen attentively as I share about my own writer’s notebook and how it’s the keeper of my stories. I tell them about places we go together, my notebook and I, and how cool it is that it remembers my ideas for me. Their eyes are now fixed on the notebooks, hands flat on the desks, barely moving, as if screaming from within, “what are you waiting for? Hand them out already!”