Clown School...

About three or four months ago, while on a site visit with the principal of the after-school program I started around that same time, I was interrupted by a very disgruntled fifth grade teacher.  She had a list of names and was insistent that the collective fifth grade teaching staff could no longer tolerate these “clowns.”  Mind you, I was trying very hard to mind my own business however the principal said something to the effect, well you want to help kids around here – why don’t you take these kids for an hour or so each week.  Okay.  Send in the clowns.

And so my journey into what I have affectionately come to call, “clown school” began.  Every Friday since March, a volunteer in my program and myself have hung out with these nine very endearing and at times quite maddening fifth grade boys.  We have played games, wiped tears, nearly had to break up a fight or two, laughed a lot, sent kids to time out, put together puzzles,  wrote letters to ourselves and in a nutshell fallen in love with these ragtag bunch of knuckleheads.  Some of the kids in the group have witnessed domestic violence, others are in foster care, others haven’t seen their biological parents in years and still some have no apparent “cause” factor for their “clowning” other than general rowdiness. 

I finally broke my very strong no self-disclosure policy with the kids and told them a bit of my story.  The truth is when I was in fifth grade, if our school had a “clown school,” I have absolutely no doubt I would have been in it.  In fifth grade I successfully locked my teacher out of the classroom. I organized many of my classmates into an official we hate the teacher club – complete with meetings and members and the whole shebang.  On another occasion, I spat in the teacher’s coffee.  Gross, I know.  Things got to be so bad that at one point the teacher hit me.  Finally, one day late in the school year, I walked up to our classroom with all of my classmates thinking everything was normal to find my desk and all of my belongings outside the door.  The teacher sternly told me I simply wasn’t in her class any more.  I spent the rest of the day in the principal’s office.  The next day, sure enough, I was placed in the other fifth grade class for the rest of the year relatively problem free. 

In my professional experience I have thought often about divine retribution.  In particular, I have had a number of run-ins with fifth graders over the years but I can’t think of one, even in the “clown school” bunch that was as much of a pain in the ass as me.  Hands down, “clown school” has been the best part of my new job.  Most days I come out of “clown school” thinking I have the best job in the world.  Tomorrow will be our last meeting, here’s to “clown school.”