It's dismissal time. Marilyn Cohen, a little more dressed up than usual in preparation for an early evening school program, holds hands with her "friendship circle" of kindergartners as they sing their goodbye song. When the last child leaves, waving a fistful of artwork, Marilyn hurries to check the incubator, which is on a table in the center of the room. It has been the center of attention for the last month. She tidies up the poems, projects, pamphlets, and posters ("The Four P's!") that are scattered around the incubator. She places two of the children's most beloved books back on the shelf: Mildred Selsam's Egg to Chick (1970) and Ruth Heller's Chickens Aren't the Only Ones (1981).
She checks the eggs again, then glances at the children's chick-hatching calendar, though she knows full well what it says. It says Day 21—but not one of the eggs shows any sign of a chick.
Staring at the apparently lifeless eggs, Marilyn thinks of the weeks of effort put into this activity: observing, comparing, discussing, researching, and anticipating. And all the fun: the stories, songs, games, and poems the children enjoyed as they waited for the chicks to magically start hatching—one, then another, and another. . . . "They will hatch, won't they, Mrs. Cohen?" How could she face her students and tell them that their fears are confirmed, that their loving care and dedication have yielded nothing, nada, zero—zilch!?
Disappointment often drives teachers to leave the profession. But Marilyn doesn't give in to disappointment. She rushes to the office telephone and dials the number of Dr. Richard Langenbach. Years ago, the embryologist/farmer had visited her class and conducted an in-service presentation on chick hatching. Marilyn was among those enchanted by his wisdom and enthusiasm. From then on, Dr. Langenbach supplied eggs to Marilyn and her kindergartners for their springtime chick-hatching celebration, and their success rate was outstanding—until now. Dr. Langenbach answers, and Marilyn is relieved to hear his voice.
"Do you have any chicks up your sleeve?" she jokes, then explains her predicament. "I'm not going to lie to the children," she assures him. "Tomorrow, we'll talk about nature and how sometimes things don't work out the way we plan, the way we hope. Sometimes, it's not in our hands. We do our best, but then nature has its own plan. It's hard to understand, but we have to accept that. However, I do want the children to have chicks tomorrow to see what their chicks would look like if they did hatch the way we hoped they would."
She arranges to borrow about a half-dozen live chicks, cancels her immediate plans, and drives the 15 miles to Dr. Langenbach's farm out in the country. But he isn't there, she finds. "He must have forgotten," says Mrs. Langenbach, explaining that her husband had just left a few minutes ago. Marilyn, determined not to leave empty-handed, politely asks Mrs. Langenbach if she would round up some chicks for her.
"Oh, my! I'm allergic to all those chickens," Mrs. Langenbach says apologetically. "I never go back there! But you're welcome to, if you'd like."
So Marilyn digs her high heels into the muddy earth, and heads for the chicken coops. "I didn't see this in my job description," she muses. She is greeted by a cacophony of hundreds of clucking, flapping, squawking, agitated chickens.
Where are the chicks? As she searches, she recalls how Dr. Langenbach had talked about the "developmentally appropriate" practice of integrating chicks into the adult chicken population. She peeks into the coops, as the birds peck her and scratch her. She finds herself in a flurry of chicken coop dust, feathers, and emptied seed husks.
Amid the cackling chaos, Marilyn manages to capture six chicks. She puts the frightened little creatures into a cardboard box she had brought, then gladly accepts Mrs. Langenbach's offer of a washing facility. She drives back to her classroom, and gets the chicks settled into their new temporary home.
The next day, as her students arrive, they are thrilled to see the chicks. Marilyn explains to them where the chicks came from. They all talk about life's disappointment and joy—of eggs that don't hatch, and those that do. All the students get to be photographed holding a chick. Their photos will always be reminders of this special time.
Some would call Marilyn's experience an example of professionalism. Others would say she was nuts. I offer it as an example of what the poet Theodore Roethke (1974) meant when he wrote, "Teaching is one of the few professions that permits love."
It's Extraordinary, Yet Ordinary
- Rosie postpones her needed surgery until the summer because she doesn't want to leave her 3rd graders in the middle of the school year.
- Marcella rises at 5 a.m. on trash collection days and drives around the neighborhood to find tossed but "perfectly good" items she can use in instructional activities with her students.
- John turns down an invitation for a special breakfast program. The tall Texan explains that he just can't miss his HeadStart class, where he greets every child at the door with his ritual of "Howdy, Pardner! I'm mighty glad to see you!"
- Maddy holds an umbrella over her toddler construction workers for more than an hour to shade them from the hot sun while they dig tunnels and roadways in the sand to create a storybook world.
- Rashid waits in line at the mall for two hours to get an autograph from a visiting sports celebrity for one of his 8th graders who is a big fan.
- Maxine calls every one of her 5th graders' families to make sure they attend a poetry and art celebration at the local museum. She refuses to let any child miss out and spends the evening carpooling those who have no rides.
- "Teachers Buy Extras, Survey Says: More Than $400 Spent on Supplies," reads a newspaper headline (1997). The article begins: "Whether for stickers, markers, a meal on a field trip, books or even shoes, teachers say they regularly dip into their own pockets to help their students." Jeff knows all about that. He spends easily more than $1,000 a year for his 5th graders. He knows which ones can't afford the lunch during field trips or bus fare for special outings, so he pays for them rather than see them excluded.
In our high-tech, ever-more-impersonal society, where we are often known more by our numbers than our names, it's reassuring to know that those special people teaching our children demonstrate the meaning of that trite, devalued "L" word—love. There, I said it!
