Miss Camp-Bell

I confess I fell into the blog-less abyss for a while…

Lots to tell.

I am no longer a Brown Bag employee.
I am in the middle of semester #2 of grad school.
I am now a Knox County substitute teacher.
Those are the big things. I’d love to elaborate on the small happenings of life, but I’ll save those for another day.

For now, I’ll fill the space with lessons I’ve learned as a substitute teacher…

There’s a new sheriff in town.
For one day.
It could be good.
It could be bad.
It could be weird.
It could be a little bit of all three.
First graders are sweet little angels.
“My mom won’t let me read Diary of a Wimpy Kid; she says it’s inappropriate.”
Third graders are professional tattle-talers.
“He called me an oaf yesterday and then told the teacher that I called him a black oaf!”
Fifth grade boys are funny creatures.
“Miss Campbell, can I touch your hair?”

Other miscellaneous observations:

  • Kids these days know how to Gangnam Style like its their job.
  • If I write my name on the board for kids who are hooked-on-phonics to read, they will pronounce it as a compound word: Miss Campbell = Miss Camp-Bell

Oddly enough, for some reason, (most) of these kids actually listen to me. They don’t know me. I don’t know them. I walk in, ask them to complete tasks, to sit in their seats, to listen…and (for the most part) they actually do. I’m interested to find the threshold where kids stop listening to substitutes—because we all know it happens.

*sidenote* If I were a contestant on the Bachelor, my occupation would say “substitute teacher” and that’s just funny stuff. Hey Lindsey, it’s an honorable profession. You go girl.

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