Six Inches Off the Ground

Two weeks ago my student teacher said she was nervous. It was time for her to take over some of the teaching. "Don't worry you're ready," I assured her. "I'll be right here."

I explained that the training wheels were six inches of the ground, which meant she could ride the bike -- she just didn't know it-- and she needed me to run beside her in case she felt like she was she going to fall.

"I am right here. You won't fall."

Last week I explained to the children that our student teacher was fast becoming a teacher. And a really good one. I explained that we had joined hands to help her jump across the threshold from student teacher to teacher. And I told them that now their hands would be enough... that I could and would be stepping back to watch their work together.

Today she taught all day. She began the day by projecting a picture of children at Ellis Island on the wall above the blackboard. She asked our third graders to write five observations on an index card. Then she asked them to flip the cards over and write an inference.

At morning meeting, she sat my the rocking chair and led the greeting. We both knew it was right. She read a letter from a ten year old at Ellis Island as a mentor text. She asked what we could "hear" in voice. She put on violin music from Schindler's list and sent the writers off to experiment with voice as they wrote letters as children who came through Ellis Island.

The day ended as beautifully as it started. And the training wheels came off.