Look Closely

My teaching life is short on bathroom breaks, time to eat lunches, and opportunities for adult conversations. This shortage, however  is balanced by the abundance of stories and rich memories I’ve been given in the span of my career. The importance of a memory is often immediately recognizable, but there are other moments from teaching that pop to mind and have no apparent purpose or importance, leaving me to question, “Now why  am I remembering that?”  This is one such memory.

One morning I was introducing the day’s plan to my 6th graders, explaining the details of an activity from the front of the room.  I remember I was sitting atop a tall stool I would often use when giving direct instruction.  I was in the midst of an explanation on the day’s activity when a hand shot up in the middle of the room.  The sudden hand in the air led me to believe this was a matter of extreme importance.  I called on the sweet girl, waving her hand in the air and she said this, “Mrs. Laaksonen!  You’re wearing two different socks!”  Stunned by her nonsensical interruption and the possibility that I might actually be wearing two different socks, I said nothing at first and immediately looked down at the part of my sock visible between my pant cuff and my shoe.  Both socks were white, I regained my composure and responded to her saying, “No, my socks are the same color.”  I kicked my feet up a bit, “See, both are white–Same.”

I smiled out at her, but she still seemed unconvinced.  I waited along with the rest of our class to see what would happen next.  I tilted my head, raised my eyebrows, and gave that still questioning young lady a chance to respond.  And she did.  “Noooo,” she said slowly to soften any sign of disrespect.  “One sock has raised ridges and the other is smooth.”  I looked downward, pulled my foot closer to me, and studied the texture of each white sock.   I’ll always remember how quiet the room was in that moment, everyone awaiting the verdict.  After careful inspection of first one sock and then the other, I sat straight up and announced, “She’s right!  I’m wearing two different socks!”  And then the clamoring began, “Come over here, Mrs. Laaksonen, let us see the two different socks! We need a closer look, too.”  I made several trips around the perimeter of the room to show off my fashion faux pas and then we resumed the lesson for the day. Or as I’ve come to realize, we moved on to a different lesson.

For years I’ve enjoyed retelling that story, and I always insert the “isn’t it crazy what kids notice?” commentary.   However, I’m starting to understand that this memory is more than a cute anecdote about the spontaneity of a classroom.  My mismatched socks are at the heart of how and what I teach.  When I was in college, my professors referred to this as the “unintended curriculum” which is what we teach about life and the world unintentionally while we are teaching the basics of writing an essay or the difference between a simile and a metaphor.  That young girl’s observation of my socks is part of a bigger lesson for me.  Every part of me is in the lesson and is noticed.  Today she noticed my socks.  Tomorrow she might notice my voice quivers when I read a poem I wrote about my grandma.  And the day after that, she might ask about the “Black Lives Matter” button I have pinned to my school employee lanyard.

The way I see it as a veteran teacher who is entirely comfortable with the content, it is time to be more aware of the unintended curriculum in our classroom.   I want to think more deeply about the whole picture and plan purposeful integration of the curricular content with the routines as well as the physical space of our classroom.   I want the work we do in our classroom to have a purpose and an audience outside of our four walls.  I want the students in my classroom to see me excited about the beauty of words, and I want students to thrill in the power of being able to use those words themselves.

I figured out why the sock story has stuck with me after all these years.  The part of me that understands important truths I cannot always articulate wanted to make sure I continued to honor a student’s ability to notice and pay attention.  The memory of the socks pops up to remind me to not turn on the “teaching autopilot” and instead stay engaged, ready to notice.  Because it’s important to pay attention.