Three classes of first graders filed into their library and sat criss-cross–apple-sauce on the rug in front of me.
“Are you the author?” one asked me surprised.
I performed a quick scan of myself—the baggy jeans, the neutral sweater. What did a five or six year old think an author looked like? This would have been a great question for me to ask, but I said yes before I could say much else and she replied immediately.
“You’re beautiful!” she said.
The kid next to her spoke up, too.
“You’re gorgeous.”
What is happening here?
Another kid chimed in, “Yeah, you’re gorgeous.”
Who says gorgeous anymore, and is anyone recording this for me? Then, the question I usually get—and if you’re a teacher, you know what it is—“How old are you?”
“I’m 48,” I said. “I’ve been on this planet doing my thing for 48 years. Can you believe it?!” Apparently, they can.
“Yeah, my dad’s 48.”
“You’re older than my mom.”
Great.
This brings me to The Top Five Things I Can Usually Count On Elementary Schoolers to Do:
1. Ask “How old are you?”
2. Announce it’s their half-birthday.
3. Raise their hand wildly and then tell me they forgot what they were going to say.
4. Show me a tooth in the palm of their hand and the space in their gums where it used to live.
5. Shout out when I’m late clicking to the next slide of my presentation.
But “You’re beautiful,” was a first. When my ego was able to see past the flattery, it occurred to me that maybe they didn’t think authors could be attractive. Or worse yet, couldn’t be women? Oh no!
I’d been trying out this solo author presentation-gig for a week of a two-week stint. It was a test-drive on home turf, back in Boulder, Colorado where I taught elementary for thirteen years. I introduce myself as a writer and teacher. I tell the background story for Loud Mouse, including the authors’ message, and then I do an interactive reading of the book. I feel like a cross between Ms. Frizzle and a touring Mrs. Maisel, teaching and cracking jokes (some jokes are more for the staff than the students), right after I remember where the heck I am, which I’m learning is an occupational hazard of touring. “Hello Foothill Foxes!!” to a crowd of six and seven year olds feels surprisingly similar to what I imagine “Hello Atlanta!” feels like to a rock star or comedian. But you have to remember where you are to say it!
If all the presentations start with “You’re gorgeous,” then there’s no need to test drive this car any further. I’m in. Actually, so far the gig is pretty great without the compliments. It comes with the same perks I’ve heard come with being a grandma. I get to do the fun stuff and then go home.
When it comes to the fun stuff of teaching, read aloud tops the list. There are only two exceptions and these include medical emergencies and unwelcome odors; to be fair, two issues that can undermine any part of the school day. I vividly remember the horror of a third grader putting a paperclip in an outlet while I read The Last of The Really Great Whangdoodles—he’ll never do that again. I also recall doing some sleuthing about read aloud farting. The scent in our classroom routinely soured on Thursdays post-read aloud. After a full-scale classroom investigation we were able to deduce the french toast sticks at lunch were the culprit. But also, because they were the best, there was nothing to be done but conduct Thursday read aloud outside, weather permitting.
But teaching is getting harder and harder. Many of my teaching friends are having the most difficult years of their long careers. In some cases, there isn’t even time in the day for read aloud! So when I say I get to do my favorite part of teaching and then go home, it’s also important to note why that going home part is essential.
This brings me to The Top Ten Things (Yes, This List Is Twice As Long) I DON’T Have to Do Because I Leave After My Presentation:
1. Listen to a parent tell me their child will be missing school unnecessarily and can I put the work they’ll be missing together for them to take on the trip.
2. Justify a report card grade despite having had ample correspondence regarding that student.
3. Bite my lip when a student uses Sharpie on a new dry erase board and then enlightens me with instructions on how best to remove it.
4. Set school goals for the new school year based on hours of analyzing last year’s standardized testing data, even though last year’s class had nothing in common with this year’s class except their grade level.
5. Get to know a new curriculum or new standards when I finally completed plans for the old ones.
6. Take a lackluster professional development class that doesn’t implement any of the strategies it is preaching to improve teacher effectiveness.
7. Perform a team building exercise when my plans for tomorrow are a complete shit show and I still haven’t returned the overdue science kits to the district.
8. Make the fatal error of assuming that the student who tattled about so-and-so saying the “s” word at recess meant the “sh” word, but—plot twist—she did not. Who’s feeling stupid now?
9. Dodge a lice outbreak or projectile vomit.
10. Write “penis” on the board when I mean to write “pennies”.
While writing and teaching both demand enormous amounts of self-reflection, they require very different parts of my personality. As a writer, I’m often isolated and introspective. I need a bounty of mental space to generate ideas. As a teacher, my mental space is flooded. I’m rarely alone and always needed. It’s “Ms. Mentzel (men-SEL), Ms. Mentzel, Ms. Mentzel.” All. Day. Long. So this new gig, the author presentation gig, is a nice balance. Author presentations satisfy my inner extrovert—can you have an inner extrovert or does it have to be an outer extrovert? Putting my teacher hat on again—even if temporarily— brings me joy. I give the kids and teachers all I’ve got, but for a limited period of time. A boundary I was never able to maintain as a teacher. As a result, the interactions oxygenate my writing process as much as I hope my presentation boosts theirs.
*If you’d like me to visit your school and read Loud Mouse (or, after September 12, 2023, Proud Mouse) please send your request to inquire@caramentzel.com. I still have time this May to visit schools in Southern California!