There's a Sticky Hand on My Ceiling

There’s a sticky hand on my ceiling. You know, one of those cartoon-like hands that seems to have 5 fingers and no thumb? Sticky hands come in assorted colors with long stretchy tails—perfect for eleven-year-old boys to swing and fling around the classroom.

To be clear, I gave one to each of the girls too, but it is the boys who have eagerly unwrapped them, quickly tossing aside the attached Valentine that reads, “Let’s stick together!” Now the boys are up out of their seats, heart-shaped lollipops in their mouths, swinging their sticky hands around the room, experimenting with the yo-yo quality of the elastic tail and the stickiness of the rubbery digits.

Did I mention that I have seventeen boys in my class? It was just a matter of time before one swung a sticky hand up in the air and—Thwack!—it landed on my ceiling.

The ceiling in my classroom is made of those classic 2’ x 2’ tiles set in a suspended checkerboard grid. Originally, they were made with asbestos, but now they’re manufactured with sound-blocking mineral fibers, whatever those are. At least, I hope there’s no asbestos in these tiles, because I’m now standing on a classroom chair attempting to retrieve the sticky hand. You know, the stackable blue chair with the metal legs and the three holes in the back. (Why the holes, I wonder. Did they do research, and determine that elementary school students have sweaty backs?) Anyway, I’m standing on one of these chairs, trying to scrape the sticky hand off the ceiling with the end of a broomstick. When I finally get it, there are cheers! Actual applause. I’ve saved the hand. I’ve saved Valentine’s Day. I’m a hero!

“Maybe this will be the title of my next book,” I tell the boy as I return his now slightly dirty but hopefully asbestos-free sticky hand: There’s a Sticky Hand on My Ceiling.”

“Will you write another book? Will you write about us?” The students want to know.

“Maybe someday,” I answer.

The truth is, I do write about my days in the classroom, but I rarely share anything I write when it’s this fresh. While it’s easy to share a fun story like this, I’m sensitive to writing about some of the challenges of being a teacher. I want to be sure I’m respecting the privacy of my students and my school community. So, in public, I often resort to “athlete talk,” like Michael Jordan after the game: “I’m just happy to be here playing the game of basketball.”

“I’m just happy to be here in the classroom.”

My classroom is an alphabet soup of acronyms. There are kids with IEPs (Individualized Education Plans), kids who receive ESOL services (English for Speakers of Other Languages), kids who are my FSE (favorite students ever) and some I code as TNW (Teacher Needs Wine) after spending the day with them. Some days, a student may fall into all four categories.

Truth: It’s not easy. It’s never easy. I have some fifth graders who are learning letter sounds, some who are solving algebraic equations, and everything in between. I have students who are shy about speaking, and others I want to wrap in whatever sound-blocking mineral fibers they put in my ceiling tiles. On some days, there’s stress eating. So many Milky Ways. So many tears. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m sure someone has pulled the fire alarm because my classroom is a dumpster fire.

Other days, I’m sure this is where I’m meant to be. Moments when I see the spark in a student’s eyes when they use a battery and some wire to create a closed circuit and the lightbulb lights up! Or when I watch a student’s confidence grow as they figure out how to add fractions with unlike denominators. Or especially when I see their imagination blossom in their creative writing.

Yes, dear students. I write about you. I write about your sweaty backs and your sticky hands. I write about your struggles, and your smiling faces. I write about my failures and your successes.

“I’m just happy to be here in the classroom.”

“It’s not easy.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“I’m sure this is where I’m meant to be.”

Some days may fall into all four categories.