Of my six classes this year, four are with sixth graders. It’s a whole other world. Of course, there’s the issue of size: one girl I teach, a sweet and observant girl who quietly observes everything around her, barely comes up above my belly. She probably only weighs double her bookbag. I suggested that today as she waited in the hallway for her next class. She smiled and agreed. Most eighth-grade girls are getting close to their final height, and few of them don’t at least reach a little past my shoulders.
They’re also just a little more helpless. They’re coming from elementary school where there’s a lot more coddling, a lot more worrying. Hall passes are an entirely new thing. Having different classes with different teachers among different students each period is an entirely new thing. They have to adapt to the personalities, habits, and routines of six different teachers instead of just a main teacher and a couple of related arts teachers.
But most strikingly different from eighth graders is the pure sweetness some of them exhibit. One girl came up to me between classes, insisted on giving me a hug, and said, “I love you, Mr. S.” The most you’d ever get out of an eighth grader is “I tolerate you.”