Lately I have been reading to the kids in an after-school program not too terribly far from my home. I go over there every week or 10 days or so. There’s no set schedule—the program supervisor and I put our heads together over the phone, consult our respective calendars, and work out dates that are good for both of us.
On my first visit, reading one of my books, I was told the group was kindergarteners and first and second graders. I read to the same group on my second visit, and to a smaller group—I’m not sure which age level was missing—on my third visit.
Last week I was steered into a different classroom and told I would be reading to the second graders and the fourth graders. I hesitated. For one thing, I wasn’t sure if the two short picturebooks I had brought with me would be below the interest level of the fourth graders. For another, two of the kids from the first-grade room had caught sight of me in the hallway and gotten all excited, thinking I was coming to read to them. I hated to disappoint them. “Are you sure I can’t just read to the regular group?” I asked.
The fellow who was shepherding me insisted that the kindergarteners and first graders had another activity planned for that time, and I would definitely be reading to the second- and fourth-graders.
When I walked into the classroom, the second-grade erupted en masse. “Miss Cynthia!” “Miss Cynthia!” “Miss Cynthia!” they all yelled, and a whole bunch of them ran over to hug me. They nearly knocked me off my feet (which is easy to do since I have balance issues). I had to steady myself with my cane and struggle to remain upright.
The fourth graders didn’t know me, but they settled down on the floor obediently to listen while I read, and all the kids from both groups were enrapt as I started reading Octopus Pie and Ants in His Pants. Well…all except for one girl. Although I don’t know her name, I unabashedly confess she is my favorite. She always listens in total absorption when I read, and after I finish, when I do a Q&A, she’s always got questions galore. She’s bright-eyed and clearly intelligent, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she turns out to be Somebody Special when she grows up. (I think she’s somebody special already, but you know what I mean.)
Anyhow, while everyone else was sitting thoroughly engrossed in the two stories—even the fourth graders, whose interest I’d been afraid of losing—my favorite audience member was busily scribbling in a small notebook and paying attention to me only intermittently. So when I’d finished reading the second book, before opening the floor to the usual Q&A, I said, “I have a question for you. Are you writing a book?” I smiled at her.
“Well, I am writing a book at home. It’s the story of my life,” this second-grader told me in all sincerity and solemnity, “but that’s not what I’m doing now. I’m class president, and I’m supposed to write down the names of everyone who doesn’t behave, but everybody’s being so good I’m writing down all the good kids’ names.”
The page was full.
On the last page of the two books I’d been reading was some “bonus material”—three knock-knock jokes. “Does everyone know how knock-knock jokes go?” I asked.
The formerly hushed classroom erupted once again as kids called out, “Yes!” “I do!” “Yes!” and waved their hands in the air.
“Okay—knock-knock,” I started, and the whole classroom chorused, “Who’s there?”
I quickly went through all three jokes, and the kids clamored for more.
“How about you? Does any of you know a knock-knock joke?” I asked.
The kids grew louder and wilder than ever. “Me!” “I do!” “Me! Me! Me!” “I have a good one!”
Good one my foot! Most of theirs were pretty lame. A few were good jokes but older than I am, but the rest were totally hopeless. I did a lot of groaning.
One little boy steadfastly, determinedly kept raising his hand, without calling out or bouncing up and down as many of the others did. When I finally decided to reward his good manners, and I called on him, asking, “Let’s hear yours,” he replied, “Can I go to the rest room?” It wasn’t a joke. The joke was on me.
But don’t take my remarks as being critical of the over-enthusiastic wild-hand-wavers. I was an overenthusiastic wild-hand-waver myself as a kid and have been known to bounce up and down in uncontained enthusiasm even in my adult years. When my first book was accepted for publication I literally jumped up from my chair, phone still in hand, and jumped up and down behind my desk while trying to sound calm and professional as I asked the editor what terms they were offering.
I still haven’t grown up.
But getting back to that day last week at the after-school group…. Even the teacher raised her hand to tell two knock-knock jokes. I had heard them both before, but at least they were funny and made sense, unlike most of the jokes the kids told. But I admired the kids’ enthusiasm, even though none of them showed promise as a future comedian.
In conversation with the program director a couple of weeks earlier, I had commented to him on how well-behaved the kids were overall. He expressed delight but surprise, explaining to me that most of the kids in the program come from disadvantaged homes and that kids from such backgrounds don’t always have the best manners. Well, I have read to kids from wealthy backgrounds who are far more disruptive. These kids are a dream.
I’m reading to the kids in the after-school program again tomorrow afternoon. I’m bringing The Boy Who Loved Pancake Syrup, and while I don’t know yet which grades I’ll be reading to, I’m sure they’ll sit and listen raptly. But something tells me I’d better have a bunch of knock-knock jokes at the ready, too. I’m afraid I’ve started something!