A new student arrived in my class yesterday. At the end of the day, I was chatting with him and TLK about all the new kids he met. During said chat, it may have been mentioned that one of his new friends (a second grader) is currently quite enthralled with the word poop. The new student was baffled by this: Why would someone think that word is funny, since poop is gross? Au, contraire, my good man. I felt compelled to tell him the following story to illustrate why I find it perfectly acceptable to find words like poop and butt funny:
Several years ago, I had a brand new first grade student in my class who was very shy and very scared. He was overwhelmed all the time. He cried a lot, which made me sad because I wanted him to feel safe and happy in my classroom. I am a fairly relaxed teacher, so I hoped that during my conversation-style lessons we could get to know each other and he would become more comfortable. One day during writing, I wrote a sentence about my house and drew a picture of my five hens. The student asked me, “What happens if they poop in your bed?” At that moment, I realized that I had been talking about my pet chickens for two whole weeks and my new student had assumed they lived inside my house like a pet dog or a pet cat, and he imagined my house was full of feathers. I smiled at him and told him my chickens lived outside. I explained that as baby chicks, when they were very small, they lived inside a box in my living room, but when they got big they moved to a coop in my back yard.
The conversation continued, with the student asking if they had big wings. I said, “Yes, and big feet.” We listed body parts back and forth (vocabulary building activity!) until I said, “And big butts.”
That was the first time I heard my brand new first grader laugh. He laughed and laughed. He laughed so hard I honestly thought he would fall out of his chair. Hearing his teacher, a grown up, use the word butt was just too much to handle. He laughed for five minutes, I think. When he finally calmed down, I looked him straight in the eye, with my most serious teacher face, and I asked him, “I am so sorry. Should I have said bottom instead?”
He lost it again.
By this point in the story, both students were smiling and giggling at this story. I looked at TLK and asked if he knew who that shy first-grader was. He said he didn’t know.
Before he knew sign language, before he could use his voice above a whisper if there were two adults in the room, before he could verbally express the giant heart filled with empathy he has inside him, before he could read books and help his friends and read a book aloud to his friends…two-and-a-half years ago, that shy first-grader was TLK.
I almost had to pick his jaw up off the floor. After blinking at me a few times, he said, quietly but with a huge grin, I remember being scared. I cried so much. I’m not scared any more.
I looked him straight in the eye, with my most serious teacher face, and I told him, You are so strong and brave and smart. And the first time I heard you laugh is my most favorite story about you.