The 4-minute motivational music loop starts, and the empty hall fills with a wave of clamor: I monitor the army of backpack-burdened students who grip a schedule in one hand and a school map in the other as they burrow a path to 1st period. The harmonious timer stops abruptly. Ordinarily, it causes panic among latecomers; today, punctuality is not a priority. I redirect a few of the lingering lost ones to their homeroom classroom.
A student confidently approaches: prompting me to swing my leg back over the red dowel affixed with duck tape to my classroom's door frame. In an air of nonchalance and entitlement, the student's initial attempt to enter the passageway is interrupted by my quick rising hand. I draw attention to the thin red, knee-high barricade at the door.
"Over or under; that's your choice. Once you choose, find your seat and read the directions on the front board."
My directive sparks a bewildered gaze; the casualty of the moment shifts to intrigue. A growing crowd of impatient classmates begins to amass in the hall. Unbeknown to the consequences and pressured by the peers who want in, the student cautiously decides. The bystanders see stepping over the stick proves to be an easy feat. I respond with a simple, friendly thank you.
The student next in line moves toward the threshold to face the same dilemma and verifies to the onlookers the task is not difficult. Waved forward one by one, each student successfully followed suit. Although the stick is occasionally knocked down with a tip of a toe by students carrying an overabundance of supplies, the pace of the opening-day regimen speeds up.
As expected, my directive finally sparks a mischievous grin. I know this grin: I understand this child. The backpack gets thrown to the floor: and the snared student slithers gleefully under the stick into the classroom. The audience watches the maneuver in awe as the maverick clumsily reaches for the scrapped backpack and stumbles upright in a frantic lunge to escape the anticipatory reprimand. The calm ambiance is disturbed by a roar of laughter. I reach out and ask, " Are you okay? You're not hurt, right?" The dialogue ends with a quick nod of support and a thank you. The few enlightened students waiting at the door ponder a more consequential choice: "Should I walk over and go unnoticed?" or "Should I crawl under and be noticed?"
Once all students have crossed the threshold, I can sense they anticipate an explanation from me. However, I quickly shift gears and move on to first-day protocols giving students no clues about why they did what they just did. I let the experience marinate in their minds; before long, the music signals the end of class. They smoothly filter out the room as I prepare to repeat the routine for the incoming packs of middle schoolers.
At the close of the school day, I strategically remove the red dowel from the doorway and tape it in the center of a large sheet of white paper, which is displayed bluntly on a wall. Despite its removal, I urge students to make the same choice as they enter my room on Day 2. Unable to circumvent my swift hand and invisible barricade: each one reluctantly steps up and over the imaginary line into class. They think I'm weird; I know I've set the stage for today's lesson on classroom procedures and expectations.
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