My Experience as an Elementary School TA

Disclaimer: Students’ actual names have been changed for the purpose of privacy.  

I didn’t have much experience with kids. Prior to this summer, I’d say the most I would’ve been able to put on a resume was “babysitting” and maybe “summer camp counselor.” So, when the opportunity to work as a teacher’s assistant at Fairfax County Public Schools arose a few months ago, I was a bit hesitant. Who was I, a student myself, to teach a bunch of rambunctious littles? But I decided to take the job—I, like most college students, needed the money. And hey, I figured the experience would be good for me.  

I signed up to instruct CAT-B students in Special Education, a Fairfax County Program for students who need significant support. Having been in my middle and high school’s Partnership and Special Olympics programs, I’d loved working with these peers, and it was an area in which I’d had some background knowledge. There were various trainings I needed to go through, but soon I was equipped with knowledge of county-wide seclusion and restraint regulations, tactics to deescalate overstimulated or distressed students, and even how to change diapers.  

Although generally helpful, none of these trainings truly prepared me for what I was in for. They didn’t teach me how to connect on a personal level with students—and any educator knows the importance of student-teacher connection. Even I knew that it was imperative for success in the classroom.  

Open House approached quickly, and I have to admit: I was nervous to meet my kiddos. I wanted them to have a positive experience. I’d flipped through their Individualized Education Plans the day prior, which gave me a little intel about each student’s strengths and weaknesses, along with their proper diagnoses. I got some background information on what grade they were each in, and what each student liked. But these were just documents—no matter how long they were, you can’t summarize the beautiful, complex entirety of a person through a document. You just can’t.  

It was the morning of the Open House. I’d never even been this jittery when I was at this school attending an orientation event as a student! I waited for what seemed like forever, watching various families turn into adjacent classrooms, until one particular student gripping a ring of rainbow ribbons finally turned the corridor and made his way down the ramp, parent in tow. I hadn’t met the kid yet, never seen him before in my life, but I just knew he was in my class. It was a weird intuition that even now, I still can’t place my finger on. I waved and welcomed them in. 

“This is Jacob,” his mother beamed. Jacob wasn’t much for talking, but he wasted no time finding his own way to say hello. He immediately grabbed me into a tight hug, looked up, and broke out into a grin. I couldn’t help but smile—there’s this exceptional quality that comes with having the trust to bear hug a stranger. And bear hugs, I’d just then learned, do wonders for curing nerves.  

A few more kids came in that day—Charlotte and Ariana—but the majority of them I didn’t meet until the first day of school. And that first day of school... let me tell you: I might as well have put up “Circus Ringmaster” under my LinkedIn experience. That classroom was a whirlwind of chaos. I remember getting home that afternoon and just throwing myself onto the couch in an exhausted slump. What had I gotten myself into?  

Thankfully, things calmed down after the second or third day, and things fell into a steady routine. One of my students—I’ll call him Max—had this gag he’d pull every morning. I’d be reviewing lesson plans for the day or be helping another student, and I’d feel him tug at my arm. 

“What’s up, dude?” I’d ask, even though I always knew the answer. 

“LET’S READ!” he’d shout, and then he’d do his best to drag me over to the classroom’s reading corner. We’d go through the classroom’s pile of books, probably close to twenty or twenty-five, and I’d show him each book. 

“Do you want to read this one?” I’d ask. 

He’d scrunch up his face and shake his head violently. “NO.” 

I’d pick up the next one. “This one?” 

Still his head shook, usually until his glasses fell off. 

I’d put on a face of mock-surprise. “Man, do you even want to read today?” Then he’d give me a small smile. We’d go through every single book until there were no more left, and then go through the entire pile again, and only then would he pick one to read. Then we’d get on with our day. 

Our daily academic schedule consisted of a Language Arts and Math block separated into small groups. Trying to get everyone to stay on task, especially when each student’s academic goals were unique, was challenging at first. Frustrating, even. But these kids needed support, and I wanted to help them in any way I could.  

One of the most strong-willed of my students was none other than Jacob. Per his IEP, his goal was to sight-read particular vocabulary words and two-digit numbers. He loved reading words, but his enthusiasm ended when I’d transition over to numbers—he wouldn’t recite any of them. One particular day, he was getting really frustrated. I couldn’t even write a number before he tried smacking the whiteboard out of my hands. 

“I get it, dude,” I told him. “I don’t like math either.”  

To this, he swatted at my face.   

Clearly, validation wasn’t working, so I sat with him on the floor. Something Jacob loved doing was taking faculty’s hands into his, saying “goodnight,” and pretending to sleep, so I put the board down and offered him my hands. He took them. 

“Goodnight,” I said.  

“Goodnight,” he replied. We both pretended to snore.  

We did this a few more times until he seemed to have calmed down. 

“Alright, Jacob,” I told him. “We’re going to try again. Okay?” 

Holding in my breath, I held up the whiteboard, which had “19” written across it. 

He studied the board for a moment, and I couldn’t tell if he was going to lunge for it. I waited a few seconds, looking earnestly at him. “I know you’ve got this,” I told him. 

Nothing. 

“Give it a try, Jacob.” 

A pause. Then, “Nineteen.”  

There it was: the first number I’d ever heard the kid say. 

“Jacob- you did it,” I said. “Awesome work!” 

I could have sworn his eyes seemed to smile, hearing this. I really do think those are the best types of smiles. We read a lot more numbers that day.  

After small groups concluded, we’d have an indoor recess break. Every student had something they particularly enjoyed doing: Max and Wyatt would be on their computers, Anna (who loved cards of any sort) would be flipping through a picture deck, and Jacob would be in the reading corner. Luke, always on the run around the classroom, would usually get his energy out. And Charlotte, who was obsessed with all types of paper, would search around the classroom for any left-out worksheets... I usually had to keep an eye on her before she snatched them away.

The lunch block was the final segment before dismissal. The kids ate in the classroom, but the few who bought lunch went to the lunch line with a TA. When the time for lunch came, Ariana, the conclusive peppiest of the bunch, would gallop for the door. She’d performatively extend her arm out to me, and, giggling, she’d proclaim, “You’re coming with me to get lunch!” 

I’d raise my eyebrows. “Oh, am I?” 

“Yes,” she stated, as if this fact was formally written down somewhere. “Let’s go!” 

“Show me the way,” I’d tell her. She’d then fling open the door in excitement.  

Ariana had experienced a stroke at a very young age, which meant some of her fine motor skills were compromised. Skills like counting and sound matching were difficult for her, but she was always determined to do her best. I’ve never met someone as enthusiastic about life as Ariana. We’d be walking to get lunch, and by the way she was acting, you would’ve thought we were headed to Disneyland. Her favorite part of the walk was heading back down the ramp to our classroom. She found immense amusement in twirling as she transcended down the gentle slope, laughing uncontrollably until she hiccupped. And she did this every day. To her, it never got old. I think that’s such an extraordinary way to live. 

Another one of my kids, whom I’ll call Wyatt, also walked to get school lunch. He was such a character, extremely energetic and a total whiz at puzzles. He was also terrified of fire drills, a problem, since we had two scheduled for the summer. Luckily, he’d missed part of the first one, but he knew that the second one was approaching. Whenever he’d walk in the hallways, he’d point up at the ceiling.  

“Fire drill?” he’d ask, eyes wide. 

I’d shake my head. “Not today, Wyatt.” 

He’d ask this all the time; during morning meeting, after math, even at dismissal. It was an understatement to say the kid was anxious.  

On the day of the fire drill, he pointed at the ceiling. “Fire drill?”  

This time, I nodded my head—I couldn’t bring myself to lie to him. 

He sunk into his chair in a puddle of defeat, covering his face with his hands. “Noooo,” he cried. I felt for him, I really did.  

Something about Wyatt was that he loved positive reinforcement, especially in the form of high fives. That’s how I’d gotten him to get his reading assignments done and his math completed, and so maybe the same tactic would work for the fire drill. I wanted to try to get him excited about it. I crouched down to meet him at eye level.  

“Wyatt,” I said. “Guess what?” 

He looked up.  

“You’re going to do awesome with this fire drill!” I tried to keep my voice as enthusiastic as possible.  

He seriously looked at me like I was crazy.  

I kept trying. “You’re going to do great. Come on, up top!” I held up both my hands.  

Thankfully, he perked up at the prospect of a high five. “Yeah!” he said, “Let’s do it!” And thank goodness for high fives.  

He was still anxious that morning, but at least he had an outlet. And guess what? Along came the fire drill, and he coasted through it like a champ. By the time it was over and we all went back inside, he was thrilled. 

“We did it, guys, we did it!” was all I heard for the rest of the school day. To this day, every time I accomplish something difficult, I remember his celebratory cheers. Guys, we did it! 

I have so many more stories to tell about these kids. But if there’s something I’ve taken away from the experience, it’s not just instructors who do the teaching. These kids—Jacob with his bear hugs, Max and his silly book routine, Ariana and her positivity—they’ve all taught me important lessons of their own. Lessons to have some faith around you. Twirl a little more, maybe. Face your fears. After all, they’re the real teachers... you just have to be willing to learn.