Taking 120 wriggling fifth graders on the trolley to the zoo seems like sheer insanity. Field trip days are simultaneously my favorite days and the most panic-inspiring, if I think about the quantity of things that could go wrong. But we’re professionals, we’ve done this before, and we have a passel of parent chaperones, so the fifth grade team heads out.
We race through San Ysidro to the trolley station and board, one class per car. I watch my kids with an eagle eye, ready to pounce if they embarrass themselves or sit by dubious-looking strangers, but I’m also relaxed. Today I don’t have to ask anyone to please sit down, be quiet, and get to work. It’s the end of the school year, we’ve just finished state standardized testing, and all of our nerves are frayed, so it’s nice to be able to listen to the students’ banter instead of my usual mix of corralling, cajoling, and convincing.
Mid-journey, there is a ruckus; a gentleman who is perhaps mentally imbalanced launches into a loud tirade about how he hates Mexicans. Parent chaperones stiffen, ready to intervene if necessary, but the man is quickly escorted off the trolley by a security guard. Sadly, his behavior comes as a surprise to no one who follows the news lately, but at least the students’ enthusiasm isn’t dampened by the experience.
My group for the day is energetic. When planning field trips, the students who need frequent redirecting generally end up in a small group with the teacher. I’m surrounded by boys and glad to be wearing tennis shoes; I hustle to keep up with them. They wrestle with maps and chatter about which animals they want to see first.
Next to me, tiny Samuel asks, “Now can I tell you everything I’ve ever learned on YouTube?” Multiple times on a regular school day, he wants to share something he learned on YouTube.
Our conversations are often cut short as I send him back to work or turn my attention to another child. He is clearly delighted to have me as a captive audience for the day. Luckily for me, most of what he watches are documentaries, and he regales me with science and history discussions. I bite back the urge to be snarky — I’d have loved to see this level of knowledge shown in his school work — but this is a field trip day, so I just smile and listen. Still, by 11 a.m., I finally turn to him and say as sweetly as I can muster, “Samuel, is there any chance you could stop talking for just five minutes?”
“No, he answers,seriously. “I don’t think I can. Hey, I saw this documentary…”
Also in my group is Marco. He’s a new student, about whom I know little. It’s evident he’s had little prior schooling – a few days earlier he looked at the globe in wonder and asked, “Teacher, what is this? What’s it for?” He is pleasant and well-mannered, but there are elements of a time bomb ticking just below his polite surface; I’ve already seen a few explosions on the playground. His dream is to see the lions, and I know that no matter what else happens today, I will move heaven and Earth to make sure we get to the lions.
We race through the snake house, admire giant insects, pet goats, wish we could have penguins as pets. The boys crane their necks at the giraffes, joke about how both the elephants and the rhinos need lotion, and scoff that the polar bear is boring.
Finally, we arrive at the lions. They are lazily stretched out on rocks in the sunshine, and for a moment I envy them, until I see Marco’s wide smile as the male lion slowly rolls over and looks our direction. I don’t know whether to be sad that Marco’s dream is so small or delighted that it came true. I’m struck by the fact that my own children have been to the zoo so many times they take lions for granted, yet this child who has clearly fought larger creatures in his life is so blatantly impressed by these giant cats. His face as he watches them bask in the sunlight makes the weeks of planning and stress worth it. I hope he is able to build a life in which he can dream of even larger, more majestic things.
After we watch the jaguar wrestle with a large bloody bone, it’s time to head back. We’re exhausted, and even Samuel has stopped talking. As we board the trolley to go home, one of my tiny charges turns to me and says, “This was the best day ever, wasn’t it?”
It was.
