Why I Assign Seats

I cringe when the topic of assigned seats comes up in teacher conversations. There seems to be a right answer from a desirable teacher: “I don’t assign seats. I allow the kids to choose until there is a problem—it shows that I trust them. And I don’t have management problems.” Of course that’s the class I would have wanted to be in as a junior in high school: I liked being trusted, and I wanted to sit by my friends.

But there’s more to a classroom environment than managing unruly behavior. It’s a delicate place; if students don’t feel secure, they cannot learn. While I can’t manage another person’s confidence, I can prop up a kid’s worth with one small step: a seat.

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I am twelve. It is the first day of seventh grade. I’ve been reading Seventeen magazine to prepare for this day, to make sure my clothes are up to snuff for the merging of six elementary schools and hopefully winning some new friends. I currently have none. After playing the cruel popularity game only sixth grade girls can master, and losing in a way that only sixth grade bookworms can, I was booted over the summer. The eternal optimist inside knows that this is a chance to reinvent myself and find a place I actually belong. The reader inside knows that things could get a whole lot worse if I’m not careful.

Knee socks and pleated skirts are in. I’ve saved some babysitting money to buy a navy and forest green pleated skirt that buttons up the front. My loafers are from Payless but it’s not too obvious. I board the bus, take a deep breath, and sit near the back but not in the back: the cool kids don’t sit in the front, but accidentally challenging someone’s assigned seat will not put me on the path to popularity.

The bus stops at the high school, and I change buses to get to the middle school. As I walk, I notice tall beautiful girls, dressed in basically the same outfit as me. But they look SO much better. I analyze. The dread thickens in my stomach. It’s not just that their sweaters are round and full. Their skirts are short! Their knees are showing! There is no skin gap between my skirt and socks. I look like a child.

I find my next bus, scamper up the stairs, and accidentally make eye contact with one of the eighth grade girls clustered at the back. She looks directly at me and laughs out loud. I will later learn her name, and understand that she is cruel and empty-hearted, but right now this doesn’t matter. I scrunch down in my seat and try to make a plan.

When I arrive at school, I avoid eye contact and make a beeline for the bathroom. My brilliant solution: unbutton the top few buttons and roll down the top of my skirt, using my sweater to cover the strange bunch that now resides. It’s not too obvious. At least my knees are showing.

The first bell rings: I now have only five minutes to figure out my locker and get to class. I am never this late when it comes to school. Thankfully, I am able to avoid my locker partner, and my locker clicks open on the first try. As I run down the hall to homeroom, my skirt starts to slip, but I hold it in place with one hand as I step through the door. The bell rings. I look around for a friendly face. Mr. Sprott stretches to see over the podium, glances at his seating chart, and his nasally voice says, “You must be Brenna Griffin. You’ll sit there behind Lindsey Greenwood.” I quickly slide into my desk.

It is the first time that morning that I know who I am.

*     *     *

I don’t belabor my perspective in these conversations; everyone has a method and an approach that may work in the environment they desire to create. I just can’t do it any other way; I feel this one in the bones of memory.

As the year goes on, I may turn some of the task of creating a community over to my students, asking them to create inclusive, interesting groups and arrangements. But the first day the responsibility is all mine. I want my room to say: you have a place here. This is where you belong.

Brenna Griffin teaches ninth graders English in Cedar Falls, Iowa. Enjoying all hobbies of a stereotypical English teacher, she is rejuvenated and challenged by the teenage mind. She lives with her husband and two-year old daughter.