With hardly any word of explanation, the principal opened the door and shoved me into the cage, slamming the door behind me. I stood there with a startled look and a group of 25 kindergartners staring me in the face. This should be interesting.

“Hi,” I squeaked, with an unexpected smile. Feeling a little too much like an outsider, I sat down on the floor Indian style, something my inflexible body didn’t appreciate. Mrs. Coles, the teacher and virtual overlord of the 25 little faces, introduced herself and asked my name.

“Class, let’s all say hello to Kevin,” Mrs. Coles instructed the throng.

The class echoed back in an amazingly well unified, 25-children voice, “Hello Kevin.” They must have been rehearsing for weeks. Taken aback by their volume, I managed another feeble, “hi.”

“Okay class, let’s all introduce ourselves to Kevin,” Mrs. Coles suggested. Now this should really be interesting. Chaos ensued as the kids all tried to spit out their names at once. Mrs. Coles decided to arrange them in a circle so I could actually hear their names and see their faces. Surely I’d be able to remember all 25 names then. When some semblance of a circle was created, the children began to say their names.

“I’m Anna.”

“I’m Pa Nhia.”

“I’m Bao.”

“I’m Susanne.”

“I’m Meng.”

“I’m Synika.”

“I’m Joanon.”

“I’m Khadijah.”

The names continued to echo around the room, one right after the other. Being the usual kindergartners, they instantly clamed up when the full attention of the circle came to them. So they resorted to their natural survival skills and spit their name out as quickly, as quietly and as unintelligibly as they possibly could. I only heard and understood half the names, and another half of the understandable names were foreign to me and quickly forgotten. When it was all said and done, I could only repeat one poor child’s name. And that was Jonathan, only because I heard him wrong and asked if it was Justin. He didn’t like that too much.

When the circle of names was complete, I looked back to the overlord for help, and she reassured me that they didn’t expect me to know all of their names. I felt relieved, but somehow I felt like a quiz would be coming later.

And so my volunteer experience in kindergarten began. It’s kind of odd to head back to kindergarten nearly 14 years after you yourself have been there. I just turned 20, and something makes you feel horribly old when you see children who were born in the 1990s, two decades after you were.

And why kindergarten? Just for the record, I’m not an education major. I don’t plan on someday teaching kindergartners, much less anybody. I’ve never taken a teaching methods class and I don’t have any experience in education whatsoever. For that matter, my contact with children has been rather limited. To be truly honest, I’ve never held a baby before, and when my girlfriend thinks way too far ahead into the future and asks what I think about having kids, the thought frightens me.

My experience with children has been limited to the two years when I babysat a 3-year-old, and the two times I volunteered with a Vacation Bible School at my church. Once they stuck me with the troublemaker and I had virtually no contact with the class as I lead Gabe outside for walks and kept him from picking dried worms off the cement sidewalk. The other time was with a group of hyperactive 5-year-olds, and all I remember is that the little girls seemed to like me, and often fought over my lap. Needless to say, it made my girlfriend jealous. Thus my experience with teaching children.

So why kindergarten? Don’t ask me. That’s just the way the volunteer gods worked it out. Odd things happen when you make yourself vulnerable.

This ten-hour experience and reluctant reminder of a younger age happened at the New Spirit Charter School in St. Paul, Minnesota. It’s a new K-5 school that started this year and focuses on immigrant children. Many of the students in the kindergarten class didn’t even speak English at the beginning of the year. But by April, when I came along, they all seemed to spew forth English like any other 5-year-old. Some were exceptionally quiet, but they could still whisper in my ear that so-and-so was supposed to be at the end of the line.

I can tell you that my volunteer experience wasn’t exactly a walk in the park. On the first day I had a lot of fun. I mean, come on, I haven’t had recess since fifth-grade. After the second day I downed a couple aspirin, laid on the couch for 45 minutes, and found a new respect for teachers everywhere. Working with kids is a job that requires an unlimited supply of patience and energy. Some days the class seemed unruly enough with both Mrs. Coles and I in charge, and I couldn’t help but wonder how she does it by herself every day.

The kids themselves were a diverse group, as I’m sure most classes are. Some kids were really bright and knew all the answers. Other kids knew the answers but were too shy to speak up. Other kids knew the answers but were too preoccupied with their new stick-on fingernails to pay attention. And some kids, I’m sure, didn’t know the answers. Either they weren’t paying attention, or they were confused by the question, or no matter how hard they tried they just couldn’t get it. It never occurred to me that for a child of five it might be difficult to distinguish between 19 and 29.

One of the hardest things about working with all of these kids was wondering what will happen to them. Some of the children really needed special attention. While trying to read Little Red Riding Hood to a group of eight kids, I had to banish Synika to the corner for not sitting still. The other kids couldn’t pay attention and I couldn’t keep stopping just for him.

When I finished the story and had all the other kids scrawling out “Little Red Riding Hood” and drawing little bloated pictures of granny and the wolf, I went back to Synika. He had been quietly sitting in the corner. I asked him if he was ready to hear the story, and to my complete amazement he took my hand and we went and sat down. I read the story just for him, for the fourth time that day, and in all my time at the school I’ve never seen the kid sit so still. We finished the story and with a little encouragement I had him write out “Little Red Riding Hood” like everyone else had done, and he started drawing his own picture of a muscular wolf. I had to take that one-on-one time with him, but he actually listened.

I can’t help but wonder as these kids learn and grow what will become of them. Some of them already have problems controlling their anger and staying out of trouble. Others just aren’t picking things up like everyone else and need that little extra boost. The school isn’t in the greatest neighborhood, and some of the kids don’t have the reinforcement they need at home. I just wonder how these children will grow into educated and well-adjusted adults, despite the hardships and distractions.

I remember that my first day of kindergarten was filled with tears because I stepped off the bus in a strange new place and my brother abandoned me. He strode off to his happy second grade classroom and left me alone in that giant elementary school to find my kindergarten class by myself. The floodgates opened and I tried to find a nice looking adult to save me. After looking in a doorway, an understanding art teacher rescued me and listened as I blubbered out my story. She took me by the hand and led me to my class, where with tears streaming down my face I had to walk in front of an entire line of my classmates and sit down at the end--so much for being a big boy.

I had my share of traumatic events, but someone was there to take my hand and show me the way. I can only hope someone will be there to take Synika by the hand and read him a story. Or sit with Susanne and help her find the letter that makes the “buh” sound. Or pull a chair up next to Craig and show him the difference between 12 and 21, wiping that frustrated expression from his face. I can only hope someone will take the step and show these children they are truly loved.