Every Subject, Every Student, All Day: Life in a Self-Contained Classroom

Imagine being responsible for every aspect of a student's education all day, every day, five days a week. The only break you get is the occasional bathroom break as the principal or another staff member keeps order during study time. For five years, four of which were for 7th graders, this was my mission. The experience of teaching in a self-contained classroom, especially at the upper middle school level, came with daily drama, constant demands, and moments of surprising meaning.

I’ll try to offer a glimpse into that world.

The Morning

Doors opened around 8:00, and I'd stand outside my classroom, greeting each student as they walked in. At the start of the year, I kept it simple: “What's something going on this morning?” or “What's something going on with you today?” As the year went on, the questions became more specific. I might follow up on something they'd told me days earlier, proving I'd been listening and reinforcing the fact that I cared about them, not simply the “stuff” they had to learn. Some kids gave me a fist-bump. Some gave a high-five. Occasionally, I would get the student who'd teach me a unique greeting, a combo with steps and a specific rhythm. It was a chance for them to grow their patience by teaching me, as I often stumbled early on. The payoff was worth the effort.

Being a Lutheran school, it was the common practice to start the school day with a short devotion, and I added the Pledge of Allegiance. Because the school participated in the choice program, my classroom included students from different faith traditions. I tried to make those moments respectful enough that students could participate in the life of the school without feeling that their own backgrounds were being dismissed. For me, that was another part of building trust in the room.

The Room

The door was in the front right corner of the room (if standing in the back of the room), and the left wall was dominated by windows, taking up about two-thirds the space. In one back corner, I built what the kids called the “reading lounge” — a rug, soft chair, small lamp, and a half divider that gave just enough privacy from the rest of the room. In another corner sat something I called the recovery zone (or “recovery” as it came to be known). It was just big enough for one person: a wooden stool and student-directed wall decor that was built over the year (with my approval). It existed for just one purpose: a space where a student could go if something had triggered them and they needed space to process through it and return in a better place. Anyone who used it, I’d take note of and follow up with them one-on-one.

The Work

Each day held our core subjects: math, reading and language arts, social studies, and science, along with study periods worked in. Additionally, over the week there were PE, art, music, and a special elective, which most years was an introduction to Chinese language and culture, inspired by the time I'd spent living there.

There were two standards I was measured against that were blunt and unforgiving: demonstrate tangible growth, especially in math and reading. Every school struggles with student growth to some degree, but in this environment the gaps could be substantial. Much of my work was figuring out how to meet students where they were and move each of them meaningfully forward by the end of the year.

I got resourceful where I could. My unit on the American Revolution doubled as our reading and language arts unit, both built around the novel Johnny Tremain. Students kept a reading journal that tracked across both subjects and answered questions linking the novel directly to what we were learning in social studies. It allowed us to identify, in real time, where fiction bent history and where it held true. It let two classes function more like a single extended block. Math and science, unfortunately, never found the same overlap.

To keep 12- and 13-year-olds present without letting the room descend into drama, I broke up every “block” lesson with short bursts of movement like stretching or perhaps a silly activity that would reset their focus for a minute before diving back in. It wasn't a gimmick. It was survival, for them and me.

The In-Between

Transitions were, no exaggeration, a gamble. Moving twenty middle schoolers to the gym, outside for recess, to lunch, or to Friday assembly, you never knew where or when the peace might collapse. Any semi-unstructured time needed eyes like a hawk and reflexes like a cheetah. I heard, “Mr. Pickart, you better get him,” so much, I thought I must be mistaken for Professor Slughorn from Harry Potter.

The Cost

What nobody told me was what happened when the day was over. That was when the other work happened. Grading happened at home, at night, and on weekends. There simply wasn’t time for it during the school day, especially when that day also included lunch duty, recess duty, and being the full-time emotional presence for twenty kids who each needed something different from me.

I was pouring out all day, every day, and rarely was I ever fully refilled. I won't pretend that wasn't part of what eventually burned me out. It was. But it also had another effect, something I didn't recognize right away. I grew a hardened determination to figure out how best to reach every student and to improve myself to do so. I read books, attended trainings like Love and Logic, and visited other schools around Milwaukee to observe how other phenomenal teachers built their rooms, ran their transitions, and inspired students to be better versions of themselves. I was far from the place I wanted to be, and I knew it, but I never stopped noticing what was working while looking for what was missing. 

That search didn’t end when I left that classroom. It followed me into every role that came afterward. The methods have changed, the students have changed, and I have changed, but I still find myself studying what works, noticing what doesn’t, and trying to become better at the work.