Doing the Mashed Potato

I hardly noticed when he came into the classroom, engrossed as I was in the writing exercise I was modeling with 4^th grade students for 4^th grade teachers in a language arts class. However, as I made my rounds of the students working in their small groups, I saw the latecomer again. He still fumbled through his backpack, unable to pull a pencil out of the overflow of crumpled papers, notebooks, and library books. His teacher patted his shoulder and asked, “You awake yet, J.C.?” The boy blinked a few times, as if trying to shake off sleep’s stupor. He wiped his mouth, failing to completely erase the remains of the white milk mustache from the cafeteria cereal.

He looked up at the teacher, smiled until deep dimples broke out on his sizeable cheeks, and shrugged. “Come on, son, let’s get moving,” the teacher encouraged gently. 

Later on a break, I asked the teacher about this nine year old. She explained he lived with an odd assortment of relatives, though none were his parents. He was left to his own devices for putting himself to bed and waking himself up. Multiple calls home as well as visits produced little improvement.  “He used to live with a grandmother, but she passed away during the summer. He’s with relatives in this house, but is pretty much on his own. Cooking, laundry…he does it himself, when it gets done,” she explained. “It’s frustrating. We’ve called the authorities, but he doesn’t meet their criteria for abuse or neglect. We have gotten together to get him clothes and help out as we can, but it’s never going to be enough. There’s an older student from the family at the high school, but he’s pretty much in the same boat.”

The next week when I visited this campus again, J.C. was in a group I had targeted for intensive work. He was largely silent, his mop of overgrown, uncombed curly hair bobbing wildly when he nodded and shook his head silently for answers. While other kids in the group laughed openly at a lame joke I threw in, J.C. carefully considered what I’d said, a slow flush of red beginning at the top of his forehead and spreading downward, his mouth widening out into a small smile, then growing until those dimples anchored giggles he couldn’t stifle.

The only time he spoke was when I asked them what their favorite food was. He was quick to answer at his turn: mashed potatoes. Shyly at first, and then with growing passion, he described them. “I love the cafeteria’s mashed potatoes. They are thick, hot, and they put a little butter on top that melts. I watch the cafeteria lady when she puts the gravy on them. I think she likes me because she puts extra gravy on mine.” Startled that he had revealed so much, he looked downward, cheeks flaming red.

“Those sound delicious,” I told him. “Maybe we can find out when the cafeteria is serving those mashed potatoes again and I can eat with you. Would that be OK?” He didn’t look up, but nodded his head.

The next day his group filed in. He held a brown paper bag that looked as if something had leaked on the inside, staining the bottom of the bag a dark brown. He beckoned me over to his table and whispered, “I brought some.”

I raised my eyebrows, trying to figure out what it might be. He cracked open the bag and I saw a bowl with aluminum foil over it, a white substance oozing out. “It’s mashed potatoes. I made them this morning. These are the instant kind I made in the microwave. I got up early so I could get them finished before school.” He frowned. “I don’t know how to make gravy.”

My voice caught in my throat. I was speechless as he continued. “The cafeteria didn’t have them on the menu and next week is spring break, so I made you some. Can you eat with me today at my table during lunch? I even brought two spoons.” I took a deep breath, struggling to maintain control. He whispered again, “Don’t worry, I washed the spoons.”

*********************************************************************************

Next week when I return to that campus, I’ll have more than just writing lessons with me. I’ll have my mom's mashed potato recipe, with measurements spelled out and instructions carefully elaborated.

I’ll have a large bag of Idaho potatoes, and real butter and whole milk and the other ingredients. There’s a new potato masher going, too. I’ll be making a stop at the high school first, to talk with the brother/uncle of my dimpled lunch companion. I’ll take an iTunes gift card as a small bribe for this high school fellow to help his smaller relative with the boiling of the potatoes and to sort through the steps of the recipe. And I’ll have a large container of finished mashed potatoes as well as the gravy I learned to make from my grandma. 

Doing the mashed potato never had better meaning.

My First Annual Education Awards

The time has come for the *drumroll* First Annual Education Awards. Some deserve applause, some deserve scrutiny, and some deserve to just be taken as a warning.

1. Most Unique Names I've Encountered in Teaching

Female: Aqua Net, spelled just like the hairspray.

Male: Huevos, which in Spanish is a double meaning word. Its regular meaning is eggs, which is how this scrambled egg loving boy picked up his nickname in early toddler-hood. However, huevos is also a well known slang word for male body parts.

Everyone, including his parents, called him Huevos. HE asked to be called Huevos. I, though, could only bring myself to call him by his given name. My history of inappropriate laughter would have made an appearance at some point during the school year had I called him by the nickname.

Honorable Mention: A science teacher who was a colleague my first years of teaching, Mr. Boobie admirably weathered many giggles about his name at the beginning of each school year.


2. Longest Field Trip, Ever

Four hours away from school, after a day at the zoo with the entire middle school (all 76 students and teachers) packed into one bus, a student took ill and we had to divert to an ER. With no other place late at night to house all the 6th, 7th, and 8th graders but the bus in the hospital parking lot,  and directed by admin to wait with the student at the ER until parents could drive the four hours to get there, we used every trick in our exhausted arsenal to keep the restless middle schoolers entertained.

This field trip is still memorialized in solemn tones by new teachers the way the landing at Normandy is revered by soldiers.


3. Best Saving of a Life During a Faculty Meeting

An administrator regularly awed by his own talents demonstrated the use of the new laminating machine. While the two cylinders slowly rolled laminating film under him, he continually cautioned that we needed to always pay attention while using it as he did not want any more workman's comp claims.

He suddenly coughed and his face turned red as his head ducked lower. A quick thinking aide jumped up and with a giant pair of scissors speedily clipped off  the bottom 2/3 of his tie that was scrolling through the laminator rolls. The plaid tie came out neatly laminated on the other side even as the faculty erupted in applause for the aide and the irony.


4. Most Novel Approach to a Bomb Threat

My first year of teaching, the fire drill signal interrupted the early morning routines. All classes filed out to the football field. Once there, an administrator spoke to each teacher quietly. "We've had a bomb threat phoned in. The kids will stay here on the field with us, but you go back into your rooms and look for anything unusual, you know, anything that looks like a bomb. If you see something that looks like a bomb, come back out and tell us."


5.  Most Unusual Injury

A new teacher with a classroom near mine was young, cute, and sweet, but sometimes threw common sense to the wind. In the workroom one morning before school, she lamented the wrinkles on the front of her white linen blouse. Her face brightened when she remembered she had a travel iron in her car and scurried out to get it before the first bell rang.

A bit later the nurse rushing past me to the new teacher's room caused me to follow. There, the young teacher sheepishly explained she hadn't thought to take the blouse OFF before she ironed out the wrinkles.


I will be out of town later this week, my friends, and I do not know if I will have Wifi. I will catch up with you all next week, though, if I don't. I hope you find all the wonderful things you deserve this week!





            

              

An Italian Lesson

"Move, move, quickly!" she yelled at those of us who straggled behind. Her trademark black wig, her large, dark sunglasses, and the crimson red lipstick slathered on her lips gave her a cartoonish appearance.

"Sieg Heil," my friend, Kurt, muttered.

Her head snapped around to where we dragged our feet at the end of the line. "What was that?!" she demanded.

Kurt quickly answered, "Nothing, nothing at all, ma'am."

My head throbbed, my mouth felt like a dozen stuffed animals hibernated in it, and my stomach was already signaling revolt. Mrs. Wilty, our high school choir teacher and head chaperon of this senior year trip to Europe was known for her strict ways at school, but here on the streets of Rome she grew even more strident in her control and her admonitions.

Kurt moaned quietly. "Ohhh, my head." I nodded, but barely. It hurt too much. Truth be told, a small group of us had just made it back into the hotel two hours prior to our 7 AM wake up calls. The night life of Rome held too much fun for us not to unwrap that forbidden package. Although we were wily enough to outwit our sponsors, we were no match for the consequences of our revelry.

Mrs. Wilty and the other adult sponsors led the 40 seventeen and eighteen year olds past a cluster of older women sitting against the edge of a building where we were to eat breakfast. They were dressed simply, with sensible dark shoes and scarves covering their hair. They chatted animatedly among themselves, their deeply lined faces stretching into smiles as their hands helped to tell their stories with large gestures.

One who used a cane to prop herself into her chair chortled as the last of us sat at the outdoor tables near where they were, revealing a mouth about half full of teeth.

Mrs. Wilty made her way through the tables. "Each of you will get two fried eggs, bacon, and orange juice. Eat quickly, and clean your plates. We have to show our appreciation! Do NOT appear rude to the Eyetalians! We want the Eyetalians to like us!"

Although I couldn't see my face, I felt it turn green at the thought of the breakfast. Kurt's head drooped even lower as he braced his elbows on the table. "Do we have a problem here!" Mrs. Wilty barked as she stopped at our table. A feeble head shake No was all I could muster.

The breakfast plates were placed before us, a light brown moat of grease coagulating around each egg. I knew I could not eat it, although Mrs. Wilty was going from table to table to be sure everyone was finishing their breakfast. "Eat! Eat!" she admonished.

"Eat! Ea....ow!" she squealed and jumped before she stopped dead in her tracks and drew her hands over her rear end. Her mouth, outlined in that bright red lip color, made a perfect O.

The elderly lady with the cane slowly retracted it from whacking Mrs. Wilty's behind. Now she used that same cane to point to Mrs. Wilty. "You-eh," she said as she narrowed her eyes at the teacher. "Be-eh nice. Just-eh be-eh NICE." Her friends nodded in agreement and punctuated her words with rapid Italian assents. She held her stare and jabbed the cane once more at Mrs. Wilty. "Be-eh nice."

I am far removed from my 17 year old self in age and behavior, and I'm sure the elderly woman has long departed, but her voice still rings true. Be-eh nice. Just-eh be-eh NICE.

A Little Love Story and the Winner of My Giveaway

Drum roll....the winner of my giveaway from last week is..... Jamie Jo from Lord, Make Me A Saint! Congratulations to Jamie and a hearty thank you to all who participated. I was more than a little hesitant to put my voice on that last post because we never sound like what we think we sound like, but you all were terrific. Thank you!

I have 16.5 days left until I am retired from the classroom and while excitement is growing in my heart, so also is the lump in my throat. I'm going through my older school posts. This is one from my first months of blogging.

Every day could use a little love story. 

Carlos had bounced from foster home to foster home by the time he'd reached 8th grade. The only memories he had of his real parents were dark and painful. His mild cerebral palsy and autism necessitated him taking all his classes in a self contained special education unit, where he began to thrive. Carlos read voraciously. He was also selectively mute, only using gestures or on the rare occasion, a simple spoken word. He self-soothed when he became nervous by fluttering his hands near his face, as if they were silent doves. His serious expression never loosened into a smile.

Rachel had lived with her grandmother most of her life. She was a happy, bubbly girl, grown large with her grandma's delectable cooking. Although in 8th grade, she had the mental age of a 6 year old. Her speech was limited, but she also loved coming to school in the same self contained unit Carlos attended.

On a grade level field trip to a state park, their regular teachers were unable to attend. I kept a close eye on them, both to ensure their safety and because I didn't know how the other kids would treat them.

I was proud of the other 8th graders. They were kind to Carlos and Rachel and went out of their way to include them in the tour group activities. Carlos and Rachel both seemed a little overwhelmed, but kept up well with all we did that morning.

Our scheduled lunch was a picnic near the river in a scenic spot canopied with enormous oak and elm trees. The other students grabbed their lunches and gobbled them down, eager to toss a football and explore our area. I sat at a picnic table with Carlos and Rachel.

They shyly and quietly ate their lunches. Rachel giggled a few times as I tried to engage them in conversation, but Carlos kept his grave expression as he finished his sandwich. He stole a few glances at Rachel and his hands began fluttering.

He turned on the bench and faced her. She had her eyes on her food, still smiling, oblivious to his attention to her.

"Rachel," Carlos murmured softly. She continued to look at her food.

"Rachel," he said louder. This time, she swung her head towards him.

His hands fluttered rapidly.

"Rachel, you are my heartbeat," he said clearly, without cutting his eyes from her. Although his syllables were truncated, his voice was steady.

"Huh?" she asked, uncomprehendingly.

"You are the air I breathe, Rachel," Carlos said with fervor.

No one had ever heard this boy say more than two words together. I felt like I was intruding on a sacred moment. I held my breath.

Rachel moved her head slightly towards Carlos.

"What it mean, Carlos?" she asked.

"I love you, Rachel. I love you," Carlos replied. His hands finally stilled themselves, his gaze intently fixed on her.

"Aw, I wuv you, too, Carlos," Rachel answered. She giggled and pulled open a bag of chips, crunching one loudly.

His expression softened and he exhaled a long, satisfied sigh. A small smile curled up at the corners of his mouth. The other teachers and kids loudly jumbled back to where we were and it was time to load the bus.

They did not sit in the same seat on the bus, but he looked back every now and then and grinned at her. She giggled back at him. His whole frame relaxed into the seat and his hands rested calmly in his lap. 

As we unloaded back at school, they still did not walk close to each other, but each time he looked at her, she smiled and laughed shyly and he crinkled his eyes and beamed tenderly as they made their way back to class.

And love still conquers all.

Confiscated Items in My Desk Drawer

As I count down the final weeks of my teaching career before my retirement, I am going through my posts on teaching. This is a repost with some updates from my early days of blogging.

Almost every teacher has one; a drawer to store things that have been confiscated from students and/or items abandoned and left unclaimed in the classroom. I saw my little stash from last year hidden away in the back of a bottom drawer. Probably nowhere else on earth except another teacher's drawer does this combination of items exist.

1. A giant Mickey Mouse pencil. Nothing wrong with having a large pencil except when you are shoving it up alternating nostrils for the amusement of your friends. FYI- I handled it only with a paper towel and disinfected it with my trusty Germ-x before stashing it.

2. A Mexican wrestler's mask and cape. The story of how I acquired that would take too long to relate here, but suffice to say it's not cool to sneak up behind your teacher while wearing it and yell, "Arriba!".

3. A neon pink condom. Still in wrapper. (Thankfully). It was left under a table and has a boy's name written in ink on it, but I suspect it was a joke sprung on him.

4. A latex glove blown up like a balloon with the letters YOLO written on the fingers. The owner found that while you may only live once, you can also spend what seems like a lifetime in detention if you throw it from the window of the bus when the principal walks past.  

5. A People magazine with Heidi Montag in a swimsuit on the cover, detailing her many plastic surgeries and her huge breast implants. It's always suspicious when a group of boys is huddled around a table, staring down at something hidden from view, and then they immediately jump up when the teacher nears, smile and (poorly) pretend nothing is happening. I think the pictures of Heidi might still have traces of their drool on them.

6. A plastic wind-up penis that hops madly when fully wound, complete with a smiley face on it.

7. A laser pointer that was being directed at girls' chests one day on the way in from lunch. The owner assured me he had no idea it was on or that it had accidentally been aimed at the girls, but that he would never THINK of doing such a thing on purpose, ever.

8. An old book of prayers in Spanish. I guess the prayers were learned/ answered and so the book wasn't needed anymore and thus left behind in my room.

9. A pair of false eyelashes that extend at least 3/4" from the eyes. The poor girl who had them didn't know how to properly apply them and they continually fell off. She kept trying to stick them back on until the whole class was wrapped up in her drama instead of their work.

One thing I confiscated but didn't keep very long was the item in a small brown paper bag a quiet girl brought to school one day. She called me over before class and asked if I wanted to see what was in her bag. I assumed she had an interesting item for lunch, so I dutifully peeked in. The girl had been hunting with her family over the weekend and gotten her first deer. Inside was a fresh deer's tail. The principal's horror at seeing it equaled my own as she and I debated what to do with it. The girl's dad eventually came up to get it that morning.

So there it is; the good, the bad, and the just plain weird of what is in that drawer. Time to clean it out.

The Plant Whisperer

"Hello, ma'am," he greeted me as he shyly peeked his head through my classroom door. He continued in heavily accented English. "I clean your room, yes? I come back later if you busy." I assured him it was fine and he pulled his long-handled push broom and a custodial cart up to the first row of desks.

His shy smile revealed a few missing teeth and crinkled his sun-weathered face as he removed his gimme cap. He ducked his head as he introduced himself as Mr. Silva. He lightly took my offered hand as I told him my name before he heartily tackled my trash cans and floors.

He was over 60 and I was a 22 year old first year teacher, but he always treated me with deferential respect. It took a while, but my talkativeness finally broke through his reserve and he shared a little more each afternoon when he came to clean.

He'd been employed by a local, massive ranch that was known for cradle to grave employment. Most employees were born on the ranch and lived in ranch provided housing in a worker's colony there. They were informally apprenticed in a branch of ranching arts when they were still very young, and worked their entire lives on that ranch, eventually retiring and living out their days in the same ranch provided homes, eating at a ranch cafeteria if they desired, and buying discounted groceries and other supplies at a ranch commissary. Many of them saw no need to finish school or to even become fluent in English, as Spanish was the de facto language of the workers.

The oil bust of the 1980's evaporated any familial ties the ranch felt towards the workers and when the budgetary belt needed tightening, many long time workers took the brunt. The were turned out of not only their jobs, but their homes, as well.

Mr. Silva and his disabled wife had no children and no experience outside the ranch, but he found them a small apartment in town and landed a job as a custodian at my school.

Fastidious in his appearance, he wore immaculate workshirts tucked into sharply pressed khaki pants, complete with vintage ranch workboots on his feet.

Our conversations continued into the next school year and I looked forward to his visits and stories, even when he gently chided me for not taking good care of the plants in my room. Every now and then he'd take one of the bedraggled, brown things home, nurse it back to health, and return it to me, robust and green. He explained the plants could hear, they had feelings, and I needed to not only water them regularly, but I needed to speak to them softly and lovingly, like I would to a baby.

He confided one day his regret was not finishing even elementary school. It embarrassed him to share neither he nor his wife could read. He wanted to learn, almost more than anything, but didn't know where to start.

It was easy fix on my part. I shared a few simple lessons with him after school and he took it from there. He practiced for hours at home until he could not only read, but devoured books. His tastes ranged from John Donne to Louis L'Amour. He was always reticent in discussing anything with me but books, and to that end we carried on spirited, lively conversations about author styles, literary devices, and what an author REALLY meant when he wrote that.

When I had my first child and returned from maternity leave, a brilliantly colored lantana plant awaited me in my classroom, a gift from Mr. and Mrs. Silva; one he'd grown from a cutting.

It wasn't long afterwards a stroke took him, and not long after that, his wife was gone, too.

The lantana has grown into a healthy, four foot tall shrub with sturdy branches, bedecked in vibrant flowers of yellow, orange, and pink in our back yard.

And every now and then, I go out to that lantana and speak softly and lovingly to it of English poets, western authors, and book lovers.

Fairy Wings

"Your word is TREBLE," I enunciated as clearly as I could. "TREBLE."

The tiny girl with the fuchsia bow perched atop hair the color of nutmeg pensively stood with the tip of her finger in her mouth. The audience sat attentively in fold down bleachers in the ancient, high-ceilinged gym.

"Um, could you pwease use it in a sent-tence?" she asked shyly, wiping her finger on her floral dress.

I read the sentence from my spelling bee pronouncer's list. The two judges next to me waited.

"T...AWW...E...B...B...E...L," she spelled into the microphone.

The judges' bell dinged, signifying a misspell. She sighed, put her head down and headed to the seats with the eliminated spellers.

I gave her a little smile as she passed our table, whispering, "Good try! ",  although I don't think she heard it.

This was the Baby Bee for children in first through fourth grades and immediately followed the very competitive bee for the older students. But my mind was far from spelling bees that day. I had a community wide 5K run the next morning I was in charge of, a grant proposal I needed to finish writing, and I was still a little shaken from the first ever car accident I'd been in the day before in my two week old car. To boot, I had a meeting and a play practice that night. It felt like a stormy little cloud had suspended itself over my head the whole week.

Still, I felt for this petite first grader. I didn't know her name, but since we are a small district and share one cafeteria, I'd seen her at various times with her class, sometimes wearing a wispy, wee set of fairy wings on her back.

The Baby Bee ended and parents and students thronged around the winner and runner up. I gathered my materials from my table and felt a timid tug on my sleeve. The Treble girl stood at my side. Her chin quivered even as her eyes welled with tears.

"I know how to spell it, weally, I do!" she pleaded.

I knelt down to speak to her face to face. "Oh, honey, I know you do. You did very well today. I'm so proud of you because you made it all the way to the finals!"

"I just fowgot this time. I studied it and I know it, but I just messed up," she said urgently.

I pulled a Kleenex from my purse and dabbed her cheeks.

"Would you like to spell it for me, right now?"

A smile creased her face for the first time. She nodded furiously. She moved back in front of my table and I moved back into my chair. I cleared my throat. "Your word is TREBLE. TREBLE."

I smiled at her and nodded my head. She picked up the cue.

"T...AWW...E...B...L...E...Tweble," she recited.

I clapped my hands and congratulated her. She smiled and clenched her fists over her head. She skipped to the doors to join her class, but stopped, spoke something to her teacher, and headed back to me.

Her finger hooked in the corner of her mouth as I knelt down again.

"Um, I have faiwy wings I like to put on sometimes."

I nodded. "I've seen you wearing them. They are beautiful."

"My mom says only special people can have faiwy wings. They have to be good and kind to weaw them."

She smiled shyly. " I want to ask my mom if I can bwing them because I want you to weaw them."

As so often happens when guileless kindness is given to me, a knot of emotion filled my throat.

She leaned her head in close. "But you have to give them back to me at the end of the day. They awe the only ones I have."

Although I hadn't thought of it before, fairy wings are the perfect tonic.

And I'm going to find a way to strap them on.

Wishing you all some fairy wings today, my friends~

The New Shoes

Slap, SLAP, slappity slap...

I looked behind me and pulled out one earbud to ascertain if the strange noise was coming from behind me or actually coming from me somehow.  I stopped running and heard it again, advancing closer. SLAP, SLAP, slappity slap...

I waited. Mona soon came into view from around the corner, huffing and working mightily to keep a controlled gait. She stopped when she saw me, a wide grin breaking out on her round face.

We were on the second mile of a two mile run in the girls' fitness class I teach last period. Mona was a delight. Having been born with Trisomy 13, which causes mental retardation, and starting the year at almost 100 pounds overweight, she'd already built her strength and endurance where she could run part of the two miles, which she was doing now.

"I running!" she exclaimed joyously.

"I see, darlin', and I'm so proud of you!" My gaze fell to her shoes, and the source of the noise became apparent. "Oh, Mona, what has happened to your shoes?"

Her broad feet spilled out the sides of the worn canvas fabric. I could see more of her bright green socks than I could of the fabric attaching to the soles of the shoes. One toe wiggled out of a hole at the front and the left sole slapped loosely, almost free from its tethers, with each step.

"Honey, how can you run, or even walk in these?"

She looked at me with her ever present smile and shrugged her shoulders. "Grandma say we can't get shoes now. Have to wait till money comes."

Mona was being raised by a grandmother who loved her desperately, but who had few financial resources.

"Is this the only pair you have, honey ?" I asked.

She shook her head from side to side, her black braids swinging. "Other shoes in my closet, but they not fit." She giggled. "My feet grow real fast!"

Her shoe size was an 8.5, neither my size nor my daughter's. I'd heard some other teachers talking about how they were cleaning out closets of excess shoes and clothes, so I sent an email out to all the faculty, explaining I had a student who needed a pair of size 8.5 shoes.

Replies started coming back within minutes, each saying they would check in their closets that night. Just before I left for the day, though, one last email hit my inbox.

"Shelly," it said, " I don't wear a size 8.5, but I want to buy her a pair of new ones. I'll go to Academy tonight and pick her out a pair.  I want to get her some really nice ones." It was from Annie, a lovely fourth grade teacher who was new to our district.

Annie met me the next morning before school, an orange Nike box under her arm. She held it out. "Do you think she'll like them?" I opened the box and caught my breath. I know running shoes well, and these were not just any Nikes, but high-quality shoes that also came with a nifty price tag.

"Oh, Annie! These are beautiful! She will adore them, and they will really help her with her running. But you didn't have to spend so much and get the top of the line ones- she would have been thrilled with anything that fit."

Annie blinked few times and drew in a deep breath.

"I grew up really poor. My birth mom gave me up to a family who loved me, but had no money. It will always be burned in my memory of going to school with hand- me- down, faded clothes, never anything new, and of shoes that didn't fit, were worn out, or looked like they belonged to an old lady."

Before she could continue, tears welled up and streaked down her cheeks.

"The teasing, the name calling, the other stuff ... well, it's hard to forget...." her voice faded.

She brushed the edges of her eyes and smiled. "It really gives me such joy to be able to do this. I have more than enough, and to be able to share some of that with Mona helps me, too; somehow makes me feel I'm also helping that little girl I used to be."

The first bell rang and kids flooded into the hallway.

We brought Mona into the workroom and Annie gave her the box. Mona's breathless silence as she pulled it opened and cleared away the tissue paper morphed into squeals of delight as she immediately wiggled out of her old shoes and into the new ones.

Annie knelt and helped Mona pull the laces tight. Mona stood and giggled. "Thank you!" she declared as she jumped a few small hops.

Annie raised to her feet. She said softly, "And I thank you, Mona."

  



 

A Last First Day

The first time I had a first day of school, I was four years old and starting kindergarten. I vividly remember the scarlet Big Chief tablets, the viscid paste in the small plastic jars with screw top lids, and the endless crayons with their pristine paper wrappers that took my breath away. Because I could already read and write, the teacher did not know quite what to make of me when I insisted printing my name SheLLy because I felt it looked much more interesting that way. I also recall hearing the teacher ask for the student "Robber" when she called roll. I was aghast that we could already have a thief amongst us and I pulled my daisy decorated lunchbox closer to me so he wouldn't take it. It wasn't until much later that I realized his name was Robert. I still kept my lunchbox close to me, though.

Another beginning day of school was memorable because I was riding the bus for the first time. We rounded a corner near a large chicken farm and before the driver could stop, the bus plowed through hundreds of chickens escaped from one of the coops nearby. It was a gruesome aftermath, but some of the boys darted off the bus to collect feathers while adults sorted it out. For weeks, those feathers made odd appearances throughout the school and even in the cafeteria.

In the eighth grade, upon filing into the science classroom for the first time, I and most of my other friends stopped short as the new teacher greeted us at the door. With a smile more beautiful than Donny Osmond's and long hair like Steve Morse of Kansas, he was already our favorite teacher with hardly a word spoken.

My first day of school as a teacher found me fully prepared with a surfeit of material to cover. I even wondered if it would take me the whole week to get to everything I wanted to do that first day. 15 minutes into the first 55 minute period of the day found me having covered every last bit of material I had, including some I had planned for the second day. No clock has ever ticked louder than the one over my classroom door that day.

An odd first day of school had the mom of a 6th grader who was entering public school for the first time motioning me frantically to the door just after I'd called roll. "I have something for Jamie, something he has to have right now," she informed me. "It's really important!" I nodded and called Jamie, a diminutive boy with intense glasses, to the door. She hardly waited until he got outside the room before pulling a baby bottle filled with milk from her purse and holding it in front of him so he could dutifully latch on and pull deep draughts from it.

And now, 46 years after my first day of school, I am nearing my last first day of school. I will likely choose to retire at the end of this school year, which for us begins Monday. Some things that used to be staples of first days are long extinct, like the desiccated feel of the chalk, drawing wild patterns with compasses and protractors, and the individually leafed gradebooks meticulously and alphabetically filled out in a teacher's best handwriting.

I've always enthusiastically embraced the newest and most cutting edge of things for my classroom and my students, but I find I'm becoming almost a modern day Luddite in reaching back for what once was. I can still hear those long ago voices laughing, reciting, discussing, and speaking the language of learning and it  makes me a little wistful. My modern, technologically advanced classroom is an epoch away from the one I started in as a four year old.

Some things, though, don't change. It cheers me that when this last first day of school rolls around, there will be new voices still laughing, still reciting, still discussing, and still speaking the language of learning.

The Boy Who Ran Faster Than A Rabbit

I put the equipment away from my fitness class in the old gym, seldom used now except for my class. I spied a lone basketball under the bleachers. I bounced it across the silent hardwood and imagined what it was like when this gym was full of people, cheering themselves hoarse. I closed my eyes and called up a time when the crowd shouted for one player in particular, a brown skinned boy who ran faster than a rabbit.

Manny was born to run. He ran everywhere, down caliche roads, through pastures, to school, home from school- it didn't matter. The boy was built for speed. He earned the nickname El Conejo, the rabbit, from the older folks, who wondered why in the world he had to be in such a hurry.

Manny's school was small. There was one school for the brown skinned, Mexican American kids like him, and another school for the white kids who lived nearby. Those schools stood on the same lot, but Manny's school ended at the 8th grade. Most Mexican American kids didn't go to school beyond that. There was just one high school for the district, but the school officials made it clear they didn't want Mexican American boys and girls going there. There was another high school, 30 miles distant, for students of color. They could go there, but they'd have to find their own transportation or a family to board with. For most of the kids like Manny, it was easier just to get a job and start working.

One day towards the end of his 8th grade year the new high school coach saw Manny zip past  after school and literally rubbed his eyes to make sure this kid was actually as fast as what his brain told him. Manny's speed filled the coach with a vision of a winning basketball team, something the district hadn't had in many years.

In Manny and in some of his athletic, brown skinned friends, the coach saw a chance to bring the glory days of sports back to the district, bring some pride back to the community.

It was a hard sell, but the school board eventually agreed, for the sake of the sports program, to allow those students in, IF they upheld high grades, didn't pose any moral problems, and actually helped the basketball team win. Manny's father had his private concerns about how his son would be treated, as did the fathers of the other two boys, but they kept them to themselves when they saw how excited their sons were to play ball.

A few of the teachers were rough on the boys, thinly disguising their contempt that these boys were now in the classrooms that had been the domain of the white kids. On the basketball court, though, Manny reigned. Barely 5'6", his speed, agility, and dexterity made him a point guard other schools longed for when he ripped their defenses to shreds. His two brown skinned friends also proved their worth on the court, and soon skin color was not even thought of anymore.

Manny's senior year saw his team claw their way to the district championship game. The gym was packed and even more people stood outside the tall gym windows, some stretching up on chairs, trying to get a view. It came down to the final 22 seconds. The other team was ahead by one when the ball was inbounded to Manny. His coach had already warned him the other team would try to foul him.

Mexican Americans and whites alike chanted, "El Conejo, El Conejo" as he he worked to take the ball the length of the court. He twirled, sidestepped, and feinted to avoid the reaching hands that slapped desperately to strip him of the ball, to foul him. His speed was too much and he was alone at his end of the court when he gently laid the ball in. It circled the rim once and dropped through. The crowd was only quiet for a split second before it exploded in a frenzy of noise and celebration.

Manny graduated from high school the same year the U.S. entered into war in Korea. He was quick to enlist. A few short months removed from the dusty fields of South Texas found Manny with a squad of seasoned soldiers. They had orders to take a hill held by the insurgents.

It wasn't long before the squad leader and the men knew they'd been lured into a crafty trap, an ambush. Their small force was no match against the larger numbers of the entrenched Communists. Manny's squad was pinned down in a small outcropping of rocks halfway up the hill. If they could take out the enemy machine gunner's nest that stood between them and the top of the hill, they might stand a chance. One thing was sure. To stay where they were would mean certain death or capture.

The squad leader ached inside as he outlined his plan to the men. One man would make a run for the top, under the covering fire of his fellow soldiers. He would lob a grenade into the nest, keep running to a stand of trees for cover, and when the grenade did its work, the squad would move forward and take the top of the hill.

Who would that one man be, for it was almost surely a suicide mission. The squad leader didn't have to make the choice. Manny volunteered. The squad leader later said he'd never met a braver man.

With a deep breath, Manny was off. His buddies worked feverishly, providing cover fire and more than one prayer for him.

The North Korean machine gunner got him in his sights almost immediately, but try as he might, he couldn't keep him there. This American was like a crazed person, darting first this way, and then ducking that way.

Manny zigged and zagged just like his days on the courts, only now it was a grenade he was handling instead of a basketball. One of his squad members, invigorated at Manny's show of speed and agility, yelled at the top of his lungs, "El Conejo!" The others took up the cry as they struggled to keep their buddy safe.

Manny neared the machine gunner's nest, bullets ripping the ground around him. His powerful legs pumped like pistons as he pulled the pin on the grenade. He laid it almost gently into the nest as he sped past. It dropped through and for a split second all the noise on the hillside quieted. It erupted again in a fury as the grenade did its work.

Manny was already sprinting for the trees. He was just 20 yards from them when a bullet tore through his spine.

He was awarded the Bronze Star and the Purple Heart posthumously. His family took some consolation that in his death, he saved the lives of his squad members.

With my eyes still closed, I took a deep breath on that basketball court. Those long ago voices still roared. "El Conejo, El Conejo!"

The Graveyard

I've been working in the school graveyard. It's a room where old machines go to die once they are replaced by newer/better/faster technology.

In my 28 years of teaching, I've seen many changes in teaching delivery. Gone are the chalkboards.

In fact, I haven't picked up a piece of chalk in over a decade. They were replaced by white marker boards, which are gone now, too, replaced by high tech white boards which you don't even write directly on. I can point to the projected image and my finger becomes the mouse, clicker, and writing utensil. It is so fancy I can take a "wand" and "slate" with me into another part of the building and still be writing on the white board in my room. My kids can take tests with handheld clickers, built like a remote and I can instantly know their scores.

Gone also are these- the purple mimeograph machines.

Anyone who's ever used one will never forget the slight buzz you could get from sniffing the papers while they were still damp from the machine. I press a button on my computer now and any copies I program in are autodelivered to a high speed color laser printer in a corner of my room.


Another one that has gone the way of the T-rex is the globe, once the revolutionary idea of world formation that caused people who supported it to be branded as heretics.

Google Earth, Map Quest, and other programs of the like allow us now to see every nook and crevice of someone's garage in Timbuktu, if they have garages there.

A once proud staple of many classrooms is also making its quiet exit- the overhead projector. Many were the days I left school with multi colored hues on the sides of my hands gained from writing in a rainbow of Vis-aVis markers on the thin plastic rolls.

Those smarty smart boards have negated the need for these heat producing little machines.

Also missing now from libraries are the first things students used to be taught there- the card catalogue.

I worked in a large college library when I was an undergrad, and I used to love the symmetry and order of all those little cards, bursting with information untold about more books than you could read in a lifetime. However, just this morning, I was amazed at how quickly some kindergartners located the books they wanted to check out from a database on one of the many Ipads in the library.

Another bastion of academia that is hanging on by mere fingernails now is the regular textbook. Because they are expensive and bulky, more and more companies are producing e-books, cheaper, easily accessible, and much more current than the stodgy textbook.

Also gone are reel to reel film projectors, VCR's, cassette tape recorders, and even DVD players. Most new films that need to be shown with our curriculum are delivered via live streaming straight to those ever present smart boards.

Gradebooks and lesson plan books have committed hari-kiri at the dishonor brought to them through the databases that now handle record keeping.

So, as I sort through what is still usable and what needs to be discarded in this graveyard, I am reminded that in all this change, some things remain constant. There will always be kids, there will always be a need for them to learn, and there will always be a need for good teaching. At least I hope so.

Paying It Backwards

"It was a time not that long ago, but one which you younger people probably can't even  imagine."

The professor speaking to us was from the University of Utah, but had grown up in these parts. In fact, I'd taught two of his younger brothers. He was writing a book about the time of segregation in South Texas. My students were rapt with attention as he spoke of the days in which students in our very district attended two separate and unequal schools, one for Hispanics and one for Anglos. When the Supreme Court decreed racial integration, this school district and others got around it in other ways. Yes, children would all go to the same school, but the school board saw to it that segregation was still practiced.

He told of how students with Spanish surnames were forced to attend first grade for three consecutive years, and were also automatically labeled "retarded" if Spanish was their first language. This meant that eight and nine year old children were still in first grade, no matter how intelligent they were or how fluent they were in Spanish or English.

In 1957, a little girl named Linda was forced into the remedial, three year first grade program, even though she spoke no language other than English, and was by all accounts a very bright girl. Her parents and others with children in the school filed suit against the school district.

The speaker continued. "My mother was one of the original plaintiffs. She and 5 other eight and nine year old girls had to testify in court. Their teachers sat in the front row and the girls had to face them each time they took the stand. The judge was very gruff with them and tried to intimidate them. People who were there that day say the girls spoke clearly and answered each question with dignity despite the stare-down tactics of the teachers and the rudeness of the judge.

"In the end, they ruled that the discriminatory system must be done away with and the school had to offer equal education for all students. My mom was eventually elected the first Mexican American Homecoming Queen of her high school when she was a senior. She was 21 when she graduated."

One of my students raised her hand. "What does your mom think about the way things turned out?" she asked.

"Well, she passed away from cancer. She had a successful career as a chemist and worked very hard with my dad at raising my brothers and me." He choked up and cleared his throat. After a moment, he continued. "She never spoke about this with us. I found all this out by reading court records and talking with other family members after she died. She still felt shame about how they were treated and didn't want to bring it up anymore. It hurts my heart to think about her, a little eight year old girl, having to get up on that stand and face those adults who were so mean to her. To my last breath, though, I will always be so very, tremendously proud of her."

Another student raised his hand. "What about the other families involved in the lawsuit?"

The professor looked around the room. "How many in here have the last name of Trevino, Gonzalez, Rivera, Aleman, or Hernandez?"

A number of students raised their hands. "When you go home, ask your parents and grandparents about this and see if you are related to anyone involved. Chances are, since this is such a small community, you are. You  have brave people like that to thank that you are able to get the wonderful education you get now.

"We have a responsibility to honor those who came before us and broke down barriers. One of the ways we honor them is to do the absolute best we can with opportunities they never even dreamed of having.

"My great grandfather and grandfather plowed these very fields," he said as he pointed out the windows at the farmland around us. "They had to use mules and a hand plow while working for other people. Every time I drive here, I stop at these fields and look at the dirt, and the furrows that still grow cotton and think of them. If it wouldn't have been for their sacrifice, I wouldn't be where I am now, having traveled all over the world, having worked for the CIA, having a law degree and being a professor. Never forget to pay tribute to those who make things possible for you through their sacrifices."

The students gave him a standing ovation and were full of questions for me after we got back to our room. I was pleased it was making an impact on them.

Later that afternoon, my fitness class was running a large loop down the country roads and through the freshly plowed fields. I bring up the rear on these runs to be sure no one is left behind. As I rounded a corner, I saw four girls kneeling near the edge of a field.

I was concerned someone was hurt and sprinted to get to them. "Girls, what happened?"

They looked up at me. Each had a small handful of dirt. One of them raised her head and said, "Our ancestors worked these fields, too. We'd never really thought about it before today, about how much work they had to do and how hard it was. So we're remembering them right now, and being thankful for what they did so that we could have a better life."

Sometimes paying it forward means also paying it backwards, too.

A Little Love Story

Every day could use a little love story.

Carlos had bounced from foster home to foster home by the time he'd reached 8th grade. The only memories he had of his real parents were dark and painful. His mild cerebral palsy and autism necessitated him taking all his classes in a self contained special education unit, where he began to thrive. Carlos read voraciously. He was also selectively mute, only using gestures or on the rare occasion, a simple spoken word. He self-soothed when he became nervous by fluttering his hands near his face, as if they were silent doves. His expression was always serious, never loosening into a smile.

Rachel had lived with her grandmother most of her life. She was a happy, bubbly girl, grown large with her grandma's delectable cooking. Although in 8th grade, she had the mental age of a 6 year old. Her speech was limited, but she also loved coming to school in the same self contained unit Carlos attended.

On a grade level field trip to a state park, their regular teachers were unable to attend. I kept a close eye on them, both to ensure their safety and because I didn't know how the other kids would treat them.

I was proud of the other 8th graders. They were kind to Carlos and Rachel and went out of their way to include them in the tour groups we had. Carlos and Rachel both seemed a little overwhelmed, but kept up well with all we did that morning.

Our scheduled lunch was a picnic near the river in a scenic spot canopied with enormous oak and elm trees. The other students grabbed their lunches and gobbled them down, eager to play and explore our area. I sat at a picnic table with Carlos and Rachel.

They shyly and quietly ate their lunches. Rachel giggled a few times as I tried to engage them in conversation, but Carlos kept his grave expression as he finished his sandwich. He stole a few glances at Rachel and his hands began fluttering.

He turned on the bench and faced her. She had her eyes on her food, still smiling, oblivious to Carlos' attention to her.

"Rachel," Carlos murmured softly. She continued to look at her food.

"Rachel," he said louder. This time, she swung her head towards him.

His hands fluttered even faster.

"Rachel, you are my heartbeat," he said clearly, without cutting his eyes from her.

"Huh?" she asked, uncomprehendingly.

"You are the air I breathe, Rachel," Carlos said with fervor.

No one had ever heard this boy say more than two words together. I felt like I was intruding on a sacred moment. I held my breath.

Rachel moved her head slightly towards Carlos.

"What it mean, Carlos?" she asked.

"I love you, Rachel. I love you," Carlos replied. His hands finally stilled themselves, his gaze intently fixed on her.

"Aw, I wuv you, too, Carlos," Rachel answered. She giggled and pulled open a bag of chips, crunching one loudly.

Carlos' expression softened and he exhaled a long, satisfied sigh. A small smile curled up at the corners of his mouth. The other teachers and kids loudly jumbled back to where we were and it was time to load the bus.

They did not sit in the same seat on the bus, but he looked back every now and then and grinned at her. She giggled back at him. His whole frame loosened and his hands rested calmly in his lap.

As we unloaded back at school, they still did not walk close to each other, but each time he looked at her, she smiled and giggled and he crinkled his eyes and beamed tenderly as they made their way back to class.

The Revenge of the Bullied

I detest bullies. There haven't been many that I've run across in my teaching career, but I do like to think of a few instances where the bullied kids got their revenge, planned or unplanned. I will share some from time to time in different posts.

Case #1: My first year of teaching, I had the wonderful opportunity to teach a tiny girl named Wei. Her story of escaping China with her father was remarkable. Their saga included hiding in a boat, having to swim for their lives past a border outpost, and hiking together through wilderness with very little food. Her mom had been killed in China and she was alone with her dad.

She weighed no more than 60 lbs. in middle school and probably stood about 4 1/2 feet tall. She was precious, and had a feisty spirit. She struggled with her English and my Chinese is non-existent, but we made progress.

There was a group of mean, overgrown boys who got pleasure out of teasing anyone smaller. Although Wei would never admit anyone was bothering her, I had a suspicion these boys had targeted her outside of class. One day during lunch, I rounded the corner of my hall and saw them gathered in a semi circle around Wei.

As I hustled to get to them, I couldn't hear what they were saying and I could only see Wei's back,  but I could see the cruel expressions on the boys' faces. I started running towards them.

One boy at the edge of their semi circle quickly grabbed his stomach and went down. The next boy went down in almost exactly the same way. I focused to get a clearer look, and I saw Wei, hands up and perpendicular to her chest, and knees bent in a traditional martial arts stance. Her small foot darted out and made contact with the beefy midsection of the next boy. He also went down, grabbing his belly.

One boy was left standing above his crying classmates. Wei's powerfully deft foot punched its way through the many layers of fat on this boy's overhanging abdomen and hit pay dirt. He went down with a loud WHOOF.

By the time I reached them, tiny Wei stood alone in the midst of four blubbering bullies, all on the ground. The boys tried to stammer out their stories, about how they had been minding their own business, then she came after them and for no reason took them out. It was a ludicrous picture they painted.

By now, long strings of snot were coming from the biggest boy's nose. He also cried the hardest. I don't know if it was actual pain from the blow, or from the humiliation and surprise at being bested by such a petite girl. I suspect no one had ever stood up to them before.

I looked at Wei, and she meekly looked back, awaiting her fate.

"Come on,  you saw what she did!" protested one of the bullies. "Punish her! She needs to be suspended!"

"I was so busy running, I didn't see anything. Wei, are you OK?"

I summoned one of the assistant principals, put my arm around Wei's shoulders, and made the symbol for eating, to see if she was hungry.

Her face brightened into a smile and she nodded. We headed off to the cafeteria.

Footnote: None of the boys suffered injuries beyond those to their pride. They never again bullied Wei, and in fact she achieved rock star status among the other kids. Score one for the revenge of the bullied!