Glass Full

My favorite Christmas tree ornament may be a blown glass pink pig of questionable beauty. In fact, original said pig took a dive and smashed on the floor several years ago. In its place now hang a laminated photo of the original and two much prettier glass facsimiles. All three were lovingly and thoughtfully presented to me by friends after I posted on social media the demise of my first pig.

My guess is that part of the joy for all with holiday decorations are the memories we unbox each year. Teachers have an extra stash of connections — the gifts that we have been given by students over the years. I confess that, in many cases, I can no longer remember who presented me with many of the ornaments that I faithfully hang each year. Some include names and dates; many don’t. Each is a treasure. Especially the handcrafted ones. The ones that would never sell in a store but represent care and love and distinct creativity.The ones that continue to reflect the joy and excitement of the little faces who made and presented them.

Teddy Fonseca gave me that pink pig for Christmas in 1975 at Colorado Academy. Teddy was a chubby kid with wonderful black curls and a passion for lions. Teddy had trouble saying the letter “F,” which he substituted with “T.” Frequently, he was chosen to feed the fish in our kindergarten classroom. First, he would practice his “F” by saying ” FFFeed the FFFish.” Then he would “FFTeed the FFTish…” Retrospectively, I realize he may well have been playing with all of us. Teddy died as a young man. He lives every Christmas in our home.

Billy Stone was one of my 6th grade students. Billy was easy: reliable, relatable, dependable, humorous, loyal. Not the “best” student in stereotypical terms, but certainly one who made my life and the classroom easier. At his middle school, he had trouble in math and a teacher who required a “Sacred Answer Column.” Billy’s father asked me to tutor his son, which was actually a pleasure. Too often, kids leave elementary and middle school and don’t stay in touch with their teachers. For Christmas that year, Billy gave me a wonderful little pottery house that lights up. His father said he hunted a long time until he was satisfied it was the right give. It was. It is. Our decorations are not complete until the “Billy House” is in place. I have lost touch with Bill Stone, but I think of him with love and appreciation every December.

Teachers work hard. Harder than anyone who has not created and maintained a classroom can possibly imagine. Many cultures around the world recognize and appreciate the importance and dedication of educators. Sadly, the US is not one of them, in general. But kids know. They know when they are seen and appreciated. They know when they are respected and understood. They know when a teacher provides a safe haven on a daily basis. Whether school is easy or a challenge, they know. To all of you out there unearthing your own Teddy and Billy memories, I salute you and share with you the unique delight that comes in the form of a pink pig or a pottery house from a kiddo you loved and still hold dear.

Those of us who teach and/or parent recognize the value of occasionally surprising the youngsters in our charge with hidden talents. Anyone over the age of about thirty is considered old. Keeping youngsters (and ourselves) on our toes is a good thing.

Almost thirty years ago, I started a new job at Columbus Academy in Gahanna, Ohio, as Middle School Head. The school had been all boys until a handful of years earlier and still maintained a fairly macho attitude. I was the first female to hold the Middle School Division Head title and responsibilities, and my immediate predecessors had not been good fits for the job. I suspected the 5^th-8^th grade students weren’t expecting much from me. I knew it was important to make the right first impression.

Regular assemblies were held in the school’s theater. 8^th graders sat front and center, with 7^th behind them and 5^th and 6^th classes off to the sides. 8^th grade boys, as is often their wont, claimed the front row seats and demonstrated their social position by slouching in very male fashion. They were not disrespectful, but they made a statement with their posture. Asking or telling them to sit up straight was not going to have any real impact.

I elected to introduce myself by bringing a backpack on stage and informing the student body that I wanted to share some items that would tell them more about me. One at a time, I produced a picture of my family (husband and two grown daughters) who were not in Ohio, a laptop (technology fairly new at that time), a pair of Levi’s (we were a uniform school, which did not allow blue jeans for either students or adults). My audience was attentive, but the front row still slouched.

Then I suggested that there are things about each and all of us that are surprises. Things that we can’t surmise by looking at each other. For instance, as a middle-aged woman clothed neatly in a suit and heels, how could they possibly know that I was raised on a ranch in Wyoming? Whereupon, I pulled a bullwhip from my backpack. The front row sat up straight, immediately.

Very likely, in today’s environment, it would not be advisable to crack a bullwhip in front of 270 middle school kiddos and their teachers. I never repeated the act in schools that followed.  In 1997, I could get away with it – much to the delight of those students. A few days later, a group of 8^th grade boys walked by the outside window of my office. As I glanced up, Ethan Robertson looked in and waved at me. Connections made.

Last week, I discovered that bullwhip. I am now seventy-seven.  I wondered if I could still crack it. The answer is yes. Sometimes we even surprise ourselves.

I was never going to be a teacher. My father was a teacher. I knew at an early age what was involved in being a good teacher. Plus, as already noted, my father was a teacher… July 1, 2018 marked my retirement from 46 years as an educator: teacher, administrator, consultant. I could not have asked for a better, more fulfilling career. While I am happy to be retired, every year as the school year begins around the country, I am reminded of Dad’s commitment to create The Best Year yet. This year I am inspired to share some thoughts that might help current teachers accomplish just that.

Our culture does not, as a whole, respect or appreciate teachers as they deserve, and, frankly, that ignorance plays out in ways that too many people never stop to consider. I vividly recall a conversation with an international demographer whom I was to introduce at a major conference. When I wondered aloud what the impact on prison populations might be if all children in the United States (and their parents) had access to early childhood education, the thought had never occurred to him. To his credit, he responded with thoughtful surprise. But this man, who had studied national demographic trends for several decades, had never even considered an educational perspective.

Good teachers impact the lives of thousands of children over time. They make a difference in the ways young people learn to look at others and themselves. They teach children to think and communicate thoughtfully and critically, how to discern news that is fake from that which is real. Good teachers consistently and supportively insist that students be their best selves. They recognize and celebrate the uniqueness of each child and work extremely hard to develop strengths and interests and ameliorate weaknesses. Classrooms are microcosms of the societies around them. They should stress personal and group responsibility.

Teachers who create those positive, interactive environments benefit their charges at the moment and far into the future. I am constantly amazed when students I taught long ago share the impact that some experience had on them. Sometimes it was a specific lesson plan. Much more often, their memories center on bigger, ongoing conversations. They recall when a classmate’s father died unexpectedly and how we talked about it as a class, while their own parents didn’t know what to say. Neither did I, frankly, but when kids ask, teachers must respond. Former students refer to simulation exercises during which they were exposed to exclusion and its impact on everyone in the class. They laughingly remember learning how to diagram sentences, wondering how such drudgery (or delight, as some of them experienced it) would ever help them in life – then discovering the huge advantage they had when learning a foreign language or that their English grammar and writing skills were so much more advanced than their peers’ who had no clue about a participial phrase.

My classroom was my work, my playground, my joy, my challenge, my fulfillment. Hundreds of thousands of teachers around the country are assiduously planning for the school year ahead and the children for whom they will deeply care. The most significant way to help them is to give them our trust, support, and gratitude.

Mr. Taggart

Among the many excellent teachers that I had throughout my education, Michael Taggart is on the varsity team.  Starting with 7^th grade history, Mr. Taggart taught a variety of classes and also coached our softball team for several seasons. In addition, in the context of President John F. Kennedy’s national fitness program, he was assigned oversight of the 7^th -9^th grade daily girls’ calisthenics. 

Calisthenics occurred every day during morning break – that sacred time when students were served milk and graham crackers and had probably twenty minutes to socialize. Same for teachers. No fool he, Mr. Taggart recognized that taking attendance and directing calisthenics would take twice as long as he wanted to give up for himself or for us. Accordingly, he assigned me to take attendance. He knew me to be a conscientious student and a very involved athlete. He picked me because of those factors and because I was “svelte.”  I looked it up. It meant slender – though now I read that it also suggests elegance, something I was decidedly not at thirteen. I took  daily attendance and forged Mr. T’s initials, with his instruction and permission.

I suppose such an arrangement would not be possible now. First, to suggest anything at all about a girl’s physique would be considered harassment. It wasn’t at that point; Mr. Taggart was merely recognizing that I got plenty of exercise ever day. Second, teaching a youngster to forge your  signature  is not generally advisable. He knew me well, however, which is really the point. I wouldn’t dream of abusing the privilege.

Mr. Taggart was the teacher who, in 9^th grade, had to tell us that President Kennedy had been shot and killed. Many years later, I recalled that class. He said it was among the most difficult of his entire career. He was deeply aware of the responsibility of finding the right words. Such a weight never occurred to us students at the time. What was critical was that someone whom we trusted spoke to us honestly and respectfully. Things that happen in the greater world are inextricably intertwined with what students remember about their teachers and their education. It’s okay to be at a loss for words. It’s not okay to share political opinions.

Final Mr. Taggart story. At a time when many schools did not have girls’ sports teams, when Title IX was not yet on the horizon, Mr. Taggart insisted that we young women had opportunities equal to our male classmates’. He expected us to practice, play hard, support each other, and demonstrate good sportsmanship. I suspect we won more than we lost, but I don’t really remember. He gave us life skills.

Interestingly, while my best friend at the time liked Mr. Townsend, I was surprised to hear, many years later, that he wasn’t a particular favorite of hers. Reminder that each of our students looks for and responds to  different qualities in us.

Our society is quick to recognize and applaud those who read early and those who read quickly. Sadly, that ability is too easily misconstrued as evidence of higher IQ and, equally damaging, greater maturity.  Too often, young children are “tracked” into classes based on their ability to read (aloud). Traditionally, early readers often skipped entire grades, only to run into unexpected walls later in their educational careers. It’s an easy assumption; If a child can read words aloud, s/he must be smart. And, of course, the converse: Slow readers must be, well, slow…

True teachers learn to recognize that trap with the help of students who are thoughtful, articulate, insightful, patient, and not necessarily speedy readers. I had such help early in my career, though it took Alexandra Smith, in my 6^th grade homeroom, to fully open my eyes. Alexandra was a brilliant young woman in many ways. When one considers multiple intelligences, her scores on any athletic field, her EQ, and her logic were tops. She was not a fast reader. She rarely raised her hand.  Not surprising, given that a majority of teachers (at that time, at least) generally called on the first hands raised. Judging from previous report cards, teachers liked Alexandra – she was no trouble, after all – but none recognized her potential.

For reasons I cannot recall, I started calling on Alexandra. Sometimes giving her advance notice (“Zander,  tomorrow I’m going to ask you what you think about X.”); sometimes not. Her answers were stunning: detailed, supported, connecting dots few others had even seen. Zander was a “slow reader” because she read every word and thought about them all. She remains one of the most thoughtful and insightful students I’ve ever had in class.

We have so much to learn from our students. Ask kiddos how they learn best, and they will tell you. Pay attention. Give everyone time to process. Listen to the levels on which they think. Set the expectation in your classrooms that you are not looking for speed; you are looking for insight and logic, thought and questions.

My granddaughter has not had an easy time learning to read. She is quick, curious, uses a stunning vocabulary, can reason with the best of them. But reading is hard, and she is self-conscious of that. Fortunately, she has been blessed by a school and teachers who recognized both her strengths and her challenges early on. She has not been tracked or typed. She does receive helpful one-on-one time. Her parents support and applaud her for who she is. Were you to have a conversation with her, you would never guess that reading has been difficult. She speaks using sentence structure, grammar, and vocabularly that suggest a much older child. Thank goodness she is recognized and appreciated for who  and what she is, not who and what she isn’t.

Among the many excellent teachers that I had throughout my education, Michael Taggart is on the varsity team.  Starting with 7^th grade history, Mr. Taggart taught a variety of classes and also coached our softball team for several seasons. In addition, in the context of President John F. Kennedy’s national fitness program, he was assigned oversight of the 7^th -9^th grade daily girls’ calisthenics. 

Calisthenics occurred every day during morning break – that sacred time when students were served milk and graham crackers and had probably twenty minutes to socialize. Same for teachers. No fool he, Mr. Taggart recognized that taking attendance and directing calisthenics would take twice as long as he wanted to give up for himself or for us. Accordingly, he assigned me to take attendance. He knew me to be a conscientious student and a very involved athlete. He picked me because of those factors and because I was “svelte.”  I looked it up. It meant slender – though now I read that it also suggests elegance, something I was decidedly not at thirteen. I took  daily attendance and forged Mr. T’s initials, with his instruction and permission.

I suppose such an arrangement would not be possible now. First, to suggest anything at all about a girl’s physique would be considered harassment. It wasn’t at that point; Mr. Taggart was merely recognizing that I got plenty of exercise ever day. Second, teaching a youngster to forge your  signature  is not generally advisable. He knew me well, however, which is really the point. I wouldn’t dream of abusing the privilege.

Mr. Taggart was the teacher who, in 9^th grade, had to tell us that President Kennedy had been shot and killed. Many years later, I recalled that class. He said it was among the most difficult of his entire career. He was deeply aware of the responsibility of finding the right words. Such a weight never occurred to us students at the time. What was critical was that someone whom we trusted spoke to us honestly and respectfully. Things that happen in the greater world are inextricably intertwined with what students remember about their teachers and their education. It’s okay to be at a loss for words. It’s not okay to share political opinions.

Final Mr. Taggart story. At a time when many schools did not have girls’ sports teams, when Title IX was not yet on the horizon, Mr. Taggart insisted that we young women had opportunities equal to our male classmates’. He expected us to practice, play hard, support each other, and demonstrate good sportsmanship. I suspect we won more than we lost, but I don’t really remember. He gave us life skills.

Interestingly, while my best friend at the time liked Mr. Townsend, I was surprised to hear, many years later, that he wasn’t a particular favorite of hers. Reminder that each of our students looks for and responds to  different qualities in us.

Cleaning up old files, I ran across this today, written four or five years ago. In the midst of a world that is being crushed by distrust and violence, it seems to me that we need to be reminded of the value of humanity. The following occurrence, which was between two total strangers, is just such a reminder:

Last week, on a bluebird Tahoe day, I went skiing. I’m retired and can do such a thing. Recent snowstorms had provided an excellent base across the mountain, and I thoroughly enjoyed the long, groomed runs that I prefer. The slopes were stunningly uncrowded. What a joy.

No crowds meant no lift lines and no particular reason to slow down, which also meant I was ready for a mid-morning break. There were two of us on the deck of Snowflake Lodge: a fellow about my age, who nodded cordially then sat quietly, and I, both of us basking in the always-astounding view of Lake Tahoe. 

We were enjoying our separate quiet spaces, when his cell phone rang, and he answered. While the deck was hardly private and we were seated not far from each other, I made a point of not listening to his conversation, though I noticed the tone was upbeat. Closing the call, he came over to me and said, “That was my sister. She was just told that her cancer is in remission. I knew you’d want to know.”

If this fellow and I had ever seen each other before, neither of us was aware of the fact. I have no idea who he was. But he was correct, his news, his sister in North Carolina’s news, was absolutely something I was thrilled to hear. He had something big he needed to share, and I was the lucky person with whom he shared it.

There is power in good news, even among strangers. There are concerns and fears that we all share in some form or another. Similarly, there are joys and unexpected gifts. There was more in the moment than a brother celebrating out loud. He didn’t tell me he had great news he just had to voice. He said, with certainty, that he knew I would want to know. He was so right. What a gift on a bluebird Tahoe day. May his sister live for many years to come. 

I have always been a reader. First as a listener on my parents’ and grandparents’ laps, then as an increasingly competent independent. Mom noted in my “baby book” that I came home from my first day of first grade and announced “Well, I haven’t learned to read yet!” I vividly recall the (limited!) adventures of Dick , Jane, Sally, Spot, and Puff and the ever-widening world to which they introduced me.

Those of us who are readers can chart our interests and  maturing passions by recalling what captured us and when:

Winnie the Pooh (friendship, curiosity, poetry)

The Box Car Children,  The Little Princess, The Secret Garden (books that still appeal to children over sixty years after I read them)      

I crossed the country with Laura Ingalls Wilder and Caddie Woodlawn. We named our first daughter after the wildly adventurous Hilary in Hilary’s Island (sadly, no longer in print, and I am reluctant to shell out $147 to purchase the one copy I can find on line).

Seventh grade summer reading required that I devour  The Prince and the Pauper, Around the World in Eighty Days, and Swiss Family Robinson. That same summer, my life perspective was changed forever by a family visit to The Secret Annex, and my hours with The Diary of Anne Frank.

The first book (possibly the only one) I remember hiding behind a text in class was Atlas Shrugged. To be fair, the class, was a boring one… My high school senior year schedule provided a study hall for the last two periods. My wont was to check out a book from the library and read straight through until Sunday evening, when it was time to do homework.

During our honeymoon, when rainstorms in NYC prompted a quiet afternoon, Wayne gave me The Hobbit, and I trailed him happily through that series until I was devastated by Frodo’s death at the end of Return of the King. Wayne was at sea for twenty-eight days at a time the first year of our marriage; I lived by myself in Japan and Guam. Books were the company on which I could count.

Since I retired four years ago, I aspire to read 100 books annually.  As of today, I’m on number eighty-four… I listen to some, pick up others from the library, and download others on my Kindle. Toting a pile of hardbacks from the library will always be the most satisfactory, but I’ll take books any way I can get them.

This is the time of the year when various sources publish the Best Books of the Year and the Best Books of All Time. Not to mention the lists of Banned Books. I am grateful to have read many on the first two lists and almost all on the third.

PS. For some reason, this Blog format elected to erase the underlining of all titles. I know better.