A school is a microcosm of the larger world. In many ways, it's also like a snow globe or a model-train town set up in a department-store window. And everyone, it seems, likes to press their noses against the window to see what's happening inside.
I'm sure many people woke today quietly wondering what was happening inside the walls of East High School. And, for once, I don't think a single one of us gave a moment's thought to all those noses pressed up against our windows. No, we were very much focused on taking care of ourselves and each other.
That's how it is when a school wakes up to heartbreaking news.
While I would gladly swap today's hard news for a dozen days of mayhem and misbehavior, I must say that the people who make up East High made me mighty proud today. And I am so thankful for all of those Spartan parents who had enough faith in our school to send their kids to us, knowing it would be a difficult day.
Whether or not you knew Tony Kirkpatrick directly--and I did not--it was impossible not to feel the reverberations of a young life--vibrant, complicated and involved--suddenly absent the next day. The halls were quieter today, but everywhere there was a low thrum of grief and recollection and tender care.
Elementary-school teachers probably consider hugs to be a part of their regular school day. We high-school folks, though, are a less touchy bunch, worried that a hug will result in a funny look or a terse email, so we tend to avoid them.
Not today, though. At times, I felt cosmically compelled to take hold of my student's shoulders and pull her into my embrace.
We are, perhaps, all of us, mama bears at times.
In addition to the students, plenty of East High adults cried today, men and women alike. I know that it can be a little scary to see a teacher cry. I can count on a single hand the times I've seen my own parents shed tears, and I remember each of those times with savant-like clarity. But I really do believe that, in the raw aftermath of a young life lost, sharing our grief, which sometimes takes the form of tears, is an incredibly bonding experience.
In the snow globe that is East High, today--with our windows veiled in mourning--curriculum and tests and deadlines and expectations took a back seat so that we could ponder the life that was Tony Kirkpatrick's. And, in the process, we each felt like the Grinch, our hearts having grown three sizes this day.
Friday, November 21, 2014
Tuesday, November 11, 2014
Role Call
I have been in exactly two theatrical performances in my life--one when I was 11 (and in which I was demoted to a smaller part by my wise, wise teacher) and another when I was in my early 30s. Apparently, I needed those 20 years in between performances to marinate as an actress.
Last Saturday, I revived two roles that had been underutilized of late--the roles of "sister" and "daughter." And, while a person might expect a blip in quality, given my lack of practice, it was a delight for me to play myself again. In fact, it was downright liberating to put away "mom" and "teacher," "neighbor" and "friend" and focus solely upon my earliest, deepest roles in this life.
If we are lucky--and I am lucky in this way--there are people in our lives with whom we have a "just add water" ease, even if months or years or many miles have separated us. And, in those instances when we manage to bridge all that time and space, it is as though we'd been holding our breath all along. And finally--finally!--we can let it go.
That's how I felt on Saturday, in the car with my mom and sister, looking out the window and marveling at how long Fall had hung on this year. That's how I felt Saturday in the coffee shop below my brother's apartment, sharing a lemon muffin with the same people I share a genetic code with. That's how I felt Saturday, lingering in front of a painting, listening to my siblings and mom debating whether or not it had been painted onto wood, and finally deciding that the artist had actually figured out how to make wood with nothing more than a brush and some colors.
Twenty years ago, while gathering up the nerve to begin a scene from "A Midsummer Night's Dream," I remember wondering--just moments before my character spoke--if the words I'd practiced over and over again would find their way out of me, preferably in the right order. And marveling that--somehow--they tumbled out as if on their own. It was all so strange and magical and natural, this bending of time and this coming together of dusty, old phrases.
That's how I felt on Saturday, abuzz from this ancient thrumming that had been there all along, patiently waiting to be called into action again. Amazed and grateful that it felt so natural. Mighty glad to be there for it.
Last Saturday, I revived two roles that had been underutilized of late--the roles of "sister" and "daughter." And, while a person might expect a blip in quality, given my lack of practice, it was a delight for me to play myself again. In fact, it was downright liberating to put away "mom" and "teacher," "neighbor" and "friend" and focus solely upon my earliest, deepest roles in this life.
If we are lucky--and I am lucky in this way--there are people in our lives with whom we have a "just add water" ease, even if months or years or many miles have separated us. And, in those instances when we manage to bridge all that time and space, it is as though we'd been holding our breath all along. And finally--finally!--we can let it go.
That's how I felt on Saturday, in the car with my mom and sister, looking out the window and marveling at how long Fall had hung on this year. That's how I felt Saturday in the coffee shop below my brother's apartment, sharing a lemon muffin with the same people I share a genetic code with. That's how I felt Saturday, lingering in front of a painting, listening to my siblings and mom debating whether or not it had been painted onto wood, and finally deciding that the artist had actually figured out how to make wood with nothing more than a brush and some colors.
Twenty years ago, while gathering up the nerve to begin a scene from "A Midsummer Night's Dream," I remember wondering--just moments before my character spoke--if the words I'd practiced over and over again would find their way out of me, preferably in the right order. And marveling that--somehow--they tumbled out as if on their own. It was all so strange and magical and natural, this bending of time and this coming together of dusty, old phrases.
That's how I felt on Saturday, abuzz from this ancient thrumming that had been there all along, patiently waiting to be called into action again. Amazed and grateful that it felt so natural. Mighty glad to be there for it.
Friday, November 7, 2014
Navigating the In Between
I woke today relatively healthy, in a home that has heat and a dependable roof, with a ridiculously devoted dog and a surprisingly dedicated husband at my side. So why the feeling of longing?
I blame it on the in between, that odd time when absence and presence duke it out in the larger world. Maybe that explains all the odd things I've seen on my early-morning walks of late. . .
. . . a possum triggering my neighbor’s safety lights, and then standing frozen in fear of its own unknown powers.
. . . the last crickets of summer humming one more line of their gregorian chant, the tune quieter and sadder than their October number.
. . .the sun and moon battling over the early morning sky, while Orion fades silently into the background.
. . .the first fingers of a season yet to come, holding hands with the last warm wisps of summer.
. . . my own thoughts, fretting over elderly parents and children, all in the same chilled breath.
. . . four days, three owls. One shooting baskets, another standing watch over our patio, and a third bellowing its mighty song to me just outside of Northeast High School last night.
I know now that I am, indeed, among the fence walkers, those who are sandwiched between aging parents and muscle-flexing children, financial freedom and pre-planned funerals. It is an odd place, to be sure, and not for the faint of heart.
But this is where I am these days, in the in-between. And I do my best to make my peace with all the conflicting messages, missing my children and celebrating my new-found freedom in the same, strange breath that I selfishly hope will go on and on for a very long time.
Saturday, November 1, 2014
Why I Root for the Salmon
On most days, it is a challenge to get students to seek out the "other." In an election season, that task feels downright monumental, like a salmon weaving its way up Niagra Falls.
If we taught school the way politicians seek seats these days--with finger-pointing vitriol, basted in barrels full of vinegar--I doubt our students would learn much at all about themselves, more or less anything substantive about the "other" who is on the receiving end of those diatribes.
Oh, I suppose that's not entirely true. They would learn, for instance, who's got the most bravado, the best marketing strategies, the snarkiest one-liners.
But I'd prefer working with mirrors that reflect rather than refract.
Color me crazy, but I love those moments when students suddenly see themselves--or, better yet, someone else-- as though for the first time. It is like morning sunlight fractured into a thousand diamonds on a single blade of grass--breathtaking and symphonic. And, invariably, in the aftermath of such experiences, these students are left looking over their shoulders, wondering if--hoping that--someone else saw what they just saw.
Even though today's journalists lack the reputation and luster of their muckraking, independent ancestors, there are still those who seek to do the job in that spirit--diligently finding and giving voice to the underrepresented. Certainly, the most magical experiences in my own classroom often seem to involve "the other"--an idea, a person, a perspective, a medium previously unexplored.
The key is to expect the students to move outside of their comfort zones, and to give them both the permission and the tools they'll need to muddle through these new things--even if failure or discomfort may follow. My role in that process is to provide the occasional Google Map and then stay out of the way.
Despite what the politicians may be shouting on TV these days, the means really does justify the end. It is the process--the journey, the hard work of showing up each day with our eyes and minds and hearts wide open and working through the discomfort of our own inexperience--that gives meaning to our lives and to the lives of others.
Life is messy. And there are good kinds of "messy" and bad kinds of it. It would serve us well to focus on the former, even if it makes for lousy sound bites.
If we taught school the way politicians seek seats these days--with finger-pointing vitriol, basted in barrels full of vinegar--I doubt our students would learn much at all about themselves, more or less anything substantive about the "other" who is on the receiving end of those diatribes.
Oh, I suppose that's not entirely true. They would learn, for instance, who's got the most bravado, the best marketing strategies, the snarkiest one-liners.
But I'd prefer working with mirrors that reflect rather than refract.
Color me crazy, but I love those moments when students suddenly see themselves--or, better yet, someone else-- as though for the first time. It is like morning sunlight fractured into a thousand diamonds on a single blade of grass--breathtaking and symphonic. And, invariably, in the aftermath of such experiences, these students are left looking over their shoulders, wondering if--hoping that--someone else saw what they just saw.
Even though today's journalists lack the reputation and luster of their muckraking, independent ancestors, there are still those who seek to do the job in that spirit--diligently finding and giving voice to the underrepresented. Certainly, the most magical experiences in my own classroom often seem to involve "the other"--an idea, a person, a perspective, a medium previously unexplored.
The key is to expect the students to move outside of their comfort zones, and to give them both the permission and the tools they'll need to muddle through these new things--even if failure or discomfort may follow. My role in that process is to provide the occasional Google Map and then stay out of the way.
Despite what the politicians may be shouting on TV these days, the means really does justify the end. It is the process--the journey, the hard work of showing up each day with our eyes and minds and hearts wide open and working through the discomfort of our own inexperience--that gives meaning to our lives and to the lives of others.
Life is messy. And there are good kinds of "messy" and bad kinds of it. It would serve us well to focus on the former, even if it makes for lousy sound bites.
Saturday, October 11, 2014
Mission Impossible: The Dangers of Working in a School
I know that people often think of East High as a rather bland place, at least from a cultural perspective. And I suppose that, if a person is limited to strictly visual cues, such a judgment might seem reasonable. But, hey, I'm a librarian, so you shouldn't be surprised that I'm pulling out the "don't judge a book by its cover" adage here.
After all, as I consider the nearly 24 years I've spent as a teacher at East, I find myself looking at a surprisingly diverse pool of students who've crossed my path. And, while I haven't always had a lot in common with those students, like most educators, I've worked darned hard to find a personal connection I could make with each one of them.
Whatever the outsider may think, it is not the subject matter that keeps me teaching. Nor the curriculum, the standardized testing, the continual evolutionary tweaks and reinventions of my profession that keep me showing up each day. Heck, it's not even my peers--whom I love deeply--that keep me at it.
No, it is the students, that rag-tagged bunch of hooligans and geniuses (sometimes one and the same) that pull me out of my warm bed on a cold, dark winter morning. Even--sometimes especially--those with whom I seem to have nothing in common, besides the fact that we are both called "Spartans."
As a teacher, I am expected--mandated, really--to be a Democrat who respects and helps educate Republicans. A Protestant compassionately connecting with Catholics. A woman reaching out to young men. A white person making connections to brown people. A middle-class person building relationships with students who call the City Mission "home."
The great balancing act of being a teacher is to somehow find a way to be both authentic to who I am and also remain distant from the parts of myself that might close me off from others. My classroom should not be a forum for my personal agendas any more than it should be an antiseptic stage of regurgitation for someone else's ideas.
Somewhere between those ranges of experience is what it means to be human--that messy interaction of fact and fiction, love and hate, fear and courage.
It ain't an easy balancing act, folks. If I were solely focused on the delivery of FDA-approved curriculum and EPA-approved testing measures, it still wouldn't be an easy schtick. Throw in the desire to figure out how to bring in some humanity, to recognize and respect the myriad secret lives that each of us haul along each morning, and it can be either downright discouraging or incredibly invigorating to do the job each day. But it's always a bit exhausting.
So maybe you'll understand if I sigh deeply and roll my eyes a bit when I hear the latest vitriol and clucking tongues hissed in my general direction, all in response to the impossible job that faces every educator every single day--building meaningful bridges across a human landscape that is wild and beautiful, varied and complex.
Believe me when I say that no school is as bland--or as scary or as broken or as perfect or as rotten--as the one painted by those who reside outside of it.
After all, as I consider the nearly 24 years I've spent as a teacher at East, I find myself looking at a surprisingly diverse pool of students who've crossed my path. And, while I haven't always had a lot in common with those students, like most educators, I've worked darned hard to find a personal connection I could make with each one of them.
Whatever the outsider may think, it is not the subject matter that keeps me teaching. Nor the curriculum, the standardized testing, the continual evolutionary tweaks and reinventions of my profession that keep me showing up each day. Heck, it's not even my peers--whom I love deeply--that keep me at it.
No, it is the students, that rag-tagged bunch of hooligans and geniuses (sometimes one and the same) that pull me out of my warm bed on a cold, dark winter morning. Even--sometimes especially--those with whom I seem to have nothing in common, besides the fact that we are both called "Spartans."
As a teacher, I am expected--mandated, really--to be a Democrat who respects and helps educate Republicans. A Protestant compassionately connecting with Catholics. A woman reaching out to young men. A white person making connections to brown people. A middle-class person building relationships with students who call the City Mission "home."
The great balancing act of being a teacher is to somehow find a way to be both authentic to who I am and also remain distant from the parts of myself that might close me off from others. My classroom should not be a forum for my personal agendas any more than it should be an antiseptic stage of regurgitation for someone else's ideas.
Somewhere between those ranges of experience is what it means to be human--that messy interaction of fact and fiction, love and hate, fear and courage.
It ain't an easy balancing act, folks. If I were solely focused on the delivery of FDA-approved curriculum and EPA-approved testing measures, it still wouldn't be an easy schtick. Throw in the desire to figure out how to bring in some humanity, to recognize and respect the myriad secret lives that each of us haul along each morning, and it can be either downright discouraging or incredibly invigorating to do the job each day. But it's always a bit exhausting.
So maybe you'll understand if I sigh deeply and roll my eyes a bit when I hear the latest vitriol and clucking tongues hissed in my general direction, all in response to the impossible job that faces every educator every single day--building meaningful bridges across a human landscape that is wild and beautiful, varied and complex.
Believe me when I say that no school is as bland--or as scary or as broken or as perfect or as rotten--as the one painted by those who reside outside of it.
Sunday, October 5, 2014
They Say It's Your Birthday...Not That You'd Tell Anyone
But they are not Mark Holt.
No, Mark is one of those people who, if he happens to be in a photo, usually has his eyes half shut, or is tucked into the last row, content to blend in with the background. That's why it's amazing I found this photo of him, standing proudly by his man-room acquisition, an old mandolin that someone had forgotten about. Mark saw that thing and realized that it still had some sparkle and life left in it, so he bought it. Gave it a new life.
Quiet people are like that--patient and observant, forever able to see the potential in half-broken things that we noisier folks simply can't be bothered with. Thing is, they also have a great capacity to enjoy the sunshine-sucking people who draw their energy from the clangy fuel pumps of crowds and chatter.
If Mark were of the earth, he'd be the Oglala Aquifer, running deep and cool beneath the sandy soils of us shallower types, quietly nourishing us in our wilder pursuits, a seemingly endless source of support and encouragement.
I am no prima donna, nor do my tastes run towards the higher end of things. Still, I can think of no time in our 25-year marriage when Mark has said "no" to me. No time when he has thrown up a barrier between me and my dreams or ideas, even if those things mean we will be hosting a party with 50 tired teachers in need of dancing and cold beer.
They say opposites attract and, given the satisfying life that Mark and I have made for ourselves--one in which we still get a daily kick from each other--I'm apt to agree with them, whoever they are. I am steadier, happier, deeper and more content with Mark Holt in my life. Yes, I still occasionally pull up my overfilled wagon next to the "sunshine" pump and milk it for all it's worth, but I know now that the fuel that really sustains me is back home, sitting quietly in his man room, admiring his collection of once-orphaned items, made shiny and new in his steady presence.
Happy 50th, Mark. Mighty glad to have you in my life.
Wednesday, October 1, 2014
Stormy Weather
It is one a.m. and I have been awakened
--roused, really, for who can sleep when the sky has been falling since noon?--
roused, then, by paparazzi lightning and a drumline of rain,
relentlessly keeping beat upon my shelter.
As I shuffle across the hall,
my hand runs lovingly along the north wall
grateful for its vigilance against the storm.
And, where sleep should return, there is only an ache.
--A memory of Cardinals
tucked into the nest just outside our back room.
A not-so-distant storm, its long, wet fingers
forever rushing down the awning,
stopping finally--fatally--in the twiggy home just below it.
I wake the next morning to a yawning earth
burbling the remains of the night's long drink.
And silence, too. A nest of broken, quiet bodies
huddled against the odds.
That damned awning came down within days,
forever stained by the long, slow night of death it brought.
A Judas where a Noah was needed.
--roused, really, for who can sleep when the sky has been falling since noon?--
roused, then, by paparazzi lightning and a drumline of rain,
relentlessly keeping beat upon my shelter.
As I shuffle across the hall,
my hand runs lovingly along the north wall
grateful for its vigilance against the storm.
And, where sleep should return, there is only an ache.
--A memory of Cardinals
tucked into the nest just outside our back room.
A not-so-distant storm, its long, wet fingers
forever rushing down the awning,
stopping finally--fatally--in the twiggy home just below it.
I wake the next morning to a yawning earth
burbling the remains of the night's long drink.
And silence, too. A nest of broken, quiet bodies
huddled against the odds.
That damned awning came down within days,
forever stained by the long, slow night of death it brought.
A Judas where a Noah was needed.
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