The Sun in Room 100A

This is about my friend, Shelly. Yesterday she was here. Today she is gone. I can’t quite wrap my head around it. I sat with her a few short weeks ago and, although she looked frail, impossibly thin, and her small hands shook, she looked beautiful. Her blue eyes still sparkled. Her smile still lit up the room. And, her spirit was spunky. I thought we had more time.

I should back up a bit.

I met Shelly five years ago when I accepted a job at Mary Stark Elementary as a Title I reading interventionist. I joined a team of two others; Shelly and her sidekick/forever friend/quasi-sister, Laura. We were all housed in the same large room that was a maze of desks and file cabinets and leveled reading texts. Room 100A. I was given the desk (a table, really), next to Shelly’s, separated by a file cabinet and bookshelf, both covered in pictures. Her desk was in the center of the room, facing the door to the hallway. I soon learned why she wanted that spot and hung tenaciously to it. The door was generally kept propped open and Shelly’s vantage point in the room allowed her to see everyone that walked by. At unexpected and frequent moments throughout the day she would shout joyfully, “Good morning, Farrah!” Or, “Joshua, come see me!” Or, “Radke!” (our principal) “We need more money for books,” scaring the crap out of me, the kids, and half the neighborhood. She greeted every living person that floated by. Boisterously. As if she hadn’t seen them for a month. Warm rays of sunshine spilling from her central spot and splashing onto the shoulders of coworkers and students. She was the center of our universe. We all loved her. That was evident.

The moment I knew that I had made the right move leaving my local, rural school for a larger district, was the August Open House night of that same Fall. I watched beaming children and sweating parents roll through the doors of my new school, and into the arms of Shelly. She knew every name. Insisted on hugging each child. Greeted each parent as if they were best friends. Pure love radiating from her tiny frame. It was evident that teaching in that high-poverty building was the joy of her life. A calling, perhaps. Mary Stark Elementary coursed through veins.

It didn’t take long for her faith to find its way to her lips. She spoke of her God so easily. Our God. We knew immediately that we shared a common faith. Conversations in that Title room over the next four years were rich and poignant with deep things of faith. I can’t even say with certainty how many times we quietly shut the heavy door to our empty office, clasped hands, and raised our corporate voices in prayer. You think people don’t pray in school? We did. We prayed when she first knew something wasn’t right and the results confirmed that her cancer had returned. We prayed when test after test came back with disheartening news. We prayed for strength and comfort. For her. For her family. And for the rest of us that loved her.

I close my eyes even now and I can hear her entrance into the building each morning. It wasn’t soft, like a butterfly alighting on a peony. It was an entrance. I could hear her greet coworkers all down the hall as she made her way to our office. Stopping to chat briefly. Her laugh – that musical, glorious laugh – echoing off the concrete-block walls. She made everyone in her orbit feel special and worthy of her attentions. She was never, NEVER, too busy to talk with anyone. Life for Shelly was about people. Her family, first and foremost, her friends, and her beloved students. She made time for them all.

When I got the call that she had died, I couldn’t believe it. There was too much life there. Too much energy and vibrance, even weeks ago when I sat at the foot of her hospital bed in her living room and held her newborn grandson because her arms were tired. She talked so matter-of-factly about her final days and I sat in wonder at her calm. We cried. As I look back, I’m not sure what about specifically, but I think we both knew we were beginning our goodbyes. I thought we would have more time. We didn’t.

I am so very, very sad that my friend is gone.

But this I know. I know that the sun still resides in Room 100A. Shelly left fragments of herself in that place. The walls echo still with her infectious laughter. The file cabinet by her desk still carries the imprint of the endless family photos she proudly displayed and referred to often. (“… and Brynnlee… oh, that girl!!”). The stepstool still carries the dust from her tiny feet as she reached for books on the top shelf. The thermostat is finally able to stay at a static temperature (the Title gals know what this means). Above all, the desk that faces the door that opens to the hall that carries an endless current of people…. The place where her sunlight streamed onto the lucky students and staff of Mary Stark Elementary…. That place will always be just a little brighter and little warmer because of her legend. Her sun cannot be dimmed.

I am better for having known her.  

Bankers and Beggars

I hurried from work tonight and made my way to the city center. I had volunteered to help with an event hosted by the local homeless coalition, in which high-poverty community members were given a free meal and an opportunity to sign up for local and/or government services, receive a free haircut, and look for used clothing items.

I slapped my name badge on my sweater and was asked to stand by the door and direct people to the registration table. One by one they came in my direction, holding filled-out surveys asking them where they had slept the night before, would they have a place to sleep tonight, and were they hungry? I acknowledged them with a smile and pointed them in the right direction.

As they filed past me, I couldn’t help but wonder about their stories. Some had evident disabilities of one variety or another. Some proudly wore evidence of former military service. Others were elderly, in pairs or single. White heads and canes shuffled by.

Issues of poverty, transience, or homelessness are complex. Societal stereotypes abound. Assumptions are plentiful. Do some of those apply to some of the cases? It’s possible. But to assume that we know a person’s story because of how they look, or the fact that they have to submit to a head lice check before receiving a free haircut, or where they go to obtain food or necessary services, would be grossly unfair.

Every person present tonight had their own story. Some smiled brightly and returned my greeting warmly. Some barely looked me in the eye. One animated guy reenacted an entire interaction with his cat, complete with human/cat dialogue and clawing-at-the-recliner actions. To a person, manners were evident. They nodded and thanked me for the event. I did nothing except wave my arm to the right and smile. But they were grateful, nonetheless.

It was conspicuously evident how respectfully each person was treated by the organizational and volunteer staff. No judgements here. I watched a tiny woman who manned the used clothing rack. She couldn’t have stood more than 4’ 10”. She was older but spunky. Watching her body language from across the room, you would have thought she was working the sales floor at Macy’s. I watched her pull a plaid shirt from the rack and hold it out for a tall man standing beside her. She held it up in his general direction, ran her hand down the sleeve, then shook her head and placed it back on the rack, only to choose a different shirt. They were both smiling and satisfied when he walked away with his new find.

It was nearing the end of the event and a thin man with long, straggly hair, walked in. I guessed him to be about 40. He had been to the meal in the basement and had chosen some food bank items to take home. Just as I directed him to the registration table, the plastic grocery sack that held his food split open and grapes, day-old donuts, and a loaf of white bread spilled on the floor. “Oh, dear!” I said and rushed to help him pick his things up. Another volunteer found a new bag for him and as he gently placed his precious items into the new sack, I heard him say softly, “I used to be a banker and now I’m a beggar.” He placed the last item in the bag and looked me in the eye. “I’m a beggar,” he said again, apologetically.

“Oh, my friend,” I wanted to say. “What is your story?? How did you get here? What path led you this place, on this night?”

It is cold here in North Dakota. Winter is not for the faint of heart. Nights on the northern prairie are for down comforters and adjustable thermostats. I sit at this moment clad in warm jammies, ready to pull a mountain of blankets up to my chin. I am warm, fed, and comfortable on all levels.

I left the event and spent my thirty-minute drive home pondering what I had seen and heard. Wondering why my lifepath had led me to an adjustable thermostat and mountains of blankets, and why others will shiver through another night? It was all a little too much. I felt a bubble of emotion push through my fatigued mind and constrict my throat. By the time I hit mile marker 172, I tasted salty tears on my lips. 

Nights like this are a blatant reminder that it is not enough to give a few dollars through the United Way campaign or to place a folded bill in the Red Kettle this Christmas. There are people… PEOPLE… with names and faded dreams and longings and stories, who need me to do more. Need US to do more. God, help me to be faithful (oh, darn, here come the tears again). Help me to love and give and use whatever gifts or talents I have to walk alongside people who are struggling. To see them as individuals. To regard them with dignity. To validate them as more than a socioeconomic class. To pray for them. To be the hands and feet of Jesus in their lives.

And, please, God, keep everyone warm tonight…

No Way. The Hundred is There.

I have spent this Saturday as I have spent most Saturdays for the last four years. Hunched over my laptop. Some variation of yoga pants and sweatshirt. Hair in riotous chaos. No makeup. I do brush my teeth, at my dentist's insistence.

My few breaks are spent running to the laundry room to keep the hubster and myself in clean clothes for the coming week. To say that I am weary of being a student is a pathetic understatement. When I accept the diploma for my PhD in Teaching & Learning/Teacher Education it will be my third higher education degree in the span of 10 years. I am mentally tired and ready to start living like a normal person again.

I do see a sliver of beckoning light at the end of my self-imposed black tunnel. I have finished all required coursework, passed my comprehensive exams, and am grinding through my dissertation proposal. With stacks of university library books, Amazon finds, and research articles stacked comically around my desk, I have spent this day embracing some research, rejecting others as unaligned to my research, and trying vainly to make a dent in this behemoth project.

Just another Saturday.

And then I came across a poem, and I forgot about all else.

It is beautiful, this poem. It is poignant. It is raw and painful. And it is true. As an educator I cannot argue with the poem's message. In many ways, we do education all wrong. We try to teach counter intuitive to how children are wired. We make them sit for long stretches of time. Then when their bodies urge them to run or skip or twirl to release all of that pent up energy, we chastise them for being noisy and rambunctious. We keep them inside when their lungs and hearts long for fresh breezes and bird song. Instead of giving their brains time to rest and process new information, we just keep cramming more in there. We tell them what they need to know when we should be listening to what they would like to know.

At the same time, I know we need rules and policies and classroom management strategies. I've taught long enough to get it. I am not unsympathetic to the endless demands on today's teachers.

I just think we should teach more with the "hundred languages" in mind. Instead of driving the child out of our students, how can we work within their framework just a wee bit more?

I propose to the world of education that we stop stealing the ninety-nine and instead, learn the hundred.

The child

is made of one hundred.

The child has

a hundred languages

a hundred hands

a hundred thoughts

a hundred ways of thinking

of playing, of speaking.

A hundred always a hundred

ways of listening

of marveling, of loving

a hundred joys

for singing and understanding

a hundred worlds

to discover

a hundred worlds

to dream.

The child has

a hundred languages

(and a hundred hundred hundred more)

But they steal ninety-nine.

The school and the culture

separate the head from the body.

They tell the child:

to think without hands

to do without head

to listen and not to speak

to understand without joy

to love and to marvel

only at Easter and Christmas.

They tell the child:

to discover the world already there

and of the hundred

they steal ninety-nine.

They tell the child

that work and play

reality and fantasy

science and imagination

sky and earth

reason and dream

are things

that do not belong together.

And thus, they tell the child

that the hundred is not there.

The child says:

No way. The hundred is there.

By Loris Malaguzzi (translated by Lella Gandini)

 

Edwards, C., Gandini, L. Forman, G. (Eds.). (2012). The hundred languages of children: The

Reggio Emilia experience in transformation. Santa Barbara, CA: Praeger.

Building Champions

A shameless bookworm, there have been a few books along the way that have literally changed my life. The idea began as a mental seedling while reading one of those books. “Teaching with Poverty in Mind” by Eric Jensen (2009) challenged me on a fundamental level. I am a brain research disciple, especially where it pertains to learning. In his book, Jensen lays out a solid case for how chronic stress in the life of a child directly impacts learning. My school is filled with such children. Jensen uncannily described them, and I knew his research might hold some answers for us.

One of his suggestions for building strong neural pathways in the areas of the brain responsible for stored memory and concentration, was playing chess. Armed with solid research, I built my case and pitched it to my principal last Spring. It was an easy sell. He was onboard and enthusiastic right away.

We contracted the services of a local chess master to teach us the fundamentals, ordered enough sets for every student in the building, and built time into the weekly schedule for all students to play chess simultaneously.

I must admit to some trepidation and mental nail biting on my part. “If you build it, they will come,” does not necessarily transfer to children enjoying a weekly game of (mandatory) chess. I don’t even know how to play the game myself. Is it fun? How would I know? But brain research disciples put a lot of faith in the research, so I took a leap of faith and assured my teachers, who were really the ones expected to make this work, that this was a good idea.

And to my absolute delight, it seems that it was. Even our Kindergarteners have taken to a simpler version of chess called,“Pawns,” accompanied by entertaining and instructional YouTube videos that their resourceful teachers found.

It all came to a glorious culmination today in the form of a competitive chess tournament, held in the gym on a Saturday. We don’t hold school events on the weekend, at least not in the years that I have been here. I honestly didn’t know if anyone would show up, or not. More mental nail biting. But they did. Enough, anyway, to consider it a real tournament. And oh, what a time they had!

A few stories stand out in my mind…

… the boy with Autism who comes from a family of athletes, and has found something he, too, can be good at. His mother thanked me profusely for handing her son that gift…

… the third-grader who was so determined to participate in the tournament that he did chores for a relative two weeks ago in order to earn the five-dollar registration fee so that his single mother wouldn’t have to worry about it…

… the mother who works nights and had not slept in 24 hours, but stayed awake after her shift so that she would be there for her son’s big day…

… the numerous parents who told me that bringing chess into the school has spilled over into the home and they now play with their child nightly…

… the lone Kindergartner who was nervous all morning and wanted to back out, but came at his parents’ urging and walked away with a medal and an ear-to-ear grin…

… the smiles, the PTA president who worked hand-in-hand with me to provide delicious concessions and make this a festive event, the sportsman-like hand-shakes at the end of every round, the handful of teachers that came back to work on a weekend, the support and cheering of the parents…

All of these were good for the kids, good for the parents, and good for our school. There were no losers today. All walked away with a greater understanding of the game of chess. All learned something about losing or winning like a champion, and all are inspired to keep playing and learning. The kids don’t know this, but their little brains had quite a workout today.

This disciple is one happy teacher tonight.

The Winding Path

I awoke this morning to the excitement of my seventh first day of school as an educator. Seven late summers of frantic preparation. Seven rounds of teacher in-service. Seven times of being joyfully reunited with colleagues as if we hadn’t seen each other in decades. Seven glimpses of fresh young faces that are happy or scared or just plain lost. Seven opportunities to ooh and ahhh over new clothes and unicorn backpacks and shoes that light up like the Vegas strip. Seven years witnessing Kindergartners trying not to cry (and failing). And the parents of said Kindergartners also trying to hold it together with about the same results.

I love it all.

I love the hum of energy in the air. I love the way classrooms don’t yet smell like sweaty prepubescent boys fresh from PE or the sun-soaked playground. I love the shiny, waxed hallway floors. I love the Pinterest-driven classroom themes. I love the sweet hugs from returning students and the optimism that exudes from the same teachers that were on the ragged edge of burnout just twelve short weeks ago.

These are the threads that are just beginning to be woven into the tapestry of a new school year. Some of that fabric will be beautiful and bring joy. Some will break our hearts. But it will be our collective story and we will be forever intertwined because of it.

I am amazed at where this teaching journey has taken me in those seven years. From classroom teacher to remediation interventionist/instructional strategist, and now this Fall my new role as our district’s Literacy Coordinator, overseeing a federal grant that will boost literacy in our community from birth to grade 12. I am very, very (very, very, very, very, very) excited about this stunning opportunity to impact literacy on a large scale. Excited (and a little terrified).

I cannot fail to mention the love of my teaching heart, Project Armchair. Thirty volunteers and 2,000+ books donated and given away to children in crisis in the last three years. It continually amazes and humbles me. Such an unexpected and beautiful part of my journey!

Each switchback in my career has been the stepping stone for the next thing. Each major decision an open door to an unknown hallway. When I entered the college classroom again in my late forties with the hair-brained idea of starting a new career in teaching, I had no idea where it would all lead. But God did, and I am grateful. Grateful to have a purpose for this stage of my life. Grateful to have intersected with so many truly wonderful and warm people along the way. Grateful for a life partner that encourages hair-brained ideas (I love you, sweetheart!)

May this year be the most beautiful tapestry yet.

Paper Diamonds

If you know me, you know that my heart pumps printer’s ink. I am all about literacy, both in my professional and in my personal life. Being the book nerd that I am, my job as a literacy coach is like getting up and going to the carnival every day. I love what I do. Every day is fun. Every day. And today I loved it even more.

My work in a high-poverty elementary school brings its own set of challenges. Many of our kids have tough lives outside of school. Housing instability, food insecurities, imprisoned parents, and the chronic stress that goes with poverty all take their toll on the kids I pass in the hall every day. You can see it. You can feel it in the acting-out behaviors that send a steady stream to the door of the principal’s office. I look at those faces and wonder what I can do. Wonder how I can help. So much need…

My looming dissertation will orbit around (wait for it….) literacy, so about a year ago I asked our principal if we could try something at our school. I have these theories about literacy and the ability of a really good book to lower stress levels, inspire the hopeless, model determination and grit through a well-crafted story line, and build community among our children. It’s all that printer’s ink flowing in my veins. It makes me incredibly optimistic and annoyingly passionate. There’s a pretty impressive mountain of research to back most of those ideas, too.

And so…

… shortly after Christmas break, a cadre of fellow teachers and I hung mysterious posters around the hallways, built suspense to the point of some really funny theories being tossed around, and launched our first ever, after-school Book Club.

Our objectives were simple. Let’s get into small groups and talk about the books we love. We hoped it would fan the flames of literacy-love for those students already active readers (those that read for pleasure outside of school hours). And maybe, just maybe, we might pull a kid or two into the fold that was sitting on the fence. We also wanted to get books into the hands or our club members. Books to keep with no library due dates. Books they can read in bed while eating a PBJ sandwich. Books that will become a part of the fabric of their lives.

We appealed to our district’s philanthropic foundation about funding our venture. They were immediately on board. They asked if we had asked for enough and offered us more! We took it.

My principal warned me that anything held after school that required parent transportation might be an issue. Holy cow, he was right. I won’t go into details, but suffice it to say my team and I spent some long hours trying figure out how to get a kid or two home.

We had zero idea if there would be much interest or participation. We sent the permission letters home and waited. We were shocked when a full third of our student population returned with signed, green permission slips!

For ten weeks now we have met on Tuesdays, provided simple snacks, divided into (mostly) manageable groups, and talked about books. We didn’t require them to read specific books (choice is power), but let them bring the books they were most interested in. We teachers facilitating groups did the same. It always brought a smile to my face when one of the kids would share about their book-of-the-week and another kid in the group would pipe up, “I want to read that!” I keep a pretty substantial library in my office of my personal children's literature and I have had a steady stream of kids in and out my doors to borrow the books I mentioned during weekly club meetings.

I.absolutely.LOVE.that.

Tonight was our last club meeting for the year. Two weeks ago we gave out Scholastic fliers and let each member choose one book to order. Honestly, some of these kids have probably never been able to order from a Scholastic flyer. They were really excited. We surprised the members with a pizza party tonight, and gave out their chosen books. It was truly a celebration. The mood was festive and full of anticipation. The joy and laughter was infectious. I looked around at the library filled with kids and knew we had hit every one of our objectives. And a few we hadn’t dared to hope for.

There was the student who declared in the beginning he didn’t want to come but his mom made him. Two weeks ago he brought not one, but TWO books to share and nearly exploded waiting for his turn. There was the student who confessed that he is nervous about middle school next year and asked hopefully, “Do you think they’ll have a book club, Mrs. Dahl?”

Books change lives. I have never doubted that. Before we dismissed for the night, I asked the group if anyone wanted to share something they had enjoyed about book club. Hands went up all over the room. They liked having other people to talk to about books. They liked spending time with teachers outside of school hours. They liked being with their friends. (One kid whispered to me conspiratorially, “I just came for the snacks.” I’m cool with that). They liked hearing about other books. Every time I tried to shut down the comments, a frantic face would plead to be heard.

Most touching to me personally were the gifts handed me by these precious children. Wait. You brought me gifts?!? A juice box hoarded from a second-grader’s snack. A stunningly colored, intricately-cut, head from two fifth-grade girls. And an oddly-shaped, folded paper. I started to unfold it thinking there was a message inside. “No, Mrs. Dahl!” The fourth-grade boy stopped me. “There’s nothing inside.” He looked suddenly unsure of himself. “It’s…a diamond,” he finished softly. And so it was. These children have so little. They brought their tokens of appreciation for something that had apparently meant something to them.

I have high dreams for these kids. Maybe, just maybe, a book club will play a small part in helping them find theirs.

The Gift of Christmas

Her name is *Eva. Her frame is slight, her hair generally tangled chaos (I have literally pulled debris from it on more than one occasion), and her untied laces drag behind her, like the wake of a rowboat.

Her world outside of the classroom matches her hair. It is full of upheaval, chaos, uncertainty, and crushing disappointment. The burden of her day-to-day realities are a boulder she staggers under daily.

I met Eva in my role as a Title reading interventionist. She and I meet daily to work on reading strategies to strengthen her fledgling skills. More days than not, her mind and heart are busy trying to process the life waiting for her at the end of the day. She cares little for my supports and strategies. It is not unusual for her to lay her head on my work table and sob great tears of frustration. Frustration because she cannot decode the words in my book. Frustration that I want her to. Frustration that life is hard. I would love for her to read at a level of proficiency, but more than that, I would love for her to love life.

I had small Christmas gifts ready for each of my intervention students, this day. Small baubles and inexpensive items I purchased at the school book fair a few weeks ago. Small gifts mean a lot to these students. They have so little.

I allowed Eva to pick her items from an array and she carefully considered which to claim as her own. She finally chose her items and her face broke into a heartwarming grin. We exited my office and headed down the hall toward her classroom.

Impulsively (and uncharacteristically), she grabbed my hand and pulled me forward. I tried not to register my surprise and allowed her to steer me toward her backpack in the hallway, where I had indicated she should deposit her gift before reentering her classroom.

She dropped her items into her dirty pink backpack and fished around in the bottom for a few moments. Finally, she brought her hand up close to my face, holding a grimy coin with both hands, as if she were afraid she would drop it. “I have a quarter,” she announced quietly. A pause. “You can have it.”

I realized what she was doing. I had given her a gift. She wanted to reciprocate. She had one item on her person she felt would suffice. A coin dulled by layers of dirt. I had a swift mental argument about whether I should accept it.

“Oh, sweetheart,” I said, pulling her close, as my heart began dripping like hot wax. “That is so sweet, and I am so grateful, but why don’t you keep it? You might need it for something. But, THANK YOU! That means so much to me.”

She nodded, relieved. She carefully placed the precious coin back into her backpack, then stood, unsure what to do next. Suddenly, I felt thin arms wrap around my waist, and found myself looking down at the top of that chaotic hair. I wrapped my arms around her and whispered in her ear, “Merry Christmas, Eva.”

Without uttering a word, her arms dropped. The moment had passed. She did not look at me again. She grabbed the door to her classroom and entered, without looking back. The heavy door shut behind her and I stood, transfixed by what had just transpired. It felt a little miraculous, somehow.

This is essence of Christmas, is it not?

A gift offered to mankind. God gave the most priceless gift he had on that first Christmas, two thousand years ago. He gave his only son, Jesus. Heaven came to earth in the form of a baby.

I will forever have a mental picture of that little face, with the quarter held up in front it. Eyes searching mine. An offering of all she had, held out to me with love and affection. It makes my eyes leak a little to think of it.

I see God the same way. Standing there, holding out a gift of salvation and eternal life, through the gift of his Son, Jesus. Looking at me with absolute love. A love I have not earned. I do not deserve. Incomprehensible Love.

God, please bless my little friend, Eva. Grant her a Christmas of peace and HOPE. Let her feel your love the way I felt hers today.

Merry Christmas, Eva…

_{*Not her real name}