A Heart at Home

Growing up in St. Louis was a world-and-a-half away from the culture I currently reside in.  North Dakota is culturally diverse alright.  You’ve got your Germans and your Norwegians, with a few Finns and Swedes thrown in for fun.  It is just so incredibly WHITE here.  I should clarify that it is quickly becoming more diverse for a variety of reasons, but by and large, Whitey rules.

My childhood was a bit more colorful. 

I had a moment in the fifth grade that become something of a watershed moment for me.  That frozen moment in time has helped shape my worldview and many a response from me. 

I hope I never forget it.

The school that I attended was predominantly white, but we did have a few African American students (I’m sorry, but why is it politically incorrect to say black now?  Any doctor’s office patient form lists me as white, so what’s the problem with saying black?  These are the thoughts that roll around in my head.  Just wondering…)

ANYWAY, I had a friend in the fifth grade whom I liked very much.  We’ll call her Esther. Esther was her real name, so it fits perfectly…  Esther and I sat next to each other in the classroom.  We had no problem connecting on a friendly level, even though she commuted from downtown every day and I hailed from the safe confines of the ‘burbs.

One day as we sat next to the sunny window of Mr. Meyer’s fifth grade room, she asked (seemingly) out of the blue, “Have you ever wondered what it would be like to be black?”  I was a little taken aback by her serious tone.  I didn’t have to think about my response long.  “No,” I answered bluntly.  I couldn’t really define why, but I was embarrassed at my answer.  I irrationally felt as if I should have been pondering that question at great length.  I turned the tables.  “Have you ever wondered what it would be like to be white?”  It was the intensity of her answer that arrested my conscience and made an indelible impression in my life.  “All the time,” she said with quiet emphasis. 

I could not know the full basis of her longing, nor had I ever had to walk in her shoes.  It is the sudden awareness of seeing life through another’s eyes that morphs your life into something other than you had been before.  It leaves one a little breathless to be jerked into new light.  Such was this moment.

It is a life lesson that is essential in the classroom. 

I have a student who is a foster child.  I have mentioned her before.  Big, serious eyes and a body that houses an old soul.  She had a very hard day yesterday.  It was difficult to watch. 

I will not go into great detail here, but behavior issues have been an ongoing thing with her.  I have felt they are attention-getting behaviors.  She gives a funny little smile when she is being corrected.  It is as though she feels some sort of triumphant win when her misdeeds are noticed and exposed.  She has had an extraordinary amount of winning lately. 

I caught her cheating on a test.  This is not new.  We have circled this block before.  It has been dealt with on a variety of levels.  Mrs. Dahl takes cheating very seriously.  Yes, even in the first grade.  Why?  Because first graders grow up to be seventh graders and then tenth graders and some will go on to be college sophomores.  If I can stem the tide of "the easy way out" now, then their odds for being successful students down the pike increase dramatically.

I sighed heavily and looked at her for a very long moment.  Why, Angel?  Why did you do this AGAIN?  She shrugged and stared at the floor.  I asked her to go the hallway just outside our door and wait for me.  This action tells the child two things:  1.  Whatever I have just done must be BIG.  2.  This can’t end well… 

My “hallway chats” are reserved for the serious stuff only in that it affords a small measure of privacy for the offender.  There is no other place to go.  I gave hurried instructions to the rest of the suddenly quiet crew as they watched their comrade move to the hall with the heavy steps of the condemned. 

When the rest were busy doing something (I do not even remember what), I moved to the hall and found her on a tiny chair, eyes downcast.  I began my lecture with all the usual and predictable platitudes.  She never looked up.  She gave no sign at all that she was even listening.  I asked her to look me in the eye.  She shook her head no.  At least she was listening!

It took a fair degree of coaxing to get her head to move in any upwards direction.  But as she did finally obey, the tears began to flow.  Great, racking sobs that shook her tiny frame and caused gasps of breath.  Without warning she blurted, “I took your markers too!”  Ah.  So there was more to the story.  There usually is.  I put my arms around her and thanked her for her honesty.  Her sobbing only intensified.  My stern heart crumbled.

I tried to pull her close, but she resisted.  Her little body was rigid and the sobs that poured out came from some well deep within her heart and soul.  She suddenly pulled away from me and nearly shouted, “Just send me away!  I don’t care!”  I froze at the intensity of this outburst and quickly tried to process where this had come from.  She has been shuffled from foster home to foster home.  This I knew.  Something along the lines of four in her very brief life. 

I reached into her once more and pulled her head towards me as the storm kept its pace.  “Oh, sweetheart.  I would never send you away!  I am so GLAD you are here with us.  I love having you in our classroom.  You are learning how to be a good student and how to make good choices.  That’s all.  It takes time to learn all of those things.  I am trying to help you learn.  It does not mean I love you any less.” 

 With head still nearly resting on her little chest, I thought the tears had quieted a little.  “I love you and I forgive you.  There will be consequences for what you have done, but be brave and accept them and we will work together to help you make good choices in the future.”

A small nod greeted this last statement.  I had her attention.  When there were no more tears and she was finally quiet, I stepped back into the classroom to check on the damage to an unsupervised class, leaving my little Lost One under the watchful, loving eye of our foster grandparent.  My broken-hearted girl asked if she could sit there for awhile in order to gather herself.  Of course, dear. 

In four or five minutes, she suddenly appeared at my side, as noiseless as a cat.  She held two red markers in her tiny hands.  I received them gratefully and thanked her again for her honesty.  “What do you think your punishment should be?”  She shrugged.  She didn’t much care.  She had heard it all and experienced it all before.  This would be just another tally in the column of Poor Choices.  I told her I wanted to think about it before I said anymore.  She nodded in a resigned fashion.

It was time to line up for lunch.  As my Line Leader rallied the troops like MacArther in the Korean War, I felt suddenly compelled to completely change my strategy with her.  I wanted to take the lunch break to ponder this new thought, and so we headed to the delicious smells of the kitchen.  Taco Day AND banana cake will fix just about anything.

By the time lunch was over, I knew I had settled on a course of action and waited to walk with my subdued charge.  Letting her peers go on ahead, I pulled her into a hallway corner.  This time she bravely looked me square in the eye.  The moment of her repentant brokenness had passed.  She now waited silently for her sentence.

I asked yet one more time, “What do you think would be a fair punishment for your actions this morning?”  She shrugged and said without thought, “stay in three days from recess.”  An obvious answer – she had done this hard time before.

“That is a possibility.”  I confirmed.  “And of course, your foster parents should be called.”  She looked at the floor, but her head bobbed up and down.  I then asked her to look me in the eye.  I called her softly by name.  “Do you know what the word ‘grace’ means?”  She shook her head in the negative.  “Grace,” I went on, “is receiving forgiveness and mercy when you do not deserve it.  You cannot earn it.  It is offered just because.”  I looked intently into her face.  “I want to teach you about Grace today.  You deserve everything you mentioned, and more.”  She nodded.  “None of that will happen this time.  You are forgiven.” 

She wasn’t sure what to do with this information.  It was foreign to her thought processes.  She was not only familiar with punishment; she actively sought it.  I wish I had answers as to why this was.  I do not.

“Sooo,” she began hesitantly.  “I don’t have to stay in for recess??”  “No you don’t.  You are free to go outside.  I will not mention this to the principal and I will not call home.  Not this time.  BUT, if it happens again, there will be consequences.”  She nodded solemnly, aware that she had been given the governor’s reprieve. 

As I watched her skip happily down the hall towards the door and unexpected recess, I hoped I had done the right thing.  Frankly, my own actions had not made much sense to me.  I should have thrown the book at her.  But I am guessing that is about all she has ever known.  Maybe a simple lesson in doing the opposite of what is expected got her attention.  I fervently hope so.

When she sailed in from the playground with the rest of the bunch, she hurried over to me and threw happy arms around my waist.  She said with quiet fervor, “I hope I never do that again!”  I hold the same hope, Little Princess…

It would be so easy for me to react with frustration that she and I keep having the same conversations about the same things.  I get a little self-consumed in those moments and wonder what in the world I am doing wrong.  But then I think of my fifth grade friend, Esther, and I remind myself that I need to make an attempt to see this child through different eyes.  Through her own eyes.  If I had been bounced from home to home, and routine to routine, what might my perspective be like?  It would probably be very similar to hers, I am guessing.

She is a survivor.  She does things that make no sense even to her.  She just knows that a little rule-breaking gets her some one-on-one with people who are forced to “see” her, if only for a few moments. 

When you have never been afforded the chance to put roots down, you seek the next best thing… a little warmth in the sunshine of adults who have children of their own and have given those children the security of a loving home and unwavering stability.  The first six years of life are incredibly formative.  Life long perspectives are formed in the cocoon of those early years.  To be denied secure predictability is to risk warping those perspectives and perceptions. It stinks. 

There is no eloquent way to say it.  Kids should be with mom and dad, period.  Anything less is hard, even when it is the best possible Plan B.  But this is not always possible, obviously, and there are heroic grandparents and foster parents and adoptive parents who step up to the plate and give it their best shot.  Bravo to each one!!

So here’s what I hope:

I hope that my student finds that sunny patch of warm earth that will give her a sense of belonging.

I hope that for whatever time she is with me, I make a positive difference in her life.

I hope that seeds of understanding that were dropped onto the dry soil of her heart find nourishment and take root into the deepest part of her heart and mind.  

I hope she can take ownership of the fact that she is precious and priceless simply because she is God’s child.

I hope she begins to understand that Grace and Mercy come even to tempest tossed souls like hers. 

I hope…

Thank you, Esther, for giving me your eyes for a brief moment.

May your heart find its home, Little One…

Disco and Hauntings

During my course work in pursuit of an education degree, one of my professors insisted that today’s teacher should really be called an Edutainer.  The point being that today’s modern child doesn’t look at anything that doesn’t require a remote control and impressive gaming skills.  We live in a day when 3D screens are available for the average consumer and our very phones have incredibly complex functions.  The old Dick and Jane reading basal just will not cut it anymore.  Any teacher who dares to enter the world  of a child had better be ready to stand on her head and spin her eyeballs, if that’s what it takes to get a child’s attention.  Boredom will shut down learning faster than a ten car pile-up on Route 66.

This is part of the reason I chose teaching as a profession.  The truth is, I am embarrassingly silly.  I have the maturity level of the average nine-year-old.  I fit right in with first grade. 

This became apparent just this week.  As you may or may not be aware, we have a Word of the Day in the Magic Tree House.  These words are chosen by my reading curriculum and reinforce the vocabulary words sprinkled liberally throughout our reading, spelling, and grammar workbooks.  I always have to suppress a smile when one of my darlings shouts enthusiastically, “Mrs. Dahl!  I just saw this word in our story.  It’s the same word!!”  “And so it is,” I smilingly agree.  “What an amazing coincidence…” 

On Tuesday, our Word of the Day was “invisible.”  I had a rollicking good time with the word with last year’s first graders, and knew I wanted to do it again. 

First thing that morning, I grabbed a can of shaving cream from the art cart (a leftover from a winter art project, in case you are wondering.  I haven’t lost so much estrogen that I need to shave facial hair yet).

I gathered the kids in a circle and told them I had magic invisibility spray and that for the entire school day, they would be invisible to others.  They would be able to see one another, because invisible people can see other invisible people (everyone knows this), and possibly other students would see them, but the adults and staff would not be able to. 

They were smart enough to be dubious, but gamely allowed me to “spray” them anyway. (Why can’t I feel it or see the spray, Mrs. Dahl?  Because it’s invisible, of course!)  What they did NOT know was that I had emailed the entire staff to play along, and boy, were they ready with Oscar-worthy performances!

Other teachers claimed to see only pencils and markers floating strangely in the air, the lunch crew couldn’t understand why plates and milk cartons walked themselves around with no owner attached, and the principal came down to our room and scolded me for letting the children be absent from the room while kids jumped in front of him and wrapped invisible arms around his legs and giggled like girls at a sleepover, absolutely certain he could not see them.

They were disappointed to learn that the spray would most certainly wear off by the time they boarded buses for home.  Oh, how they wanted to prank their poor, unsuspecting parents and siblings!  I had to admit that the longer lasting, high-powered invisibility spray was way out of my budget, so I had settled for the one-day, less expensive spray.  Oh well.  They were determined to enjoy invisibility then until the last bell rang.

Is it wrong to lead children down such imaginative paths?  I have not a clue.  I DO know that by the end of the day, each one could spell the word “invisible” flawlessly and knew exactly what it meant.

On Wednesday, we had a practice spelling test before the Main Event on Friday.  This gives them a fair idea of what words need extra study time.  One of the words on the list was “burn.”  As any first grade teacher in any first grade classroom in this country would do, I quickly Youtubed The Trammps disco hit, “Burn, Baby, Burn.”  A mainstay of my 70’s high school years and a commonly used teaching strategy the world over, I am sure.

You should have seen their little John Travolta faces light up.  Suddenly, they were movin’ and groovin’ in their chairs and were ENGAGED in the process.  Right before my very eyes, they fell in love with disco.  In the interest of time, I did not finish the song, but suspended it several bars in and resumed the test.  When the last word spelling word had been administered and tests turned in to me, they wanted to know if we could finish the song.  Of course!!  “Mrs. Dahl, can we DANCE??”  Of course!!  And that is how any passerby might have peeked in our room at that moment and seen the odd sight of nine very groovy first graders, and a very middle-aged quasi-hippie, bustin’ the moves to a thirty year-old song.

Someone should tell that teacher to grow up…

Our third word this week that made a splash was “portfolio.”  I introduced this word as we prepared to create writing portfolios for our parents, filled with writing samples from the entire year. 

I wanted to know if they had any idea what the word meant.  I gave no helpful context. I merely wrote the word on the board and then asked for guesses.  Puzzled little Bee Gees scratched chins and rolled eyeballs to the ceiling in furrowed thought.  A hand shoots up.  I point my dry erase marker at Mr. You-Are-Brave-To-Be-The-First.  “What do you think portfolio means?”  “Happy?”  It is more a question than a guess.  I give nothing away.  Seeing that the first lad was not flung into the Bottomless Chasm for a wrong guess, another hand zings heavenward.  “Mean,” he flings to me.  “Does it mean ‘mean,’ Mrs. Dahl?”  I do not answer with yes or no.  Instead I place it in a sentence.  “Billy is very portfolio and punched me in the face on the playground!” They looked at each other and giggled.  “Does that sound right, class?”  “NO!!”  Next they guessed hungry and  then sad.  “I am so portfolio, I could eat a cow!”  “I was so portfolio I cried into my pillow!”  More giggles.  They had no idea what the word meant, but the out-of-context sentences sounded silly even to them.

By the time arrived that I wrote the definition on the board, it was a bit anticlimactic; almost as if such a grand word should have an equally grand definition.  But I doubt they will forget its meaning, if only partially. 

The goal of a first grade teacher is have each student learn three to five new words PER WEEK.  They need to be able to decode these words and have a firm grasp of the meaning.  This may seem daunting, but their brains are absolute sponges.  It is not difficult to bring a mere five-word addition into their mental inventory.  Adding humor and intrigue helps Super Glue the words into their Permanent Files.  If a little imaginative fibbing and a nod to disco help me do my job, then so be it.

I grew up with Dick and Jane.  I would have given my spleen to have dance music and a school wide charade to help me learn vocabulary words.  I have zero problem calling myself an Edutainor.  It helps to have an appreciative audience.  It is completely worth it to see comprehension dawn and connections made from such theatrics.

And so we floated like apparitions down halls unseen and danced with abandon.  And we learned words that would have given Dick and Jane the hiccups.

I love my job. 

It portfolios me every time I think about it…

Flying Cows and Birthday Musings

Today was special before I had even hit the snooze button for the third time.  I awoke with two primary foci on my brain.

a.     I was cold.

b.     Today is my 50^th birthday.

The cold was dispelled after pulling the comforter up under my chin.  The aging thing…  well, there is no fix for that.

I was in a bit of a distracted flurry as I went through the motions of getting ready to leave the house.  Mrs. Dahl loves a party, so I had decided to throw my own at work and had stayed up until midnight making espresso cheesecake for my coworkers.  I grabbed a few decorative items for a splash of panache, and hurried to load the van in order to get there good and early.

Hannah has begun track season, so she informed me last night that she would be riding in early with me in order to run before school.  She does NOT love to get up early, but bless her heart, she was ready and waiting at 6:45. 

I had just gone a couple of miles north when I saw a single headlight on the opposite side of the road.  I did a little rubbernecking as I went past wondering if someone was having car trouble and needed help.  There was a man standing beside his car, but from my limited view, the car looked fine, so I went past.  Cell service is so spotty around here that folks often pull off the road in order to capture a signal and place a call.

I had gone maybe a couple of hundred yards when without warning I hit a wall, hard and fast.  I had set the cruise control at 63 mph.  I had not seen my immovable object, so there had been no slowing or braking.  I had slammed it full force. 

My mind struggled to process what had just happened.  I had seen nothing in the road.  It was still dark out, the darkness that precedes dawn and is inky black.  In the suspended seconds after impact, I somehow became aware the there was a very large object lying in the road just ahead of me.  With sickening awareness I realized it was a cow.  It seemed as though I saw the one on the road and saw a second cow jettison to my right at nearly the same time.  I may have that mixed up.  It is hard to know for sure.

I guess instinct took over for I must have swerved to avoid the cow lying in the road.  I jerked the wheel hard right and Hannah and I launched into the grassy ditch at breakneck speed.  Was I braking?  Was I accelerating?  I have not a clue.  I was screaming.  I am pretty sure of that.  I said something ridiculous like, “Hannah, be safe!”  Sort of like saying to someone you love, “Don’t forget to breath today!”

I felt the wheels slide on the damp grass and hated the sensation of being out of control.  Whatever was about to happen was out of my ability to prevent.  In those milliseconds, I truly wondered if the jig was up.  Without warning, the airbags deployed and punched each of us in the face with split-second force.  I was certain we were about to either tumble into a roll or break through a fence line.  I braced for impact..  

And then, just like that, we came to a stop; a beautiful, right-side-up, slowing stop.  I have a theory about that.  I think there were unseen Beings, possibly wearing superhero capes, locking arms and taking the brunt of a runaway vehicle until it slowed to a stop.  I am grateful for Guardian Angels, today more than ever.

When we were done moving, Hannah and I sat there in shocked silence trying to gather our wits and let our brains catch up to the events of the last few seconds.  The air was filling with the stench of airbag propellant and there was stuff strewn everywhere.  The most ridiculous things pop in your head at times such as that.  I suddenly wondered if the cheesecake had survived the impact.  Staying up till midnight gave it high priority, I guess.  I turned to Hannah, who was ashen.  “Are you alright?”  She nodded silently.  So brave…  I couldn’t help but be proud of her stoicism. 

The man who had slaughtered the first cow was walking towards me and I opened the door for him.  As he neared us, he asked with concern, “Everyone OK?”  I tried to answer and realized that I was a little shaky and a lot incoherent.  “I’m sorry,” I apologized.  “I guess I’m in shock.”  Our hands instinctively reached for each other – the need to seek comfort is primal.

“I should call someone,” I stammered.  “My phone…” I couldn’t find my phone.  I suddenly had an overwhelming urge to hear my husband’s voice.  “Do you have a phone?” I asked my co-victim.  Learning his battery was nearly dead, and assured we were okay, he left to seek the assistance of the nearest farmhouse.

I rummaged through my purse and found the missing phone.  At least I had had the good sense to charge it the night before.  Hearing my husband’s voice finally pulled the tears to the surface that had been sitting just under.  “We had an accident,” I blurted out.  “A bad accident,” I added for emphasis.  “Oh, honey… “ His reassuring voice gave me courage and some mental clarity.

I was aware that I was crying as I hung up.  He would be right there and all would be well.  I realized that Hannah was now sobbing as well as the adrenaline surge subsided.  “Oh, sweetie.”  I urged her to get out of the van and then pulled her into my arms.  We clung to one another and cried our relief and horror into each other.  Cleansing sobs that helped relieve the stress.

The other cow murderer was back and I handed him my phone.  He called 911 and we once again assessed the other for personal damage.  As I climbed back into the stinking warmth of the crippled van, I thought about the call that was surely going out to the men and women of my community.  We rely on volunteer firefighters and ambulance personnel.  City services are miles away.  So when the emergency 911 call goes out and radios crackle to life calling all to their stations, anyone with a scanner begins to immediately wonder, “Who among my neighbors is it this time?”  Several of my fellow teachers drive ambulance or are certified EMTs.  I could envision them halting their morning rituals to throw on old clothes and head to the emergency with trepidation.

My husband arrived and took me into his arms while I shed a few more tears and basked in the comfort of his innate strength.  “I’m just glad my girls are alright,” he murmured close to my ear.  I nodded, thankful for his swift arrival.  Still no official vehicles.  It was cold this morning, and Hannah and I began to shiver.  The smell in the van seemed to worsen, but we chose warmth.  I realized I was once again fixated on that stupid cheesecake and had to chuckle as I realized I must have left it at home. 

As I sat there replaying things in my head and casting worried glances at my daughter, I looked up in time to see my superintendent climb out of his car.  I walked over to him and gave him an “aw, shucks” grin.  “I might be late today.”  Humor returning was a very good sign.  He looked at me with an “are you serious??” look.  “I think you and Hannah need to go home and stay there for the day.”  “We’re fine!”  I protested.  “Trust me,” he urged.  About one o’clock you are both going to be hurting.  You need to be home and rest.”  “I’ll call you when we are finished here,” I compromised.  He nodded and smiled.

Now the parade of flashing lights was showing up.  The next hour became a blur of questioning by the sheriff’s deputy (a very nice man), EMTs, and firefighters.  There were people waving traffic through the maze of dead animals and the trail of car parts littering the highway.  The good people working the ambulance sat us in the back and covered us with blankets, allowing the warmth to soak into our rattled bones.  These same people, our friends and neighbors, hovered and fussed and warmed not just our shivering bodies, but our traumatized hearts as well.  God bless each one!

Hannah and I have spent this day doing very little as physical and mental exhaustion set in.  John and I headed back to the scene just a bit ago to see if the disfigured Beast was drivable enough to limp back home.  It wasn’t.  As we walked around it surveying damage, one of my students and his brother came running across the road to greet me.  I held out my arms and they happily flew into my wounded embrace.  Of course they had heard all about it (I suspect it was discussed at some length on and off all day).  They were so relieved and happy that I was okay.  I was just as happy to see them.

As John and the rancher chatted and filled a flat tire on the van, I walked the ditch gathering pieces of auto body like wildflowers in a meadow.  I do not know why I felt compelled to tidy up.  I have no explanation.

My sweet husband has the grill fired up on this beautiful night as we are all too tired to go out.  There will be steaks (yes, I get the irony), and potatoes, and of course, cheesecake for dessert. 

I have been a bit contemplative lately, as I prepared to wade into the waters of my fifth decade.  What is it I believe are the rock foundations of my personal creed?  Who is Vonda Dahl, the middle-aged woman?

Here it is; my personal creed:

I want to look into the face of each new day with wide-eyed wonder, love deeply those in my universe, forgive when I least feel like it, find humor in the serious, acknowledge my Creator as the source of all strength, run headlong down each new path, and recognize that each day is a priceless gift, even the common ones. 

I want to live each day with my eulogy in mind.

Today’s brutal reminder of just how fragile and uncertain life can be confirms all that I believe.  I am finite and eternal.   I am also blessed beyond measure.

Pass the cheesecake…

Mrs. Dahl vs. The National Guard

We have an annual tradition around here.  Other states may have different names for it, or a slightly different format, but here in south central North Dakota, the Class B high schools go head-to-head with their best and brightest students in something we lovingly call “Acalympics.”  It is an academic competition that covers a wide range of subject matter from science to current events.  The questions are difficult, the competitors good sports, and believe it or not, it is fun to watch. 

Our school usually kicks off the season with the first competition held at our school.  It is an incredible amount of work to host several hundred people and make sure it all happens seamlessly.  We are a small school, so it is all-hands-on-deck.  Every teacher is expected to contribute in a meaningful way.  My job is official scorekeeper.  I graduated from kitchen duty three years ago.  At this rate I will be running the whole shebang in ten years.

It works like this.  We scorekeepers are placed in the center of the gymnasium at long tables in front of the judges table (an even more prestigious job).  These gods of knowledge are comprised of teachers from both our school and others, the district superintendent, and always a couple of National Guard representatives.  The National Guard graciously host each year’s event, meaning they provide tables, overhead projectors, and a bunch of other cool stuff.  Of course their angle is recruitment, but we gratefully accept their help.

During the course of my scorekeeping duties, I am required to turn around to the judge’s tables in order to converse with them.  As I did so, I realized that the National Guard guys each had a pile of official National Guard pencils lines up neatly beside them.  My first grade teacher radar was suddenly locked and loaded.  (If you have not read my posts concerning the endless lack of pencils in The Magic Tree House, then this story will make about as much sense as the most recent Lowe’s commercial).

Suffice it to say, I am always on the lookout for a new pencil source.  These guys looked like an easy mark.  I spent a few minutes observing my victims, (OOPS, I meant generous donors), behavior.  I noticed that the division they were scoring required them to look to their left quite often. 

This was going to be easy. 

The next time I saw them look away, I reached over and silently pulled a pencil toward my side of the table.  I deposited it next to me and waited for another opportune moment.  They came fast and furious.  By the time the Lightning Round was over, I held every pencil in my possession, like poker chips on a green felt table.  Really?  Should we be entrusting our national security to such lax ambassadors? I wondered smugly. 

Moments later, a pencil was reached for, not found, and I knew the jig was up.  I chose to ‘fess up.  I thought it might save me from being waterboarded, or something equally barbaric.

“I have your pencils,” I said simply.  Furrowed brow answered me.  “I teach first grade and we never have enough pencils,” I offered in explanation.  “I thought you wouldn’t mind sharing yours.”  He looked at me quizzically.  “You need that many pencils?” he asked incredulously.  “You have no idea.  Really, I am shameless when it comes to taking them whenever and wherever I can.”  I waited for a military tribunal to convene or tanks to roll through the Foam Dome’s doors, but he just smiled and shook his head.  “I can get you more pencils.  How many do you need?”  “How many have you got?”  I shot back.  Another lopsided grin from the Man in Uniform.  “I’ll get you more before we leave.”  I would have liked that in writing, but decided to not push my luck.

Sure enough, as the tables were being taken down and projectors carried to their trailer, he found me and shoved several dozen pencils into my eager hands.  I smiled my thanks and laid them next to my laptop on the stage while I helped with the clean up.  When I went to retrieve my belongings later, my precious pencils were gone!  I was frantic...

My Pencil Benefactors were loaded and getting ready to leave.  Running after them like Forest Gump flinging his leg braces, I raced out the door to where they were just shutting the trailer doors.  “Someone took my pencils!”  I exclaimed with all the horror and alarm of a bona fide theft victim.  My Pencil Saint looked at me with a “Yeah?  Wudda’ want me to do about it, Whacky Lady?”  But he swallowed those words and said instead, “Would you like more?”  His tone said, “Please say no.  Please say no…”

Do I want more pencils?  Does a newborn poop yellow slime?

I smiled and nodded.  He sighed imperceptibly.  He entered the dark trailer and began fishing around.  I headed back in to see what else needed to be done.  He found me after five minutes or so and shoved even more pencils than before into my hands.  “You are my hero!” I said convincingly, and meant it.  His smile told me that he had been happy to help a nervy first grade teacher keep her darlings supplied with writing utensils.

I sharpened them today and put some in the “pencils for sale” jar.  The kids will be as excited over those as if they had light sabers on the end.  They’re camouflage!  OOOOOH!  Trust me, it will feel like Pencil Christmas for them.

What makes a teacher do such outrageous things, like steal from the military?  I am not sure, but I think it has something to do with dry school coffers and a bottomless well where my heart should be located. 

To that end, I will scrounge, and trade, and deal-make till the day I retire. 

Sometimes a generous soul helps makes a difference.

God bless the National Guard…

Mrs. Dahl for Secretary of Education

I’ve been at a bit of a loss as to what to do lately.  My students are the chummiest bunch… they really are.  They enjoy one another so very much.  Laughter and chit-chat abound.  There is always so much to say to one another and so much “catching up” to do.  The problem lies in the fact that this “visiting ‘round the table” usually occurs during math (or reading, or science, or any other subject matter).  It happens during music, and spelling tests, and most predictably, during any time at all that they are supposed to be quiet. 

The quasi-hippie has had to readjust her love, peace, and groovy energy vibes just a wee bit.  Well, more than a bit.  I have turned into Colonial Klink from Hogan’s Heroes. 

I knew things were going to have to get drastic and painful, at least for a season.  (“Trust me kids… this hurts me more than it hurts you”).  Only painful consequences would grab their attention.  I knew I was going to have to act in a grand fashion.  I had a card up my sleeve that I have been saving for the apocalyptic end of the world, or this very scenario, either one.  Yes, that’s right.  Mrs. Dahl kept her Little Darlings in for an entire lunch recess (first graders the world over are gasping in horror). 

The cruelty, the inhumanity,

The genius…

I began giving fair warning last week, like shots over the bow.  “If Monday morning does not go well, the entire class will stay inside for lunch recess and we will WORK the entire time.”  I actively practiced putting on my most menacing face while emphasizing the word, “WORK.”  It seemed to be a fairly effective tactic in striking fear into little six-year-old hearts.  Or so their widened eyes seemed to say anyway.

I dismissed them Friday with the same dire warning.  Shape up or ELSE.  They filed out somberly and were filled with resolve to save their precious recess.  I hoped so.  I am the eternal optimist.

Monday dawned late as it was the first day of Daylight Savings time.  I was tired and a little crotchety.  I despise “springing ahead,” don’t you?  But I do like sitting on the porch at 10:30 p.m. in June with a ribbon of light still on the horizon.  I guess I can’t have it all.

The children were tired and a little crotchety as well.  I think we should have all just slept until fifteen minutes before the bell, come in our pajamas, and watched cartoons until we were awake and ready for the day. 

My hopes of lesson learned and well-behaved Stepford children were not to be realized.  Holy cow, they were CHATTY with a capital CHAT!!  I must have warned them 47 times that morning.  I kept pulling the “missed recess” card out of the basket of cruel teacher tricks, but it did not seem to matter.  Every time I stopped to do something, or finished speaking, they were right back visiting with one another like old geezers drinking coffee at Hardees. 

Finally it was time to line up for lunch and time for Judge Judy to deliver the verdict.  I managed to get their attention and paused for effect.  “Weeellllll,” I said in my best Missouri drawl, “I can see no reason you should be allowed to go to recess today.  We have not had a good morning and I warned you many times that missing recess was a real possibility.”  NOW I had their attention.  Every last bit of air had suddenly been sucked out of the room.  It became deadly still as all eyes pivoted towards me, the very face of evil.  I literally saw cherubic faces go pale. 

As truth soaked lunch-hungry brains and synapses began firing, the weight of my words began to churn the minds of The Magic Tree House inhabitants.  Seconds passed with not one sound emitted.  Finally a brave knight asked tentatively, “Do you mean EVERYONE?”  I looked into eyes the color of the sky and wanted to take back my words and declare a Governor’s reprieve for all convicts, but knew it would be the end of any last shred of classroom management I possessed.  Steeling my resolve, I confirmed their worst fears.  “Yes, that means everyone.”  Protests began erupting, but I held up my dictator’s hand to silence them.

Friends and Loved Ones, you have never seen such forlorn misery in all of your lives.  They filed quietly out like they were headed to the gallows.  Little sniffling sounds came from here and there in the line.  Eyes downcast, arms hanging limply at sides… it was Sorrow itself walking the hall.

Lunch was something of a condemned prisoner’s last meal.  They barely spoke to one another and looked longingly at schoolmates as the Clock of Doom ticked relentlessly towards the magical moment of dismissal for recess.  Today they did not hurry through their hamburger hot dish and tapioca pudding.  They were in slow motion as they dreaded their fate.  I had to suppress more than one smile.  Life is so incredibly boiled down when you are six.  The success or failure of a day can hinge on things like shared Jello cups and lost birthday invitations.

When the executioner (me), summoned them back to the classroom, a black cloud of gloom hung just above their slouched shoulders.  True to my word, I settled them into their seats and pulled out Social Studies.  Much to their surprise, the time passed rather quickly, although the sounds of happy voices just outside our window helped my cause immensely.  And despite the almost sure assumption on their part that a certain middle-aged, soon-to-be-fifty-year-old teacher took just a little pleasure in holding them against their will, it killed me to miss my break too.  Those few quiet moments are an island of rejuvenation in an otherwise chaotic day.  I too listened longingly to happy voices outside and wished my students’ voices were among them.

Beyond the selfishness of my desires, I have strong beliefs about what a child needs to thrive.  Some teachers feel that that extra twenty minutes is valuable work catch-up time.  I think having the chance to run around and fill their little lungs with fresh air and give their brains a rest is a far better use of those precious minutes.  I think I am getting more productivity out them by letting them out of the cage of the classroom for a bit.  Maybe I will change my tune down the road.  For now I will grasp at every other option before forcing a child to stay indoors.

And so…  we worked, we listened to the cacophony of The Free, and we thought long and hard about how to keep from repeating our mistakes (hey, a teacher can hope…). 

Tuesday was a different day.  I felt it from the first arrival of students.  They were determined to be quieter and desperate to appease the gods of Recess.  Really, it was too funny.  The compliments laid at my feet were numerous.  I was the nicest, bestest ever, coolest teacher in the whole, wide universe!  Mrs. Dahl is the best, the bravest, the most generous of any teacher anywhere and at any time!  There was major sucking up going on and I saw through it like Superman’s X-ray vision. 

They were good, and not because of the shameless pandering.  They truly were quieter.  They would shush each other if things tended towards the noisy and looked at me with wide “I-am-interested-in-every-word-that-comes-from-your-mouth, Mrs. Dahl,” eyes.  It was beautiful.

I would like to report that they are consistently quiet now and I never have to reprimand.  Of course I cannot.  They are children, for goodness sakes!!  Although I am now part of the educational “establishment,” I have some fundamental problems with our modern model of expectations.  We ask our children to act like anything but children.  We demand they instead be small adults, and behave completely antithetical to their natures.  Let’s just listen to ourselves for a moment.  “Walk, don’t run.”  “Do not speak or make noise of any measurable sort.”  “Sit still for endless hours.”  “Play for a whopping twenty minutes a day.”  Children are wired to run and skip and shout for joy.  Good thing we adults are so very good at driving that nonsense out of them.

I will surely be censured, blackballed, and/or have a brick with a veiled threat taped to it thrown through my home window for my radical thinking, but I cannot help but think that we grind the “child” out of them daily, then wonder why they hate school.  I can’t help but feel there must be a better way.  I doubt those changes will happen in my lifetime, but I do ponder these great questions, and wonder what the solutions might be.  Trevor thinks I should be Secretary of Education.  Maybe I should.  Do you love it that I’ve been a teacher for a whopping year and already have the answers to all of education’s dilemmas?  It’s sort of like childless couples telling parents what they are doing wrong…

ANYHOW, Thursday is here and tomorrow our spring break gives us a day to ourselves.  I am very much looking forward to a forecasted eighty degree day.  Yes, you read that right.  EIGHTY DEGREES in North Dakota mid-March!!!  I am hoping that the long weekend will reset the minds and behaviors of my Little Darlings.  I very much dislike being the ugly, green Wicked Witch of the West.  But I have been a mother long enough to have some perspective on that as well.  I am not gunning to be their pal or favorite anything.  Enforcing rules and holding boundaries is part of the package and they will like me just fine even when I do my job as I should.

And I really don’t have any answers to education’s problems, just lots and lots of questions.  But I guess answers begin with asking the right questions.  If the President needs an official Question-Asker on the cabinet, then I’m the gal for the job.  Otherwise, I’ll stay where I am and keep shushing jubilant first graders and forcing them to walk in the halls when they’d rather run and shout. 

Maybe our President would get more out of his leaders if they were allowed to tap into their inner child.  I think going outside for recess everyday would be a good start…

Nothing Says Love Like Horse Plop

We had a raw and honest day, here in the Magic Tree House.  First graders are so incredibly REAL.  I’m not exactly sure at what age children become inhibited and self-aware, but having raised four of my own, I know it is coming soon for my charges.  As a society, we demand it.  There are unwritten mores that must be scripted and followed.  Fall in line or be labeled odd.

Too bad.  I much prefer bald honesty.

Here are a few examples.  We are still young and tender enough, that if feelings get hurt, tears flow.  This applies to girls AND boys.  Who decided that it is unmanly and a sure sign of low testosterone for the male species to shed a few tears?  I don’t know and I don’t get it.  Today we had hurt feelings and the predictable river of salty tears.  I did use it as a teaching moment as to how to make the leap from hurt feelings to problem-solving.  We want our young men to learn to be proactive about their problems, but for goodness sakes, shed a little water if you feel like it.  It does not make you weak, at least in my fair estimation.

We also voted on our weekly spelling bonus word.  These are entirely student nominated and voted-upon.  My only rule is that it must be school appropriate.  I have also decreed that we will stop nominating each others names as bonus words.  This often lead to excessive campaigning and something of a popularity contest.  I instituted this rule AFTER “Mrs. Dahl” finally won last week.

Guess what this week’s word is?  No, not booger.  It was nominated, but did not win.  This week’s grand winner was “naked.”  I considered pulling the plug on it, mostly due to the near certainty I will get a call or two from wary parents.    (“Mrs. Dahl, what in the world is going on in your classroom???”).  But I decided to let it ride and use it as a teaching moment. 

It was intended by its nominator to be a giggle generator.  And of course it was.  But I grabbed the dictionary off the shelf and read the definition.  Unclothed is one of the definitions, of course.  But they were surprised to learn it can also be applied to objects, such as tables or trees.  Anything without a covering is considered “naked.”  We discussed the term, “naked truth.”  Well, that took the wind out of their blushing sails.  I’m guessing next week they will give “booger” another try.

Later in the day, I looked at a deep stack of outstanding assignment sitting in front of a student.  I sighed.  “This has to be done, you know.”  He nodded and looked around at his classmates finished with their day’s work and now busy with an art project.  “Can I take it home and do it tonight?” he asked hopefully.  I started to object having been burned before on getting homework back in a reasonable fashion from this lad. 

And yet… I do believe in second chances. 

I sat down on the table beside him and leaned close to his face.  “It has to be done tonight,” I said earnestly.  He looked intently into my eyes for a long moment.  Then he offered the biggest assurance that a first grader is capable of giving.  He lifted his small right hand and held it in front of me, his pinkie finger extended.  Without a word I lifted my hand and grabbed his pinkie with my own.  “Do you pinkie swear you’ll get it done?” I asked with the solemnity of a Supreme Court judge.  He nodded somberly.  We shook on it then, both satisfied that we had a legal agreement that would stand up in any court in the land.

The day ended with the bright reminder of the culture of this place, this school and this community.  Now I’ll just say here, that I am handed an “I love you, Mrs. Dahl” card about every 30 seconds (or so).  Although they are common, each one is precious and (yes, I’ll admit it), kept by said teacher.   I have never, however, been given one quite like today’s.

She thrust it into my hands at the very end of the day, just before the bell rang.  “I made this for you, Mrs. Dahl,” she said hurriedly.  I accepted it absently as I was trying to attend to another matter.  When my attention could be brought back to the object in my hand, I was clueless as to what I was looking at.  She must have recognized my blank look for she quickly offered her explanation.  “It’s a horse hoof.”  Oh.  Oh??  I didn’t see it yet.  She could see I needed more information.  “It’s the bottom of a horse’s hoof.”  OK, I could (kinda’) see that.  Interesting concept.  But there was more.  “Yeah, and it stepped in poop, and there’s always hair and stuff in poop… yeah…” her little voice trailed off.  Sure enough, she had cut little strips and pieces of paper and glued them all around the edge like, well, like poop with stuff stuck in it. 

I laughed.  I couldn’t help it.  I doubt I will ever again get a card shaped like a hoof covered in plop.  I had to celebrate the creativity.  She did not AT ALL mean it to be insulting or crude.  This is a farming community.  Manure is as much a part of their ranching lives as are chores and rodeos.  She loves horses and all-things horsey.  She wanted to share that love with me.  This is the world I work in and these are my students.  They form alliances based on the color of tractors they own.  You are either a John Deere or a Case IH fan.  These loyalties run deep and are generational.  I get it… and I love it.

 I set the one-of-a-kind card on my desk in a prominent place to remind me that whatever is important to my students should be important to me as well, and that where character-building is concerned, hope should always win.

My goodness, I love my job. 

And you know what?  I think I’ll see a stack of finished homework first thing in the morning.  In fact, I’m sure of it.  How do I know?

We pinkie shook on it…

POSTSCRIPT:  All homework was finished and returned first thing this morning.  I love second chances...

And a Child Shall Lead Them...

You may remember that I have had heart palpitations over my classroom pencil situation.  Or rather, my lack-of-pencils-in-the-classroom situation.  I instituted a free market economy here in The Magic Tree House wherein students must purchase new pencils from me, the first grade equivalent of Donald Trump.  But I am not entirely without empathy for The Peasants.  I supply a fresh pile of five pennies for just such a use first thing every Monday morning.

This system has worked refreshingly well.  We do not lose nearly as many pencils, and the pencils purchased by my Little Darlings are guarded like the Queen’s Jewels.  The frosting on the cake is that they are allowed to keep whatever pennies they have leftover on Friday.  This, of course, motivates them to purchase as few pencils as possible and protect their investment to the best of their abilities. (Hmmmm… a little like raising gas prices.  We use less of the stuff and the stockpiles remain at healthy levels.  Maybe “Big Oil” isn’t so stupid after all…). OK, enough economics preaching.

As you can imagine, they live for Friday afternoons and the “all clear” signal that they may keep their pennies.  I have noticed that a few of them hang onto the leftover change and roll them over into the new week.  This is a very smart strategy as there may be an unforeseen pencil catastrophe, such as pencil factory workers going on strike, in which case these forward-thinking students will weather the storm quite nicely.

This morning, the true natures of my children were stirred and brought to the surface.  The high school FBLA (Future Business Leaders of America) club is fund raising for the March of Dimes.  Yesterday, fliers were handed to me by smiling high school girls and a cardboard box for collecting the change was dropped off later.  First thing this morning, I explained to the students what the box was for and told them a bit about what the March of Dimes does.  I did not spend much time on the topic, I just wanted them to be aware of the money drive and to make sure their parents saw the note being sent home at the end of the day.

But I underestimated these students of mine.  They have big hearts and they care deeply about puppies and kitties and yes, human babies.  “Do you mean they help babies that are sick, Mrs. Dahl?”  I nodded.  “Yes, and they help mommies that are going to have babies be healthy so that their babies are healthy too.”  They bobbed their heads as if they fully understood the import of such actions. 

They are also painfully honest.  “I think we should give them money,” one boy asserted firmly.  “Cuz we don’t want weird-looking babies all over the place.”  I couldn’t think of a teacherly reply fast enough so I just let that one slide.

“…So ask your parents if you can bring some change next week for the March of Dimes and we’ll put it in our box for the babies.” I finished my announcement and prepared to move on to the joys of reading.  They sat quietly for a moment as this information sank into their young brains.  “Mrs. Dahl?” a little voice ventured.  “Would it be alright if we gave our pennies to the babies?” 

At first I didn’t follow what he was asking.  “Yes, of course you can bring pennies from home.  Any sort of change will do.”  He pointed to his tub of belongings under the shelf.  “No,” he said emphatically.  “Our pennies!” 

Understanding dawned like daybreak.  I was speechless for a moment.  I was dumbfounded.  I was suddenly and inexplicably on the verge of tears.  “You mean,” I began incredulously, “you want to use your pencil pennies for the babies?”  He nodded vigorously.  “Yeah!”  “Well, I… but those are your… are you SURE?”  Without another word, he jumped up and ran to retrieve his precious coins, rooted noisily for them, then triumphantly located them and ran to the cardboard box.  With a grin the size of Texas, he dropped his coins in and leaned back in a satisfied manner.

I was beaming.  I just couldn’t believe what I had witnessed.  He hadn’t even had to think about this philanthropy.  It had been as innate as drawing a breath.  Babies needed his money.  Of course he would share. 

As I tried to wrap my brain around this astounding act of charity, I became aware of movement just to my left.  I glanced over to the table where the rest of the class was seated.  As if following a scripted scene, they were rising in unison and making their way to their own tubs and penny stashes.  These precious lambs were giving from the deepest parts of their young hearts.

Pennies dropped noisily into the box and then the children made their way to me and my outstretched arms.

If you transcend backwards the life of an adult to their childhood days, you will replace greed with giving, and self-centeredness with sharing.  At what point do we big people make life all about us?  We generally paint children as the selfish ones, and we use a very broad brush.  But I think that is unfair.  Children have a glowing orb where resides the black rock in most of we adults.  They hold loosely to earthly treasures.  If their neighbor needs their toy, or lunch, or favorite book, they find joy in meeting that need.  Oh, there are exceptions, of course.  And these charitable moods vary from day to day, but the picture painted here holds true for the most part. 

Children don’t just love.  They ARE love.

I was honored today to be a spectator in a hushed moment heavy with meaning, and pure in its intent.  I think saints rejoiced and angels smiled tenderly.

Adults could learn a thing or two…