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}

What Do You Do with an Idea?

This poor blog has been sorely neglected by me.  Like a forgotten toy in a child’s bedroom, this brainchild of mine has been tucked into a dusty corner, out of view and out of mind.  I thought with a new school year imminent, perhaps I should update my digital diary.

I’ll begin with my job.  I am entering my second year in a dual position within the Mandan district. Truthfully, I wasn’t entirely sure last year at this time what the specifics of what “Instructional Strategist” would entail.  I had a pretty good idea of what the other half of my duties meant.  I at least had some background with Title I services. As it turned out, I had a lot to learn about both.  Still do.  I won’t bore you, dear reader, with minute details.  I will just summarize with my overall experiences and impressions.

I spend every morning at Mary Stark Elementary school.  I work with a Title I team of two other interventionists that, I must say, have been incredibly patient and helpful as I muddled my way through the first months of school.  I have fallen head over heels for those ladies.  It’s pretty wonderful to wake up each work day and eagerly look forward to getting to work, interacting with people I genuinely like, and growing professionally.

And the children of Mary Stark… Oh, those precious children.  Our students are among the poorest in the twin-city region.  The needs are high, both physically and academically.  Class size is small here. This allows more intense, direct interaction between student and teacher. I spend my mornings doing small-group instruction with the lowest performers, and one-on-one direct interventions.

At my lunch break, I head across the bridge to the other side of the tracks – both a figurative and literal analogy. I serve in a quasi-administrative role as Instructional Strategist for Roosevelt Elementary. My job is to ensure that all Title intervention services are administered with fidelity, that all clients with needs are services, that teachers and interventionists are on the same page, and that there is the necessary assessment and other data to drive and support decision-making.

I feel right at home there, as well.  Everyone is so darn nice! I am thankful that my new job has not deprived me of interacting with children.  How bereft I would be!  I still teach.  I just am no longer responsible for lesson plans or grades.  All the fun with less paperwork.  I can’t say that I miss those things, which is a little surprising to me. Or not.

So that’s the 4-1-1 on the job front.

This last year I also became a student (again). This time I am shooting for the academic stars – a PhD in Teaching and Learning, through the University of North Dakota.  It’s challenging.  Oh, who am I kidding? It’s downright H-A-R-D! I have asked myself at least a hundred, million, katrillion times in the last year if I think I am up to this challenge.  I honestly do not have the answer to that.  I have done well with my course work thus far, but the really tough courses lie yet ahead.  Time will tell.  If I can’t make the cut, it won’t be because I haven’t given all trying.  Stay tuned…

And now for the best part of my year.  The VERY BEST part.

A few weeks into the school year last fall, one of my administrators mentioned during a meeting that some of our students were residents of a local homeless shelter. I was amazed to learn that just three blocks from the school sat a homeless shelter. I could not stop thinking about that shelter, the kids that live there, and my place in this world.

I ended up calling the shelter a week or so later and asked if they would allow me to come in and read to kids once a week or so. I felt even then that it was important that the children are empowered with choice of text, and after reading, gift the book to the child. The shelter folks agreed and I was excited to embark on a new adventure.  My husband suggested I call the local hospital and see if the pediatric floor would agree to my services there as well. “Enthusiastic response” is something of an understatement. The Volunteer Services director nearly pulled me through the phone receiver so that I could begin immediately.

After many weeks of required volunteer orientation, blood work, background check, etc., etc., I was reading to kids in the hospital. Then some of my coworkers wanted to join me.  So I called Jane, the Volunteer director, again. Long story short… Project Armchair was born. In the year since that first phone call, there are now twenty volunteers, with more interested.  We have had almost two-thousand books donated to our organization, we have an advisory council, we have been featured on the local news, I have been guest speaker at several civic organizations and more scheduled, and we have three other cities interested in starting chapters.

Wow. 

It makes my head spin a little. I am so humbled by the interest other teachers have shown in wanting to also volunteer their precious free time to read to children in crisis. I do not know what the end-point is to all of this.  I don’t think about that too much. Time will tell and God is in control.

In other quadrants of my life, my children are settled and doing well. My husband and I eagerly look toward our newly-emptied nest. I have lots on my plate to keep me happily challenged. All of those years I spent at home, raising children, growing a garden the size of Central Park, attending elementary/junior high/high school sporting events (sometimes all on the same day), and wondering what my life would look like post-children, I could not have foreseen such a wonderful career so late in my life. Let me assure you, there is no boredom here. I am THANKFUL for the opportunities my Creator has handed me. He knows me so well.  Knows what energizes me. What makes me tick. What fulfills me. In short, life is crazy-busy. But I think I am happiest when I am going a hundred miles an hour, hair on fire. I must, right?

I found a book recently. Or rather, it found me. I saw it on the shelf and it willed me to pick it up. It had a rather simple-looking cover and the intriguing title, “What Do You Do with an Idea?” by Kobi Yamada. This book is my new favorite children’s picture book. I won’t spoil it for you – find it and read it for yourself. But it closes with these appropriate words, “I don’t know how to describe it, but it went from being here to being everywhere. It wasn’t just a part of me anymore… it was a part of everything. And then I realized what you do with an idea… You change the world” (Yamada, 2013).

I don’t need to change the world, just make it a little better. 

Here’s to a new year, new challenges, and new ideas.

(If you are interested in reading some entries from my blog journal and meeting some of the children I read to, please visit our blog: http://projectarmchair.blogspot.com and find us on Facebook and Twitter).

I Just Said Goodbye

I send her off to college for the second time. The cacophony in my heart is distracting.

I already miss her.

I am glad she is going.

She is happy, so I am, too.

The summer flew by.

I’ll see her next week.

The house feels quiet and empty.

Really, really empty.

I watched a hawk the other day, training its offspring to fly.  They were high in the sky, but not as high as a grown hawk is capable of flying. The tiny bird flapped its developing wings mightily and was truly held aloft by sheer effort and wind current.  The parent did not interfere with the machinations of the young. Rather, it hovered just behind the tiny bird. Not close enough to help the bird fly, but not so far away that, should the young grow weary and tumble to the earth, the larger bird could not intervene.

That is us, my daughter and I.

She is flying. No, she is soaring. She rides the wind currents with ease and the flap of her strong wings bring power and independence. And takes her further from me.

I am there, but not too close. Neither am I far away. If she should feel herself falter, I am just a heartbeat away. I know it is best for her if I watch from a calculated distance. Her wings cannot gain strength if she does not exercise them. Her instincts will not become honed if I dictate decisions for her.

I say goodbye to her once again.

This time I will not accompany her to help her move in to the dorm, get her bearings, or navigate financial aid. She will drive away with a bulging vehicle, the earnings from her summer job(s), and a greater sense of what lies ahead. Of who she is. Of what she wants. Where she is going.

She is gone, but she is not alone. She does not see me, but I am there.

I am behind her,

watching her soar.