Looking Up At The Sky

It was just about a year ago that Heidi was getting ready for massive brain surgery.  There was a tumor.  It grew seemingly out of nowhere.  It was at the base of her skull.  Right next to her brain stem.  It had caused severe vertigo and brief aphasia – when she couldn’t talk.  Or rather, she could make sounds but they were not words.  Thankfully these episodes were brief and she was able to lead a fairly normal life up until the surgery. 

While the vertigo was episodic, she couldn’t tilt her head back and look up at the stars because it made her dizzy.  So she didn’t.  We still went out for our evening walks.  But they were slower.  We sort of held each other the whole way.  And we didn’t look up at the sky.

Throughout it all, from the symptoms, to the diagnosis, during the waiting for surgery all the way through to the eventual surgery on December 5^th at John’s Hopkins, Heidi was strong.  Brave.  Resolute. 

Heidi with magnetic imaging markers the night before surgery.

Now, Heidi is obviously an intelligent woman.  Panic would not be helpful at all.  It wouldn’t be logical.  And while most who knew her offered assistance and prayers and food and other kindnesses, she did not take any special favors.  All accept the prayers.  Those warmed her and helped her immensely. 

There were surely moments of sadness.  I mean there was a chance that this would NOT be all right.  One of the surgeons from this area, a real wacko, gave her, “about an 80% chance of survival.”  And he wouldn’t touch this surgery because it was too complicated.  This from a guy who was considered one of the best brain surgeons in the state.  How is that for bedside manner?  So, yeah, we cried on the way home from that appointment. 

But throughout the waiting for the surgery, Heidi was pretty serene.  And so I was too.  SHE held ME up.  She held us all up.  Her family wanted to come to Baltimore for the surgery.  She said no.  She just wanted me there. 

This is us just a couple days after surgery.  We had just gotten our walking papers and were heading to the hotel for a week or so of recovery.

If you know us, you know the surgery went perfectly.  It wasn’t easy by any stretch, but she dealt with it with grace.  And now, nearly a year later, she is in Boston at the National Council of Teachers of English conference with some teachers from my staff, presenting on how children mentor each other in inquiry classrooms.  This was the end-of-November conference where we were both scheduled to speak last year.  But we had to cancel because of the tumor and the upcoming surgery. 

Heidi's scar just  a few days post-op.

She is attending board meetings, meeting with the editor of her forthcoming book, attending sessions with some of the most brilliant educators in the world (of course SHE is one as well). 

Last year at this time I was preparing weeks of lesson plans.  Heidi was ending the semester with her beloved graduate students.  Our sons were gearing up for finals and worried about their mom.    We made sure that our insurance was going to work, that our wills were all up to date.  Heidi filled out the form that said that she had a living will.  We were having telephone conferences with the surgeon and the good people at his office.

Heidi comes home from the conference late tonight.  And tomorrow?  After work we’ll take our evening walk.  And it will be brisk.  And we’ll walk the crazy puppy and we’ll let her tear around the tennis court to release some of that crazy puppy energy.  And it’ll be cold and we’ll wear hats and gloves and our noses will run.

And we’ll be thankful for our home in the woods and our family.  We’ll be thankful for our jobs and this wonderful time in our lives.  And we’ll be grateful for being together and for the very breath we breathe.

And, together, we’ll look up at the sky.

Mrs. G - A Student Teaching Episode

When I first began my student teaching in the spring of 1979 I was an idealist. “Chuck E.’s in Love” by Ricky Lee Jones, “Dependin on You”, by the Doobie Brothers and “Dog and Butterfly” by Heart were on the top 40. The Bee Gees did a shamelessly disco version of “Sergeant Pepper’s” which was way over played on the radio. Way over played. Saturday Night Live was happening on, well, Saturday night and we all crowded around my roommate’s old black and white TV. Nothing was sacred any more on TV with Saturday Night Live. We were loving it. Bell bottom pants were in but going out. We called our girls “chicks” and it was cool. “Cool” was in, “groovy” way out. Being a hippie was becoming passé but long hair was still fashionable for about half the young men I hung around with. Jimmy Carter was president. I had voted for him in 1976. I was a senior in college. I was looking at graduation (not that I would actually walk across the stage – I was way too cool for that). After graduation, a graduate internship in Grand Rapids, Michigan. All was good in the world. All was cool.

With my course work mostly behind me, (I had changed majors and still had a little catching up to do the following summer – but that was cool) I was looking forward to real teaching. I had loved spending time with the little ones in my practicum courses. After a spell of not knowing what I would do as a “grown-up” I had settled into the fact that I would teach little kids. It was going to be a wonderful experience, a wonderful life. My classmates and my very best friend Heidi (who was to become my wife in another year and a half) were doing their student teaching at the same time. I had just enough money to make it by. I lived in a communal house with my music buddies. All was right with the world.

Because I was going to have an Early Childhood Endorsement with my teaching credential, I had a split placement for that semester. I was going to spend the first 9 weeks in a second grade class and the next half of the semester with a Kindergarten group. When I showed up, bright and early at the second grade class on that first day of school the door to the classroom was locked. I had never met Mrs. G (I shall use her initial henceforth), but I knew that her husband was the principal of the elementary school. The door was locked. The other teachers in the hall were all there early, setting up their rooms, taking down the Christmas decorations (in those days it was still politically correct to have Christmas decorations publicly displayed in the halls and in classrooms) and anxiously preparing to see their precious students. Two weeks is a long time in the life of a little one and these teachers knew it. They were probably as excited to be back at school as their kids. I was excited too. Breathless. This would be my first real class. I knew I would fall in love with them, that I would learn so much from this experience.

All of the other teachers were there and the door to my new classroom was still locked. Children were entering the building. I was beginning to doubt whether or not I was in the right place when Mrs. G. came barreling down the hall. She was an enormous woman. I wouldn’t even mention this except that it was part of her presence. She practically yelled whenever she spoke. Most of what she said was an order. The first words I ever heard her speak were something like, “Get out of my way! DON’T YOU SEE ME COMING?” She hustled down the hall (as fast as she could hustle) and dropped her bookbag at my feet as she reached for the classroom key on the springy elastic band around her wrist.

“Hi,” I said weakly. “I’m…”

“I know who you are! Pick up my bag and place it next to my desk. On the right side looking forward.” We walked in and I beheld the room where I was to spend the next nine weeks, the official beginning of my teaching career. “WELCOME TO 2ND GRADE” was stenciled on faded construction paper above the chalkboard. Above that was the manuscript alphabet, white letters on a green background. They’d been up there for years. They looked exactly like the alphabet up on the wall in my second grade classroom in 1964. “That’s where you’ll sit,” she said with a swivel of her large head. In the corner of the room, facing the wall was a student desk with a student-sized chair. “Wash the board before the students get here. So, they let you have hair that long at IU, do they?”

“Ummm, yes.”

“Not very professional in my estimation. You’ll find that when you have your first interview, I expect. Now hurry with the board and dry it with that rag. Write in your neatest manuscript, ‘WELCOME BACK CHILDREN’ all capitals. Children really love capital letters. They didn’t teach you that in your methods classes did they?”

“No, ma’am.”

“There, you see, I taught you something already. Hurry up, the children are coming.” Mrs G. smelled. Her body odor trailed behind her like an unwanted ghost. Sweat. Perfume. She hadn’t had a bath in a while. My first impression was a scary one.

The kids came piling into the classroom in that way that kids do. They were eager to see each other and to catch up on the last two weeks. It was obvious that they were not looking forward to seeing their teacher. She barely addressed them but as soon as they came across the threshold their voices dropped and they put their things away and went to their assigned seats. Mrs. G hardly looked up as she was pulling out worksheets to copy for the morning work. “Here, get these run off.” I didn’t know the procedure for running papers in this building but it was clear that I was on my own. It was also clear that I’d better hurry. “BOYS AND GIRLS! QUIET. GET TO YOUR SEATS!” It seemed to me that she was hollering and I couldn’t tell why. “Get out your math books and do the problems on page 68. Let’s just see how much you’ve FORGOTTEN over these last two weeks!”

In that building the secretary had to run all papers. They used an old ditto machine, the kind with fumes and purple ink. The secretary asked me who my cooperating teacher was and when I said Mrs. G. She paused and sighed. I couldn’t exactly read that, but it didn’t strike me as a positive sign.

I could hear her hollering as I came back down the hall toward room 202. I don’t remember exactly what it was but I do recall that, “WHAT IN THE WORLD IS WRONG WITH YOU!?” was one of her favorite sayings. When I came in the room was silent. Stone quiet. Mrs. G. was puffing. Sweating a little too. And stinking a little. “WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT!?” Well I hadn’t been looking at anything I mumbled. “Make yourself a key and check these papers for me,” she ordered. I was happy to oblige.

The rest of the morning was seatwork with the language dittos I ran off for her. She let me have the honor of taking the kids out to recess. It was a little chilly and I had checked all the papers she left for me. There was a blacktop pad on the playground with a basketball goal. With Mrs. G. not around, I felt more at ease with the kids. We played and laughed and had a good time. No one misbehaved in any way that I could tell. They were just kids. I was miserable thinking that Mrs. G. was going to be my mentor for half a semester. All I had seen her “teach” was the dittos and they were pretty insane. Circle the letter for the initial sound of the picture… Fill in the blank with a word from the word bank… And handwriting, handwriting, handwriting. The way she “taught” handwriting was tracing over letters and copying letters. On dittos. The morning seemed like it had lasted for hours. No one could talk or whisper.

Now that we were outside and playing and laughing hard, I wondered if I could take being Mrs. G’s underling for nine weeks. I was trying to be optimistic but the morning was the exact opposite of what I was taught about good classrooms. I had already participated in a number of practicum courses and all of my methods courses and underneath all of these was a basic respect for human dignity, an appreciation for children. There wasn’t a whiff of those feelings in Mrs. G’s second grade classroom.

The afternoon was nearly the same as the morning, only the handouts were fairly random math seatwork (called arithmetic by Mrs. G). These sets of papers were handed to me as the children went to gym. I sat at my assigned seat in the corner fuming about the day and thinking that all she wanted me there for was to run off and check her stupid papers. What was I going to learn about how to be an effective teacher from this?

We had hardly spoken to each other all day. The silence in the room was uncomfortable as she snacked on potato chips and I graded the papers. “I saw the way you were interacting with the children at recess. I can see the recess field from the window.”

“Yes?” I responded. Her tone was accusatory. I hadn’t a clue as to why.

“Awfully familiar, don’t you think?”

“Ma’am?”

“Familiarity breeds contempt, you know.” It was an accusation.

“Ma’am?”

“You’re NOT to play with the children at recess. It’s unseemly and the children will not treat you with the respect you deserve if you play with them. It’s unprofessional.”

I was perplexed. I could see that she could never - would never, even if she could – play with children. But she was forbidding me to play at recess. I was only 20 years old. Not much more than a kid myself. She was telling me that I couldn’t become friends with the students. I didn’t know how to respond. I tried to be bold. “Don’t you think that a little time playing together might help me to get to know the kids? I mean we just met and I thought…”

“You thought? Are you questioning me? What in the world are they teaching you at IU? It’s all about respect, Mr. O’Keefe. RESPECT!” She turned away from me toward her desk and left me to sulk about not being allowed to play with the kids. We’ll see about this, I thought.





“Libby,” I pleaded with my university coordinator after school on the phone. “She is totally mean. She is always yelling and the kids don’t even know what she’s mad about half of the time.”

“You were just there a day. You don’t know the history of the class.”

“Libby, you would have felt it too. It is poison in there. Poison. I’ve got to get out. Can’t you find me another placement? It’s so early in the semester. I’ll make up the day, I swear.” Libby was an old hippie. She was a grad student making her own ends meet with supervising student teachers. She was kind and real and sympathized. She knew what I meant but wasn’t willing to let me give up.

“Stick it out for a week or two, O’Keefe. You were there what, one day? You didn’t give the woman a chance.”

“You should have heard her Lib. She was mean from the second she saw the kids to the second they left.”

“Listen, I have had some kids with tough placements before. You can still learn a lot. It isn’t pretty, but in a very real way you can learn how NOT to be a teacher. Based on the things you’ve told me already, you’re learning tons.”

“No way. Nine weeks? You expect me to learn how NOT to teach for nine weeks? And she stinks to high Heaven,” I said, grasping at straws.

“I trust you, OK? I have heard that she is a decent teacher but you’re probably right. Please just give it a week. Just five school days. If it doesn’t work… we’ll find something. Five days is all I ask.”

“Just to the end of the week. That’s four more days.”

“OK, but keep the faith.”

That conversation did not put my mind at ease. I should be in another classroom with someone kind. I wouldn’t have cared if they were the same as me philosophically, I couldn’t stand being around someone who never lightened up, who never stopped hollering and who stunk. I felt so sorry for those students. I felt that way after a single day, I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to live with this woman for seven hours a day for one hundred seventy days. That would seem like an eternity.

The next day was basically the same. I was early. Mrs. G was late. I ran off papers and then checked them. She hollered and scolded. She smelled worse than the day before. I asked about teaching science at our break since it didn’t look as though she was headed in any particular direction that way. It didn’t seem as though she had any science of social studies in mind at all. “SCIENCE?” she yelled. “Of course I teach science! Would you like to see how an experienced teacher teaches SCIENCE? Watch carefully Mr. O’Keefe.”

When the children returned from their morning recess, she kept them busy at their seats with plenty of meaningless seatwork. She removed an egg from her huge lunch sack. Then she took a dirty old glass milk bottle from a cabinet. “Watch what you can do with SCIENCE, boys and girls!” she yelled, smirking in my direction. She removed the shell from the hard boiled egg and sat it nakedly on her desk. Then she ripped a piece of paper from a notebook and took some matches from her desk drawer. After lighting the paper she clumsily dropped it into the bottle. She grinned. The children ooohed as they had probably never seen fire in the classroom before. Then she put the egg over the mouth of the grimy bottle which covered the opening completely. The fire in the bottle went out as the air inside was used up. Smoke curled up and because of the low pressure in the bottle the egg sank into the opening. Unfortunately, it was not enough to suck the egg into the bottle. The effect was rather subtle and I’m not sure that the children could notice any change. Mrs. G squirmed a bit.

“YOU SEE?!” she asked. “THE EGG IS GETTING SUCKED INTO THE BOTTLE!” The egg just sort of sat there. “SEE?!” she said again, as if saying it louder would make it actually happen. Then, not so subtly, she reached up from behind the egg with her thumb and popped it in. It landed in the ashes at the bottom. The children were not all that impressed because they had seen her push the egg in. “DID YOU SEE?” The children dutifully nodded that they had, in fact, seen the egg enter the bottle.

“Well, alright then, it’s time for lunch. Get your things.” The children gathered their lunch and recess things and lined up. “Take them to lunch and recess, Mr. O’Keefe. And remember what I said. I can see the recess field from the window.” As I left the room I could see Mrs. G with the overturned bottle and a knife cutting the ashy egg to pieces, which she would no doubt eat as part of her immense lunch.

Okay, disgusting. And not good science by any stretch. Also, I wasn’t allowed to play with the kids at recess. But it was not an altogether horrible morning. I guessed that I could get used to it if I had to. But for nine weeks?

When we got back in from recess it was time for more handwriting. The kids had a few trace-and-copy worksheets to do. When they were finished they were expected to pretty much just sit there quietly. Mrs. G sat at her desk flipping through magazines (she told me that she was working on lesson plans – I never saw any lesson plans). At one point she got up and walked around to check on the kids’ progress. One little girl was sort of doodling on the back of her paper. Mrs. G had walked up behind her as quietly as was possible for her. The girl kept on making her looping drawings on the back of her finished handwriting sheet.

“WHAT IN THE WORLD ARE YOU DOING, MISSY?!” she shrieked. The little girl jumped as if slapped. “WELL, WHAT?”

“Just trying some cursive, Ma’am,” was her soft reply. I wouldn’t have believed that Mrs. G could move so fast. She did not hit the girl. But she snatched up the paper from the little one’s desk and violently ripped it to shreds all the time yelling, “HOW DARE YOU WRITE CURSIVE?! WHAT MAKES YOU THINK THAT YOU CAN TEACH YOURSELF?” She tore all of the papers on the girl’s desk into pieces. “WHAT YOU LEARN INCORRECTLY COULD TAKE YEARS TO FIX! YEARS! DON’T YOU EVER WRITE IN CURSIVE AGAIN UNLESS I TELL YOU TO. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”

The kid was scared speechless. “WELL, DO YOU?” A nod. “FINE, and let that be a lesson to all of you.”

She returned to her desk with a satisfied sigh. She was panting. It was the most effort I’d seen her put into anything in the two days I’d spent with her.

That was it for me. After the children were dismissed at the end of the day I gathered all of my things. Mrs. G didn’t have a word to say to me. I didn’t have anything to say to her. Not even a good bye.






“Libby, it’s Tim.”

“Uh oh…”

“You don’t have to worry. I’ll get a job waiting tables this spring. There’ll be plenty of placements in the fall. I’ll just finish my coursework in the summer and stick around. I love Bloomington. I’ll just begin my masters a semester later than I thought…”

“Okay, okay, how bad was it?”

“Truly, Lib, it’s not a problem. If we can’t come up with an alternative placement, I’ll just stick around…”

“What’d she do, O’Keefe?”

“For one thing she screamed in this precious little girl’s face. You wanna know what for? For pretending to write in cursive! She was done with her freaking seatwork and she was bored and G came down on her like a ton of bricks. The kid was just supposed to sit there and do nothing. Like it’s solitary confinement at your desk or something. She committed the crime of pretending to write in cursive…” I was ranting and I knew it. But it wasn’t right, what G had done to that girl. It just wasn’t right. “She tore up that child’s paper, Lib. Shredded it and threw it in her face like she was worthless. She made her cry, Lib. For no reason.” I was running out of breath. “No reason at all. I can’t do it, Libby. But don’t worry, like I said, I can wait tables…”

“All right. All right. You win. If I made you go through nine weeks of that it would be idiotic. We’ll find you something.”



And we did. By the grace of God, Heidi heard a fourth grade teacher sort of complaining at her faculty meeting at the University School about never getting a student teacher. I contacted Libby, she contacted the principal, who contacted Sandy Richards. Sandy welcomed me into her classroom with wide open arms. There couldn’t be two more different teachers on the face of the earth than Mrs. G and Sandy Richards. G's mean spirited attitude was raplaced with Sandy's kindness. The student-vs.-the-teacher mentality of G's classroom was replaced by collaboration and great conversations in Sandy's room. Sandy's students loved coming to school. They laughed a lot. They were optimistic. They dreamed. When I got to Sandy's fourth grade classroom they were in the middle of studying whales. Those students were passionate about whales. They thought they could change the world for whales. I don't even think G's kids knew what science really means. My placement there at University School with Sandy, and later with Vickie Drummonds in kindergarten, was the most incredible good fortune in my life up to that point.

I ask myself now and then how things would have turned out if I had stuck it out with Mrs. G. Would I have become as miserable as her? Would students be my enemy? Would I still be teaching? Or, could I have learned how not to teach and come out on the other side of that mess a strong teacher who loves children?

Because she saved me from my predicament, Heidi and I did our student teaching at the same school for the winter and spring of 1979. We were married a year and a half later. Would we still be together if I had not switched placements? What if Libby was hard-nosed about it and made me stay with G? What if I had quit and waited tables? Would I have even gone back in the fall? I know that I’ll never know the answer to those questions, but I think back on how close my life was to becoming something so very different than it is now and it is another reason for me to count my blessings.

The Teacher's Dream

A few times this week, as a teacher, I was living the dream.  The dream being having all of the kids with me, everyone on the same page, interested, engaged, excited.  I’d like to say that it happens all the time.  I guess I’m confessing here that it doesn’t. 

Most of the time in the classroom, at least for me, there are kids who are thinking of something else, talking quietly to another child, fooling with someone's hair or just going through the motions and not being fully present.  You teachers, you know what I’m saying here.  There are lots of times when I am teaching my heart out and it’s just not clicking for everyone. 

I’m not one of those teachers who says, “If not for the kids this job would be awesome!”  Not at all.  It’s just par for the course.  22 little minds there with me, 22 different people living different lives.  Of course I can’t expect everyone to be on board all of the time.  That’s just the way it goes. 

Occasionally, every single mind is directed in a positive way toward the teaching and learning.  Last year, for example, we had a bunch of black swallowtail butterfly caterpillars happily munching away on some parsley in a large net container in our classroom.  You could see them from the outside of the enclosure just fine.  And lots of children spent time in the science area making observations and sketches of these little animals eating, pooping, molting – getting bigger.  But I got this new device for the computer, a document camera that allows you to project books and pictures on a large screen in the front of the room.  Experimentally, I got a 20 foot cord for it, and went fishing around in the butterfly container.  WOW!  We were looking at these tiny creatures, only a few millimeters long, just barely out of their eggs, eating parsley and inching their ways along stalks.  It was pretty thrilling.  It was one of those times when ALL of us were together.

Of course we got to watch the entire metamorphosis.  We even watched as the wet, crumpled butterflies slid out of their chrysalises and hung upside down pumping fluid into their wings, waiting for the moment they could fly.  The class watched at the open window as these beautiful animals took flight and headed out to mate and lay eggs of their own.  It was magic, right?  I mean we cheered as the first one flew past the window into the wild world on its own.  We bore witness to its life in fast motion.  It was like a miracle. But that’s different.  And it had nothing to do with me really.  We were witnessing the beauty of nature, being inspired by an event that many people never see in their lives.  How could 22 minds NOT be connected to that,  right?

There are small moments when it seems like everyone is with me.  For example, I was tuning my guitar by ear.  I needed silence to do this.  Pretty much complete silence.  Not exactly easy in a classroom of little kids.  At least not in my classroom.  I made the quiet sign, said I needed everyone to be silent so I could tune up so we could sing.   The guitar was pretty well out of tune, so I had about 30 seconds or a minute of complete silence.  I probably closed my eyes at some point to dial the strings in.  “How do you do that?” someone asked when I finished.  They had seen me do this all the time, but this little girl finally asked about the process.

I untuned the guitar and demonstrated.  I told them that the room needed to be really quiet so that they could hear what was happening.  I was tuning one string to another using the 5^th and 7^th fret harmonics.  I pinged one string, then pinged its neighbor.  As I tightened the string I was tuning, you could hear the notes coming together.  When they are almost in tune there is this wavery sound that slows until the two notes become one.  “Do that again!” the same little one said. 

OK, that was 5 minutes.  And again, there was sort of a gimmick, a shtick.  It wasn’t something like… What are the 6 regions and 4 river systems of South Carolina?  Both of these examples were pieces of real life. 

But this week, as we were reading the book Shiloh, by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor, all of the children in the class were inside that story.  This is our read-aloud chapter book, a book that some of our kids couldn’t read successfully on their own.  For several it is a “someday book”.  But as I read, their eyes were glued to the text, because every child had a copy in their hands.  It is a story filled with moral dilemmas.  The characters are complex.  The decisions made by Marty, the young protagonist, to save his dog are difficult.  And anything he chooses to do is both right and wrong.  Should he lie to his parents and save this little dog?  Should he tell the truth and risk the wrath of a violent and cruel neighbor?  There is no “right answer”.  At every little break in the story the kids sort of demanded to share out what they were thinking.  Hands shot up at the end of every page.  They turned and talked to their friends sitting or lying on the floor around them with such conviction and energy. 

And I was just riding the rocket.

It took a while to get here, but these children are so hooked on story, so connected to well-crafted writing.  This is one of those chapters in a teacher’s life that is completely gratifying.  Sure, there are those who need extra help with reading strategies.  Yes, children need to deepen their vocabularies, read for a variety of purposes, be able to pick out main ideas (and anticipate questions they will be asked by test writers on the high stakes tests in the spring).  But now, a big part of my reading “instruction” is making sure they have the right books in their hands and giving them opportunities to share what they think about what they read.  Now, a lot of how I can “teach reading” is making sure they have the time to read – and just getting out of their way. 

Sure, we found a book that captivates everyone.  But there are lots of books that can do that.  Charlotte’s Web, Stone Fox, Sarah, Plain and Tall, The Prince of the Pond, Holes, The Music of Dolphins, they can all do it.  It is the book – but it’s more than that.  Together we have created an atmosphere of respect for the writer and the well-chosen words that draw us in.  When I asked my kids a few weeks ago to describe what reading is, many of them said it is being inside the story with their characters.  They are so far beyond describing the process as sounding out words.  These children know what reading is.  They’ve got the bug.

And I’ve got them right where I want them.

Advice for Young Teachers From the Experts

This fall my third grade class had a wonderful experience with my wife's graduate students.  It was truly was Heidi calls Curricular Heaven.  We have had our respective classes connecting over the years.  Back when Heidi was teaching young undergrads in Elementary Education, my former students were pen-pals with hers, developing strong relations through writing.  I just reposted a story about that.

For the past several years, Heidi has taught her language arts methods classes right on our school campus.  We pair our students up for a semester long project we call Tall and Small Teachers.  We read together, write together, hang out and get to know each other.  All of these literacy engagements are perfect for a lot of reasons.  My students get to know an adult who listens and coaches and cares.  Heidi's graduate students, who will be doing their full-time student teaching next semester, get to really know how a third grader thinks and reads and writes.

Our final visit was last Tuesday.  The Tall Teachers created unique books for my students.  They are treasures.  The small teachers wrote letters for  their adults.  My suggestions were to share some memories, thank them for the good times and to give them advice.  After all, who better to give advice to a future teacher of young kids than a child?  I told my students as they got ready to write - Heidi and their university instructors can tell them what is important.  I can give them some ideas about how to teach well, "But you are the real experts.  You are the ones they will teach when they have a chance.  You know, more than the adults who are their teachers, what kids need in an effective teacher."

So they wrote.  The sound of their pencils pushing across their papers was just about all one could hear in our classroom for half an hour or forty minutes.  Most of the children took this responsibility very seriously.   Some of what they shared was very personal.  They remembered special books, jokes, when we had a picnic outside for lunch.  They remembered when the Tall Teachers helped them edit their animal articles and when they gave them written feedback on the memoirs they wrote in class.  And the advice the children wrote to their Tall Teachers was priceless.

I have published similar posts in the past where I posit that kids are wiser than grownups often give them credit for.  Hey, I work with these guys.  They are my best friends.  I have been doing it for 33 years now.  And my mom did it before me.  Even if you are not a teacher, you will probably think that this is some sage advice...

Don't act like you know everything and be honest.  Bond with your kids and have a good relationship...  Don't blow your top and yell at your kids.  Don't get aggravated with your kids...  Balance out teaching and fun.  Spend lots of fun time with your students.  Play with them at recess...  1st step - Be yourself.  2nd step - Don't tell a lie...  If a student doesn't understand something, take your time to teach them.  Try to be funny with your students.  When one of your students is sad, try to make them happy...  Write songs.  Do fun science things with your students...  Try not to be selfish or confusing...  Be fearless...   When you teach you should laugh when something's funny.  Or you should giggle.  Teachers should care about their kids and they should like their students.  Make interesting voices when you read stories...  Sing with your kids if you have the time...  Don't crack weak jokes - crack funny jokes...  Reads lots of books to your kids.  Answer the kids' questions.  Have animals in your classroom.  Play chess with your kids.  Eat lunch with your kids.  Love on your kids...    For your classroom you should have good books for the kids to read.  You should be prepared for anything otherwise you could have some hard times...  Be exuberant!  Know if somebody needs help...  Go deeply into any topic...  Be understanding about kids' feelings.  Remember that kids repeat the things that you do.  Treat your children the way you want to be treated...

I think we all need this advice from time to time.  Not just if you work with kids, for kids are people.  I mean we ALL need to be reminded to be kind every once in a while.  We all should remember the golden rule and how important play time is.  We should all laugh out loud and be ourselves.

And we should all be fearless.

We have magnificent brains, but we use a great deal of our brilliance to keep ourselves stuck and ignorant, to keep ourselves from not shining. We are so afraid of our beauty and radiance and brilliance because it scared the adults around us when we were children.
Patricia Sun 

Notes From Kids

At the end of a lot of days in my 3rd grade classroom I am a little disappointed in myself.  I have a tendency to rush things.  I know I shouldn't, but often, we work just a little too long.  I read a story for one extra page, let the kids work on a project just one more minute than I should before pulling the plug and getting the room cleaned up, chairs up for the custodian, pencils off the floor, books put away.

So, after traffic circle, I am the one who puts the chairs up and picks up pencils and paper scraps.  Occasionally though, there is gold there.  I the last week, I found these four little notes on the floor.  I am sure there is a large back story for all of these, but I think they stand well by themselves as well.  

The names were changed to protect the innocent...

Steven, you are a good friend to me.  You are too cool for words.  Want to play at recess?

Dear Brianne,
You are not annoying.  
I like you.
Not like like.
But as a friend.  
From Terry

Dear Beth,
I am so sorry that your friend died.
But remember she will be in your heart.
Love
Your BFF
Erin

Dear Corey,
I am sorry that I was leaving you out.
I was not trying to.  It's just that I was playing a fun game and I wanted to play that game again.
But I could have played with you instead of playing that game.  If you are feeling left out or not happy that I am not playing with you, tell me if you want and I will understand.  I will play with you if you want me to play with you today.
Your friend, Dara Lyn
P.S. Not trying to make you feel bad, but I did not like how you were mimicking me, not listening to me and saying that I did not hear anything.

Basic Skills - A Teacher's Story

Basic Skills - A Teacher's Story

In 1986 I moved to Columbia, SC from southern Indiana.  I admit there was a bit of a culture shock.  I had never really traveled south of Indiana before except a day trip to Kentucky and flying in to Florida for a spring break once while in college.  I flew down to Columbia, SC to interview, flew back home, then drove down with all our stuff to live here.  Since this is a teaching story, I feel compelled to say that it was NOT all goodness and light in Indiana.  I worked with a principal who had lost track of what was important.  My last year there I team-taught with a teacher who really seemed to hate teaching.  There were some rough spots in my first job in SC.  But, like all things related to teaching, it is the children who make teaching what it is.  Not the administrators, not the teachers down the hall...  the children.  I wrote this story a few years ago in my classroom for writer's workshop.  

Part of being a non-fiction writer is like being a photographer.  If it works, it is often because of being in the right place, at the right time, with the right equipment.  Being a teacher makes me blessed.  I am always at the right place to witness and share in the wonder and drama of living and learning  with a bunch of wonderful people.  

One of the amazing things about writing to me is that is helps one to recall.  When I started this story, I didn't know how much would come back.  It happened 25 years ago, after all.  During the process of writing this piece, Antwan and Bridget and Mr. Litton and others all came swimming back to me.  I can recall Antwan's shining eyes like I saw them just yesterday.  Bridget's radiant, crooked-toothed smile and her pony tail bouncing as she jumped as I turned the rope at recess - it's like these 25 years have vanished and I am there with them.  They would be 38 or 39 years old now.  I don't know if I would recognize them if I saw them walking down the street or in line at the grocery store.  But those 11 year old faces?  I would recognize them in a heartbeat.

For my first year teaching in South Carolina I was a Basic Skills Instructor. I worked with small groups of kids in two different schools. These were children who tested in the bottom quartile on the Basic Skills exam. These were typically kids who didn’t get their homework done, didn’t finish class work, often spent their recess time “on the hill” trying to complete workbook pages and handouts. These were the kids who never caught up. Often they were discipline problems. They were the ones sent to the office for behavior referrals. A lot of them were paddled.  School for these children was a constant mountain of unfinished papers, tests they couldn’t do well with, teachers they didn’t get along with, work that was too hard. They were the unmotivated, the outcasts, the disruptive, the students other teachers didn’t want to teach. It was my job to pull these kids out of the classroom and put them together in small groups for short periods each day. These were the Basic Skills kids and these were my students for the year.

I worked with groups of four to six kids for a half an hour at a time. Of course I had to get them to and from their classes so we only had about 25 minutes to work together each day.

At first the children came with workbook pages they hadn’t finished in class. The teachers wanted me to be sure the work was finished. They wanted me to be their enforcer.

I tried this for a week or so, nagging the kids to do the kind of work I disagreed with. The kids were pretty harsh with me in return. They saw me as an extension of their own classrooms where many were already failing. They saw me as another authority figure trying to make them do work which they saw as worthless, work they hated. They saw me as the enemy.

I resented the role as well. I was used to writing curriculum and lessons with kids. I wanted our time together to be interesting and worthwhile. I wanted the Basic Skills time to be important. I couldn’t take being the “workbook dragon” day after day, insisting that kids fill in blanks on workbook pages or drawing lines from questions to correct answers. The system wasn’t working for them. It seemed like a waste of time for the students and for me.

I went to John Litton, my new principal to see what could be done. When I entered his smoke filled office (this was in 1986 – before smoking was banned from public buildings). I told him about my problem. I didn’t think I was serving the students very well by making them do worksheets and workbook pages. I said that my time would be used more appropriately if the students were doing real reading and writing and math projects. He listened carefully to my lengthy complaint and philosophy of education. When I was finished with my monologue he smiled broadly, his white beard yellowed from years of cigarette smoking. He smushed out his cigarette in a butt-filled ashtray and said, “Sure. No problem. Whatever. Only YOU get to tell the teachers about your new role.”

I took the coward’s way out. When the kids came to me with workbooks I sent them back with the same unfinished work. I never told the teachers directly but soon they got the message that the Basic Skills kids were going to learn different kinds of basic skills. They didn’t know what yet, but the 3rd, 4th and 5th grade teachers at R. Earle Davis Elementary became accustomed to not sending worksheets. They would have to trust me for my little half hour, three times a week.

It took a while for the other teachers to get used to what we were doing. For one thing it wasn’t what you would called joyful school. It was dark in almost every sense of the word. The walls were dark. The carpets were filthy. It always smelled of cigarettes smoked by the office staff and the cigars smoked by the head custodian, Mr. Steverson. The windows were dirty, grudgingly allowing in dim and dusty daylight.

Many teachers hollered constantly… “How many times do I have to tell you?… I said SIT DOWN!... What on earth is WRONG WITH YOU?” I do not fault them. It was just their way. It was how they grew up as teachers, as though the only way to get through to kids was to bring the volume up, to speak sarcastically and to threaten the students into doing their work. It may never have occurred to them that perhaps the kids weren’t working very hard because they saw no real reason for it.

For most of the children, writing was a series of exercises: drawing lines from questions to answers, filling in a blank with a word from a word bank or answering comprehension questions about a story they could barely read.

When they passed by our door the teachers would hear us laughing (sometimes hysterically), writing and acting out plays, reading and writing responses to pen pal letters, listening to chapter books, videotaping plays we had written, etc.

Ours was a motley crew. While these children were considered to be “low end” academically, they were actually quite bright. Most had never gotten along well in a pencil and paper system. Some were still struggling to read and do basic math but many demonstrated great ability in other areas. One student, Antwan, was a child with an amazing sense of humor and a sunny disposition.

He and his best friend Bridget usually came in giggling over some private joke. Eventually they warmed up to me. They got my jokes, shared my love of story and, although neither was a tremendous reader, they loved it when I read aloud. They were expressive and energetic kids. They invented unusual names for me including “O’Theif”, “O’Boy”, “O’Man” and “O’Teeth”.

Antwan was hard for me to get to know at first. He wouldn’t look me in the eye when he spoke to me. He was a nice kid but I felt like I didn’t know him well. Once on the playground I was turning the jump rope for Bridget and others. “What’s up with Antwan?” I asked her.

‘What you mean?” she answered.

“Why do you think he doesn’t like me?”

“It’s not that, O’Teeth.  He just doesn’t trust you is all.”

“Why?”

“You don’t know much about Antwan, do you?”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“You don’t know what happened to his family?

“Why don’t you fill me in?” I said.

She motioned for me to follow her away from the others. “He stays with his grandparents, right?” I answered that I had heard that. It wasn’t uncommon for many of my students to live with family members other than their parents. “Do you know why he stays with them?” Her beautiful black eyes never left mine.

“No, why?”

“His daddy’s in jail. His mamma’s dead.  His daddy killed her.” I paused, not really knowing what to say. “It don’t mean nothin’ now. You just need to know is all.”  We went on with our routine and eventually Antwan began to open up to me as a friend and not just his teacher.

Pen pal letters were the favorite project of all of the groups. My wife is an instructor at USC. At the time she was teaching undergraduates, mostly young women, how to teach reading and writing to elementary children. It was the perfect match. Heidi’s undergraduates exchanged letters with my Basic Skills kids once each week. The kids learned the real purpose of writing. And they were getting to know some neat people through their letters. The USC students were coming to understand writing development for third through fifth grade students. They were also forming bonds with young people most of whom had never written a letter to anyone in their lives. It was what Heidi called “Curricular Heaven”.

Because our time was so short, I had the letters on the tables as the kids came in. The computers were on for kids who wanted to compose their letters at the keyboard. This was our busiest and most fulfilling time together. The kids were unbelievably focused. They tore into their envelopes, helped each other to read, shared funny parts, laughed and wrote. These were the days when my job was easy and gratifying. All I had to do was to put out the letters and writing supplies and get out of the way.

By January we were in a comfortable routine. Wednesday was pen pal day and the Basic Skills kids were in their second set of USC friends for the year. We had only exchanged a couple of letters with the new group when Bridget’s group came in one cold day without Antwan. Bridget took me aside to let me know what was going on. There was no smile in those bright eyes. I had never seen them so solemn, so sad.

“What’s going on?” I asked. “Where’s Antwan?”

“He’s at home. So’s his sister. Their grandpa died yesterday.”

“They were close, weren’t they?”

“He loved his grandpa so hard, Mr. O. His grandparents took care of him, you know?”

“I remember,” I said softly.

“When his mama died, his grandparents took Antwan and his sister to live with them,” she reminded me. “They was the ones raisin’ them. They was really old. Now he’s only got his grandma left.”

“I’m so sorry, Bridget.” I knew Antwan and Bridget were best friends – not boyfriend and girlfriend – just best friends. They had been since they were little kids.  In some ways they were closer than boyfriend/girlfriend.  They were life friends.  I knew that she was hurting too. “What can we do?”

“How 'bout we just save the pen pal letters for him when he gets back?”

That’s just what we did. The day of the funeral the Basic Skills kids listened to me read a short story and we discussed it. Bridget was with her best friend in his time of sorrow and need.  The group was subdued. There was no kidding around, little teasing and laughter. It wasn’t the same without Antwan and Bridget. We had friends who were hurting and we were feeling some of their pain.

The next day Antwan and Bridget came in with the rest of the group. I remember it like it was yesterday. In some ways it was a day that changed me as a teacher.

Antwan had on his parka with the hood zipped up all the way. I couldn’t see his face. It was a cold day outside but rather warm in the room. I wanted to comfort Antwan, to tell him that I was sorry for his loss. He wouldn’t look at me as he plopped himself into the usual chair. His arms were crossed. His head was down.

Bridget looked at me expectantly. I told everyone that we saved the pen pal letters for today so Antwan and Bridget could be here. We all were a little jumpy and tense but gradually busy noise filled the room. The usual kids chose to work at computers while the others plucked pens or pencils from the can in the center of the table. Antwan and Bridget sat side by side at the computer work stations. Bridget kept looking over at Antwan. He hadn’t budged. Just over a week ago Antwan tore into his letter with delight. He had received a photo of his pen pal, Monique, and she was a beauty. He had delighted in the ribbing he received from the others. Now his letter lay unopened on the table next to him.

I approached cautiously. The Antwan I knew as a happy little cut up, who laughed easily and who teased me mercilessly was not there. The joking, smiling, laughing Antwan I knew was somewhere deep inside that parka. As I scooted my chair up to him tears fell from his hood. I slowly put my arm around his shoulders, something I had never done before. “I’m so sorry about your grandpa, Antwan.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say. His life had just changed in the saddest way imaginable. I couldn’t begin to understand his pain.

“Yeah,” he muttered, still not letting me see his face. “He was a good guy.” More tears fell.

There was an awkward silence as I thought of what to say, what to do for my sad little friend. “Do you want to write to Monique about it?  I think she’d like to know what’s going on with you and your family.”

He didn’t answer but instead picked up Monique’s letter, tore it open and began to read. I moved on to the other kids. I didn’t want to make Antwan any more self-conscious by hovering over him.

I looked over from time to time. He was slowly composing his note, one letter at a time with his right index finger, his left hand in his lap except to capitalize. While I couldn’t see his face (his parka hood was still up) tears leaked out and dripped into the keys of the computer.

The children worked steadily for about 15 minutes. Antwan had barely shown his face all morning. He was hidden deep within his coat, deep within himself. When the period was over the kids handed me their letters on their way back to their classroom. Antwan printed his letter out on the old dot matrix printer and handed it to me without a word. Before he walked back to his classroom I reached out and touched him on the shoulder. “I’m sorry about your grandpa, Antwan.” He pulled his hood off and our eyes met. His were red and puffy; his cheeks wet with tears. “My grandmamma said that it was just his time, that he lived a good long life. He's with God now."  He paused, and then, "He was a real good man, O’Keefe. Real good. Nothin's gonna be the same without him.”

That moment is etched in my mind. The others were out the door. Antwan and I stood there, both of us so sad. He because he would never look into the loving eyes of his grandpa; his protector, his guardian, his provider and friend. I was sad because Antwan was being forced to grow up too fast. He already had a life filled with too much violence, too much sadness. Now, at 11 years old, he would be the man of his little family.

I asked him if I could copy his letter for his file. He said OK and turned away without another word.

I had the next period free for planning. Antwan’s letter was left on the computer monitor. As I read his simple and sincere note; my tears joined his as they fell into the keyboard.

Dear Monique,
It was nice to get your letter. Did you have a nice time in Atlanta? I hope you feel better. I will dream about you. In my family my grandpa died. He took care of me. He was my best friend. Now I will not have no one to hug. No one to kiss. No one to TELL THINGS TO. No one to love and give things to. I will still go to see him but I will not dig him up because I am not that kind of guy.

Love,  

Your friend,

Antwan

He had never met Monique before. They had only exchanged letters a few times. They had barely established their friendship before this tragedy hit Antwan’s family. Antwan bravely poured out his emotions to Monique although they were really only acquaintances. He used writing to explain feelings that spoken words could not. I had never truly realized the power and potential of writing. I knew that the pen pal correspondence was an important part of our time together. I knew it was a real reason to write. At the same time, it was not much more than a great project or activity. I knew that it was important to write to communicate to someone but I didn’t understand the true significance; the true potential.

Antwan told Monique something he had never told me. That single, most powerful word was love. Writing allowed him to cross the barrier, to express himself in important clear ways, to be open and honest. It freed him from the boundaries of face to face communication. Through writing, Antwan was able to explain his complicated emotions; to let out some of the saddest feelings he had ever had. He connected to Monique in his letter. I am still awed by his frankness, inspired by his honesty.

Later that semester, after exchanging at least 15 letters the USC pen pals came to Davis Elementary to meet the Basic Skills kids. Like most of the others, Antwan was shy when he met Monique. His words were few and quiet. But his letters were always friendly, newsy and personal.  He and Bridget and most of the other Basic Skills kids were dressed in their Sunday clothes.  Antwan had on an ill fitting suit and Bridget wore uncomfortable shoes and a pretty, if worn pink dress.  Bridget's hair, always in a loose pony tail, was braided into tight cornrows.  She told me they hurt.  But those two shined bright that day.  All the kids did.  

I have long since lost track of Antwan but his face stays with me along with his humor and feisty spirit. His shining black eyes look back at me through all of these years. In my mind he will always be eleven. In my mind he will always be that fragile little boy - my friend just for a little while, a long time ago.  And one of my greatest teachers.