Drumroll puleeeeze. . . . . . . . . My son is the fourth fastest fourth grader in the city! I am so proud, and so bemused. I loved to run as a kid, and there have been a few others in the family who were good at it, but this kid is so athletic I would think they had switched him at birth, if it weren't for the obvious fact that he has partaken heavily of the gene pool in every other possible way. He's just a sport, I guess, (pun intended).
They glide into town in six-wheeled Subarus,
two extras churning the sky overhead.
Squint-eyed as sailors, wind-tanned and sinewed,
their grip-trained hands tremble
when not wrapped to the bars.
They leave dogs, wives, kids in a tangle
and sail ahead, lean as splinters,
shivering bare-legged. Dutifully they circle,
bend down, lean into a kiss, sip, or question,
before surging away.
They can't not race, cannot ride just for leisure,
slow for the family, watch a challenge slide by.
I imagine their helmets enclose nothing soft: only
ticking gears, slick chains, a clatter of parts,
the sharp whine of the road falling always away.
Their veins sing with endorphins, lick up adrenaline,
dark shades flicker at the fast-flashing world. The tracks
of their veins striate their bones, eyes spin
with spoked light, spindled legs fly:
all lines to the horizon, they lap
the transverse ribs of the earth, latitudinal shadows
sliding flat to the ground.
Other days they hang their caves
with skeletal frames longing to quicken. Tinker over
this bone, torque that clenched knuckle, spring then set
the mechanisms that will align them to speed
intent as chiseled arrowpoints, seeking away.
A pirate I be, with a sword and a 'scope,
And a 'stache that washes off well with soap.
Me tonsils be big as two golf balls this week,
And it's makin' me growl, and snore in me sleep.
Me crew catches hardly a wink and a yawn,
but a true pirate, says I, should play 'till the dawn.
I saved my stuffed animals, my books, my handmade blankets and quilts, my pictures, my sticker collection, my plastic horses, and my doll bed. I saved them with my future children in mind, their possible outlines hovering over my shoulder every time I cleaned out a closet. My mother has a latticed cedar chest with a few of her childhood things in it, and I loved to look through it, imagine her smaller hands holding this or making that. Every thing my mom, or grandmothers, or aunts, passed down to me had that heirloom glow, whether it was loved to rags, crackling new, or hardly noticed. Mr. Quiz has an eye for that--he likes my books, the older the better, and my jewelry (he's into sparklies, sort of like that raven in Mrs. Frisby, he's a collector). I offered my flattenedest stuffed animal, my dog Coatie, to both boys at midnight during nightmares, showing them which of his ears to rub, promising comfort--he protected me nicely for about 25 years. But they never became attached. So, aside from a few boy-flavored books and my already-spoken-for valuables, I have this stuff. Girl stuff. And no girl to give it to. I've saved it for her, yet she never appeared. I still hold out hope, but she'll have to arrive some other way than the boys did--and I realize she may never come, or she may come when I am old and all my things have been given away, or she may come and take no interest anyway. It doesn't matter, really. I just want someone to treasure my treasures. I guess I'm not unlike the hoarding raven myself. The story of the Velveteen Rabbit breaks my heart.
So here is the little girl, my little pixie of a neice, who is probably going to inherit that stuff. For her birthday, my mom and I freshened up the doll bed that my dad made for me on our poorest Christmas, when I was almost two. We included a new doll and accessories, of course. I hope she plays with it often, scratches and bashes it up a little more, tests out what size of little girl it can hold, maybe carves her name into the bottom of it one of these days. And I hope some day when she's cleaning out her overstuffed closet, tossing aside things outgrown, she'll run her finger over the curve of the headboard, and think treasure, and return it to its corner.
.
Creaturebug and Lifenut both have written posts on reading in the last week. I decided as I was leaving a too-long comment on Gretchen's that I might as well post my opinion here as well; after all, I teach language arts, I ought to have a strong opinion. I ought to be an expert, but I don't think I'm approaching that status yet. What I am is a practicioner, and that will have to count.
Like most L.A. teachers, I chose to teach that subject because I simply love to read and write. Nothing makes me feel as centered and alive, except some aspects of parenting. My reading is so habitual that I can't imagine trying to get through the day without a book open at my side--which is not unique, and I'm not bragging. It's a way of life for me and many other readers. I wanted to share that with my students, of course. I had "Dead Poet's Society" dreams, as I imagine most new teachers do. I had a few of those kinds of teachers, and their ghosts follow me throughout life with a watchful eye, approving, disapproving, best of all, encouraging. But I'm not Robin Williams (have I ever made a more obvious statement?) And the world of public education is nothing like an expensive prep school (okay, maybe that one was more obvious.) Jading of teachers happens amazingly rapidly, it's a kind of oxydation that occurs when exposed to an atmosphere of impossible expectations in which one is expected to remain hopeful. Not only are you dealing with the messiest plate of duties you can imagine, you are supposed to be relishing that plate and its contents, or you run the risk of spreading pessimism, damaging young lives . . . just please don't criticize teachers as a group. They try so very hard.
Back to reading. Creaturebug was talking about teaching reading to the very young. Mopsy was upset that her son's reading program is killing his love for it. Mopsy's readers offered alternatives and advice, including praise of the Accelerated Reader program. Here's what I said:
I hate to be a naysayer, but the AR program doesn't work very well either, in my opinion. It limits kids to books that have tests written for them, sticks them into a "category" of which books they can read, so they aren't allowed to read up or down (which saps the fun out of picking a book), and it's very easy to cheat. Besides, real readers do not take multiple choice tests on the books they read. It's another artifiial construct that excludes kids from the actual life of a reader. I do a weekly reading log with my students--fifteen minutes a night or two hours a week, they can split it how it works for them. They are always encouraged to read more--that's considered the minimum. They can read anything they like--the point is that they have to enjoy it. I do this because studies show that daily reading builds fluency. And any reading is better than no reading, which is what most of my students would do without a requirement. I've tried genre studies requirements (which is what my son has this year), I've tried extensive reading journals, I've tried numbers. No system seems to work much better than another. The high kids will read whether you require them to or not; the low kids won't no matter how it affects their grade. There are exceptions, however, and the requirements are worth it for that, because teaching is, or should be, about reaching the individual, no matter what the masses are up to.
See, education is quite different from when we were growing up, although it was already heading this direction. It's now mostly about bringing the lowest students up to par. And this is supported by research--we want these kids to be educated, have diplomas, etc., because it is better for society. It's also ethical--we want the disadvantaged to succeed. And the obstacles they have to overcome are real: research again, whatever the "buck up and try harder" people say. However, it is very unbalanced and has a definite cost to society as well, the amount of money we put into IEP's and 504's compared to the amount of money we put into the gifted programs is sometimes hard to believe, and then what about the middle kids, who often go through school anonymously? Oh, it's a majorly faulty system, and there are certainly no easy answers--I think about all of this daily as I watch the complex organisms that are my classes grow, change shape, self-destruct, regenerate, etc.
But here is the thing I've been trying this year: I read aloud to every class for at least ten minutes a day out of a book of their choice (they vote). Sometimes they have to write about it, sometimes they get to just listen. We don't have "schoolish" discussions about these books--they are picked for pleasure. They are often the only book a kid will really read all year--those who don't turn in reading logs, who own no books, etc. The kids absolutely love this. They mutiny if I try to skip it. They remember what is read aloud to them far better than what they are forced to read in a textbook. Research supports what I'm doing, but my own life is a bigger influence for me: my mom read aloud to me until I was about twelve, every night. She still read aloud to me later when I was home sick, or when we went on car trips. She loved the books as much as I did. She taught me to love them, not because I watched her reading them on her own (because she rarely had time while I was awake) but because we experienced them together. Research (again) also shows that books come alive when a child makes a connection with the book: I submit they become even more alive when they make a connection with the book and another actual person. "We read to know that we are not alone"--on my bulletin board, courtesy C.S. Lewis. Reading aloud has brought more harmony to my classrooms and deeper connections with my kids, and they will often pick up the sequels or other books in the same genre or by the same author on their own. They also sidle up to my desk to make comments about the book--they stay after class to offer opinions and predictions. Can I tell you how rewarding that is?
So sure, it would be nice if all kids naturally loved books--but there is some stiff competition for their attention out there. It would be even nicer if I had a class of only ten children and could guide them in their reading choices and have individualized daily discussions via chatting or letter about their current reading--that's what is considered best practice right now. But neither of those are realities for most students, so this is what I do: I offer myself and my own love of books up to them. Because they are greedy for that--a connection to an adult, a connection to a life beyond the limits of their own. That they can get that through books may be a novel idea (no pun intended, but it kind of works well, doesn't it?) It's not a perfect system, and I'm not exactly working miracles: I don't think that is a teacher's role, anyway. I'm just trying to crack open some doors, pick some locks, slide a note under: "Hey, try this. You might like it."
Critter has discovered mortality. His grandparents, his parents, his dogs, his cousins, and he will all grow old someday and die. Nearly every day he mentions this in relation to some relation, and mourns. "I will miss you, Mom. I will miss you when you grow old and die." I tell him not to worry about it now, that we have many years together, and that I intend to live as long as I can. He asked me today if, after all his loved ones grow old and die, they will be born again as little babies and grow up. Reincarnation theories at three. He asked me if he will see me again. He wants to know how we will look, and will he still be my boy. Will he shout, "Paper fools, Mom! I'm still following you!" through the curtains of eternity? I hear him try to find a way around the staunch fact of death, a way through, a way beyond. A solution to the sorrow he can already sense approaching, levering down towards him across reams of years. Inklings of religion are starting to pepper his conversation, now--the sense of things, the whys and hows, why the world helps, how the world harms. Why and how we can hope. I tell him what my parents told me, and I hope that my voice carries the conviction I long for myself in my solitary hours.
I have marred it. I don't know if Metaboman will truly forgive me. In his family, a man's garage is his castle--literally. They call his dad's the airplane hanger, and really, you probably could fit a small plane inside. You can fit about six cars, double-stacked, anyway, as well as hundreds of man-gadgets. Metaboman isn't a carpenter, or a roofer, or a constructor, but he does have a lot of spendy bikes, and fancy bike tools, and utility belts and toolboxes and things that make him look manly, as well as garden tools, the former (swiped) kitchen stereo, a weight set, a spacious mirror (austensibly for spotting), a workbench, etc. He cleans it out religiously every Sunday afternoon. I say religiously because he really does it with more regularity than he attends church, and certainly with more attention. Do you know any other men who mop their garage floors? The shelves full of sporting equipment and camping supplies are sacred--unlike my boxes of letters and old souvenirs in the attic, of which he has previously tried to dispose without permission. In sum, it's his room--where he can admire his muscles and bond with his dogs and fiddle with his bikes to his heart's content. I have a room, too, but I almost never go in there, because there is no furniture, but that's another story.
So, there we were, me and the three littlish boys, packing ourselves into the van for a trip to buy new Sunday clothes, since I had miraculously remembered these were in order on a Saturday instead of on Sunday morning at 10:20. Critter was refusing to buckle himself up. Mr. Quiz was already fiddling with the radio. Baby was fussing because I had confiscated his radar gun. I was going through the usual motions of comforting one, scolding another, etc., and for some strange reason my signals got crossed, and I pressed the garage door opener as I was backing out of the garage. It was a reflexive motion, as was backing out. Who knows why I combined them. You can imagine the results: car is fine, a little scratched up top. The portal to the Fortress is severely out of shape. Metaboman was not pleased, but I suppose he's used to my absent-mindedness by now. We mortals have such flaws.
My bubbly little student, S., whose upper lip is just the perfect shape for a button to pin it down, except lacks one, brainstormed a letter writing campaign to Extreme Makeover (School Edition). There isn't a school edition as far as I know, but she hoped that the desperate letters from her fellow students would highlight the need. She announced it for several weeks over the intercom, extending the deadline twice, then offering prizes for the class with the most letters . . . you get the picture, no one was writing. Every time the announcement was made, my students pointed out that, a) there is no school edition, and b) there are many schools more deserving of such an effort than ours (I was proud of those who made that last point, it shows a degree of awareness not usually apparent in seventh-graders). But I began to feel a little sorry for Shelby, despite the fact that she calls me several annoying nicknames and, as I said, lacks a button. And, we were studying persuasive writing. So, I made it an assignment. You want a sampling of the result? Of course you do!
Dear Extreme Makeover,
"If the ceiling tiles break we will be exposed to gases that can give us cancer and they haven't cured cancer yet so we could die thanks to our school. And that's just some of the bad things about or skool. See look I can't even speel it right because we don't have a proper learning environment."
"Our school is falling apart. We need all the help we can get to fix it up. The cafeteria serves us rubber for lunch, and chunky milk. Some of the teachers make us barf, so we would like new teachers too--just a joke. The tiles on the floors are cracking and the walls are falling apart. The ceiling in my language arts class has a plug in it so we don't drown." [I told them that was what the plug was for--to keep the water in the attic. There really is a plug, with a chain hanging down.]
"We have suffered long enough. We can't even walk in the halls anymore. It is not safe. We get hit by bricks [???] and tile from the ceiling. "
"Have you ever walked into a bathroom and were so scared you peed your pants? In the bathroom. Well, I bet that a lot of kids have. Our bathrooms are just about the scariest places on earth."
"We have mold in the cracks of the walls and our bathroom stalls don't even have locks on them. Our mirrors are cracked and the lights burn out during class."
"I think you should remodel our school because the tiles on the floor could lead to cancer. You should also remodel because the ceiling could fall and cause cancer. Also our lockers are too small and jam easy. Also the bathrooms are gross and they do not work all the time. The library is ugly and the computers are slow as crap. The hallways are too small. There is not much room to walk. We need to put in a movie theater. And also need a bigger lunch room."
"Have you ever walked down the hallway of a school afraid that the celing will fall on your head? That's what about 750 students go through every day of the week. A way you could help us with that is to come make over our school and make the ceiling more forgiving . . . I want to learn in a good environment. Everything here makes me want to scream!
"The locker room has no privacy and a concrete ceiling. You can smell the mold in the air and I wouldn't be surprised if there were 49 stars on the flags."
[And, lastly, the poetic slant:]
"Let me tell you about our school.
We've got ants.
Who make friends with the mice.
Who get squished by the falling ceiling.
Which is caused by water damage.
It makes for smelly conversation.
In our nice big jackets.
Because the heater doesn't work.
Well, it did.
For two days.
Then it smelled,
which also killed the mice."
Sincerely,
The Students of Mrs. S., who have successfully learned the meaning of HYPERBOLE,
if not logical PERSUASION.
See you soon Extreme Makeover People. I know these letters will just tug at your heartstrings.
(Note: edited for the most part, wouldn't want you to think that they can spell.)
When struggling to wrap a diaper around a very wiggly baby at bedtime,
pause to ensure the diaper is situated right side out--
the late night results of a failure to do so are not pleasant
for any of the parties involved.
that I forgot to go to the bathroom until 6 p.m. That's 12 long hours without a break, my friends, and however personal that information ought to be, I can think of nothing else that adequately explains the pace of my life at present. All day, I look forward to the moment when I can curl up in my bed with a book for half an hour. Sometimes, if I'm very lucky, that half hour even passes without interruption.
Nine weeks to go.
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