Oh, teacher...

Teacher Appreciation Week is here once again, and I've been trying to show my appreciation to the teachers who've supported our library so well this school year.  Our school has been without a librarian for several years, and I was tasked with making the library a vibrant learning hub once again.  We're not there yet, but we're well on our way.  I decided to hold my classes this week without the teachers...normally they're required to stay so that we can collaborate on lessons or in order for teachers to assist their students as they search for "the right book" each week.  But this week I sent them away so their students could write and record the reasons their teachers are special to them.  I've seen lots of stick figures, hearts, flowers, and sentiments like, "You're the best teacher," or "Thank you for making me ready for the test..."  Our children are so ready and willing to spill the beans about what their teachers mean to them.

I have a couple of literature circles going at any given time, and while students worked in the library on their teacher appreciation letters, I had to break away to meet with one of my literature circles. The group of fourth graders discussed the last few chapters of a novel we're reading, Crenshaw, by Katherine Applegate.

In the book, the main character, Jackson, is dealing with his family's financial issues by inventing an imaginary friend.  It happens to be a huge, black and white cat who shows up during critical emotional passages in Jackson's life.  Jackson is embarrassed by the idea that he has this friend he calls Crenshaw,  but he needs the connection in order to handle the difficulties of his father's MS, his family's homelessness, and his need for meaningful friendships at school.  As we read through the novel, we have done a lot of vocabulary work.  Some of our students have a limited lexicon;  there are many words we've encountered in the novel that are unfamiliar and we've done quite a lot of detailed work with understanding context clues to discern meaning.  

Today we had a term I wasn't sure they'd understand, so I'd highlighted it in my mind.  "Final Notice of Eviction" was the term, and as we reached that phrase in the paragraph, I paused for understanding.  The word final was clear;  the word notice was clear; but I expected some questions about eviction.  Not necessary.  Each student was completely familiar with that experience.  As I listened to their stories and followed the connecting threads that had become a part of this rugged tapestry called childhood, I thought of their teachers.

When you teach at a school that is classified as Title I, and that school is labeled with "poverty issues",  teachers must do so much more than teach. They offer more than an academic scope and sequence.  For teachers in Title I schools, the school day is full of diverse and challenging moments. 

Safety.  Security.  Stability.

Day in and day out, our teachers show up.  For the most part, they are not absent.  When they're sick or sick and tired, or when their children are sick or sick and tired, they don't stay home.  They come to school. They know that a day away from campus may threaten the very stability that their students have learned to trust.  They arrive early and stay late.  Each weekend they're quizzing each other via social media to see when "the building will be open" so they can go to school to work.  

They talk the talk and walk the walk, offering both leadership and friendship.

I'm very proud of the job they're doing;  I'm proud of the job we're doing.  The teachers around me make me proud to be part of this profession.  

As the week concludes, I'll convey my appreciation with my own letters and words, just like their students, but I have so much more to say than what I can fit on a card or in a sound byte.  

These teachers, they're changing the world.  

One child at a time. 

What they do is important. 

Vital.

Critical.

Their pay will never be commensurate with what they give.

What they offer our kids is priceless.

I'm proud to know them. 

Oh child, would you give me your smile, your burden, your story 

and trust me with the treasure of who you are?  

107

It was a simple request, actually.

Read enough books to earn ten points.  If you're a first grader, that means you'll need to read at least 20 picture books.  If you're a fourth or fifth grader, you'll need to read at least one solid chapter book. But you get to pick.

Just do the reading.

By mid-month, we had some interest.  We could tell there were a few kids working toward the goal.

Ice cream with the principal-- Dr. Ibarra.  That's all we were offering.

The momentum picked up.  A couple of teachers started an after-school book club, and students were staying late with their teachers for an hour just to read.  They'd come to the library, pick up dozens and dozens of books, then go back to class to read.

Children came to the library two and three times a day, all smiles, working towards the goal.

By the start of this week, I knew we were in trouble.  We were going to be buying a lot of ice cream.

On Tuesday we had 53 children who met the goal.

I published an update on who was earning the reward;  who was "close" to meeting the challenge.

My friend and I went to the Mexican market and bought a pinata.  Covered up the "Minions" motif with our own designs--pictures of ice cream cones and reworked with the words "Ice Cream with Dr. Ibarra".  Hoping to generate some extra excitement on celebration day.   We kept the pinata a secret. It was going to be a "bonus" reward.

By Thursday, we did a final count:   107 children surpassed all of our expectations.

On Friday afternoon, my partner in crime and library assistant, Laura Cisneros, walked outside and tossed her son's lead rope over the widespread branches of the oak tree, dangling that big, gaudy pinata in the middle of a circle of almost giddy children.

We passed out fudge pops, ice cream sandwiches, dream sickles of all kinds. Our students stood in a huge, wide circle, talking and chatting with each other in the sunlight.

The students with the highest reading totals earned the privilege of striking the pinata first, while the whole crowd of children sang:

Dale, dale dale,

No pierdas el tino;

Porque si lo pierdes

Pierdes el camino.

Go, go, go,

Don't lose your aim;

Because if you lose it 

You will lose the path. 

A prophetic song, actually.

Go, go, go young readers.  Don't give up, or you'll lose your path. 

Children who'd read dozens of books took aim at the pinata, wielding the big stick into the air, trying to burst it wide open, one after another.  

Finally, I asked our principal to do the deed.  With a blindfold over his eyes, he cracked the tar out of that pinata, and 107 children rushed to capture the treasure.

It was just a simple request:  read.

Please read.

Just read.  We're not going to tell you how or what.  You decide.  

Just read. 

We know the future will be bright and full of promise if this one skill is developed...practiced...honed. 

As a reader, you can achieve, you can lead, you can change your world and perhaps even change ours.

That's all we wanted our students to glean from this incentive.  

107 children figured it out.  

It's pretty simple, actually.

Beauty nearest

“When we love, we always strive to become better than we are.

When we strive to become better than we are,

everything around us becomes better too.” 

– Paulo Coelho

Teaching is a creative art; it is the finest work I know.  And last week, I was given a small gift that demonstrates why I stay rooted and grounded in this profession.  It’s a short, simple story, but moved me quite profoundly.

My principal had this idea:  he wanted to give every child in school a book for Christmas, and he wanted the book to be on each child’s reading level so s/he could actually read it.  We set about creating the book order;  it took a little time and I’m sure it was not as accurate as it could have been, but we purchased a book for each child in grades pre-K through 5^th. 

Children were asked to enjoy the book over the holidays, but as an added incentive to read, our principal asked children to create a “brown bag book report”—writing a summary of the book and placing 5 objects in the bag that represented some aspect of the story.  If they followed these instructions, they’d be rewarded with special time with him-together they’d play Loteria (Mexican Bingo) when they returned to school after the holidays.

Over 140 children brought their brown bags to school after Christmas.  Let that sink in.  That’s a great response for children who had the option of creating the project.  The idea was a hit. 

We held the first session of Loteria with pre-kindergarten students.  The little group of 9 children entered the library with their small brown bags, and the principal asked them to share their stories with each other. They excitedly told each other about what they read.

Then our principal shared his own brown bag.  He told the students that he read The Alchemist by Paul Coelho.  I’ve read the book, and I instantly felt sorry for the man.  I thought, “Oh my goodness.  These are pre-kindergarten students.  They’re never going to understand the book he wants to present.”

Then the magic happened.   

He begins to pull various items out of his bag…a map to signify Santiago’s journey- the shepherd boy who would need to travel all the way to the Egyptian pyramids in pursuit of mysterious riches.  He shares a compass, to demonstrate the many twists and turns of Santiago’s journey.  Out of his brown bag, he pulls his beautiful gold watch, to explain that Santiago wanted the alchemist to help him find riches like gold, crystal, and precious treasures. 

Finally he asks our students to look at the last treasure in the bag.  It is a compact mirror.  And our principal opens the mirror, asking each little four or five year old child to look in the mirror to see the treasure.

Eyes wide, each child finds in the mirror, an image of himself.  Our principal walked around the group, giving each boy and girl an opportunity to find his own reflection. One little girl held her cheeks beneath her little palms and exclaimed, “Are you kidding me,” awed that she was the treasure.

Oh the beauty of that moment brought me to tears.

Teachable moments are fleeting, despite the fact that we spend nearly eight hours a day in a classroom.  But this was indeed a teachable moment.  In that library, at that moment, nine little ones knew without a doubt that the treasure Santiago sought was the same one we all seek—to know our own value.  

Small lessons with profound beauty are the reason I stay in this profession. In this classroom. In this school system.  Paul Coelho wrote, ““The simple things are also the most extraordinary things, and only the wise can see them.”   I am so grateful for the wisdom supplied in moments like these.  

 “Remember that wherever your heart is, there you will find your treasure.” 
― Paulo Coelho, The Alchemist

Merry Christmas...or not

I wish I was a mind reader.  Then I might really know what to do here.  I’m in over my head.

I’ve spent my professional career as an educator at Title I schools.  Title I means that a big chunk of the population we serve has high needs in critical areas—our students may lack basic necessities like adequate food, shelter, support.  

For twenty-five years, I’ve served children on antiquated campuses as well as kids romping around brand new school yards.  I’ve taught school in Georgia, Germany, Indiana, Florida, Texas, and California.  I’ve worked with little ones and big ones, of all shapes, sizes, ethnicities, and exceptionalities, not unlike most educators I know.

Children have surrounded me in classrooms equipped with every tool and with no tools. I think I can reach and teach anywhere.  My own children will tell you that I teach even when my pupils don’t want to be taught.  But this year…oh this year.

I’m posted on a campus that is distinguished by labels that we don’t like—100% free and reduced lunch; 100% poverty; “academically unacceptable”; in “academic recovery” …labels that say very little about what’s going on behind each classroom door. 

I’m surrounded by committed teachers as well as newbies.  This is the first year for most of us to serve on this campus.  And we’re all in over our heads. We were all placed here for a reason. I was posted here to see if maybe a robust library program could impact learning, along with many other initiatives. Everyone’s working hard, staying late, striving to set up “rigorous learning” opportunities that will help us make the mark.

The jury’s still out on how we’re doing.

The decision about “what works” is still hanging in the balance and will swing like a pendulum until state testing is complete later this spring.  Then maybe some of the labels will come off.

But despite my years of teaching experience, I’m still learning.  As it turns out, I’m still naïve about what poverty means. 

Many of our students are part of a silent neighborhood.

They live in “have not” homes or neighborhoods, silently going without.  I don’t want to disregard those families that are making ends meet. Some kids are just fine; their parents and extended families are providing all they can.  But it’s the “have nots” that keep us awake at night. 

Backpacks of food are sent home several times a month with five year olds or ten year olds, whoever needs the help–just to insure there’s food at the house when they’re not at school. Clothing is provided as needed.  Eye exams are conducted and new glasses show up on faces ready to learn. Paper, pencils, notebooks, shoes...all free as needed. 

And yet.

And yet. 

These kids need something that money can’t actually buy.

Stability.  Security.  Hope. 

Day after day, I’ll prepare to teach and start a lesson focused on my objectives.  In my mind, I'm running down the checklist of the many things I want to teach.  Language arts.  Digital literacy. Databases and information power kind of stuff.  21st Century learner sorts of things. 

But over and over I get stopped in my tracks.  By children who can’t read because no one’s home or literate enough to help them practice.  By kids who have grown lethargic about their own success. By children who are so new to this country that they've yet to assimilate one language, much less two. 

With the countdown for Christmas beating like a drum, I hear from children with wish lists that bear no resemblance to those of my grandchildren…kids who want one thing, or two, knowing that neither item will probably show up on Christmas morning or any other day. 

I get stunned.every.day. by kids who say things like, “I get to see my dad in prison on Christmas Eve…” and behind those eyes that sparkle there’s a pain, a pain that I can hardly comprehend. 

Today a nine-year old wrapped up two paper bookmarks we gave him and tucked them in his pocket—Christmas presents for his “granny” when she gets out of jail. 

A fourth grader asks me, “Did you read my essay?  It’s about my sister.  She’s an angel now.” 

A fifth grader has given up trying to get to school most days.  It's hard to comprehend if he's lazy or hopeless. 

A kindergartener hangs on my every word, like I'm magic because I've told her I like her dress.

This one needs a tissue; that one needs breakfast;  another just wants to be seen and will act out every which way to get attention, uncaring of whether it's positive or negative. 

I don’t know what to do here.  I’m in over my head.  

I hug them.  I welcome them. I hold them and high five them.  I tell them to work hard.  I say that words will make them strong and powerful.  Is it lip service?  Is what we’re doing making any difference? Do I need to say, “Be tough.  Get over it. Do the work?”

Feeling sorry for these kids will get them nowhere.  What’s the proverb-give a man a fish and he’ll eat for a day;  teach him to fish and he’ll eat for a lifetime?  But is it fair to expect kids to fathom such wisdom?  We’ve colluded to give our kids the fish and teach them how at the same time.  While we try to prevent an “entitlement” mentality, isn’t every child entitled to warm clothes, food, a fish?  

At the end of the day, I feel like an alien in this environment.

I work with children whose life stories are foreign to me.  They deal with issues that are completely out of my control.  

When I say goodbye at the end of the day, I can think of very little to say.

“See you tomorrow!”

“Read a book!”

"Be safe!"

But the truth is, most of the time, I am at a loss for words. 

When a teacher told me her students cried at dismissal before Thanksgiving break and I asked her why, she said they told her, “We don’t want to go home. We want to be with you.”   

I find myself picking up my jaw and closing my mouth nearly every day.  I read them fairy tales, yet the stories I hear are far from it. 

For Christmas, I’d like these children to live the fairy tale.  I’d like them to peer out their frosty windows, gazing at bright stars in the night sky.  I want them to hear jingle bells and sleigh bells.  I'd like them to be awed by the straw in the manger.  Shepherds keeping watch. Wise men on the way. I want them to wait on Rudolph and all his four-legged friends to land on their rooftops.  I long for them to have a pitcher of milk and cookies all ready for the big jolly guy to skinny down their chimneys.  I'd like them to rise from cozy beds on Christmas morning, to find an overstuffed stocking and an obnoxious pile of toys, regardless of where they land on the naughty or nice lists.

A fairy tale merry Christmas.  I’d love that. 

I'd ask the big guy if he could also throw in a return of innocence.  No lack.  Just love. 

But I know, I'm in over my head.

I want so much more for them than what Santa can provide.