The $20,000 Pay-Off

 I just received my first paycheck as a teacher.  OK, I got paid a week ago, but I haven’t cashed the check yet, (teachers don’t have time to go to the bank), so technically, I just got paid.  I looked at that beautiful piece of paper and two thoughts flew through my head, one on the heels of another.  The first was, “That’s a lot of deductions!”  The second was, “ It’s gonna’ take a long time to recupe the money we spent on that darn degree.”  Neither of those thoughts were a surprise.  I already knew, of course, how much my monthly check would be, and I knew that I would have to work a good long time before I would earn my tuition investment back. 

I have to take a sentence or two here to give a shout-out to my husband.  He has been amazing through this whole process.  When I told him I wanted to go back to school and earn a SECOND undergraduate degree, his immediate response was, “Do you realize how old you are?”  (No wait, that was my mother).  HIS response was, “I think it’s a great idea!”  I chose to attend a private, local university (I LUV UMary!), which meant higher tuition costs than a state school.  But My Man just kept doling out the bucks and encouraging me every step of the way.  Thanks, Sweetie.  I love you for loving me that much.  Especially knowing that we’re not going to get rich on my teaching salary.  My heart longed to be in the classroom, and he knew that doing something that was fulfilling for me would be payment enough for him.  True love…

So as I clutch the first of many (hopefully!) paychecks in my hand, here’s what I’ve learned so far about what teaching is and what it isn’t.

Teaching IS….

Early mornings and late nights.  Week-ends too!

Meetings for everything under the Sun (and the Moon and the stars).

Thinking about teaching most every minute of the day and night. 

Lots of mothering (Did you remember your library book?  Do you have a hat today?  What?  No gloves??  You brought Cheetos and a Fruit Roll-Up for lunch???  Do you need to use the bathroom?  Are you sure you don’t need to use the bathroom?  Do you have extra clothes here since you didn’t make it to the bathroom in time?  Don’t pick your nose, Sweetie.  What do you mean you can’t remember if you’re supposed to ride the bus or not?  Did you…can you…will you…well, you get the idea.

Exposure to every viral and/or bacterial microbe known to man.

Teaching is a desperate attempt to get the hang of your daily schedule (He was supposed to be where, WHEN??)

It is being supportive of all the extra-curricular activities that occur every week.

It is learning to take your place in the unspoken hierarchy of co-workers and faculty. 

It is taking the time to look your students in the eye and give your full attention when they have something important to say (for the 11^th time in an hour)

It is getting to know what excites each child in your class.  So far, our favorite topics are frogs, horses, dinosaurs, Transformers, the St. Louis Cardinals, and chicken burritos. 

What teaching is NOT:

High pay

Short hours

Leaving your work at work

Boring

I’ve learned in the last six weeks (six weeks ALREADY?) that I will never grow tired of looking into the faces of six-year-olds with missing teeth and a smudge of lunch still on their face.  I will always enjoy the thrill of witnessing that moment when knowledge becomes comprehension, and I will forever enjoy the challenge of making learning a joyous journey for every single child that ever walks through my classroom door.  I’m not naïve enough to think that I will meet every need of every child, like Helen Keller’s Annie Sullivan.  But I sure enough intend to try.

So six weeks into my first year I ask myself the foundational question, “Is teaching everything I had hoped it would be?”  The answer is yes, and so much more.  Sure, I’m pretty new to this gig.  But I fully believe it is what I was destined for.  Every morning when I walk through my door into my Magic Tree House themed classroom and switch on the lights, I look around, taking in the classroom that I had envisioned and then brought to reality, and without fail, I smile.  I smile because it feels like home.  It feels like my space.  It is where I belong.

Teaching is not a vocation for me.

Teaching is my calling and the fulfillment of a dream, 18 months of hard work, and two decades of delaying a career so that I could put family first.  It is the beginning of a new chapter for me.

You mean I get paid too??  Cool….

Funky Hair, Germ Warfare, Lord Megatron, and the Corp of Discovery

 You can get a feel for how the day is going to go by the number of different directions your students’ hair is going in when they arrive for the day.  I’m a mother and I well remember how some of those evenings on a school night go.  Late suppers, late baths, hurry them into bed with still-damp hair.  I remember those nights very well indeed.  So when I saw two heads pass by me at the outset of today  looking like they belonged on a compass rose, I knew we were in for it. 

Following close on the heels of Directionally Challenged Hair came the manifestation of The Plague.  I listened in dismay as my students, who were the picture of health the day before, began the day coughing like they were long-time fans of Lucky Strikes.  Cough, cough, coughing all day long.  Where did this madness come from?  It wouldn’t be so bad except that when you are in first grade, covering your mouth is for sissies.  It went something like this…. “Mrs. Dahl, I have a question about problem #2” (cough), “can you help (cough) me?  (cough, cough, couuuugghhh), please? (cough, cough, sneeeeeeeze).  “Eeeeewwww, gross.  I need a tissue, Mrs. Dahl.”  Yeah, no kidding.

Then there was the student who has real shoe issues.  The issue is, he can’t seem to stay IN his shoes.  I don’t mean he takes them off.  No, I mean they are in a constant state of un-tie-ed-ness. They are a tad too large for his feet, and he literally steps out of them at the most inopportune times.  The easy solution would be to simply bend over and tie his shoes for him or teach him to tie them.  The PROBLEM is, his idea of tying is putting knots in his laces.  When I ask him to tie his shoes, he just reaches down and adds another knot.  Every time I take the time to undo his knots, or trick some unsuspecting aide into doing it for me, he just starts the process all over again.  Many times I have seen him walking down the hall, and have to double back to pick up his shoe (or shoes).  It’s like they’re trying to escape and make a run for it on their own.  He trips so often that I think I might not even recognize him if he were upright.  I’m half tempted to put tread on the bottom of his socks and call it good.

Next came a very confident (VERY confident) student, who believes that he and I are really co-teachers in the first grade room.  He likes to correct his classmates when I am standing right beside him, he considers himself The Keeper and Decider Of Rules, and he considers it his duty to report offenses committed by his classmates (for their own good, of course).  This afternoon he looked me in the eye and said in complete seriousness, “Mrs. Dahl, I think you should start calling me, Lord Megatron.”  Really?  Hmmmmm, let me just think about that for awhile…..uh, the answer is no. (Lord have mercy!) 

Our next order of the day was visiting the Science Fair in the gymnasium.  I have been trying to instill a love of discovery in my group, and knew this event could be really beneficial and fun.  Each one was given a clipboard and pencil, and instructed to write What, How, and Why on their papers before we left the classroom.  We talked about how science really just means someone is curious about something and investigates it in order to answer those three questions.  Then we dressed as scientifically as we could with whatever I could pull out of the dress-up box and our Stolen Heart costume box.  I found a doctor coat, scrubs, 2 stethoscopes, a fedora, a tie, and whatever else looked fun.  We looked GREAT! 

As we went from project to project at the fair, asking our three questions, I noticed that some of my students were actually taking notes.  Yesssss!  And when I asked them later to relay something they had learned, almost all had a ready answer.

Did I mention I also hosted my first parent/teacher conferences??  Whew!  It was a long day!  I haven’t been home all that long, and need to get some sleep so that I can get up and do it all again tomorrow.  It’s a really good thing I love what I do.

The icing on the cake came near the end of the day when Mr. Hair Reaching For The Sky was headed to the coatroom.  Without even looking at me, he threw an, “I love you” at me and kept on going.  I would have questioned if it was even intended for me, except that I was the only one in the room at the moment.  As if to dispel any doubt about his intentions, his head appeared round the corner, pointing hair first, then big eyes and freckles.  “Did you hear me?” he questioned.  “I love you.”  I smiled, and this time not because his hair was giving me the giggles.  “I love you too.”    He grinned that missing-teeth smile at me and I remembered why I wanted to teach first grade. 

I really can’t wait for tomorrow……

Epilogue To "The Me You See"

I was unprepared for the reaction to my last post.  You know…the one about my grieving boy.  The general public read about a first grade child whose mother’s death rocked his world and felt sympathy for his plight, maybe said a prayer for him,  then got up and put another load of laundry in the washer or checked their Facebook page.  But for those who are a part of the community we live in or are connected in some way to this tragedy, it has touched a sensitive nerve that catapulted reaction into the forefront of community consciousness.  The plain truth is, one year is not a very long time when you are  referring to an event that forever altered a small community.  It’s the sort of event that causes people to stop and remember what they were doing when they heard The News.  Sort of like December 7^th for the Greatest Generation, or September 11^th for the rest of us.  Those events are so life-altering that the moment of hearing their shocking news for the first time becomes etched in our minds and memories forever.

Such is the case when there is a death in a small town.  If the deceased is someone who has lived a full life, then discussion of the death fills the local diner and the bar, but is more centered around the good life they lived and becomes an informal tribute of sorts to their character and reputation.

When the unthinkable happens and the death involves someone far too young to be taken from this world, then the discussions become filled with details of their death, and conversations are repeated over and over in a vain attempt to make some sense of a seemingly senseless tragedy.  At the end of nearly every conversation, the participants will shake their heads slowly and quietly say, “What a tragedy.”

It appears that my observations about my heartsick student have ripped the scab off a slow-healing wound.  It was certainly not my intention to inflict fresh pain on anyone.  I simply saw a child full of emotion and thought I should write about it.  These are the real-life circumstances that teachers must sometimes face.  But the reaction has been strong.  I have received many tearful messages from people telling me how touched they were by my post and by the story of a lost little boy.  They have all been incredibly encouraging and expressed gratitude for my concern for him.  Many have been from caring relatives who, too, see his sorrow and long to comfort and ease his grief. 

My thoughts, concerns, and reactions to this student reflect my philosophy of teaching, a philosophy I am still defining as I experience the day-to-day of the classroom.  Some teachers are purists in the sense that they feel strongly that the child they are to be concerned with is the one that walks in the door at 8:30 and walks out at 3:30.  Very little before those times or after.  That may sound cold and heartless, but purists are focused on educating that child and wringing every valuable drop of instruction out the school day.  Most are quite effective at their job and love their students as much as any other teacher does.  Those of us who take a “whole child” approach to teaching look at each child at the outset of the day and wonder, “Are you hungry?  Did you sleep well?  Was there arguing in your house last night that left you stressed and exhausted?”  The purist and the whole child teachers are each sincere in their efforts to educate effectively.  I just simply have too much mother in me to be a purist.  I DO wonder if my little charges walk through my door ready to learn or are weighted down with life beyond their ability to cope.

The touching part about my last post and its subsequent reaction is that I am reminded of how closely knit this community is and how large my little boy’s “village” is.  He is loved, cared for and about, and has countless people rooting for him.  I am not alone in my effort to love this child back to a good place.  His cast of support extends far beyond his family, who love him deeply, and myself, who is just beginning to know him.  He has already taken his place in the fabric of this prairie enclave and will forever be one its sons. 

To all the amazing people who have shared their tears, pain, and support over the last couple of days; thank you for welcoming me into your circle that will nurture this child to wholeness.  I have much to learn about my profession and how to do justice to each of my students.  I welcome your guidance and help as I feel my way through the next weeks and months.

It is good to be reminded that with sorrow and pain come the overwhelming expressions of love by those, like you, who care where words simply fail.  May God bless all the open arms and hearts in this little boy’s life!

The Me You See

When I was a little girl, I once owned a gold ring that was beautiful.  It was shiny and bright, and worth a fortune I was sure.  One day, I noticed that the band had begun to lose its paint, and to my great disappointment and discovery, it wasn’t made of pure gold after all.  It was just a cheap ring.  Nothing more.  I was VERY disappointed.

I have a student very much like that.  Oh, I don’t mean that he is less than priceless, I just mean that what he allows others to see and what lies underneath the surface are sometimes two very different things.

I’m referring to my student whose mother died in a car accident last winter.  The long and the short of it is, he is grieving.  He is grieving and he really doesn’t know what to do with those emotions. 

Yesterday was a day of high excitement and higher still energy.   I decided that some decompression time would be a very good thing.  I read a great book about Rosa Parks in our reading corner, then told my students to find an alone place on the floor.  The cool part about first grade is, you can do that.  Even cooler about my first grade classroom is… big room, few students and lots of floor space.  I put on some soothing music, turned out the lights, save for the funky lamp in the corner, and told them to just rest for a couple of minutes.

I was congratulating myself on my brilliant idea when a little head popped up.  Serious eyes were staring at me.  “This music is really sad.”  I knew what was coming, but paused before answering. “Why do you think it’s sad?”  Dark eyes were boring into mine.  “Because it reminds me of how African Americans have been treated by white people.”  All is quiet except for this verbal exchange.   “That IS something sad to think about, but is that why you think this music sounds sad?”  He laid his head back down then answered gruffly, “yeah.” 

I didn’t hear anymore from him during the duration of the song, but noticed he was unusually still, his little head buried in his arms.  In fact, I glanced at him often and never saw him move at all.  VERY unusual for this one. 

When the song ended, I asked a student to turn the lights back on and invited everyone back to our worktable.  My boy with the broken heart finally got off the floor and, looking straight ahead, began walking towards his spot.  His face was a mask of concentration and was blotchy, his eyes red.  I have been with this group for a month, and have never seen this child shed tears.  I watched him to see what he would do.  As if reading my mind he volunteered, “I’m crying ‘cuz I miss my Mom.”  He was nearly to his seat by now.  I called his name softly to come over to me.  I held out my arms to him and he buried his face in my embrace (you know what?  I really don’t care if hugging is frowned upon in the classroom.  Sometimes it just has to be done).  “I can’t be your Mom,” I said gently.  “But I can give you Mom hugs when you need them.  Does that help? Or not really?”  I honestly wanted to know.  Some kids are uncomfortable with shows of affection.  He nodded without looking up.  “It helps,” he replied in a muffled voice. 

(Big sigh here….), how can I have the greatest impact in this child’s life?  His world will never be more emotionally painful than it is right now.  In one fatal moment, he lost everything dear to him and it left him reeling.  You need to know right here and now that I am a fixer.  If I see a problem, I want to create a plan of action, follow it sequentially, and work towards the goal of seeing it solved.  Unfortunately (and thankfully), it does not work that way where matters of the heart are concerned.  Would I love to banish his sorrow and grief with the wave of a magic wand?  Oh yeah.  A thousand times yes.  But healing takes time.  Our inner psyche consists of layers just as our physical epidermis does.  The healing begins down deep, beyond our ability to understand it has begun even.  Then spreads upward and outward until one day we realize that the smile we wear is not forced or fake.  It is genuine.  The Sun of Hope has begun to shine within us once again.  He WILL find joy in life again.  But it won’t happen during his time with me.  His pain is too fresh.  There is too much inner healing yet to take place.  He will have to endure the night of his heart for a while longer.

So here’s the surface vs. inner turmoil dichotomy part.  On the exterior, he’s tough.  He’s a take-charge, natural-born leader.  And at times, there’s a bit of acting out that must be dealt with.  But if you peeled away that top layer of shiny gold paint, you’d find a far different reality.  His little heart is hanging outside of his chest, bleeding and bruised, longing for his mother.  He journals about little details that he misses.  They are the minute details of every person’s everyday existence.  The sorts of things that we never really THINK about doing, we just do them because they must be done.  Running errands, and putting supper on the table, and greeting our children first thing in the morning or at the end of the school day.  Amazingly, these are the things motherless children miss.  That has been a revelation to me.  I am notorious for trying to manufacture “special moments.”  Vacations, or day trips, or birthday celebrations.  Now I wonder if those are the sorts of things my children will miss when I am gone.  Maybe the mundane isn’t such an awful thing.  Maybe that’s where we shine best.  And maybe that’s the cue I need to take as I teach this boy with the inner ache that won’t go away.  Maybe the best way I can help him is to simply be.  He can decide what will be worth embracing and what can be discarded mentally and emotionally.

All I know is, we have found ourselves on the same path.  Our lives have intersected at this point in time and I will trust God to use me however He sees fit.  When you think of us, pray that our time together will be well used and beneficial both in the immediate here-and-now and in his future.  I hope that, for now, an occasional “Mom hug” will be enough.

My Heart Is Missing!

Yesterday was my very first Valentine’s Day as a teacher.  I really had no idea how much work it would end up being.  There is the obligatory cache of candy to be dispensed, the recognition of important people in a first grader’s life (the principle, the librarian, our foster grandmother -–God bless Grandma Betty!) And on and on.  There is also the party and decorations for the classroom and, well, you get the idea.  On top of all that, our school has a grand tradition of a first grade play put on for the parents every Valentine’s Day.  Not just any play, mind you.  I’m talking about THE play.  The same play that has been performed in the first grade since Noah stepped off the ark.  It is dramatically named, The Stolen Heart, and all I knew was, it has been performed annually for a very long time.  I knew it was sort of the baby of the previous teacher.  She faithfully went to the bother (oops! Freudian slip), I MEANT effort of putting on this production every year.  And she taught first grade in this school for 38 years!

What I didn’t know, was that The Stolen Heart was an icon before my predecessor arrived.  This play is like, ancient!  I didn’t know that until two weeks ago. I really, honestly came in to this job with the intention of doing away with The Stolen Heart, and beginning my own tradition.  New teacher, new play, I figured.  Would that be so horrible?  Because the truth is, I had seen it many times (I have many children), but never really got what it was about.  First graders mumbling mispronounced lines is not a great way to get the feel of a story line.  I was feeling rather stupid about that, until I attended a performance a couple of years back and a local woman who had seen it her entire life made the same apologetic confession.   What?  It’s about a young man in love stealing the heart of the princess??  Really?? Well, that’s kinda’ cute.

Having announced my intentions of The Stolen Heart Ban in the teacher’s workroom (a place really mislabeled, in my opinion.  It should be called the Teacher’s Buffet and Venting Room.  The only one usually working in there generally is the copier).  Anyhoo, no one seemed bothered by the fact that the newbie was treading on sacred ground.  Even my predecessor had handed me the precious script and said, “Do what you want.”  So I really didn’t think I had offended the gods of small town tradition.  But one brave Title I teacher ever so gently came to my room in private one day and asked (oh, so sweetly) if I might reconsider doing the play?  Was I aware that The Stolen Heart was firmly ensconced in our wonderful school even before the previous teacher had taken over?  Turns out our little Off-Broadway productions has been around so long that no one is really sure when it began.  They just know every generation in our fair town has been in it and every new set of first grade parents consider it a right of passage to see their own child say the same lines they themselves once uttered.

OK, I am a sucker for nostalgia, and yes, I could see the value, and even necessity of carrying on this tradition.  We were cutting it a bit close, but hey, I’ve delivered lambs in the dead of night and walked the floors with colicky babies.  Shucks, I can put on a play in a week-and-a-half.  I had to tweak the script a bit.  More parts than kids required some shuffling and inventive casting.  To his credit,  only one boy was secure enough with his manhood to volunteer to play the part of the queen (and was fabulous, I might add). 

Invitations were issued, rehearsals held daily, props dug out of storage, refreshments baked for the big day, and we were ready to take our place in history as a proud torch-carrier of The Stolen Heart.  And we were wonderful!  Not that it was trouble-free, by any stretch.  Lines were forgotten and stage fright threatened to take over, but in the end, parents and grandparents laughed in all the right places, my little sweeties beamed as they said their lines, and everyone agreed that it was delightful.  I even found ways to put my personal stamp on it, such as setting the curtain call to music and letting them show off their best dance moves.

So here’s what I learned.  It’s okay to be unique.  And it’s okay to want to add a fresh element to my class.  But in the process of making my mark and taking my place as an established, respected teacher, I have to be sensitive to what is important to the community, ESPECIALLY in a small town.  If you don’t have great-grandparents born and raised in the community, then you are and always will be something of an outsider.  You small-towners know what I mean.  Don't get me wrong, I have not been treated like an outsider or ostracized in any way.  No, these wonderful people have been warm, gracious, and accepting from the time our family first moved to this area.  But I don’t have the sense of history that they have.  I can’t share in the deeply imbedded rites, traditions, and folklore of this unique place.  So when something is brought to my attention, I need to at least listen.  And then make a careful, thoughtful, sensitive decision.

Traditions are a pretty wonderful thing.  They connect each generation, and make us feel a part of something bigger than ourselves.  It’s why we gorge ourselves at holidays, and blow things up on July 4^th, and hide eggs on chilly Easter mornings.  We do it because it’s what we know and what we cherish in our childhood memories.  And when our children have children, we hope they will carry on where we have left off. 

At the end of our performance, I shared with the parents and their parents the tale of How The Stolen Heart Was Saved, just as I have shared it here.  When I was finished, young adult faces smiled appreciatively, wizened grandparents nodded in approval, and all cheered loudly.  At that moment, this school and this town stole MY heart. 

Her Majesty, The Queen

Our school has been in the throes of “Spirit Week.”  You know what I’m talking about.  The rationale is to jack up morale and give everyone a chance to cut loose a little bit.  They are usually held just before tournament time for one sport or another.  At our school we don’t let a little thing like not-enough-kids-for-a-team stop us.  No sir!  We have spirit, yes we do, we have spirit, how ‘bout YOU?!  We have to co-op most of our team sports with neighboring schools, but doggonit, we still want to dress like idiots and have a good laugh.

Our menu choices this week have been duct tape day, dress like your favorite staff person day, pick-your-persona day, and fake injury day (it was like a scene from Night of the Living Dead… fake blood dripping from head wounds, black eyes, and crutches stacked in the lunchroom like cord wood).  Today wrapped up the festivities with “formal day.”  I wore a ball gown and tiara.  The 5^th and 6^th  grade substitute teacher asked me where I had gotten a tiara. “I’m not sure,” I told her.  “I just found it at the bottom of my dress up box.”  She looked at me in shocked amazement.  “You just had a tiara lying around your house?”  She added,  “I have a lot of kooky things lying around my house, but a tiara isn’t one of them.”  Yeah, well, most adults don’t have dress-up boxes at the foot of their beds either.  Spirit Week at the Dahl house has always been a near spiritual experience.  My kids would raid Mom’s stash of out-dated, ugly, garish and just plain hilarious clothes, and ALWAYS put on an impromptu fashion show.  Then we would laugh till our sides hurt and do it all again for the next day’s theme.

So when my very first Spirit Week rolled around as a teacher, I knew I would enjoy it as much, (maybe more), than most of the student body.  What I failed to consider this morning as I teased my hair into accepting its rhinestone crown was the fact that I had prearranged a walking field trip to the local post office today.  Well, the show must go on, as they say.   

My first graders spent some serious time this morning putting the finishing touches on their letters to cousins, or grandparents, or aunts/uncles.  We had gone through the editing process of writing a formal letter and had carefully copied the revisions from their rough drafts.  Now the envelopes were stuffed, sealed, addressed, and ready for a stamp.  They were so excited to be mailing real letters!  Every five minutes, one boy in particular would remind us that this was “his first letter, ” and he “couldn’t believe he was mailing his first real letter” (it really takes so little to make a kid happy). 

When the appointed time arrived, we donned coats, gloves, and boots, clutched our letters in our little hands, lined up behind Mrs. Dahl, who had gathered her skirt in her hands in order to not drag her gown through the snow and headed down the street to our post office.  We must have looked like quite the parade to the casual observer.  A middle-aged woman in a ball gown, sporting a tiara like some has-been homecoming queen, and a gaggle of boys behind her waving envelopes in the air.  I could hear Mr. Random-Thoughts behind me shouting out warnings to his classmates.  “Be on the lookout for raccoons!  Be on the lookout for chickens!”  I looked behind me just in time to see the wind win a game of tug-and-war with one of the treasured envelopes, and it went sailing into the street, Michelin Man-looking six-year-olds wearing full snow gear in hot pursuit.  Thank goodness!  It landed in a snow bank and all was saved.  We made it to the post office without further incident and were treated to a tour of the facility, bought stamps for both our letters and some for playing post office in our Imagination Center, and then the lady in the gown-and-crown snapped pictures furiously of her Loyal Subjects dropping their precious letters into the outside mailbox.

It wasn’t until we were back in the school that I realized in all the excitement of our tour, I had failed to explain to the post master why I was dressed so curiously.  The really funny part is, she never batted an eye about it.  Never once asked me or even looked curious about it.  Isn’t that funny??  I think it’s hysterical!  She must get ball-goers quite often in her little post office.

Now we just hope we will get responses to our letters, because the only thing more fun than mailing a letter is getting one. 

I’ll have to start thinking now about what I will be wearing when I pick those letters up.

We Get Our Thrills Where We Can

The first grade class is growing grass (REAL grass, as in Kentucky Blue…get your mind out of the 70’s).  We planted grass in cups, then made hypotheses about how many days it would take for it to sprout.  My most pessimistic student guessed 150 days.  We recorded our observations and, to the amazement and joy of my darlings, we saw green poking through after just 4 ½ days.  We have faithfully watered our fragile seedlings as needed and today, (drum roll, please), we gave them “hair cuts.”  The beauty of growing grass is, as long as the sun and water keep a’ comin,’ we’ll have grass forevermore!

After playing barber, we carefully scooped up the clippings, put them in a baggie, attached a note saying, “enjoy the smell of summer,” and ceremoniously carried them to the teacher’s work room.  I was AMAZED at the response from the teachers.  They thanked me warmly for providing a whiff of past memory and future warmth.  I had to smile as I pictured my colleagues shoving their noses into a baggie of green grass, the same stuff we get sick of mowing about the 1^st of July. 

Where did the magic lie in such a simple act? 

You need to understand our circumstances.  We live in NORTH DAKOTA.  Those of my more southerly friends have been moaning about “all the snow” and the “bitter cold.”  And I just smile smugly.  The “winter to remember” in places like Illinois and Texas will be gone in a few weeks and will fade into folklore eventually.  For we northern plains people, this is our reality every year.  We see the snows arrive in late fall, the bitter cold in January, and will not glimpse spring until April.  For goodness sake, we’ll still get snow in May!  I have pictures galore of May snow covering the ground.  Why I keep faithfully recording with pictures, I’m not sure.  I guess this Missouri girl is still stunned by shows of winter when it should be nearly summer.

So for us, by February, we are winter-weary and desperately seeking anything that hales of more balmy temps and colorful vistas.  Everywhere you look here, it is white, white, white.  Only the blue sky provides relief from the monotony of the colorless landscape.  And on most days for weeks on end, even the sky refuses to share its color.  The brilliant sun is kept hidden by selfish cloud cover.  I have read of homesteading women who were so desperate for color, they would capture birds with any color at all and keep them as pets.  The neutral hues of sod houses, and plowed fields left them bereft of visual stimulation.  I guess it’s a woman thing. 

My best explanation for the success of our Great Grass Experiment, is that it came at a time when we needed a simple reminder that spring will indeed come, summer will follow, and our winter is only temporary.  The cycle of seasons and the miracle of the Earth replenishing itself with budding trees and green ground cover will indeed reappear to us in the very near future.  And 6-year-olds will find wonder in the fact that something green and wonderful will grow from a tiny, dry seed.  I hope they never cease to be amazed by that.   I stand in awe of a God who created a self-sustaining Earth.  Must be the six-year-old in me.

The "I Have a Dream" Guy

 Black History Month in rural North Dakota is an interesting affair.  Diversity for us means your ancestry is either German or Norwegian.  People are categorized by whether or not they truly like Lutefisk.  “Mixed marriage” means you did the unthinkable and married someone from a neighboring rival town.

On Martin Luther King’s birthday, I spent several days discussing who he was, what he fought for and how people reacted to him.  In the middle of our first discussion, a hand on my left suddenly shot into the air.  “I saw a black man once, Mrs. Dahl!”  Then for emphasis and dramatic flair he added, “for real!”  Like he had just shared something from Ripley’s Believe it or Not.  I knew then and there that I needed to begin at the very foundation of the Civil Rights Movement.  These kids live in a very vanilla bubble.

“OK, boys and girls, I just made up a new rule.  From now on, everyone with blue eyes cannot play on the same playground equipment as their classmates.  If you have blue eyes, you will have to play away from the other students and can only play on the equipment I tell you to play on.”  I saw a storm of emotions cross the faces of my little charges.  “Why?” they wanted to know.  “Because you have blue eyes, that’s why.”  Well, nobody thought THAT was fair.  They were having trouble processing this terrible news.  Maybe Mrs. Dahl wasn’t so nice after all.  Before anyone could dissolve into tears (which happens rather quickly in the first grade), I assured them I wasn’t serious and that blue-eyed “outcasts” would most surely be allowed to co-mingle with the rest.  I then went on to explain the unfair discrimination practices that occurred against African Americans in the South.  Their little (blue) eyes widened when I told them that there were separate restaurants, and water fountains, and schools for “people of color.”  “How would it make you feel if you had to stay away from other people just because of the color of your skin? “  As they processed that sort of unthinkable discrimination, mostly they believed they would feel sad. That is until it was a little princess’ turn to speak.  With fire in her eyes, and her little arms crossed, she spit out, “I would be mad!”  Bingo.  Here was my open door to talk about the Civil Rights Movement. 

Since that day, we have read about Ruby Bridges and Garrett Morgan (who invented the traffic light in the 1920’s) and we watched a portion of MLK’s March on Washington speech on Youtube. Rosa Parks is next.  Wow, have we had some great discussions!  These are important conversations because the bottom line extends far beyond one race and one era in American history.   Any time human beings are devalued, all of society suffers.  Will it mean much to my very white, European students?  I don’t know, but I had to smile when one of my more easily distracted students came running up to me while getting ready to go out for recess.  As he’s yanking on coveralls and gloves he says, “Mrs, Dahl, you know the ‘I have a dream’ guy?”  “You mean Martin Luther King, Jr.?”  “Yeah, him.”  Right glove is on now he’s tugging at the left one.  “What about him?” I asked, completely amazed that we are having this conversation.  “I think you should take me to his burial grounds.”  Huh?  Are we really talking about this?  I just stared at him.  When the shock of his request wore off I asked slowly, ”You want to go to the tomb of Martin Luther King, Jr.?”  “Yeah, I think you should take me there.”  Hat is now partially on his head and he is running up the stairs to the exit as he shouts this last part to me.   I stood rooted to the spot staring at his retreating back.  And a small bubble of joy began to swell inside me.  Maybe they are beginning to understand after all.

The Honeymoon is Over!

I am so thankful that I have some real-life experience in my back pocket as we wade into week four of my Mid-Life, Mid-School Year Experience.  To say that they are comfortable with me now would be understating it to the furthest reaches of the Solar System.  They have pushed the marked boundaries and I am pushing back.  It just cracks me up how stupid they think I am.  For example, today Student A asked if he could empty his lunch tray.  “Did you drink all of your milk?’  With a straight face,  “yes.”   OK, its pretty obvious Student A is red-hot to get out on the play ground for recess, so I do not assume the best and most honorable of character traits here.  I have, after all, raised four children and can spot a fib from 50 yards (blind-folded).  I reach across the table and give Student A’s milk carton a heft.  Plum full.  Busted!!  We’ll skip through the part where I assured him I will not tolerate lying and how he  ended up actually spending his precious 30 minute recess, and jump right to the part where tears and self-pity did not move me. 

Here’s what a 22-year-old who has never raised children probably doesn’t know.  The BEST gift you can give a child is teaching them to be self-controlled and to take responsibility for their actions.  Children who never or rarely face consequences grow up to be adults who can’t hold a job, can’t make a marriage work, and will always find someone else to blame for their problems.  Can I instill all of that in the few hours a day I have them in my care? Of course not.  But MAYBE I can help lovingly guide them in the right direction and MAYBE there will be a life-lesson or two along the way that will stick with them for the rest of their lives.  I don’t know.  Pretty lofty goals, Mrs. Dahl.  Time will tell.  I just know I already love these kids so doggone much and want life’s best for them.   And yes, I know some of them have it really tough at home.  I know parents disappoint, and sorrow is an everyday emotion, and bullies intimidate, and siblings torment.  I know all of that.  I wish I could fix those things, but I can’t.  I CAN provide a warm and nurturing environment for a few hours everyday, and I can provide the stability and security of steadfast boundaries, and I can show by example that there is joy in learning about our wonderful world.  Will it make a difference?  We’ll see….

Bring it on, Tuesday!