Remember This

It was an ordinary vacation dinner

Sun streaming through my daughter's hair

with live music,

My mother laughing, basking in her granddaughters' smiles

and beautiful scenery,

The girls chatting, teasing, laughing together

a light breeze, 

My father's face glowing in the evening light

and a setting sun

 My husband, relaxed and smiling

when it happened.

A veil lifted.

Past, present, and future

washed over me at once.

Memories 

mixed with the knowledge 

that this, too, would be just that.

And suddenly

my heart saw the overwhelming truth:

This ordinary moment
is special.
And it is fleeting.
Pay attention.
Someday you will long for this..

Feel it. 
Absorb it. 
Remember it.

I wanted to freeze time,

to grab it and hold on tightly.

But alas, instead

I blinked back tears. 

The music changed,

and time moved on.

Winter Sun Haiku

 The bright winter sun

Warmth on a snow covered world

Brings the hope of spring

A Tale of Two Principals

 My career, while far from over, has been bookended by two intelligent, hardworking, and remarkable women who have helped me to become the teacher that I am today. Eileen, my first principal, taught me so much about teaching that sometimes I can't remember what I knew before I met her. When I entered her school I was a baby teacher without a clue. Liz, on the other hand, entered my life just in time for Act Two of my career. When I rejoined the teaching profession full time, she welcomed me back with warmth and enthusiasm, and fought to give be a solid place and a new school to call home.

Eileen was, and I'm sure still is, strong, smart, polished, and at times, formidable. My twenty-something self felt equal parts love, respect, and awe for her. She was named the Massachusetts Elementary School Principal of the Year during my first year at her school, and I knew, even then, how fortunate I was to work for someone who was literally the best in the state. Eileen ran a forward-thinking, exciting, high-achieving school. She chose her teachers carefully, and I was proud to be in the mix. When complimented on her work as principal, she would always say, "It's not me, I'm just the bus driver. It's all about who you get on your bus!" That wasn't true, of course. She did so much more than that. She created a school culture. She had high standards for herself and high expectations for us. Another Eileen-ism, which I believe came from her Irish mother, was, "Never ever stop, and never ever rest 'till your good is your better and your better is your best!" She wanted us to create lifelong learners by being lifelong learners, and she set the example.  I often still hear her voice in my head, even twenty years later. Always call every family by the end of September. Your relationship and reputation with parents can be your most valuable asset or your downfall in a district, so treat it carefully. Never let parents (or principals) be surprised by bad news. Over-plan, then scale back. Eat lunch in the teachers' room. Be a part of the community. Participate. Share your gifts. Be reflective. Don't be afraid to think outside the box. Be collegial. Don't forget to go home and have a life outside school.

Eileen was a great communicator. Every Friday, each teacher received a copy of The Golden Thread (affectionately called "The Thread"). It contained everything we needed to know for the following week, shout-outs and "be-sure-to"s, and always her favorite part: personal announcements. When a life event happened to anyone on her staff, Eileen took great joy in being the person to share the news, and this was usually done in the first paragraph of The Golden Thread. I remember rushing to her office the morning after I got engaged, before anyone else could see my ring, so that Eileen could be the first to know, then waiting eagerly for the Friday announcement, full of love and excitement, that I knew would come.

During my years at South, Eileen was my my boss, my mentor, my friend, and sometimes, when I really needed it, my school mom. She encouraged and supported me, and pushed me to move beyond my comfort zone when I was ready, whether it was a grade change or taking on leadership roles with other teachers. She took care of her teachers, and she trusted us. She gave me the absolute best beginning that a teacher could have, and when she retired it felt like a huge personal loss. The following year I made the decision to take time off to become a stay-at-home mom. I didn't leave because Eileen retired, but if she hadn't left I don't think I would have left her. Or if I had, it would have been a whole lot harder. 

About nine years later, my girls were going to middle school and I was itching to move past subbing and get back to my own classroom. I wondered if I would ever find a school that felt as much like home as South had. As I searched Schoolspring for jobs, I came across a school with an interesting name that had an opening. I checked out the Dr. Leroy E. Mayo website and Facebook page and got what I can only describe as a warm feeling. When I looked at the pictures and posts from the school I felt that I could be at home here. And then I saw something that strengthened that feeling. The principal had posted bedtime stories that she read to her students from her own home. The intimacy and joy of that struck me and I wanted to know: Who is this principal?

Enter Liz Garden. Liz is a different kind of principal. As smart, hardworking and driven as Eileen, Liz brings a whole new level of joy and energy to a building. She is open, emotional and vulnerable. She has her own kind of strength... and she's FUN. Liz came to my first staff meeting in a full pilot's costume and a complete airline theme as we "took flight" into a new year. She started the first day of school in the gym, with the entire school joining in a New Years Eve style countdown that even included confetti cannons. And at the end of that first week she held a dance party in the foyer to celebrate. I was enchanted. Liz wears funky earrings, cool t-shirts about books, kindness, and learning, and even sports the occasional tutu or costume. She has locked herself into a display case to celebrate books, which she loves more than anyone I have ever met. She even personally gives one to each child on their birthday. She never hesitates to get down on the floor to read or play with a child, and is always looking for ways to let children play, explore, celebrate, and be kids.

While I was lucky enough to start my career with a Principal of the Year, through Liz I have learned the term "Edu-rockstar". She is a bit famous among principals around the country. She presents at conferences, contributes to books and studies, meets with governors and secretaries of education, promotes literacy, serves on an anti-racist task force, and teaches principals how to be better principals, all while continuing to learn, leading a school, fighting for her people - students and teachers, and raising two small children. To be honest, I'm not sure she actually sleeps.

Liz has high expectations for her teachers and high standards for herself, but she values us as people first. She reminds us to take time for ourselves and our families. She prioritizes connection and communication, and works to ensure that everyone in her school - teacher and student alike - feels profoundly seen and heard. Every week we receive a blog post with inspiring thoughts, everything we need to know to get through the week, book recommendations, shout-outs, and yes, personal announcements. She tackles tough topics and isn't afraid to fight for what is best for her school, her teachers, and her students. She expects the best from her teachers and trusts us to get it done in the way that best suits our strengths.

In the spring of my first year at Mayo, Liz took on a new role, one none of us wanted her to have: pandemic principal. As we faced school and a world like none of us had ever known, her personal, emotional, and empathetic nature became even more important. While struggling with her own challenges, she became our rock, absorbing the stress, frustration, and sadness of an entire staff and school. It was an impossible job, yet she did it, still smiling, though occasionally through tears. In the two and a half years that I have worked for her, I have already learned a tremendous amount, and more importantly, have been re-inspired to keep learning, keep reading, keep improving, and keep expanding my horizons. I know that no matter what the future holds or how long our paths overlap, I will continue to learn from Liz for years to come. 

So why am I writing this now? I'm not sure, (well, I have an idea) but I have recently been thinking of how fortunate I have been in my career. I believe that people enter our lives at the right time, and that we are all here to teach each other something, whether it be professional or personal. These two incredible women entered my life at the perfect times. Each of them has added to my life in numerous ways and given me more than they have known. For that I will be forever grateful.

                                                                               

This time last year, I wrote a note to 2020. I thanked it for the gifts it gave amidst the turmoil, waved it away, and asked that 2021 would be kinder. I'm not sure whether or not that worked out. 

2021 was a weird one. 2020 was strange, but 2021 was weirder - and in some ways, harder too.

When we began the year, we were still at home. We were teaching virtually, learning virtually, and working virtually. By the time the New Year rolled around, it was getting old. We were hoping for the light at the end of the tunnel, and although we didn't know when it would be, we just knew it had to be getting close. After all, how long could this really go on?

When we began the year we were looking forward to a new president and an end to political nonsense. We hoped that the crazies would be taking a back seat. But instead, they got louder and tried to overthrow the government, leaving the giant task of repairing all that was nearly lost, and in some cases, trying to replace what had long been broken.

When we began 2021, we thought Covid would be gone in the spring, then everything would be better. And it was...

for a while.

In March, vaccines became a reality, and we thought, "Here it is! The end!" But then people didn't want the vaccine. So we hoped it would be enough if we did our part. We hoped could chase it away - will it away.

And it looked good for a while.

Summer felt normal.

For a while.

But then the virus rebounded, and we cancelled our trips and put our masks back on.

In September, school started and we hoped it would be a typical year, but, no matter how happy we were to be there, it was anything but typical. People had forgotten how to be together, talk to each other, and work together. Kids needed to re-learn how to play together. Teens needed reminders to look up from their phones and look one another in the eye. People were hopeful and confused and excited and hurting all at once. We were supposed to be back to business as usual, and we tried. We adjusted expectations and made allowances. We guided and supported, and were so grateful for how far we had come. We celebrated every single bit of "normal" that we had. And it almost felt like enough.

And then the headlines returned, with graphs and numbers and warnings. Events were once again cancelled. The search for masks and Clorox wipes was replaced with a search for at-home test kits and hopes that this wave will be shorter or less severe. 

So why has 2021 been weirder? 

It's weirder because it sometimes feels like 2020 didn't exist. It was a lost year that often gets forgotten in conversations, or skipped over in memories. It's weirder because we're in a fake new normal in which we pretend that everything is the way it was, but nothing is. It's weirder because we still can't even agree about what we've been through, let alone how to deal with it. We live on a constant tightrope between overreacting and under-reacting, desperate to let our guards down but still afraid to do so.

Last year, as I bid farewell to 2020, I thanked it for the gifts of quiet and togetherness. What will I thank 2021 for? Vaccines, face-to-face conversations (even masked ones), hugs, moments of joy, celebrations, and glimpses of a new normal. Progress.

I hope that, in 2022, we will be gentle with one another as we recover from all that we have been through. I hope that we learn from it. As we eventually emerge from this uncertain time, I hope that we will step into the light of possibilities with a sense of determination, joy, and and above all, kindness. I hope that 2022 will bring health, gratitude, and peace. I think we're ready for that.

Modern Life and the Mysterious Blue Van

    Every generation has its own fears. I grew up in a small town where life was mainly uneventful in terms of major news. Our tv news came from New York City, and our local paper was mostly filled with high school sports and local politics, with world events mixed in. It seemed like the kind of town where nothing remarkable would happen. And yet, every year or so, the halls of the school and the playgrounds would suddenly fill with reports of a mysterious man in a blue van (always blue) who was lurking in our streets, ready to scoop up random children with promises of puppies or candy. Nobody actually saw the van, but a lot of kids seemed to know people who did. Stories of the blue van were both terrifying and exciting. I remember standing at the playground fence searching behind the school. I looked with a mixture of fear and dreams of the glory that would come from being the one to catch him. (The fact that our playground fence faced a forest with no roads in sight never crossed my mind). Eventually, after a few days or weeks, the stories of the blue van would run their course and we would return to our regular, less scary and slightly less exciting lives. 

    Last week there was a concerning social media post about my children's school. School officials and police handled the situation and deemed it not to be an actual threat. They informed parents and students of the situation, and it seemed to be done. No big deal, nothing to see here. Then, the following day, there was a Facebook post from a parent who had heard that "many people" were keeping their kids home from school the next day because the students didn't feel safe. Others chimed in agreeing that this was true and expressing their dismay at the situation. As I read the post, a block of ice formed in my chest. Instantly my mind started to reel. Was it safe? Did those students know something that the rest of us didn't? How could we find out? Would I be a fool for sending my kids to school, or an over-reacting, hysterical parent if I kept them home? And was it worth the potentially horrific consequences if I made the wrong choice? The questions formed a nonstop loop in my head, punctuated with mental stories of worst-case scenarios. I monitored Facebook all night. I considered asking the girls, but since neither of them had mentioned it, the last thing I wanted to do was project my anxiety into their minds. 

    This anxiety wasn't new for me. My children were in kindergarten when the Sandy Hook shooting happened. Although we shielded them from that story for years, I have been very aware, through their entire school lives, that there was the potential for my children to be shot at school. For the first few years, I froze every time I heard a siren during school hours. Eventually I was able to move those worries to a back burner, but unfortunately, as they got older and without my knowing, the girls developed fears of their own. Just a few weeks ago, someone at their school mistakenly hit a wrong button and released an automatic announcement indicating a lockdown situation. It was remedied within seconds, but in that short time some students had run to the woods to hide. We talked about the event, including how the students had stayed there for some time after things had cleared up. When I joked that maybe they had wanted a little break from school, my daughter stopped, looked me in the eyes, and said, "No, Mom. They were scared. There isn't a single high school student who isn't scared every single day that they're going to get shot at school."

    The girls did go to school on the day in question, and everything was fine. They noticed that some kids had stayed home, but weren't overly concerned. That morning I managed not to act like I was sending them off to war as I left for work. I had a cry in the car and tried to use my anxiety strategies to ground myself in probable reality instead of worst case scenarios. It was during this time when I suddenly remembered the blue van of my childhood. I realized that it still exists, but now the mysterious man has been replaced by an angry kid with a gun. That was oddly comforting. It reminded me of kids and rumors and the ease with which they grow. Also that they are usually only loosely based on reality.

    The comparison isn't that simple, though. Our blue van rumors grew out of a vague awareness of a story that someone saw on the news or an after-school special. Today's kids see reports and footage from school shootings all too often. We worried about a mysterious bogeyman with a baseball cap and sunglasses. They worry about the people in their math class or cafeteria. What must that do to kids? And what must it do to a community - when the perceived threat comes from within? What have we, as a society, done to our children?

    So, where does this leave me? On one hand, kids will be kids, rumors will fly as rumors do, and most of the time it isn't a reason to worry. So that's good. On the other hand, we live in a country where we expect our children to learn in a place where they worry, not without reason, that they might get shot because some other kid has a bad day and access to a gun. We can choose to overlook the fear or stuff it down, but what we are asking of our children, and ourselves is truly awful. And for some reason we live in a society that doesn't seem to want to do anything about it.

The Rest of the Story

 Last week I wrote about where I'm from. It was a series of beautiful memories, all of which were real and true. 

Today I was thinking about myself as an aspiring antiracist teacher. I keep turning the phrase over in my head, wondering what, exactly it means, and what I need to do to reach that goal. One part of learning to be antiracist is exploring your own identity, hence the poem. 

I used to think that I grew up in a time and place that was free from race. But that is just not true. I grew up in a town where I could name (and probably still could today) all of the Black families in town. I knew who they were and who they were related to. I can still tell you the name of the only Jewish student in my grade, and I remember that when a Jewish family moved in on my street some neighborhood kids drew on their garage doors with soap and egged their house. I didn't understand why. Because they were different, I guess? I went to a public elementary school where every classroom had a decorated Christmas tree in December, and made Easter baskets in the spring, and we never thought to question it. I saw stories on the news about the black and brown people living 40 minutes away in the Bronx, and I learned that they were different and scary. Even in high school, I remember looking at my Black friend's (yes, singular) skin, and wondering if it was different from mine somehow, and also assuming that her only choice for a prom date was the Black boy who had moved in the year before. I never even thought to ask if she liked him. 

And, at least one time, I was more than just complicit. 

When I was in third grade, I did not feel like I was privileged in any sense of the word. Our family didn't have a lot of money. My clothes were clean, but they were never cool, and I was always kind of a rumpled mess. We were poor, although I never really knew it, since it seemed like a lot of kids were in the same boat. I sat in the back of my third grade classroom, next to a girl named Samantha, who was Black. What I most remember about her was her hair. Now I know that it was natural. Then, I just thought it was big. And when she put her head down on her desk, it came over onto my desk too, and that bothered me. (Of course, as a kid, I never asked, or even wondered why she always had her head down). So, I asked her to move. But it kept happening. Finally one day, I told her to move, and she was frustrated by that, and I think she may have said, "Or what?"

And I replied with a phrase that I had heard boys and big kids use, but which I honestly didn't really understand. "Meet me on the bus."

I don't really know what I expected to happen. I had never been in a fight before, and never have since. When I sat down next to Samantha on the bus that afternoon, her sixth grade brother and his friend immediately  started chanting, "Fight! Fight! Fight!" And then, next thing I knew, she was hitting me. I never hit back. Instead I started to cry, and the bus driver broke it up. The story, in my mind and in my family became about how the "bad girl" beat me up. 

The moment I remember most of all, and which fills me with shame, was when we were sitting in the principal's office the next morning. I had never been to the principal's office before. I was what I would now call a "young" third grader. I was immature, but I was a rule-follower. In my family, I was known for being unable to tell even a small lie. 

But when the principal asked what happened, that's exactly what I did. I lied. I said that I didn't know why she started hitting me. When she said that I instigated the whole thing, I denied it. I never admitted to saying, "Meet me on the bus."

I never doubted that the principal would believe me, and I was right. 

I know that it wasn't malicious on my part. I was a kid who got in over my head, and I was afraid to admit it. But I wonder how that affected Samantha? How did she feel when she was telling the truth and the principal didn't believe her? I certainly never gave that a thought.

When I think of white privilege, that is the first story that comes to my mind. I don't know if the principal believed me because I was white, or if there was any repercussion at all for Samantha. Maybe he felt that he had given us a talking to and it was over. That's not the point. The point is that I, who was a terrible liar, expected him to believe me. And whether I knew it or not, I expected him to believe me because she was poor and black, and I was white. 

Samantha moved away sometime that year, before coming back in eighth grade. When I saw her I remembered our history and tried to avoid her. One day in math class, she looked at me, half smiled, and said, "Hey! Didn't I beat you up once?" I must have turned twenty shades of red, but I admitted that she had. She laughed, and we became friendly after that until she moved away again. Not friends, but friendly. I never apologized, though. I wish I had. 

So, how does this affect my journey now? I don't know, but I think it's important to acknowledge and realize that what felt to me like a race-free society was not. It's just that my race and my culture were so prevalent that it felt like the default. I'm sure it didn't feel like it was race-free to Samantha or others who were not in the majority. 

Where I'm From

I am from a brown, cedar shake house, set back from the road.

From the shade of the front yard oak tree, 

and the thrilling highest branches of the Windy Tree out back.

I am from the creek and the woods

and riding bikes around the neighborhood.

From sledding down the driveway and swimming in the pool until my hair turned green.

I am from a nurse and a construction worker

who left in the dark early mornings 

but always sat down to dinner at night.

I am from, "Get your elbows off the table," and "Eat your vegetables."

And also from staring at my vegetables until long after they grew cold.

I am from 10:30 mass,

Third pew on the left-hand side, just in front of the choir.

I am from The Group, 

a friend-family with its gaggle of unrelated cousins 

playing in basements, running through campgrounds, and eating crumb cake after church 

while our parents talked and drank and laughed.

I am from Anne Murray, John Denver, Billy Joel, and Kenny Rogers,

And from making up dances in the basement with my sister.

I'm from huge, Brooklyn, Sunday family dinners 

And Grandma's round house on Shickshinny Lake.

I am from Girl Scouts, CYO Basketball, and CCD.

I am from the second chair of the flute section

and the cast of the school play. 

I am from magical Christmases.

I am from family,

I am from love.

I am from Home.