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Blank pages stare me down, as if to threaten me to steal away their purity with my words – my thoughts and memories. My heart and mind control my hand with their insatiable desire to pour out onto the page – begging to be heard. I used to write constantly. Desires, prayers and pain fill the pages of many journals. No one asked me to do it. A few said I might find it helpful or comforting. Now, here I am being asked to reflect on my journey, my experiences, and the events that led me to this place. And I suddenly find it so difficult to do what once came so naturally to me. What is it about knowing someone else will read my innermost thoughts that causes me to shy away? My fear suggests some sort of shame. To hell with it, my fears have no right to deny my heart and mind their desire, so here goes.
As a child it seemed as though time moved as slow as molasses. All I could ever think about was when I would grow up. Somewhere between playing dress up and paying bills, time caught up with me. I found myself suddenly grown up, or at least doing a fairly good job of pretending.
Two events in my life illustrate this dichotomy between childhood and the reality of adulthood. The first occurred as a child in the small redneck town I called home. Our babysitter, then home from college and full of youthful wisdom, questioned my sister and I about our aspirations for the future. My sister assuredly answered that she would be the first woman president. Most would say this was a foolish childhood dream. However, as the younger of the two, I realized my sister’s potential to boss people around. Just as I anticipated, she is pursuing a law degree and the sky is the limit for this girl.
I, on the other hand, was caught up in the scenery. Sitting in the backseat drinking in shades of green and coveted sunlight. My eventual answer to her probing question was much less lofty than my sister’s had been. I simply answered, as many young children do, “I don’t know.” It made perfect sense in my mind. Why would I be worried about what I was going to do when I grew up? I had plenty of time to figure that out. I had no idea I had just spurred a bronco. Her reaction was one of disgust. In her opinion, there was something wrong with a person if they didn’t know what their future would hold. It wasn’t directed at me personally, but my young mind began to race. I had entered into the never-ending battle, racing to grow up and hoping I would know what to do when I got there.
The second event in my life was a much quieter, and much more personal one. One morning, not too long ago, I awoke and proceeded to go through my morning routine. My routine had become a bit mindless, my body moving robotically as my mind wandered, struggling to catch up with time. Typically, by the end of my routine my mind has caught up and I’m ready to face society. On this particular morning as I looked in the mirror one last time, it hit me. I suddenly realized that I had no idea who I was. What happened to that girl who was cutting class to score some epic powder? What happened to that girl who was infamous for all-nighters to perfect projects, and could still pull it off? Where did she go? At that moment, the weight of my responsibility came roaring into my tiny little bathroom and I was stunned. How had this happened? How had I missed it?
I knew all along that I was taking steps to get to this point. After all, isn’t that what we are told to do all our lives? Work hard, get good grades, go to college, get a job and become a successful, responsible adult. When I think about that moment in my bathroom, I wonder if my parents ever experienced something similar. I find myself asking how they could push so hard for me to grow up so fast if they knew firsthand that sinking feeling when one suddenly realizes they have grown up. I would not wish that feeling on any twenty-one year old kid, straight out of college, thousands of miles from anything familiar.
Each step I took to draw closer to adulthood was just another stepping stone, and I knew it. I was never really “present” during those times. Sure, I was there and I had a great time while I was in college, but I was always so focused on where I was going next. Would I do the internship or regular student teaching? Where would I work during my senior year? What was I going to do after graduation? I was always looking to the next stepping-stone, with a real teaching job, preferably in Alaska, as the final stone. I could never see beyond that point. Here I am, in the midst of that dream I was always shooting for. Only now, I’m awake and aware of all the other twists and crinkles that come along with this dream I had been clinging to for so long. I find myself yearning to reflect, desperate to find answers to those questions that came rushing to me that morning in my bathroom; questions that were prompted so long ago in my childhood.
The first question begs to know what happened to that carefree powder hound that was always just back from the mountain, or headed there. During my last year at the university, I worked a part-time job on the mountain, took my last two quarters of classes, and did an internship that required approximately twenty hours of my time each week, plus student teaching in the spring. I was insanely busy with deadlines, papers, projects for the classroom and of course, my mountain time. It didn’t seem to matter how much I had to do, I would always find time for a few runs or an excuse to get me out of going to a class so that I could head up for a few hours of fun in the snow. It was my escape. Every time I felt like my responsibility was weighing to heavily or I couldn’t seem to clear my head enough to finish that paper, I would grab my snowboard and hit the road. I had no idea what a pattern this was, or how dependant I was becoming on all that came along with a day on the mountain. There is nothing like it. Standing atop a mountain looking around at the beauty of creation and realizing how small you and all your troubles really are. Taking a deep breath of that refreshing mountain air and letting it out in a yell as you carve your way down an untracked run, the first human to experience this place all day. Suddenly, the papers, projects, and decisions that were so heavy on my shoulders in the valley have disappeared. I loved this part of my life so much that my original plan my senior year was to stay in the valley, sub a few days here and there for experience and rent money, and spend the rest of my time working and playing on the mountain. Oh, how my mother hated the thought! Which made my plan all the more appealing. I didn’t believe enough in myself at that point to trust that I would have the strength and the tools to move all the way to Alaska and have my own classroom. It was too much responsibility, and frankly I was way too young.
The next question that begs my attention is how had this happened? How exactly did I end up with this responsibility, and how had I missed it? Ambition is the easiest answer. I came to that point in my internship and student teaching where everyone began to ask about my plans for after graduation. My response was always the same, “Oh, I’ll be around here. I plan to sub for a year and spend some more time on the mountain.” Eventually, I realized how ridiculous this sounded. I was qualified and capable of getting a job, saying I was going to take a year off to be a snow-bum sounded absurd. What did I care? I deserved some time to be young and carefree, right? Yet there was something in the back of my mind that begged me to look at all my options. Not to mention, my supervisor for the internship required us to go to a small career fair on campus. I had nothing to lose; I may as well just go and ask a lot of questions. Figure out what was really out there and make a more informed decision. So I went, and I learned about some great opportunities and handed out a few résumés. The next few weeks consisted of applications coming to me in the mail and a meeting with a principal in Tacoma. I was starting to think that having my own classroom would be pretty amazing. A year to watch young minds grow and see the light of discovery in children didn’t sound so bad after all.
One year later, here I am preparing to wrap up my first year of teaching in Alaska. I can’t say I knew what to expect coming up here, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. What I can say is that it has been a year of discovery for me. In my professional world, I had to learn how to cope with the stress and pressure of the responsibility that was handed to me with the keys to my classroom. Regardless of how wonderful my program was to prepare me for this, there is so much you can never prepare for until the students walk through your door and into your heart. No professor can prepare you for the first time you have to call child protective services. There is no course on how to support the emotional needs of a child who never knows where they will sleep at night. No program will teach you how to group students for reading or how to squeeze in all of those meaningful lessons before you have to throw on gear for recess duty. Oh, and there is definitely no course on monitoring six classes of first and second graders on a snow-covered playground. I must say, the learning curve has been a steep one this year. Despite the uphill grind, I love what I do for a living. There is nothing in this world that compares to being part of a child’s growth.
Outside of my classroom, the learning curve has been just as steep. Somehow I had neglected to consider what a transforming experience this would be. The thought of coming to Alaska was nothing but exciting for me. I used the adrenaline that came with the expectation of adventure to drive me all the way here; literally, I barely slept on the 3,000 mile drive. I had failed to take into account the inevitable crash that follows such reckless reliance on adrenaline. It did not take long for me to realize that my dream and my reality were not exactly the same, and I had to learn to accept reality. There was no more running. The safety net of familiarity and comfort had been removed and I found myself facing fears I never knew I had. It has taken a lot of prayer and many long calls home, trying to remember and hoping to escape. I have definitely grown up a lot, but I am still far from finished. That moment in my bathroom was a fork in the road, a place where I had to choose between perpetuating childhood and stepping forth into the unknown of adulthood.
Since coming to terms with my place on this adult super-highway, life has continually accelerated. It doesn’t seem to matter that I live in a place that begs for a slower pace, things still continue to pick up speed. Every time I round another bend there is a new decision to be made, a new opportunity awaiting me. The tricky part is knowing what decisions to make, and when to make them, what opportunities to take and which would be wiser to pass up. It all comes down to a series of choices. Had I made different choices in the past, I would not be where I am today, having these experiences and growing in this way. Who knows where it will take me, only time will tell. After all, my story is just beginning.
WELCOME CLASS MEMBERS
Welcome class members to our group project.
Before we start our group, the Canniest Composers, would like to let you know a little about what our writing project was and how the process developed.
One idea really caught on with the group that we all agreed to. Debbie Hall, one of our group members, suggested we use a "picture book" and write text for each page that could be read with students later.
Our first challenge wasn't deciding on the picture book to serve as our inspiration, but making sure we all had the book. We selected a 2007 Caldecott Award Winner, Flotsam by David Wiesner, but some schools didn't have a copy.
Debbie Hall resolved this by brilliantly assigning pages and reserving assigned pages that were shared at Amazon for those who couldn't get a hold of a copy of the book. Later Debbie mailed a copy of the book to those who needed one.
Lance Smith offered a Google Doc Presentation to the group and without hesitation the writing and creativity began. To our surprise, our writing took on the form of rhymes and poetry, nicely lending itself to the magical possibilities of happenings shared in the book.
Along the way our group endured some real-life struggles, but in the end, we truly enjoyed an organic, synergistic, creative experience. We didn't get bogged down in process and training, instead expression and creativity lead the way.
Now, sit back and enjoy "FLOTSAM" by David Wiesner, Text added by the Canniest Composers...
http://docs.google.com/Presentation?id=dfjw2xsn_46fq5pb663
Please note that the opening statement for the Canniest Composers was written by Lance Smith and posted by Jan Gable. When you go on-line to see our presentation you will see that it is our opening slide.
My Final Poem
Memoir of a ne’er-do-well writer
By Robert Gable
I am the quintessential ne’er-do-well writer,
Who people often confuse as the ne’er-do-well blither.
While many of my verse doesn’t put change in my purse,
I still celebrate with a round of cider.
I am not as elegant as Ireland’s Robert Burns.
No! No! But my hand still yearns
To hold a pencil and record words which resemble struggling worms.
And against these odds my literary endeavor turns.
In my dreams, where my fantasy takes flight,
I conjure stories in my mind’s delight.
How barren my pages appear in the morrow’s light.
Blank, pale and empty my pages appear on the dawn’s sight.
I discourage not when I feel the mental block
For I know that this is the price one must pay to earn their stock.
However, I sit steadfast before my computer screen,
Recording last midnight’s mental dream on that technological fiend.
Fall
Over the bridge, a moose calf grazes
in front of the green copse of Sitka spruce.
Rounded foothills cradle the new lace of ice
on the banks of the Resurrection.
The calf splays knobby knees wide
to reach the brown stalks below.
Winter
Snow cascades off the roof
dampening window light
with its drifts.
My daughter coloring on the floor,
her legs close to the woodstove
glow tangerine.
The lamp’s circle of yellow light
floods the deepening
afternoon dusk.
Spring
Feeling the tug of April
my students and I
Leave the classroom,
shedding our cocoon.
The street a filthy ribbon of gray sand
crunches under our feet.
Behind us, the school,
a flattened box against the mountain.
Bristles of Sitka spruce
scrub the pale sky.
Summer
The hot hum of locusts
revs against still air.
A fawn leaps up from her hiding spot
in the tall grass
white spots
winking like daisies
My horse Pip drops his head
snorts, muscles bunched.
The fawn bounds
springing toward its mother
a red silhouette punched out
against yellow grass.
EJ, Memoir
Hearing my two year old daughter and my four year old son crying, “Mommy, Mommy” filled me with so many emotions I thought my body was being quartered with a horse attached to each limb and they were all heading in different directions. I was helpless to comfort them and stop their tears as they were taken away by someone we had met only two days before.
Even though this event happened almost eighteen years ago the pain is as fresh as a new grave waiting for the dearly departed. I sit here weeping and thinking I need to stop writing about this because it is still too painful. What right did the state have to give those two lovely children back to their father (a known drug dealer) who had not even tried to contact them in any way during the twenty-two months they had been placed in our home. They were our children. No, we were not the biological parents, but we had loved them from the minute they came into our home. They were part of our rainbow coalition family.
Our family of seven became a family of five when flight 67 left Sitka on October 4, 1991.
For weeks I went through life like a robot. We still had three sons ages six, eight and nine to love and care for. I still had to go to work. My husband still had to attend classes (he was in his first semster of college to obtain his teaching degree). When I wasn’t pretending that everything was okay I would sit on the floor in the corner of the kitchen and cry uncontrollably for what seemed like hours on end. I did not want to go on. Then I would hear a voice telling me I still had three sons and a husband who needed me. I didn’t want to be needed by them! I wanted my two babies back. There was this bottomless hole in my spirit that could not be mended.
As I write this I wonder if our sons would have turned out differently had this event not happened. Or, if I would have been stronger and handled it in some other way would they be someone other than who they are now. Perhaps every one of the five children would be stronger and more settled in life if we had been able to remain seven strong. Maybe if I had been better at dealing with the loss, our three sons would be more settled. I know that we can not go back and change anything. And I usually say to look back does no good. The road we took is the one we must follow, for to go back to the fork in the road now it would not look anything like it did eighteen years ago.
During Christmas break that year I made the decision that I had to have something to do with all the extra time left from only having three children and a full time job. The decision was to attend college to obtain a degree in business. I realize now that I filled my time with so many things I didn’t allow the grief to surface enough to go through all of the stages. I carried 18-24 credits over the next three years (graduating magna cum laude), worked 30 hours a week, was resident advisor for family housing, treasurer for student government, attended all of the sporting events each of our sons was involved in and maintained a home that would have looked great in Good Housekeeping. I do not really know how I did it all. It makes me exhausted thinking about it now.
Something about learning and being on a college campus just gave me a thirst for more. After obtaining my BA in business I continued on for two years for my elementary ed certification, and continued with all the other activities from the previous three years.
As for what happened to the children, they of course are young adults now. For the first six months we had frequent contact with them. In fact during that six month period I flew to Anchorage twice to visit with them in the foster home where they were placed until their father “proved” himself fit. Ha! It was so hard for Susie to understand why I couldn’t bring her back home with me. Gregg was angry. Once again a mother left him. That was two lost mom’s in his four short years of life. For the first couple of years they were with their father he would let me talk with them on the phone occasionally. I sent cards, letters and gifts. When we would talk on the phone they knew nothing of the letters and cards. The gifts would be mentioned by them as coming from their dad. As they grew older (10-12 years of age) I could talk with them if I happened to call when he wasn’t home. Susie would ask for our phone number and address and beg to come back to live with us.
Four years ago she called to ask if we were still foster parents. She wanted to come and live with us. She finally spoke to someone about the sexual abuse she suffered from the time she went back to live with him (13 years of abuse). It breaks my heart to think it could have been avoided if the state had listened to the underlying message in his response to questions during his psych eval. In fact, the state psych advised against them being returned to him, but the state regs said blood relations were the best place for children to be. We tried to get Susie to be placed in our home, but again the state had other ideas. Because the children are mulatto the social worker thought it best for her to be with an African American family. Susie’s response was, “Well I’m half white. Doesn’t that count?” It didn’t. So they left her with one foster family after another for two years. She became a momma at the age of 18 and dropped out of high school. At 16 she was only a freshman. Her daddy kept her home from school for an entire school year when she was 13. Gregg not being too fond of women due to loosing the security all children are entitled to, did not believe his sister. Well he kind of believed her, but felt it was her fault. She was a female after all and she had it coming to her. So they have no contact with each other. I only know all of this because their birth mother is the one who placed them in our home to get them away from his abuse. She stays in touch with us. She had been our foster child and her reason for bringing them to us was “We were the only real home she ever knew and she wanted that for her children. She wasn’t ready to be a parent. In fact, she did not think she ever would be.” This was the same scenario she had lived through. Her mother left her when she was very young, with her father, and never maintained contact. Oh the web we humans weave and the mark it leaves on the souls of children.
As for our remaining three sons…I keep telling myself that parents do the best they can at the time and children will make their own choices as adults. I also tell myself there has to be something to the nature part of the nature versus nurture debate.
All of our children are adopted. Our youngest son is a convicted felon serving time in an Arizona prison (prisoner exchange program with Alaska). He is a story in his own right. I had concerns about his ability to be a free man from the time he was about 30 months old. Once again the state did us a favor by withholding information about his birth family. He is a product of FASD, as is his half brother.
Our middle son is cognitively impaired and lives on SSI and SSD. He is borderline schizophrenic and has epilepsy. It may seem cruel to say, but he has just enough intelligence to have dreams, but no way to make them happen. He drives people nuts talking about what he is going to do. He’s a Walter Middy type person.
Our oldest son is more okay than the other two. However he is not without his problems. He suffers from associative reattachment disorder, but won’t admit it and try to work through it. Therefore he goes from one lousy relationship to another. We do have our beautiful granddaughter from one of those relationships. I wouldn’t trade her for anything in the world. He is a hunting guide and holds a US Merchant Marine Officer license which allows him to skipper vessels up to 100 tons. He is an avid outdoorsman.
Some of my questions come from wondering if with all of my busyness during the time we all were grieving the loss of two family members, did I deny my sons a part of their mother. Did I offer them the support they needed to deal with their grief? Or was I too wrapped up in my own grief to even notice theirs? I do not like to look too closely at those thoughts for I fear either I will be too hard on myself, or the truth might be more than I can bear. So here I am all these years later trying to figure out how I could have made things be better for all three boys.
For a first year teacher, starring down the barrel of your first day can be a bit daunting. The Sunday before my first day, I barely recall sleeping at all. Flat on my back, mouth slightly agape, I fixated on my ceiling fan while my mind raced through myriad anxieties, possibilities, and unanswered questions.
Like clockwork, the tones of advice from my new colleagues at Bartlett periodically invaded my mind. My mentor teacher's mantra echoed,"The most important piece of advice I can give you is start out firm with the kids; I generally don't smile very much the first week of school. This is a key to classroom management and your sanity as a teacher your first year." Establish fear and respect; this same sentiment passed on to me by Ms. Bailey was echoed among many other teachers whom I met during my student teaching. It's no surprise that her words on this matter stuck like a skipping record in my mind. I suppose that maintaining a sense of order and commanding respect was among my most immediate concerns. I figured new teachers must generally be given some latitude with respect to creating quality lessons. Having interned at Bartlett, I also felt rather comfortable with most of the house-keeping protocols like taking attendance, memorizing the bell schedule, navigating emails, etc. Past this, what I didn't know I felt pretty confident I could improvise. But classroom management is a different beast altogether. Fail to establish order, and my career might end on a single day. Horrible nightmares - visions of apocalyptic rioting, of kids hanging from ceilings, and of naive, doe-eyed freshman being pelted with plastic soda bottles from foul-mouthed 19 year-old delinquents unable to stumble out of English 9 - plagued my fear addled brain. I decided to follow Ms. Bailey's advice as best I could; I would dawn the persona of the hard-ass teacher.
Early the next morning I enter my classroom with a fair measure of confidence and excitement, despite my sleepless night. The walls of room W216, my teaching sanctum, were oppressively barren. During the in-service days prior to the beginning of school, I went on a desperate scavenger among the faculty to hunt for any sort of decor. However, I found most of the teachers unwilling to part with all but the most childish, outmoded educational decor: images of circa 1970's comedic actors pandering the virtues of reading, orange and green pastel grammar posters with absurd cartoon animals that would insult the intelligence of a 3rd grader, faded pictures of American literary icons whose faces had been distorted by years of hapless stapling and masking tape removal. I took none of them. I would not sacrifice my good taste to the need for wall filler. As such, my room appeared conspicuously empty. Still, it was MY room.
At about 7:20, the students begin to trickle in. Amused, I watch as the kids uncomfortably shuffle around to find the seat in my class that will best suit their disposition and identity needs. A well-groomed young lady (probably home-schooled through middle school by her look) bee lines to the seat nearest my desk and the front of the classroom. A large framed teen with wide-spaced eyes and over-sized jeans ambles to his desk. He seems confused and slightly nervous in this situation, but his hard eyes and grimace suggest a person trying hard to appear otherwise. And so in their various degrees of self-consciousness and feigned self-confidence my first class ever file into their seats.
I begin addressing the class, and like the students before me, I feel uncomfortable, awkward, not myself. Immediately after taking role, the words of my mentor pop into my brain, "Start out firm...establish a clear line, you're their teacher, not their friend." I begin to delineate the class expectations, all the while do my best to remain detached and stoic.
"Let's be clear here guys, I'm fair but I won't tolerate disruptions. You are here to learn and my first responsibility is creating an atmosphere where that will happen." Gazing out into the classroom, I could feel the tension, defensive detachment, and disappointment in the room. As if to test me, a few students begin a conversation as I continue to review the rules of the class. "Gentlemen, you are getting off on the wrong foot here. Will I need to hand out detentions on the first day of class?" They silence themselves, but glare back at me as if to say, "This is class is going to suck and I already hate you."
The bell rings, and the class quickly files out the door. I've established myself as a hard-ass on the first day, but I don't feel as if I've accomplished anything. In my mind's eye, I see the entire course of the school year unfold. Students dispassionately drag themselves to class every day for the remainder of the school year. They never respond to points of discussion. They never share their thoughts or their writing. They never feel welcomed.
It immediately hits me that Ms. Bailey was wrong, at least wrong for me. Maybe a healthy amount of fear and emotional detachment from students worked well for her, but this is not me. I like people, and I've never been nor will probably ever be an authoritarian personality. It also occurred to me that I had something in common with many of my student. Many of us were posturing, presenting facades to deal with an unfamiliar social situation. If maintaining a well disciplined classroom means sacrificing my own personality, then I'll take my chances with chaos. Anything but this.
The next day when students returned to class, I shocked them completely by turning a behavioral 180. I greeted students at the door with smiles and handshakes and rescinded the seating chart. I asked students questions about their interests, discussed movies and music, and cracked jokes. Most importantly, I did not condescend. I engaged the students in a honest manner. Initially, most of the students did not know how to respond, but as the school year progressed, and I remained true to my own personality, the atmosphere of the class evolved into something special. About six weeks into the class, a student of mine finally remarked on my change of attitude and presence in the classroom. "So what was up with you that first day anyway? Were you, like, having a crappy day or what?" Choosing the route of full disclosure, I explained to him that I was concerned about loosing control of my classroom; I also shared the advice of the many teachers who advocated for complete austerity in classroom management. Jason admitted, "Well yeah, they're kind of right. Ms. B is that way and no one says a word in that class. But we don't really learn much more in that class just because were quiet. She just has us do worksheets and everyone hates that class. I'm not going to lie, I goof off sometimes in your class, but I think I'm learning more here, and I make sure I do my work. Don't be like her, Mr.C, your doing fine."
As the year progressed, my classes were seldom quite, students were off-task from time to time and struggled daily to remain quite while I was speaking. By the standards of many teachers, my classroom was indeed a bit chaotic at times. Still, most of my students managed to perform well in my class. They listened when called upon to do so (though not always immediately), and many worked diligently on a consistent basis. Apart from excessive student talking from time to time, the class ran smoothly, without major catastrophe.
Perhaps all teachers could dispense volumes of advice on 'good' teaching. I'm no exception. However, if I could offer only one piece of advice to new teachers based on my own experience, it would be this - always stay true to yourself.
Our group decided on poetry. Here is my current final draft:
Beaufort Lagoon
we unload our plane
to a constant crashing.
insistent, distant, muted
its smoke rushes. a reverse waterfall
a hundred yards and more from shore.
nobody notices.
a fathomless vision
this locomotive steam.
scorching my inland brain
as it rises to meet the incomprehensible.
yet another mystery in this land of tricks – tiny caribou
5, 10, 50 miles off cast Stonehenge shadows
-- gales arrive without warning
and accompany impossible fog
-- one marblesque Snowy Owl
haunts this abandoned, toxic place.
walking back
the sound of a thousand breaking
plates thunder behind me.
the caribou darken, dissolve into the hills.
a mottled Arctic Fox trots past
i nearly forget.
days later i discover
this wall of smoke and sound
it was an open lead
exposing its wound to the brevity of summer.
A supplemental reflective piece...
I had an interesting conversation with a group of my advisory students yesterday. The conversation started something like this - "That librarian got some issues. I didn't do nothing to her, so I don't know what that attitude's all about!" Following C's comments, a slough of responses to her impression of the librarian began to pour in from the class. This led to a veritable bitch fest where students began to comment on every bad or mediocre teacher they've had while at Bartlett. After listening for several minutes, I felt compelled to ask, "Okay guys, I've got a question for you. Based on your comments, one might think that every faculty member at this school is rude, condescending, and completely dehumanizing. Is the climate here at this school really that bad, or are you guys just fixating on a few bad experiences and over exaggerating the overall situation?"
By and large, the sense of most of the students was that about half of their overall interactions with teachers and faculty members has been in some way negative. Specifically, most of the students said that they don't feel respected by the adults in this school. Strangely, if you were to ask most teachers, they would reply in same fashion - that most students don't respect them.
Respect is a funny thing. Perhaps the most basic human need, next to physiological needs, is the need to feel validated and valued as an individual. This is all respect really is, a simple acknowledgment that, "Hey, you are there and you matter." One would think that such an important and simple thing would be easy to find on a regular basis. Why is it then that we have such a scarcity of it at our school?
I've got a few thoughts on the matter. The obvious culprits are students and teachers whose mama's didn't love them enough. They're recognizable by their visages, chronically distort by anger and mistrust, by their voices, shrill and full of resentment, and by their words, everyone of which is directed at belittling someone or something. Still, the chronically unhappy only account for a handful of these people. This leaves many teachers and students who spew disrespect at select others, but are otherwise happy people in most environment. Case in point is a colleague of my I'll refer to as Ms. B. I speak with Ms. B quite often, and in our conversations she is consistently pleasant. She always wears what appears to be a genuine smile when around faculty members, and laughs voraciously at even the stupidest jokes. Yet, to hear her students speak of her, one might think she was the Anti-Christ. Her students loathe her, and comment about her daily attempts to belittle them. They complain that she never smiles, is always insulting, and never gives students a fair break.
How do we account for teachers like teacher B? My sense it that our titles are some to blame. Often in life, our positions relative to one another affect the manner in which we communicate. Those who are invested with authority are often compelled to treat others as children, to deny them what most would consider common respect, under the believe that their position dictates that they do so. Thus, perhaps Ms. B feels that her role as a teacher demands that she be heavy-handed with her students. Anyone who has ever observed the candid conversations among teachers at my school would attest to the truth of this axiom. Teachers, when discussing the woes of classroom management and the decline of modern youth, vow that for every increase in classroom disruption or insubordinate behavior, they will respond with an equal measure of austerity. Escalation ensues.
The matter is not merely one of duty. Most teachers feel that their position entitles them to student deference. When a student, even a relatively benign one, disrupts class, many teachers feel personally slighted. As a colleague of mine once grumbled, “I’m here for their benefit and it’s not like I paid a hell of a lot to do it, so it infuriates me when they don’t even have the decency to pretend like they’re paying attention and shut-up when I’m talking.” Her impression was minor compared to another colleague, who quite honestly believes that the abysmal behavior of his students is a sign of an impending apocalypse. “When I was in school, nothing like this ever even existed. A kid wouldn’t even think of speaking to an adult the way half of my students do. If they did, they would be around long enough to encourage other students to follow because they would be out of school! Our students have no respect, no fear of punishment, and no values." All such comments reflect the belief that teachers and adults, by virtue of our position, are entitled to complete deference from our youth.
To some degree, I feel as they do, and many students recognize this as well. In fact,after discussing the overall perceptions of my advisory students in my 2nd hour English 11 class, many students were quick to point out that the negativity many students feel is warranted. As Nicole remarked, “Those kids who say 75% of the adults in this school disrespect them are the same kids who are causing all of the trouble in class. I like all my teachers and get along with the ones I don’t like.” Perhaps she’s right. If teachers, by virtue of our position, are entitled to reasonably obedient and civil students, don’t we have a right to become indignant when we don’t receive it? Moreover, is it not our right and responsibility to adjust the severity of our attitudes towards students until they comply?
In my mind, righteous indignation is counterproductive. Of course, there are moments when I want to scream at students and bring them face to face with their disrespect. Most times, they are clearly in the wrong and they know it. Still, I've yet to find many teachers who have had success in truly teaching a student the virtues of respect by chastising them. I've found even fewer who have inspired a love of literature and writing (or any facet of learning) in students by forcing them to remain fearful and silent in the learning process. Yet, I've seen first hand how powerful an effect a kind and compassionate teacher can have. Conversely, I've seen the damage a spiteful teacher can do in diminishing or complete extinguishing a student's desire to learn.
I'm not advocating that disruptive students should be allowed to behave with impunity. On the contrary, I think consistency in rule enforcement and consequences for poor behavior are paramount. However, enforcing rules doesn't necessitate an exaggerated emotional response, and a student's poor behavior is seldom intended as a personal attack. In as much as we teach with our curriculum, we also teach with our actions. What message are we sending to students when we emotionally detach from them the moment they behave out of line? What is to be gained by either party by treating students with indifference or condescension simply because we feel we have the right to?
This is a poem I wrote for Ramblin' Writer Poets. Enjoy.
Is it the most Beautiful Place on Earth?
I don’t know, but I’ve been told
The mountains soar straight
Out of the ocean
Extending high into the sky
I don’t know, but I’ve been told
That fox begin to dance at night
Searching for scraps
Needlessly discarded from sharp-tipped claws
I don’t know, but I’ve been told
Oceans twinkle in the night
Smiling at everyone across
The azure brine
I don’t know, but I’ve been told
Every language can be heard
Chow, Hola, Dobroye ootra, Aloha, Kumusta
Danh tu, Adios, Dosvedaniya, Aloha, and Babbo
I don’t know, but I’ve been told
The air so clean
That every fish or crab detected
Is celebrated as the sharpness assaults the nose
I don’t know, but I’ve been told
That otters come to chat
With friends and relatives gossiping about
The languid walrus on the rocks
I don’t know, but I’ve been told
That crisp, clear water appears directly from
Tears shed by these majestic mountains
For the inequity suffered by its ancient residents
I don’t know, but I’ve been told
There are more birds than any other place
Like eagles and auklets and ducks
And dippers and shearwaters and murrelets
I don’t know, but I’ve been told
It doesn’t matter that it rains
And rains and rains because
The sun will come out to remind us
Yes, it is the most Beautiful Place on Earth.
I was also in the poetry group, so this is my personal narrative in poetic form:
Spring depression is the worst kind
Snow melting, buds greening
And my body, unable to spring
Lies dull. Heavy. Sluggish. On the couch.
Weighed down by winter weight, I say
(But that’s a lie unless this is Narnia and my life is
An eternal winter. )
No, this weight is here from before.
Season after season
A sabotage I began long ago.
I’m of the cowardly breed who shrinks from suicide
Who believes ‘that Mankind are more disposed to suffer,
While Evils are sufferable.’
I wouldn’t fire a gun or tie a noose
Instead I pack my mouth with sugar
Ensuring a slow deliberate death,
Diminishing life
I shun fresh veggie fiber for cheese
Acid burning in my throat, I reach for more
Cheese, heedless of the signs of death
While costly fruits repine in my refridge
And finally cry out with wretched odor
To be thrown away.
Shriveled heart and bloated body
I cover myself with my shame
Still everyone knows my name
But they do not know my contempt.
And PS-I got my bike out of the garage this weekend and rode it around town. That and the sun lifted my mood tremendously. Sorry my poem's such a downer!
Oh! I posted this on my group's webpage on Sunday without realizing it was due on this site as well. Here it is...
As I look out on bare grass for the first time in seven months and the sunlight slants across the keyboard I am struck by how much has changed in a mere year. I feel like the me of 12 months ago and the me of now is hardly the same person. I am not even sure that I recognize myself half the time with all of the changes that have occurred since packing up our life in Alabama. I wonder how much of my life will resettle into what I remember once Nic returns from his deployment…it has caused such a dramatic shift in my persona that I wonder if I can ever get back to the person I was before. I am proud of all that we have accomplished as a couple and I am always a bit smug when I tell people that Nic is a Blackhawk pilot and I am working on my second master’s but I also yearn for three years ago when our biggest concern was where to walk the dogs and whose turn it was to set up the coffee. I have become a walking Hallmark card and all my lines are sappy ones. The sheer loneliness that has descended since life has settled into routine is at times crushing. I often find myself sitting on the floor with photographs spread around me, gazing at my life before I disengaged. To imagine going through the odyssey of returning home at this point in my life is impossible. When I did it, I had the strength of a very happy and fulfilled life to power me through.
Nic graduated in June and we decided to move ourselves in order to put a little extra jingle in our pockets. Always a planner, I had mapped out ways of saving money so that we wouldn’t be pinched by my summer unemployment. Little did I know that I would more than earn my keep during those sweltering southern days. When time came to pack Nic was putting in 16 hour days at work leaving me to pack and load the truck myself. When he would get home at night he would find me exhausted and filthy, trying in vain to get comfortable on our leaky air mattress, the only semblance of furniture left in our house. It’s funny now but those nights at the tail end of marathon days were some of the best memories of that time. We would go get ice cream and watch the heat lightening flicker across the sky. What simple pleasure it is to sit in the sultry dark with a full fat cup of pecan praline. By the time Nic’s parents came in for his flight school graduation our time at “Mother Rucker” was at an end. We hosted them for a week out at one of the cabins on post. I had never spent more than overnight with my in-laws so I was a bit nervous but we eased into the our shared space with a fluidity that surprised all of us. Our mornings we would have coffee on the lawn and the evenings ended with long walks along the lakeside.
They flew out and we drove out the same day. I don’t know that I felt any portentous feelings as I exited the gate for the last time. Nic was in front in his car, our dogs in my back seat, the sun was out and it was already hot but little did I know that it would be the drive from hell. The very first day my car, a steady stead of 12 years and my ever faithful transportation started having epileptic fits. It would start to shudder and then die with a final gasping lurch. The first time it happened I was halfway up a hill with a line of cars behind me. Frantically I radioed Nic and angled myself as much as I could onto the curb. Neither of us could understand what had happened, we had just gotten complete tune-ups on both cars and I had never had any problems like this before. After kicking the tires for 10 minutes Nic finally turned the ignition again and viola, it turned on. The fits continued as we drove through the 100 degree weather but once we got to higher elevations my car, as if feeling ashamed of itself, straightened up and behaved. Our second night into our drive we were pushing on trying to make up time lost in our roadside pauses when a semi in front of Nic blew a tire. All I could see from my perspective behind Nic’s car was a sudden flash of backlights and his car veering off the road. The tire had flown back and took out the undercarriage of his car. If he had been any closer to the semi the tire could have come right through the windshield at him. A midnight towing to Marion, IL left us cooling our heels for three days. The unexpected rest stop turned out to be a blessing in disguise. It gave us both a chance to rest, something we hadn’t had a lot of in our flurry of packing and finishing up school. We had learned our lesson about driving at night but the pressure to recoup some of the time woke us in the wee hours of the mornings and ensured that our only stops were to find flushing toilets. 12 hours on a road a day and you get sick of your own company. Apparently our dogs felt the same. Daisy, the most affable canine you could ever hope to meet developed violent car sickness sometime around this point. There is something so explicitly pathetic about looking in the rearview mirror at man’s best friend heaving out the window at 70 miles an hour. By the time we saw the lights of Reno blazing in the middle of the dessert we were all exhausted. All I wanted to do was sleep and avoid riding in any type of car. Unfortunately my had brother flown in from Panama to visit us so we hosted him for a week in our place there, (which we had to move out of at the same time - we had subleased it while we were in AL). A week passed in a blur and then Nic turned to me and said, “I can’t drive up the Alcan with you and get ready for my deployment” which was completely understandable but was not part of my master plan. It was a good thing I had thrown that out the window on the second day. Since I was uncomfortable driving by myself we flew my dad in to Reno, bought a new car, said good bye to Nic and my six years of life in Nevada and departed on yet another journey. It took us six days to travel the Alcan. After about the second day we had run out of things to say and my bottom was turning to leather and fusing to the car seat. At least the dogs were flying and did not have to endure another marathon across country in the backseat.
Arriving back in Alaska was very anticlimactic. I got out and took the obligatory picture in front of the “Welcome to Alaska” sign and then drove another two days before pulling up to my childhood home. I had already gotten the ball moving on buying a house that Nic and I had picked out online, (not the smartest idea I’ve ever had) and were days away from closing. When I saw it for the first time I knew it wasn’t the one for me and backed out of the deal. I was left completely without prospects for new homes and could hardly work up the motivation to get out there and start looking. When the last little birdie flew the family nest my parents had remodeled their house, complete with hardwood floors. I could stay at my parent’s house but the dogs were verboten and as their yard isn’t fenced my two dogs were spending their days in a neighbor’s yard and nights in my folk’s garage. This situation sucked for all involved and the stress caused Zoe, our older dog to develop hives all over her rear end. I came home one day to find her pulling out her hair in huge bloody clumps. Into the vet for her- treatment was a head cone and medicine 4 times a day. At this same time, (early August/late July) a class that I had signed up for was starting and I was still house hunting. The stress of the whole ridiculous situation wore me down but good and I got really sick for a couple of days. When I was back on my feet I hurried up to my new school, only to find that I couldn’t get into my classroom because the teacher who had it before me hadn’t moved out yet and was on vacation until August 11th (school started on the 16th).
As with all good stories, this one has a happy ending. After dinner one night I was driving my friend around to show off my new wheels and saw a house for sale in a great neighborhood. I was on the phone to my realtor immediately and I made an offer that was accepted. I leaned on everyone I could dial up to speed the purchasing process along. I also got into my classroom and set up in record time. Once I had a fence built my dogs got settled and the hives faded, although Daisy is still wary of car trips. Of course I closed on the house the first day of school (nothing is ever easy) but I was so happy to have an address and a job I didn’t even care. I have spent the last seven months putzing and tinkering, painting and nesting so that when Nic comes back, we can both call it home.
During my first year of teaching I had twenty-five students in a room built for ten. One day, I decided to keep track of how many questions I was asked, I lost count after about 500 questions. I guess I must have answered all them as well. And my husband wonders why I do not want to talk to him when I first get home at night?!?!
My life has been a relatively easy one so far. I've had a lovely childhood, an easy adolescence, and my adult life has been more pleasant that most. Not to say that there have not been bumps, or mountains, or so I thought of them at the time. For the last six years my world has been teaching and my husband. Both have been challenging, also the most rewarding things I have ever done.
If there were a prize for the best childhood, I would have probably gotten it. My childhood was unique and wonderful. I grew up in Elfin Cove, Alaska which is not even a one horse town. Elfin Cove is situated about 90 miles from the nearest “city”. I attended a one room school which had an average enrollment of 12 students. Kindergarten through 12th grade. When I was in 6th grade I was the oldest student, with my sister being the next oldest. She was in 4th grade.
My dad built our house with a chainsaw and hammer, using wood that he salvaged from an abandoned fish cannery. When he built the house, the community did not have a public power system, so my dad did not wire the house for electricity very well. We had a generator that we ran for electricity during the day, and kerosene lanterns that we burned at night until I was about five years old. I remember the day we got “real” power. I could go the bathroom at night without a flashlight. We also got a refrigerator, before that we had a kind of root cellar in the back of the house. Which made getting dinner fixings or a snack kind of a pain.
My mom always tells a story about my sister and I learning how to drive the family “cars”, first a rowboat and then a 12 ft aluminum skiff with a 25hp outboard. I was allowed to row the rowboat across the back harbor by myself when I was about five. And we were able to take the skiff as soon as we could pull start the outboard. The other stipulation was that we had to be the chauffeur for my mom when she needed to go back and forth between town and our house, which was across the harbor from town.
I could tell a millions stories about the glories of growing up in a remote village with unlimited outdoor activities. Some of my most favorite memories include my younger sister and I playing games outside in all kinds of weather, and always coming home with treasures in our pockets. It got even better when we got older and could venture out of the “cove” as we called the harbor and run around in a skiff visiting islands and exploring. We were not always as safe as we should have been, but, we all made it through without too many broken bones.
When it came time to leave home for boarding school in Sitka at Mt. Edgecumbe High School, I was only fourteen. Elfin Cove School was wonderful, but not geared toward students that wanted a well rounded high school experience that included sports and extra curricular activities. I attended, and lived at Mt. Edgecumbe High School in Sitka, Alaska with about 400 other students from around Alaska that come from small towns with none, or a very limited high school. If I had to sum up those four years with only two words I would call them busy and entertaining. I graduated from high school in 1999 and attended Pacific University in Forest Grove, Oregon that fall. Another entertaining four years, which resulted in a degree in Early Childhood Education and a teaching certificate.
I spent a year figuring out what I wanted to do and were I wanted to do it. My boyfriend at the time, husband now, drove me all the way up to Tok, Alaska which is in the Interior from Haines, which is in the Southeast to check out a job. He was much more successful talking me out of it after I saw the area and what I would be up against. I am glad we took time from our busy summer schedule to take the trip, I would not have survived that job as my first teaching assignment. It took us about a year to figure out some direction and we ended up in Ketchikan. I was offered a job teaching in a charter school.
I remember my first day of teaching, I was petrified. I had spent nearly twenty days unpacking and setting up my classroom and I still did not feel anywhere near ready. Twenty five Kindergarteners walked through my door with their parents. My classroom was about fifteen by twenty with one door and no windows, it was a tight squeeze. I had planned everything down to the last minute with back up activities ready. The thing that I had not planned for was most of the parents to stay! Who would have known? Most things having to do with teaching are not taught in college. Potty training, lice checks, how to deal with parents, how to run reading groups, etc.
My first two years of teaching were very difficult. I liked the structured curriculum at the charter school. I also enjoyed our full time music teacher, physical ed teacher, and librarian. But I did not agree with the direct instruction, sit in your seat, everyone do the same thing all the time philosophy that our charter school functioned under. I felt stifled. I tried to bring in things that I thought would give those lovely little five year olds a more hands on, rich, and engaging learning environment.
After those two years, it was time to move on. We decided to pack up our household and move to Sitka without jobs, without a place to live, and with a boat, a truck, a car, and a dog. What to do? I started subbing and my husband started work fixing airplanes. I was so nervous, but after subbing for 5 months I got an interview for a position. Even more nerve racking was waiting to hear back from the principal. I did get the job, yay! Along with it came a steady income AND benefits. Not to mention getting to do what I love in an a school that I thought would be a great philosophical match.
These days for the most part I get to completely control the direction in my classroom. I collaborate with five other experienced teachers that share everything with me. Books, ideas, copies, supplies, pretty much anything that I need, they share with me without hesitation. There is room in our school for new ideas and new ways to try things. I get to think outside the box more and more all the time, which is something my mom and dad always encouraged me to do as a child. I guess that life lesson was one that I took to heart. Along with being FLEXIBLE. IF you are not flexible as a teacher, your life will be miserable.
I love what I do now and I challenge myself to be flexible and engaged in my teaching. I have told my husband that if he sees me becoming apathetic to kick me. When you work with children you must always be involved and engaged, otherwise they know and the experience looses something. Children have this uncanny knack of worming their way into your heart. I must hear...Mrs. Loomis, Mrs. Loomis, Mrs. Loomis... about a gazillion times day, I still love it every time!
Grandma's Love (Revisited)
We all have come from somewhere, and it’s the people we come from that make us and the journey we’re on what it is. I was pretty much raised by my mother's mother--my Grandma Clark. She was one strong, independent woman. At twenty-one, she left Glasgow, Scotland and came to this country via Canada with only a ticket in hand and the guarantee of a job as an upstairs maid. Her friends called her Nettie and she had many. She was married and loved her man for twenty years, having five children with him and living longer without him than with him. He died young and left her with a houseful of teenagers.
I remember all kinds of wonderful experiences we shared from our early morning walks to the day-old bakery and to church on Sundays to her walking me to school every day and making sure we said our prayers before bed every night. We'd go to sleep sharing tales of our day while the world news or a good baseball or hockey game played in the background lulling us to sleep. Later in life, I would still need her comforting arms and I'd run to her with any tragedy I couldn't face on my own. She was my rock. However, it is the story of Grandma’s culinary delights that have caused several family discussions, often disagreements, at family functions years after her passing that I want to share.
Gram’s cooking was quite a controversial topic in our family and still is to this day. I remember when I got back from my Alaska adventure in 1983, I teased her that we could open a restaurant in the Yukon Territory and make a fortune. “We could get over five dollars a slice just for your apple pie alone,” I’d tell her. Mind you, her pies were legendary for their thick, tough crusts and undercooked fillings sometimes too bittersweet to even be successfully washed down with a sturdy brew. But, it's her poor man's stew that will be passed down through several generations. That's how we will best remember her. I have made it for years and anytime I need to remember her fondly, I gather all the ingredients, get the big stew pot out and get cooking.
Now the point of the family discussions were that we all make our version of Gram's hamburger stew but we have all left out or added something, we claim she always used or didn’t use as the case may be. I've had my own, my dad's, mom's, sister's, cousin's, aunt's, and on and on but none will ever really be Grandma Clark's. Hers was love and that's that. Many of our family gatherings, like many of yours, are about food but no matter what the occasion at some point, we’d end up discussing Gram's poor man's stew. We can start off talking about fern cakes, meat pies, sausage rolls, shortbread recipes, whatever, but we all have the best memories of her hamburger stew. We’ve even argued about it being called a stew and not a soup.
One main ingredient that we argue about is the rutabaga. My mom would claim she only used it in season because of the taste or lack there of in the stored roots but we'd counter by saying it is really because she didn't want to have to hunt down that bitter, little, orange root or have to pay the hiked-up price of the imported produce in the off season. “Mom, admit it. You’re cheap,” we’d yell at her and she’d laugh. My sister never put in the rutabaga or the peas because her children "wouldn't eat those foul veggies" but I know it was because as a child she wouldn't eat them either. Only, I know it isn’t Gram’s without the rutabaga.
Aunt Jean is the one who always claimed it should be called a soup and not a stew, and therefore, she would thicken hers to make the broth into a gravy. I actually liked her version and I thicken mine a little now, too. I'd never let anyone other than her know that, though. She was an "outlaw” (in-law), after all. She would often make a beef stew that resembled more of a Hungarian goulash and that was her way of treading softly around our family's Scottish traditions.
Dad's version always meant leftovers. He'd been a firehouse cook for years and when he cooked everything would feed fifteen to twenty hungry men. It was nice when he made his famous fudge brownies or those delicious Spanish peanut, peanut butter cookies but the four of us got tired of hamburger stew long before it was ever all gone. But I always loved his stew because I knew how much he loved Gram--his mother-in-law and she him. They were a funny pair, those two.
Doctor Carol, my younger cousin, always insists that Worcestershire Sauce and beef bouillon cubes be added to spice it up some claiming, “That’s how my dad says grandma made it for him.” We’ve all taken her lead and we now add both. No one is debating the truth of her legacy because we like the added flavor and figure Gram would, too.
This doesn't really cover all the controversy concerning Grandma Clark's hamburger stew or her infamous cooking but it gives you a little taste of my wonderful memories of our life together. She lived to be ninety-four and could still shovel her own walk and mow her lawn (with a hand-push mower believe it or not) until the day she "went to join her Jack" as she put it. In the hospital she smiled, quietly closed her eyes and left this world on January 23rd--the same day her husband died fifty-one years earlier. My mother was at her bedside at the time and said it was like he was there in the room calling her to him and she smiled and passed with little or no ceremony. Not a day goes by where I don’t do or say something that touches a place in my heart where Grandma Clark will always live.
Thank you for this opportunity to share a little of myself and the granny who contributed so much to who I am today. JJ
Mom's Weekend 2009 2nd Draft
I checked the status of my red eye flight before leaving my home in Fairbanks. The Alaska Air website has a travel advisory on the Mount Redoubt volcano eruption. The volcano is calm and quiet on April Fool's Day and Flight 128 in scheduled to depart on time.
I am headed to my fourth and final Mom's Weekend at Washington State University in Pullman . Mom's Weekend is a time-honored tradition where students honor their moms while enjoying activities and events. My daughters Amanda and Melissa are seniors as WSU. Amanda is an Interior Architecture major and Melissa is a Zoology major.
As the Dash 8 prepares to land at the Pullman Moscow Airport the winds are gusting to 30 knots. I inhale and exhale with full yoga breaths through the landing. The Dash 8 touches down hard on the asphalt and wobbles in the gusty crosswinds. The pilot brakes hard and the plane grinds to a stop on the tarmac. I am relieved to unbuckle my seat belt and bolt through the cabin door. I gather my composure and grab my luggage off the A La Carte and head to the terminal. I spot the white FJ62 Landcruiser with Alaska plates. Amanda and Melissa are are on time and waiting for me.
Amanda and Melissa radiate a new sense of self confidence since Christmas break. Concentrating their efforts on academic goals has been incredibly motivating for them. They talk non-stop as we drive through the wheat fields to their Maple Valley apartment. As we drag my luggage up three flights of stairs I am reminded of a well-meaning mom who advised me the third floor is the safest in college apartments. The apartment is cozy with creative clutter from their myriad of school projects.
We head to Swilly's for lunch. Amanda and Melissa's eyes light up as they scan the menu. There is real food on the menu not just their college staples: milk and cereal. I order the Mediterranean Grilled Chicken with feta mayonnaise once a year at Mom's Weekend. The lively chatter of moms and college students catching up echoes throughout the room, laughter and smiles abound. This moment in time is bittersweet, it seems these four years have been on fast forward. I feel a tinge of sadness as their college journey is ending. At Washington State they have acquired knowledge, organized their time and resources and made most of their life as college students. Graduation is sixteen days away and I feel early pangs of empty nest syndrome.
I scan my checklist for the May 9th commencement ceremony. Amanda and Melissa are prepared and have completed every item on the list I emailed them. Suddenly their eyes are darting toward their laps. I do not believe my daughters are texting on their Blackberries! I look around Swilly's and see the majority of the college students are texting. Texting is the new talking. Times have changed!
Amanda and Melissa are dedicated college students and refuse to miss class for Mom's Weekend. I drive back to the apartment to do laundry. They have mountains of laundry. Where did they find clean clothes to wear to school today? After classes I meet them at the newly remodeled Compton Union Building, or the CUB as it is commonly known. Amanda is excited to show me her design contribution to the CUB. She shows me her design portfolio filled with Revit sketches, computer and hand renderings, and the explorations in lighting. In front of the CUB the chilly rain has turned to a wet spring snowstorm. The snowflakes stick on the screen of my digital camera as I attempt to capture every moment of Mom's Weekend.
Another tradition during Mom's Weekend is to shop at the local Crimson and Gray Bookstore for Washington State Cougar gear. Amanda and Melissa stock up on Cougar t-shirts, hoodies, and yoga pants. The entire town of Pullman is decked out in crimson and gray screaming with Cougar Pride. One last housekeeping task remains, shopping for groceries to stock their pantry. We hit the produce section and the shopping cart is filled with snap peas, red and green peppers, mushrooms, cucumbers, pink lady apples, bananas, strawberries and raspberries. The prices do not faze me compared to Alaska grocery prices. As we stroll up and down the aisles the girls grab their favorite snacks. They gaze at the meat and chicken counter and I say, "buy whatever you want." They deserve healthy food to fuel their bodies the last month of college.
We return to the Pullman Moscow Airport where Melissa is working toward her private pilot certificate. Melissa has discovered a new passion in her life - flying. We walk through Interstate Aviation to take pictures of the Cessna 152 Melissa soloed in. She proudly flips open her digital logbook on her laptop and beams at the 38.7 hours she has logged. She grins as she shows me her torn shirttail, an aviation tradition after a student's first solo flight. I was a witness to this event through digital photography.
Saturday the skies are cotton candy blue and the sun is brilliant. We head to the popular landmarks on campus for pre -graduation photos. Attempting to take photos on graduation day is like rush hour traffic on I-5 in Seattle. Amanda and Melissa don their black gowns and scrunch their mortarboards with crimson tassels on their heads. I think their jeans are too casual peaking out from their gowns; Melissa assures me she can Photoshop the jeans black. We savor the sunshine as we meander around campus taking candid graduation shots. The girls are giggling and begging for ice cream at Ferdinand's. We stroll over to the WSU Creamery for the award winning ice cream before our evening concert.
Mom's Weekend 2009 features "Huey Lewis and the News" in concert at the Beasley Coliseum. I tell my daughters the group's contagious brand of rock and roll has outlasted countless trends My girls are not impressed and have never heard of Huey Lewis and the News. Rows of moms from my generation remember the song, "The Power of Love." The usher take us to our seats seven rows from the stage. Amanda, Melissa, and I enjoy two solid hours of solid rock and roll blasting in our ears.
We arrive at Maple Valley apartments energized by the events of the day. We stay up all night reminiscing about friends, family, pets, and vacations. We talk about the challenges and opportunities of them growing up as military brats. They shared their insights about their father's aviation career and his endless deployments. They reminisced about living in Washington, Alaska, and Germany and attending various schools.
I spent eighteen years building a family, they are a part of me and have been a part of my life on a daily basis. My career was on hiatus and my life's main preoccupation was raising strong and healthy daughters. I am experiencing a sense of loss for daughters I have been involved with on a deeply emotional level. As a parent I was super-invested in everything from the first day of kindergarten, to tennis lessons, to weekend soccer leagues, to the last day of tutoring for the AP Exams and the SAT's. I know I have to let them go, but I have a powerful case of the pangs of separation.
The night I returned to Fairbanks after Mom's Weekend I find myself rummaging through the baby book totes looking for a print of Amanda and Melissa sitting on a sandy beach in the San Juan Islands. They were four and two years of age. I find the print and am plunged into memories I thought I had forgotten.
I have taught Amanda and Melissa how to be successful adults and I should congratulate myself. I now have an opportunity to create a new life for myself. I want this freedom to fly to be a growth experience and not a frantic effort to avoid acknowledging an empty nest. I want to serve as a good role model for my daughters and let them see me move on in my life. I will remember to support my daughters as they begin to manage their own lives after graduation. I will strive to be a mentor and not a manager.
Posted by Jerrilyn at 8:54 PM 0 comments
Monday, April 20, 2009
Marlie—I hope you write a book someday about your adventures in Elfin Cove. I’m not exactly sure where that little town is at, but I did try to find it on the map. Somehow I missed it. Are your parents still there? This is our own “Little House on the Prairie”! I am wondering if your mother has such golden memories of the time, or was it really hard on her? When my husband and I were in Africa, we loved the simplicity of not having electricity, but I’m sure it was warmer than Elfin Cove is. I never liked washing clothes in a basin, and I really missed taking a hot shower. Hardships aside, it sounds wonderful. Write that book….series. dc
EJ, what an amazing memoir! I am sitting at my desk with tears in my eyes after reading all you have given to your children. Thank you so much for sharing something so personal and real.
Today began at 6:30. Okay before 6:30 when the girls' alarm went off. I was looking forward to a great day of speech competition and activities. First, I wanted a great cup of coffee from the BABS coffee stand at the District Office. Later in the morning, I would ferry my students to lunch at a restaurant and go shopping using a district van. Then there were the finals in the afternoon, the awards banquet and dance. Little did I know that the warnings of the day before had not been heeded, and I another trip would be added to my day.
Camping at the Bethel Hilton - on a classroom floor at Bethel Regional High School (BRHS) - for our District Speech Contest has never been my favorite sleeping situation while chaperoning students. Luckily, I brought one of the electric air pump mattresses to sleep on which kept me from becoming an insane grouch by the second day of our trip. This, I believe helped me stay relatively calm through the rest of the day.
Breakfast was a shock. Well, only because I didn't read the new instructions that told us to take the kids up to the district office JROTC room for pancakes and sausage rather than the gym annex as in past years. (Major Bailey retired last spring, so there's no more 6:30, "coffee's ready if you want some" announcement). My girls and I lugged our luggage over to the DO and made it to the JROTC room just in time to eat. The coffee stand wasn’t open yet, so no java. As I sat enjoying a cold pancake with even colder sausage with some juice, I overheard two other chaperones, “ They are sending her home. I just talked with Carlton.”
“What happened,’ I interrupted. Then the one told me that two students were caught the night before 'kissy facing' up in the library in the dark after curfew.
“Where were they from,” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“The boy is from Chefornak. We are looking for his chaperone.”
“That would be me. I’ll go find him and take him to Carlton,” I replied with as little emotion as possible. One must remain professional in these situations even when one wants to go rip the finger and toenails off a favorite student. I didn’t know whether to be angry or hurt. I had warned him the afternoon before not to into any dark corner. Why didn’t he listen? Later, I found out the boys’ chaperone had warned him, too.
I left the JROTC room in a sort of focused haze to find my student. I hadn’t had any coffee yet, and wanted to buy a mocha from the now-open BABS coffee stand in the foray, but that would have to wait. When I found him, all I had to do was look at him and motion for him to follow me. He didn’t say a word, nor did I. What could I say? What could he?
The next three hours went like this:
- talk with student and super of students –
Carlton to student, “Do you know why you’re here?”
Student, no response.
Carlton, “You were caught in the dark library lying on the floor with a girl.
Student, “We weren’t doing anything.”
Carlton, “Still, it looked bad and you were out after curfew. We are going to send you home.”
-make plane reservation home for student - take student to airport and and and wait wait wait till 10:30 for the plane to take off. “So boring!!"- to quote my students.
I was told the plane would be leaving in half an hour: we’d have to leave right away. So keys in-hand, I took a longing look at the coffee stand and rushed out to start the van. I’d hope there was coffee at the airport.
My student said not a word all the way to Yute Air. I was hoping he was too embarrassed to talk to me, knowing really that he was probably just mad at what he must perceive as the injustice of it all. I wasn’t surprised that after we checked him in, he sauntered over to a seat as far away from me as possible. There he sat with his back to me – a silent statue. Couldn’t blame him, really.
Of course, when we had gotten to Yute, they said the plane wouldn’t take off until 10:30. It was just after 9:00. Thank goodness there was a coffee pot in the lobby with a fresh pot.
Sipping my coffee, I watched darkness lighten into day. Then the day was made much better by a brilliant red-gold sun rising over the mountains to the east on a balmy negative 4º morning with little wind. It would be a beautiful day.
My student’s day, of course, was already a disaster since he was sent home in shame and would miss the dance and another day with his sweetie who is from another village. Poor guy. I've got a new nickname for him now - Lancelot. Yup, he was warned and just like Lancelot and Guinevere, he got caught doing exactly what he was warned NOT to do. Oh, well. Some of life's lessons need hands-on to learn them.
One good thing did happen for him, though. Just before his plane left, Lance’s relatives came in from Chefornak on the morning plane and gave him the $149.00 he owed the school district for the plane ticket home.
My student boarded the plane without a goodbye or a look back. I waited for the plane to take off before I left. Back in the van, I still longed for that good cup of java, but again, it would have to wait. I needed to get back to the DO. There were still trips to the store and a restaurant with the rest of my students. In the afternoon we’d all go to the finals. Later, there was the awards dinner and the dance. It would still be a good day. I’d get a coffee at the AC grocery store.
The day got decidedly better. I got back to the district office in time to shuttle my team and the gals from Nightmute to the AC Store (one of three grocery stores in town). We shopped. I got a coffee finally – a nice rich hot mocha. Oh, it tasted so good. I shopped a little – must have set my coffee down somewhere while I looked at something, because when I checked out – it was gone. Oh, well. The two or three sips I had would have to do.
Next, I shuttled us all to Shogun (see I can only take 8 at a time in the district van), a local Chinese/American/Mexican/Italian and Japanese restaurant. I took the first group and one of our elders, Mary Tunuchuk - a former kindergarten teacher, plus my friend and grandma to several of my students. When I returned to AC for the 2nd group, the Newtok Chaperone surprised me with a new coffee. I was so glad.
At Shogun, the Nightmute coach, Mary and I told the kids we were paying up to $10.00 each for lunch. They paid the balance and left a tip. It was a great lunch. No one asked about Lancelot. I was glad of that.
We all shuttled back in time for the final speeches. The English speeches are always in the JROTC room and the Yupik speeches in the Board Room. Everyone must attend. The rooms get crowded and stuffy. This year, there were chairs for everyone where in years past, students had to sit on the floor. Either way, the afternoon is a long one with having to be quiet through all the final speeches and stay awake in a stuffy room. But it is always worth the sit for my team. We usually have a least one in the finals. Two of my boys were in the finals this year: Tim in Expository and Ryan in Persuasive. Both seniors: Tim took 5th and Ryan a 2nd.
After the speeches, we all gathered our luggage again and headed back to our digs ar BRHS. This evening it's been pizza and a dance. I am typing while Pat's musix is blaring and the strobes are twirling and the kids in motion. Fun.
Later, it's blow up the mattress and settle the kids for a short night. We leave for the airport at 8:15 from the District Office ( I read the note this time ). It's now -15º with a wind chill of -32º. I am hoping that it warms up a little. I do not want to be stuck here in Bethel at the airport all day because the wind chill is -35º and we cannot fly home.
So that was my day. Hope you had a cool day and a great evening.
EnJoy, Sandy For now Lancelot and Guinevere would have to settle for email. I had overheard him say, “Her father is really mad at me. He won’t let her talk to me anymore.”
JJ what a heartwarming entry. It brought backmany memories I have of my grandmother who passed when I was only 12. She was paralyzed on her left side. When I would visit she would use me instead of her cane. I still have her cane. She had a green house full of orchids. I inherited most of them at the tender age of 12 and kept them until I was out of high school. Grandmothers are special people, but then again so are grand children.
Jerrilyn your comment "I will strive to be a mentor and not a manager" struck a cord in me. I think I will borrow it as my new mantra, if you don't mind. Letting go is one of the hardest things a parent has to do and I am not so sure I have been very successful at that. Thanks for sharing your week-end. It brought tears and joy to me as a reader.
JJ- In our family it was Granma’s chocolate chip cookies. She never would give out the recipe. She was known for the best chocolate chip cookies around. I don’t know if they were that much better, but I thought they were at the time. Another thing that was really nice was that she made so many of them, you could always go to the chest freezer and grab a coffee can full of them if you were going on a trip somewhere. There never was a track meet where my girlfriends and I didn’t jump in the back of the pickup with a can full of her cookies ready for the long ride to the White River Track Meet. She died without ever giving anyone the recipe. What a shame. Maybe she didn’t want us to know they were Toll-House with a pinch of Love added at the end that made them so good. dc
I posted this in the wrong place earlier this week -- oops.
Kylie - Final Memoir
Spring 2009
Connecting my Love of Nature to the Classroom
From my earliest memory the outside has been a significant piece of my being. Childhood pictures fill in the gaps where memories need encouragement.
I come from a family that takes advantage of Alaska’s beautiful mountains, vast oceans, and remote lands I remember loving the beaches as a young girl. I remember Homer the best. The late night drive was quite often an adventure in itself. My sister and I would lay out the sleeping bags and pile the pillows up in the back of our van. There was no DVD, I pod or Nintendo DS. In fact, we were lucky if the radio even got reception. So unbuckled and unplugged we’d be off for a family weekend. I’m not sure how much sleep we actually got because I remember always seeing the old buildings before 20 Mile River, the bridge just past Hope, and, weird as it is, the gas station in Soldotna. To this day those landmarks are there. I like that. It makes it almost feel as if time can stand still.
Six hours later the Homer Spit would great us. The same way each time - water on both sides, the harbor to the left, camping on the right, and the infamous Salty Dog right in the middle of all of it. We’d venture down to the camping area to join the other campers. And, oh, were there “campers.” No large RVs like you see today, no North Face tents or clever folding sink operations. These were the uniquely Homer Spit Rat campers. Their weekend, and sometimes summer, homes were created from driftwood and blue tarps. Early on we would camp close to them. We would pitch our tent or tents and create our own little camp for the weekend. Later we would pull the tow-behind-trailer into the camping area further down the road. It never seemed to matter where we were camping, just that we were. I know people were there, the pictures are there to fill in the names, but I just remember the nature. I remember gathering mussel shells and driftwood to create the perfect mobile. Flat rocks were gathered for skipping or painting. And we were always looking for the unbroken clamshells; they were few and far between. How patient my parents were to haul of that back every time we’d go. I wonder now if they slipped those “treasures” out with the weekly trash as I sometimes do with my own children.
I don’t recall having much structure on these weekends. We’d watch the tides for fishing and beach combing and that was about it. We didn’t squeeze in trips to the museum, estuary or Sea Life Center. My parents didn’t bring bags of DK and Eyewitness books explaining how the ocean worked. But we still knew what a starfish felt like and where to look for an octopus during low tide. We figured out that barnacles had a mouth and that jellyfish were nearly transparent when they were floating in the water. We knew that junk in the water, which I’d now call pollution, could hurt the sea creatures. I’m not sure how we knew - maybe conversations with our parents, maybe just observation and thinking. I’d like to thing it was a little of both but more of the observation and thinking.
This idea of conversation and observation is something I work on in the classroom each fall. Using the study of Alaska’s Plants and Trees, I guide the students in developing their observational skills as well as their ability to discuss and journal about what they’ve observed. Walking permission slips allow our class to venture off school grounds for nature walks that connect classroom lessons and nature. On these nature walks, students use observation skills to identifying plants and trees that surround our school, learn to use a nature journal to collect information and document change, and, I hope, learn that they have a direct affect on their environment.
The Alaska Plants and Trees unit is just one of the many “excuses” I use to get the students outside. I continually watch for opportunities that allow the students to learn about the world around us. Snowshoeing while studying microclimates fit nicely in our weather unit. Collecting salmon eggs, watching them develop, and releasing them in the spring supports the overall theme of Changes that is the science focus for third graders. And exploring the Eagle River Valley while observing plants, trees, and animals native to the South Central region extends the students’ knowledge of both the required science and social studies units for third graders. While some teachers may find these trips unnecessary or an organizational challenge, I find, after teaching how to observe and interact with nature, these trips are a highlight for both the students and myself.
As I look back and think about the experiences I’ve had with nature, both as a child and an adult, I am reminded of how important those interactions are to my outlook on life. I think back on the feeling I have when I’m outside exploring and enjoying nature. I’m reminded of how truly fragile yet resilient the world is and how my actions affect other living things. I can’t imagine my life without hiking, camping, quiet walks, or picnics at the lake. I’d like each student in my class to leave knowing that nature is out there waiting for them to care for it, learn from it, and enjoy it.
The Long Ride Home
The heater was on full blast in our old GMC suburban as dad and I drove home from karate practice. Oldies quietly played on KOOL 108, the only station dad ever listened to, just loud enough to fill the heavy silence. The tight pull of the seatbelt felt especially smothering as I tried to come up with the words I would use to tell him that I wanted to live with my mom.
A week earlier I had woken up to fresh piles snow on the ground, the sun shining, and the hope that perhaps just enough snow had fallen the night before to have school canceled for the day. I didn’t mind missing a day of fifth grade. My brothers Derrick and Dustin and I plopped ourselves down in front of the TV hoping to see “Amery Public School Canceled” flash across the screen. We were in luck that day; school was canceled!
It didn’t turn out to be as wonderful as we had expected. Shortly after our breakfast of cheerios, Mom called us in from the living room where we were watching cartoons. She and Dad were sitting at the kitchen table, both with sad eyes, and Mom looked like she had been crying.
“You guys know that I have been staying at Auntie Debbie’s a lot lately, right?” mom asked us, tears running down her face. We nodded our heads, unsure of what was going on. My stomach started to tighten up, and I felt a lump forming in my throat. I could still hear the cartoons in the living room and wished I as in there. “Well, your dad and I have decided to separate.” She paused for what felt like ten minutes. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do or say. I wanted to throw up. My face and chest burned. The lump in my throat made it hard to breath. One tear rolled down my cheek- allowing all the others followed. I really had no idea what this meant; all I knew was that I was becoming one of those kids whose parents get divorced. I didn’t want to be that kid.
“You guys know things haven’t been very happy around here, and we’re gonna try and work things out, but until then, I’m moving out,” she told us, her voice cracking.
Dad didn’t say much; he just sat with his head down looking at his tan, weathered hands. Across the table, my younger brother Dustin’s tears were magnified by his thick glasses. Derrick, who was older than me, didn’t seem to have any reaction. Tipping back on two legs of his chair, he tapped his fingers on the table.
“Who are we gonna live with?” Derrick asked.
“Well, you guys get to choose,” she said.
My eyes burned and the lump in my throat suffocated me. It wasn’t fair.
Back in the GMC, the smell of exhast filled the truck. The lump in my throat was still there, and I wasn’t sure how I was going to tell him. I was glad it was dark; he couldn’t see me crying. Snot dripped from my nose, too afraid to sniffle; I didn’t want him to know I was crying.
“Dad?” I managed to get out, “I wish I didn’t have to decide.”
He sat patiently and quietly waiting for me to say what I needed to say. I could hear my heartbeat in my ears, feel it pounding against my chest.
“Dad, I wanna live with you, but I think I’m gonna live...” I couldn’t say it. Nothing would come out. I just wanted to turn up the music and forget I ever had to choose. I know it was going to make him hurt, and I didn’t want to do that.
I never did tell him that night. He knew. He understood. And although I didn’t spend my entire childhood with dad, we always had a special bond, a father daughter bond that couldn’t be broken by the messiness of divorce. I always was and will always be his little girl.
Deanna-OMG- My heart is breaking. You did a… I can’t find an adjective to fit what you wrote. The style that you used fit the topic so well. You described everything so vividly. I can physically feel the ache in your heart as my heart is aching with yours. I was much older when my parents split up. I didn’t have to decide who I would live with, but the pain and confusion was still there; and, yes, there was plenty of snot dripping from my nose. Your account touched my heart. dc
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