Category: reading

Community Curriculum Building #SOLC26 29/31

My mind keeps going back to Sherri’s post from earlier this month. In it, she quotes abolitionist organizer Mariame Kaba who says, “Knowing who to be mad at truly is praxis.” Sherri follows this quote with a number of questions we might consider when we think about our anger. In my comment I suggested that I should put them on a poster and have them next to my desk. 

After venting my spleen yesterday about the frustrations of teaching with no textbooks and little content guidance, I started thinking about Kaba’s statement again: who should I be mad at truly? Whether or not I should be mad at them, I realized that I’ve been targeting my anger at “the system” or, more to the point, “the government” and then joining in the chorus of cries about intentionally underfunding education. 

And look, probably “the government” should be providing more money and guidance here, but Jessica’s comment on my post reminded me that the opposite of no guidance can be far too much guidance. Very few teachers appreciate mandated programs – and sometimes these programs can be harmful (think of the mandated programs that did not use research-based ideas for teaching reading; think of the mandated programs now that only use part of the research). Glenda reminded me that even lists of suggested titles can function to place some ideologies over others. While I know these things, it was good to be reminded again that the solution to these problems is not easy. Lisa reminded me that this isn’t just happening in one place or at one school level.

I thought about these things on the way to the gym and, later, while I planned this week’s classes. My brain circled back to this as I texted my student teacher and then walked the dog. Eventually, I went back to Sherri’s post to re-read the questions she had posed as she thought about Kaba.

What is this about?
What’s at stake?
Who is involved and impacted? In which ways?
How am I contributing to this issue?
What is my role?
Who is harmed? By whom?

My brain noodled away over dinner. My ah-ha moment came when I realized that every time I’ve written about school this month, people have commented on the strength of our school community. They’re right: we have a great community. I also deeply value community, and one of my goals as a teacher is helping students feel confident about participating in society to the extent that they choose. These questions ask me to use my anger and frustration not to pull away from others, but to be in relationship with them.

Community, at its best, builds. I am contributing to the issue right now by pretending that I have no agency. And, while I cannot allocate more funds to education or create a curriculum coordinator position at the school board, I can still change my contribution to the issue. So… once March is over, my next challenge will be to reach out to English Dept Heads at high schools in my board and begin a spreadsheet that shows what we are currently teaching at various grade levels. I will ask if others want to coordinate to create a sort of internal what/ when/ why of texts we teach. I can share my criteria for choosing texts and see what others use. We can pool our knowledge to create flexible lists of texts that respond to students from all of our schools. I can use my frustration to make change. And if we, the teachers, create this content, we might be able to create something that is both useful and flexible.

The worst that happens is that it doesn’t work. The best that happens is that community – this writing community, the community of friends and colleagues who commented on my post, the community of teachers around me – creates something that serves students more effectively and helps teachers feel empowered and less alone. There is potential power in this; I’m pretty excited.

Truth-telling #SOLC26 26/31

The older I get, the more I enjoy meeting caregivers at conference night. (We used to call them parent-teacher conferences, but “caregiver” makes more sense – tonight I met a host parent/ guardian, several parents and an uncle – and also a very cute younger brother, but he was not a caregiver.) I especially enjoy when students come with their caregivers and we can chat together about how things are going. I love opening with compliments and watching people’s faces light up. I love asking the students to talk about what they’ve learned. I love learning more about each student and seeing how they interact with those who love them. Sure, it’s exhausting to do all of this after a full day of teaching – and with a full day of teaching ahead – but it’s usually worth it.

As you can see, however, my enjoyment is predicated upon compliments and discussions of learning – but not every student is making the kind of progress that will move them towards their goals. If things aren’t going particularly well, I am usually a fan of the compliment sandwich: good thing, slip in the complicated bit, good thing. This plays to my predilections: I have a penchant for looking for the good in people, especially if those people happen to be in my classroom. Still, I knew that my last conference tonight was going to be different: I needed to tell the parents the truth that their hard-working, loveable child needs extra support.

When I was younger, I probably would have danced around this issue a bit more, but I’ve been doing this for too long to fool myself. I’ve read this child’s school records and seen their progress through old report cards. This year, I’ve been working with them since September, tracking their reading fluency and comprehension: they started well below grade level and they’re not catching up in the way that I had hoped. I’ve sat with the student’s work for a long time, wondering what I can offer to support them. I can’t figure it out. The student is hard-working and enthusiastic, well liked by teachers and resilient enough to have overcome some of the bullying they endured in middle school. They play sports and have friends…but the truth is that I don’t see how a regular classroom with a regular number of students can support the growth they need. I’ve made suggestions along the way, of course, but tonight I had to tell the truth.

I could have spent the whole conference telling their caregiver how wonderful they are, and as the conference continued I kept coming back to that idea, but I reminded myself both before and during the meeting that the best thing I could offer was the truth. So, while I softened the data with phrases like “just a snapshot” and “may need more time” I still shared the data. When the student proudly pulled out their notebook to show their growth in writing – and they have grown! – I complimented the increase in volume, then took a deep breath and pointed out the spelling and grammar that made it almost incomprehensible. I did the same as I shared the books the student has been reading – far far below grade level.

Looking in the eyes of the people who have raised this child and telling them that they need more help than I can give them was hard. I felt sadness and a little shame – why can’t I fix this? Have I worked hard enough, tried enough strategies, offered enough support? I know that I have truly given this child everything I can in the confines of the classroom, but my heart only barely believed that when I sat in the conference.

Still, I told the truth – and then the real miracle occurred: their caregiver nodded and said “thank you.” And then, with the student as part of the discussion, we started talking about specific strategies that they could use at home. The caregiver took notes. The student seemed genuinely excited about strategies that might work. I was able to talk about ways to measure growth and outcomes. We agreed to try something, then speak again in a few weeks to see if things are progressing. I felt the same thing I often feel in the conferences I love: a sense of community. Here we were, teacher, caregiver, student, working together to set a goal and work towards it. And look, none of us are expecting miracles, but a little truth-telling might at least have set us all on a path towards improvement rather than stagnation.

After that conference ended, I chatted for a while with a colleague and let my brain and my heart settle. I hope that in the end the family went home feeling the same sense of community that I did. I hope that we can work together to help this child become a stronger reader because that is something they desire. And I know that with each conference like this, I become a little better at telling truths.

Friday, Second Period #SOLC26 15/31

Some of the grade 12s have already found their seat before the students from period 1 have entirely cleared out, but somehow the bell still sneaks up on us. As the announcements play, I observe that a lot of students are wearing green and comment out loud before remembering that today is “fake” St. Patrick’s Day since the real one falls during March Break this year. One thing leads to another and soon we are looking up St. Patrick and why people celebrate St. Patrick’s day. Didn’t he drive something out of Ireland? Rats? Cats? (Snakes. It was snakes – though that part’s a legend.) Why do Canadians care if someone drove snakes out of another country? Umm… they don’t. 

Our conversation meanders and morphs and I point out that the Irish were considered highly undesirable when they first came over, and talked about how many nationalities and ethnicities struggle, even today, to find a foothold in a new place. Yes, even in Canada. Somehow the idea that Irish people were considered “nonwhite” comes up, and students are shocked. I disabuse them of this – the idea that Irish people were ever viewed as entirely non-white is pretty clearly false – but they are puzzled by the idea that race could be so malleable. I take a deep breath. 

Soon, we are talking about the idea that race is not, in fact, a purely biological construct, that what societies notice and separate and categorize as different races changes over time. No matter how many times I have explained this, the idea is always hard for students to take in. Today, I am able to use the wide array of skin tones in the classroom to show that “white” makes no sense. We all agree that I am “white” but my skin is clearly not the palest in the room. From there, I move to my family – are my niece and nephew white or Latino? The answer is obviously both, but when they move through the world, they will likely be viewed as one or the other. From there, I move to the author Lawrence Hill, who has generously shared his family background with his readers. We talk about the “one drop” rule and the labeling of humans as “quadroons” or “octaroons.” The students have questions.

At one point, someone asks if I see gaps between how Canadians understand race or racism and how Americans do. Now that is an interesting question. I give it some thought. One thing about Americans – at least when I lived there – was that we couldn’t pretend that slavery hadn’t existed. Canadians too often like to think that we did not benefit from the enslavement of human beings. We did. I tell my students today that I gave up teaching Lawrence Hill’s The Book of Negroes a few years back when I tired of my annual attempt to convince that one recalcitrant white kid that slavery really was that bad. Like… sir, allowing an enslaved human being to learn to read and write does not negate the fact that you consider them property. My current students are horrified. We talk about how much has changed in the last 15 years, the last 40  years. I tell them about how I was raised “not to see color” and how I had to learn that whiteness too often obliterates other perspectives. Eventually, I tell them that I need us to move on, that we’ve got plenty to think about for a while, and we settle in for some quiet reading.

I use reading time to check in with various students. Did they feel heard? Did I miss something? One student calls me over and thanks me – no one ever talks about this, she says. I thank her and ask her to bring up anything that needs to be discussed in the future. Another student asks what books I have that address these issues. I pull Stamped from the Beginning, Homegoing, Beloved… she and her friend start thumbing through these, eventually choosing different books and sliding them into their backpacks to read over break. The class calms and breathes. We’ve gotten off topic – how did wearing green lead us to slavery? I muse – but I believe this digression was well worth it.

After reading, we begin our first Socratic Circles of the semester. “Does walking away constitute meaningful action or is it merely an escape?” In groups of 8, fishbowl style, the students engage in thoughtful discussion about justice, utilitarianism, cowardice and whether or not anyone has the right t make decisions for others. Every student speaks. Everyone is engaged. It is a minor miracle.

Just before the end of the class period, I show students the “graphs” of each discussion. We talk about how good discussions allow everyone to participate in their own way while making sure that everyone feels welcome. It’s ok to talk more or less, to indicate agreement by leaning in or nodding. This class has done exactly that. When I point this out, one student counters with, “Yeah, but like six people were absent.” True, but I’ll take the wins where I can get them. When the bell rings, I tell them honestly how incredibly impressed I am with them. 

A few linger to discuss books (“Hear me out, Miss. What would you say to teaching Catcher in the Rye after Hamlet?”), but most head off to lunch. I am tired but elated. What an amazing pre-break class.

Friday, First Period #SOLC26 14/31

The bell has rung, but attendance is sparse on this last day before our March Break. The students who have made it to class on time occupy two ends of a spectrum: they either have their head down on the desk and appear to be asleep or they have a serious case of the sillies and are taking up a lot of space. This is more or less normal: First Period is Reading class, and not all of the students are entirely enthusiastic about starting their school day learning how to read – whether or not the next week is a holiday.

After the anthem, we go through the usual rigamarole: Phones away, take your earbuds out. No, really, the phone needs to be away. I know that you still have your earbuds in under that hoodie. Wake up. Waking up means sitting up. Seriously, put the phones away… and begin our daily routine:  CNN10 to increase our background knowledge, develop our vocabulary, and support our ability to read. One student remembers he’s supposed to be on a field trip and dashes out of the room. We wake another one up for the third time.

Holidays loom over this group. Some of the students are looking forward to time off; others definitely are not. As a result, we need a balance between routine and understanding today. People are unsettled; we want to set them up for calm as best as we can. Today is not a day where we can expect a lot of reading practice – because learning to read is exhausting. So after the news, we play a few word games then switch to our CNN10 vocabulary Kahoot. Our students can now reliably read and define words like surreal, innovative, feline and replicate and my colleague and I are extremely proud of them. Plus, it’s fun.

As the students log in, one – no seriously, I know you are listening to music – tries for the millionth time to convince us that he doesn’t need to play. Today, with the small class and the extra time, I am able to take a chance. “Hey,” I say, “let’s take a walk.” My colleague nods; she can handle the classroom. He ducks his head, embarrassed, but agrees.

Walking with students is a teacher trick. There’s something about being on the move, side by side, that lets people talk in ways they might not in a classroom. In this case, I lead with one of my favourite questions, “So, tell me about not playing Kahoot. What’s up with that?”

He doesn’t know, of course, except that he doesn’t like it. It’s stupid and it’s too easy and the words are too hard or too weird or too useless. He also requires quite a bit of daily cajoling to watch the news – and the vocabulary comes from there – so, since we’re walking, I ask about that, too. He doesn’t know why he hates it. He doesn’t know why he hates it all. He wanted to be in this class, and he knows we fought to get him in, but now… We walk and talk, talk and walk. 

In one stairwell, four boys are letting the recycle bins they just emptied slide down the stairs with a satisfying (nearly deafening) clatter and bump. I stand still, watching, until they see me, blush and leave. The student I’ve been talking with snickers a little. In a hallway, we encounter a student who we just saw in another hallway. There, he told us he was going to class. That class is not here. I tell him I’ll check his classroom in a few minutes to make sure he’s made it, but for now I’m focused on the child next to me, so I don’t have time to chase a different one.

This child, the one I’m walking with, is deeply uncertain about why he’s unwilling to participate in so many of our reading activities. After 15 minutes of walking, he still can’t quite articulate his concerns, but it’s somewhere between really wanting to learn to read and being horrified that “everyone” knows he’s in a class for people who can’t read. I tell him – not for the first time – that even the parts of the class that aren’t actively reading (like watching the news) will still help him with learning to read. He nods, but I know he’s not convinced. Nevertheless, he agrees that, for today, he will try the Kahoot with the hard vocabulary. 

I drop him back in the classroom, head back to check on the wandering student, and get back to class in time to watch the last – triumphant – round of Kahoot. When the bell goes, the kids tear out of the room, saying over their shoulders, “Have a good break! See you in a week!” and my colleague and I share a quick conversation before the next class comes in. 

Nothing has been solved. Nothing has changed. Still, the walk was a start; next time, in a few weeks maybe, my colleague will walk with him. Step by step, we’ll figure things out together. But now it’s time for a different class.

Vocabulary Lesson

We’re nearly done reviewing yesterday’s words when a voice floats up from the back corner of the classroom. “Why are we learning these words? Who even says ‘persevere’?”

I bite my lip to keep from laughing as I face the class. “Persevere? Of all the words, persevere is the one that bugs you?”

Giggles. Yes.

It’s the second day of second semester. Most students have all new classes, but Reading class has only sort of changed. Sure, some students from Semester 1 have “graduated”; they are now reading at least a grade 8 level, so we’ve sent them off into the wilds of their regular classrooms. And some students have opted to take a break; we might think they still need reading support, but they need some time away to consider whether the hard work of improving their reading is worth it for them. Some students have opted in; someone has suggested that they might benefit from extra support, so they’ve joined our class. But the truth is that most students from the first semester are back for a second semester of improving reading skills – because learning to read takes time. This means our class is now a mixture of students who are deeply familiar with our routines and students who have no idea what we’re doing.

What we’re doing is getting ready to watch CNN10. Coy Wire, the anchor, is a fixture in our classroom. Every day, he brings us ten minutes of news, building background knowledge that was previously unavailable to many of our students because, well, reading. We started working with vocabulary in October, after Coy told us that “the perpetrators of the brazen heist at the Louvre were still at large” and I realized that our students didn’t know 

  • what or where the Louvre is 
  • what a heist is 
  • what brazen means
  • what perpetrators are and
  • what it means to be “at large”. 

Oof.

Too often, information swims right past these students, and their defense mechanism is ignoring whatever is going by. In October, I paused the show, and we developed a routine: say the word, tap the word, spell the word, define the word. Then we discuss the issue at hand: what on earth is Coy talking about? CNN10 is supposed to be 10 minutes long, but it often takes us 20 minutes to get through. Last semester, students mastered words like consensus, unprecedented, to mint, autonomous and scintillating. Their pride was almost tangible.

But that was then, and now it’s the second day of the new semester and the back of the room wants to know if anyone actually says “persevere.” Challenge accepted. 

“Hold on,” I say. “I’m going to find the first adult I can who is not teaching and bring them back here to see if they know these words.”

The giggles become shocked laughter. 

“I’ll be right back.” And I am. I return with Amy, an EA from down the hall. Not only is she extremely cool looking with her shaved head and stretched ear piercings, it turns out that she is the aunt of one of my students. Immediate credibility. 

“Ok,” I say dramatically, “have I prepped you in any way?”

Amy says no. 

“Have I whispered the answers ahead of time?”

No.

With a flourish, I turn to the class. “Are you ready?”

Yes.

I ask Amy if she knows the word “icon” and she gives the class a withering look.

“Seriously?”

They tumble over each other to assure her that they already knew that word and I just put it on the board for… reasons. They encourage me to continue.

“Segregate.” She nails it.

“Perpetual?”

“Goes on and on – like it lasts.”

I pause for an extra beat and take a deep breath.

“Ok, this is the challenge: Do you know what ‘persevere’ means?”

She does. 

“Do you think people use the word ‘persevere’ or is it one of those useless school words?”

Amy looks a little incredulous. “Um… people use it a lot.”

I give the class a triumphant look. They reluctantly agree that I *might* be right about ‘persevere’. Amy goes back to her classroom; we go back to CNN10. I begin making a list of hard words from today’s show:

Endure
Appeal
Scathing

And then… out of the blue Coy says that someone has “persevered.” Everyone sits up. Giggles. Grins. The back corner looks slightly abashed (not that they know what abashed means). I get side-eye and someone says, “I bet he won’t say it tomorrow.”

We shall see, friends. Or perhaps I should say, we will persevere.

Read aloud

I’ve already handed out the papers – forty words neatly divided into two columns with checkboxes next to each word; forty words we read aloud earlier this week as a group; forty words that should be easily accessible to high school students, although I am well aware that they will not be easy for the students in this room – and the students are calmly looking them over. Calmly, that is, until I say, “So, today’s challenge is to read these words out loud in your small groups.” As the words “out loud” leave my mouth, a hand shoots up.

“Um, I can’t read out loud because I’m dyslexic.”

I pause. In retrospect, I will be able to articulate some of the myriad thoughts that run through my mind before I speak, even though in the moment I respond immediately. Later, I will feel my hesitation, the laughter that wants to bubble up behind my shock, even the bit of the sadness that eventually seeps into my consciousness. Right then, however, I say casually, “Everyone in here is dyslexic. That’s why we’re here.”

Suddenly all eyes are on me. I stumble. “I mean, I guess you’re not all technically dyslexic, but every person in the room – including me, actually – has a reading disability. Literally. All of us. You’re here to get better at reading. If you were already good at it, you wouldn’t be here.”

As I finish speaking, I am briefly worried: am I being mean? But I know I’m not. I’m being honest. And I’m surprised. We’ve been together for almost a month. The class is called “Reading”. We’ve spent weeks working on basic phonics, practicing short vowel sounds, encoding phonemic word chains, and decoding three- and four-letter words. I can’t imagine even a casual observer who wouldn’t understand what we’re doing: Everyone is here to get better at reading.

In the classroom, students look around. I can’t catch all the various emotions, but I start to realize that they were not, in fact, all aware of the truth of the class. I remind them (again, I swear!) that we are here to support each other, that mistakes are normal and part of learning, that this is practice, that this is how we get better. I reassure them that they will not die from reading aloud. I promise that, as far as I know, there is no recorded history of students dying purely from reading – even reading aloud. They start to laugh. Soon enough, everyone is reading out loud, round-robin style, in their circle, and they are, as predicted, helping each other. Mistakes are made. Everyone survives. There are smiles and laughter and we are learning rather than worrying. By the end of class, people are willingly writing on the white board to practice encoding. When someone says, “I can’t really spell” someone else replies, “neither can most of us” and there are plenty of giggles. 

But after the students leave, I can’t shake the feeling that this moment needs my attention. What was happening when the student announced that they could not read out loud? Why were they still self-conscious in a room full of striving readers? At first, I think of how my co-teacher and I have worked to make this class respectful of the learners: students who are still striving to learn to read in high school are typically students who have not been well served by our system; they are not dumb, they simply haven’t received the instruction they need. The reasons behind that are as unique as our students, but it’s still true. We designed this class to honour them and treat them as the intelligent beings they are, so maybe we should take some comfort in the fact that they did not realize that they were all here for reading instruction. Still, as much as I like a good pat on the back, the moment continues to gnaw at me.

Long after school ends, I’m walking the dog when I suddenly realize what I witnessed: despite having a learning community of support and care, our students have been working so hard for so long to hide their reading struggles that they haven’t had time to notice that others are struggling, too. They spend much of their social and cognitive energy protecting their identity and sense of self, and as a result they cannot easily focus on others. I imagine spending my work day trying to cover up something that I see as a major deficit – as if all I did all day long was try to hide a giant stain on my clothing. I imagine being so busy covering that stain in creative ways that I don’t have time to see that others have stains, too. No, worse: I am so concentrated on hiding the stain that I don’t really look at others; I just assume they are wearing much better clothes than I am. I keep one hand on that spot and sometimes miss things going on around me because I’m worried. If I relax and my hand creeps away from the stain, I have to quickly put it back down, maybe glance around and make sure no one else saw it. By the end of the day, I am exhausted and not able to remember everything that happened.

All of this explains why, at the end of September, the students in our Reading class haven’t fully understood that they are in a class where everyone is learning to read better, a class where, ideally, they can relax a little. It may be a while before they believe that everybody else in the room is making mistakes, too. It may be even longer before they trust each other enough to get things wildly wrong, to make outrageous guesses, and to allow themselves to do the hard work of learning to read. I realize, too, that I have more work to do to make this a space of hope and freedom, to let reading class help students be more fully themselves.

I reflect for a while and consider ways to tweak the class for increased student agency and more time for relationship-building. Clearly, I decide, we need more laughter. Clearly, we need more talk. And yes, clearly we need more read alouds. I’m on it.

What does it mean to be American?

It’s been twenty years since I taught American Lit to 11th graders in a high school in Washington, DC. After I’d taught the course a few times, I used to start the class with the question students would answer on the final exam: What does it mean to be American? In September, students answered glibly: duh, you have to be born here. But even as they said that, they could feel that it wasn’t right, so they would hack away at the edges of the answer: you have to have an American parent, or maybe an American passport. But a cursory look showed that didn’t work, either. First, not all Americans have passports and second, does the passport make a person American? The rest of the school year just made things more complicated.

Were the Pilgrims (born in Europe) and other early settlers American? We read some of William Bradford’s Of Plymouth Plantation. Ok, the students said, the Pilgrims count as American (even though “America” didn’t exist at the time and obviously the original settlers weren’t born here); if you came to America for a better life, that counts. I complicated things: So, if people who fled their homeland in search of freedom count as American, what about people who do the same in modern times? We read short stories by Edwidge Danticat (American, born in Haiti) and Jhumpa Lahiri (American, born in England to Indian parents). Are their characters American? 

What about the people who already lived on the continent when the colonists arrived? What of the Native Americans? (Honestly, I’m a little relieved to realize that even 20+ years ago we read at least one speech by a Native American, though we should have done much more.) And what if you didn’t choose to come? What of people who were enslaved? Surely Jim in Huckleberry Finn was American. 

Maybe being American is about a set of values? We looked at Puritan leader (born in England) John Winthrop’s “City upon a Hill” (from his essay “A Model of Christian Charity”) and considered what he calls on fellow Puritans to try to create: a community of virtue, effort, and compassion. We read the beginning of the Declaration of Independence (written by Thomas Jefferson, born in the colony of Virginia) and excerpts of (French author) de Tocqueville’s “Democracy in America.” Does he see in the mid-1800s what Winthrop dreams of two centuries earlier? Is that what Huck Finn seeks when he decides to “light out for the Territory”? Is it what Jay Gatsby is striving for as he reaches for the green light? What Janie longs for in Their Eyes Were Watching God?

Gatsby is definitely American – no question about it – but there is the pesky concern of the “foul dust [that] floated in the wake of his dreams.” Perhaps, students thought, Americans had strayed from important original values, as Jonathan Edwards (born in America) thundered in his famous 1741 sermon “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God.” Again, this gets complicated. In The Scarlet Letter, Hester Prynne’s (born in Europe) sin is the impetus for the whole novel, but in the end, (like Gatsby? unlike Gatsby?) she is the best of them all, except for maybe her daughter Pearl (born in America) – but Pearl takes her riches and moves to Europe. Hester stays in the New World. So who is American?

But, those are just characters, the students protested. True enough. But many real live Americans, good Americans, I insisted – Americans who shaped our nation – were sinners and criminals. Some students were doubtful – 20+ years ago was, I think, a more innocent time. Still, I said, Roger Williams (born in England) was banished from Massachusetts for advocating religious tolerance and the separation of church and state. We read Thoreau’s “On Civil Disobedience” and Martin Luther King, Jr’s “Letter from a Birmingham Jail.” We read Walt Whitman, Zora Neale Hurston, Emily Dickinson, Langston Hughes, and more. One year we read My Antonia and made popcorn balls. Always we came back to our central question.

(How did I get them to read so much? I have no idea.)

By the end of the course, no matter what we read, we had a massive tangle. Americans, it seemed, could be born anywhere and live anywhere. They could be Americans by birth, by choice or by force. They could be saints and sinners, criminals and leaders. And then it was time for the exam. We ended where we started: “What does it mean to be an American?” The answers were always complicated.

****

Last week, on the 13-hour drive from South Carolina to Buffalo, my two sisters and I had plenty of time to talk. We usually see each other only once a year, and we never run out of conversation. This year, after a gas stop in West Virginia and a possible sighting of ICE agents, our talk turned to politics and family. 

I guess you could call our family “blended,” but mostly I think of it as chaos held together by love. Even if I just tell you about the children (my six various siblings) who go with my dad and stepmom, things get complicated. My step grandmother was born Dutch and became an American; my stepmom is Alabaman through and through. I was born in the US but am now a dual citizen. My children, born and raised in Canada, are dual citizens. My partner is pure Canadian, but his mother, my mother-in-law, is a dual citizen; my father-in-law is 100% American. One of my sisters was born in Panama on an Air Force Base, but she doesn’t remember it at all and does not speak Spanish. Her daughter, my niece, born in the US, does speak Spanish and is dating a young man whose family is Mexican (his dad was born there; I can’t remember about his mom); he is American. My sister-in-law is a naturalized American who was born and raised in Cuba. Her mother is living with them (very legally) but is not yet a citizen. My brother, her husband, is pretty much a good ol’ boy (in the best of ways), but his kids have olive skin and dark hair and speak both Spanish and English. Except for my sister-in-law’s mother, I would say all these people are American. Even she may be a future American.

Adding in my mom’s side – she has four siblings – doesn’t make things any more clear. My uncle married a Filipina woman who is now American. One of their two sons, my cousins, just got out of the Marines, so definitely American, right? But when he was on tour, children in Saudi Arabia made the “slant eye” face at him, annoying him to no end. My mother’s sister married a Brit, and they live in the Cayman Islands; their child, my cousin, is American-British-Caymanian. He went to college in the US and worked in NYC before meeting an American woman and moving back to Cayman. Their children were born in Cayman. All except my uncle have American passports. 

As a family, we are Lutheran, Catholic, Presbyterian, Jewish, atheist. We are white, Asian and Latino. We speak English, Spanish, Tagalog, and French. We are gay, straight and bi. We are addicts and we abstain.  We have committed crimes and been arrested for them or gotten away with it. We have done good things and been recognized for them or overlooked. We have high school diplomas, bachelor’s degrees, master’s degrees, MDs or PhDs. We are business owners, doctors, teachers, CPAs, hourly employees, unemployed, researchers and more. We were born in six countries, and we currently live in three countries; we have lived in many, many more. We voted for Harris or for Trump or not at all. We are all American.

In the car, my sister worried about a friend who is married to a US permanent resident who was born in El Salvador. His parents brought him here when he was a toddler. As a young teen, he got involved with a gang and committed “a bad crime” (yes, it is bad). He was arrested and went to jail. He served his time, got out, got a job and got married. Now in his mid-40s, he has never committed another crime. As we drove north, he was on his way south to his annual check-in with immigration, and they were terrified. The family has money and a lawyer, and a no-deportation order. But they had no idea if, after he followed the law and went to the courthouse, he would come back out or be disappeared. “We talk about ICE deporting ‘criminals,’” my sister said, “and everyone seems to think that is ok; but he’s a good person who did an awful thing. He’s here legally. Should we deport him because of something he did when he was 15? Why can’t we talk about the human cost? When did we stop thinking of immigrants as fully human?”

As we drove through the mountains of West Virginia, I mused, “What does it mean, then, to be an American?” I still don’t know, exactly, but I am sure the definition should be rooted more in love than in hatred. If there’s one virtue that my loving, chaotic family and all those texts I used to teach have in common, it is compassion. 

Well, maybe not “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God,” but really, that one is kind of over the top.

I bought you a book

She had grade 9 English with me and, though it’s hard for me to believe, she’s in grade 12 now which means we’ve been smiling at each other and saying hello in the hallways for three years. In seven weeks, she’ll graduate, yet it was only a few days ago that I realized I’d never told her the story.

Oddly, I’ve told a lot of other people the story: how we were both new to the school; how she was quiet but eager; how she finished reading a book then asked me shyly if I had any books about Asia. She didn’t even ask for something set in Bangladesh – her home country – just anywhere in Southeast Asia. Oh, how I wanted to say yes! I scoured my bookshelves – my classroom library suddenly seemed so paltry – but I could only come up with one, and it didn’t really fit: it was really about a girl living in the US who was dealing with issues of sexuality. The 14-year-old in front of me wasn’t ready for that book; she wanted something that reminded her of home.

I was sad to have to tell her that I didn’t have anything, really. We found another good book, and she continued to read, but I couldn’t shake my disappointment. I looked online to find books about Bangladesh. I checked out Samira Surfs from the public library – too young, too refugee-focused. I found books set in Pakistan, books by white authors, books for adults… 

As the school year continued, I had to confront a sad truth: my classroom library was designed for a different student population. At my new school, the books I had didn’t reflect the students in the room. I knew I needed to address the problem, but I also knew I needed money to do it. 

At this point, I applied for a classroom library grant from the Book Love Foundation (founded by Penny Kittle). I asked two senior students to write me a recommendation; they also helped me with my video. And then… I won a grant! Oh, the books I bought – books set in places around the world. Sports books and fantasy books and realistic fiction. Graphic novels and novels in verse and memoirs with main characters from places my students knew and I did not. And yes, a book set in Bangladesh.

By the time the books came in, she was in grade 10 and our paths rarely crossed, so I didn’t think to tell her what she had inspired. Last year, I barely saw her at all. This year, though, our schedules overlap, and I see her often. And this year, I finally realized that I’d never told her about the books. So, last week I told her. She was startled. She didn’t remember asking for a book and she was surprised that I remembered where she was from. She blushed a little and we went on our way.

Then, a few days later, there was a knock at the classroom door. Could she come in? Could she see the books? I showed her what I could find on the shelves, but I had to laugh: so many of the books that I would have offered her if only I’d had them then – Amina’s Voice, Amina’s Song, Amira and Hamza, The Last Mapmaker – weren’t there because they’re being read by current grade 9 students. Still, I showed her Saints and Misfits, and Love from A to Z, and The Patron Saints of Nothing – and listen, it’s not perfect, but oh how she smiled.

Three years later, her request and the Book Love grant have changed everything. 

(If you are interested in information about applying for the grant, feel free to reach out to me – though honestly the link has all the information; if you are interested in donating to the foundation, please don’t hesitate. All kids deserve to see themselves in good books!)

When an English teacher is ailing #SOLC25 22/31

This is not the post I had planned for today. The plan was to write early, comment liberally (catching up on the blogs I’ve missed this week – so many) and take a nice long walk. Then, I was going to grade papers, maybe craft a little and generally be productive. Instead, I’ve spent most of the day in bed, sleeping off and on and generally feeling miserable. Super frustrating.

Since I’ve taken to my bed and am feeling sorry for myself, I’ve been thinking of Jane Austen – as one does. Have I caught a violent cold? I have not been coughing, so I don’t think so. Do I have a putrid tendency? I’m not 100% sure what that is, but I doubt that’s my primary ailment Rather, I find I have feverish symptoms and my head aches acutely. Oh! And I’m definitely languishing a bit, but my sleep brings me rest, not delirium, so no need to send for the apothecary… yet. Finally, while I am discontented at the moment, I do not fancy myself nervous, which is good because darling Jane has little patience with people’s nerves. Luckily, I am no fanciful, troublesome creature!

I will acknowledge that I am nowhere near as sick as Marianne Dashwood after the horrid Willoughby uses her so poorly, but I may be nearly as sick as Jane Bennet after she walked to Netherfield in the rain. Either way, I am missing a devoted sister to nurse me back to health. I shall have to send my sisters a letter to let them know that they have failed in their duty to attend to me in my time of need. Luckily for them, Andre has returned from his afternoon outing, and he is coddling me (a little), though no possets as of yet. Perhaps he is courting me. As a result, I suspect I will recover – though perhaps I will consult a physician to see if he might prescribe a trip to Bath. No doubt that would restore my good health.

Until then, I’ll settle for reading a good book in my own bath.