At the dentist #SOL24 12/31

While I was out with a friend this morning, the boys’ dentist called and asked if we could come in 20 minutes early to help with a scheduling hiccup. By the time I got the message, I knew we would have to hoof it to be there at the new time, but I called back and said yes, anyway. Unfortunately, when I told the kids, Mr. 15 said “yes” with his mouth but not with his brain, and hopped into the shower at the last minute. We managed to make it, but I dropped the boys at the door so that they could go in while I parked.

When I got in, Mr. 13 was already in with the hygienist. I love that my kids are independent enough to handle moments like this on their own. Just a few minutes later, Mr. 15 was called; he loped into the back, trailing after a different hygienist. I settled back to enjoy a little quiet time.

As I played a game on my phone, another mother came in with her two boys who rushed ahead of her to the receptionist’s desk. “Hello,” she chirped at them, “Who have we here?”

A small voice said, “Johnny Bear” and everyone chuckled. I looked up to catch the younger boy, maybe 6, holding his stuffie over his head so that the bear could “see” the receptionist. His mother ruffled his hair, grinned at the women behind the desk, and gave their names. The trio moved into the waiting room and the younger boy snuggled up next to his mother.

Oh, I miss those days, I thought.

Just then, the older boy – maybe 8 – made a snide comment under his breath. His mother heard, and snapped at him. He slumped in his seat, pouting. The water cooler bubbled and suddenly Mr. 6 really wanted a paper cone of water. Then his brother did, too. Mom heaved a sigh and asked, “Do you really want the water, or do you just want it because you heard the bubbles?” Mr. 6 assured her that he really wanted the water. Mr. 8 grumbled.

Mom stood up and got some water for the six-year-old. More mumbly-grumble from the eight-year-old. “What?” she asked.

“I said I want to do it myself. I want water AND I want to do it myself.”

Mom looked from the younger boy, holding the fragile cone of water, to the older boy, arms folded stubbornly across his small chest. “Ok,” she said, “Can you wait for me to come watch?”

He jumped up from his seat, ran to the cooler, pulled off a paper cone cup and waited for his mom. She watched carefully until she said, “and that’s enough!”

Delighted with himself, he sat back down to taste his independence. Mom turned back to her youngest, who had not, in fact, spilled any water. Just as she sat again, the hygienist came out and called one of their names. She heaved a deep sigh, gathered first one child, then the next. She took the now-empty paper cones and threw them out as they all trooped into the back together, Mr. 6 clutching Johnny Bear in one arm.

Nope, I thought, I don’t think I miss those days that much after all.

N-less #SOL24 11/31

For a few days last week, my keyboard’s n stuck as I tried to reply to others’ posts. I was frustrated. My discomfort made me ask myself if I could write a whole post without it because I like to test myself. I will admit, it is very difficult. Years ago, I worked at a small DC school where, at a PD day, the facilitator asked us to write for a short time without “e”. For me, that was easy. I immediately chose to write about a topic without “e”: swim stuff, e.g. swim practices, with their laps, or swim meets with their races. I wrote quite a lot, which frustrated the speaker because she had hoped to illustrate how hard it is to write without a simple letter. If I had appreciated her motive, I would have stayed quiet. Such is youth, I suppose. Hmm… maybe I will ask my pupils to try this exercise.

As I write today, I realize how much has shifted. At that PD, we all wrote with paper. Today, however, I write with a computer; I have a tab with access to a thesaurus; my spellcheck tries to correct misspelled words to add the letter I avoid. As I cease this exercise, I will use Ctrl-f to check if I used what I promised to dodge. Truly, spellcheck is how I was able to reply to posts last week. It took a lot of time, so I replied to very few posts, which made me sad. If I missed you, I am sorry! I swear that I read, but to reply was quite difficult.

As I write, I also realize that without this letter I avoid, I must be upbeat. Without it, I have become aware that the adverse is hard to write. The words for bad possibilities or outcomes all use the letter. Hmm… this is a fresh thought for me. I pause to marvel at this simple idea. Whoa. Lots of ideas/objects use this letter, too, because of suffixes. Lastly, I have realized that I must write exclusively for this time or the past. The future requires this letter. So… I am forced to write about the positive, past or immediate with few words for big ideas. It’s complicated. As I wrap up, I try to visualize this n-less world. Impossible. I am over this self-imposed exercise: I would like all the letters back, please!

Bangs #SOL24 10/31

On Friday, my best friend from high school texted me a picture of my high school yearbook senior photo.

Look at those bangs! They started about ⅓ of the way back on my head. Every morning, I carefully curled them, brushed them to the side, and then hairsprayed them until they were stuck together in one giant flap of “feathered” hair. And, though you can’t tell here, that blue sweater has sparkles in it. Sparkles! Oh, the 80s.

That picture was still on my mind on Saturday when I went for a hair cut. Chuckling, I pulled out my phone and showed my stylist. I couldn’t quite tell if he was horrified or impressed. He chatted on about 80s and 90s clothes and hairstyles, while I stifled a laugh: He wasn’t around for those eras, so what does he know?

The picture must have stayed on his mind, too, because after my colour was done, as he was starting the cut, he said, “You keep saying you want something different. How about bangs?”

It was my turn to look horrified. “No, no,” he reassured me, “not like in the picture. You know, something more modern.” I still looked doubtful. “I wouldn’t recommend it if I didn’t think it would look good.”

So I said yes, and now I have bangs again for the first time, I think, since that high school photo. Way back then, in English class, Libby had once declared, “everyone looks better with bangs.” (At least I think it was Libby. It could have been Anne. At any rate, one of the stylish girls.) I haven’t thought of that comment in a long time, but she might have been right. If nothing else, I like the new look: it hides some of my wrinkles.

Better things #SOL24 9/31

I have better things to do. I could be writing or reading other people’s blogs and commenting. I could be tidying the house before guests come, or just tidying in general. I could be folding the laundry put in the wash first thing this morning or running some errands. I could be working out or doing yoga.

To be fair, I’ve already been out for a walk and gone to the hairdresser. I’ve had my tea and played with the dog. But now? Yeah, I have better things to do.

I could be looking at the work my students turned in yesterday or planning ahead for the next unit. I could be catching up on emails or finding the numbers of all the places I need to call for various appointments for various people.

Still, I’ve already cleared out the fridge and reheated leftovers for lunch. I’ve already started and abandoned a list of the things that I will, in fact, have to do sometime soon. Because I definitely have better things to do, like calling my sisters or reading a book, taking a nap or knitting. At this point, even watching a movie would probably be better.

So many things are out there, just waiting to be done. But it’s the first day of March Break and outside it’s rainy and gray. I’m on the couch, wrapped in a soft blanket, and the dog is sleeping at my feet. So instead of doing any of the many things I could be doing, I’m allowing myself a luxury I rarely have time for: playing mindlessly on my phone.

Do I have better things to do? Nah, not really.

Учителката #SOL24 8/31

We had only been talking for a few minutes when her phone rang. She glanced at the screen and said, “I have to take this. It’s my father. I’m so sorry.” With an apologetic look, she answered. I looked down at my notebook to give her what little privacy the conference room afforded.

“Говоря с учителката на И”

I looked up, startled. I had perfectly understood that sentence. She said it again, adding “да, да но…” Yup, my student’s mother was definitely speaking Bulgarian.

She hung up and started to apologize again – after all, she’s the one who had asked for this parent-teacher conference – but I interrupted and said, “Are you Bulgarian?” She looked at me quizzically, so I added, “I speak a little Bulgarian; I could understand what you said.”

Soon, the parent-teacher conference had taken a decidedly friendly turn. We talked about Bulgaria, which city she was from, where I had lived, and more. She told me a funny story about getting married in Canada: Bulgarians nod their head up and down to say “no” and side to side for “yes.” As she stood in front of the judge, answering questions so she could marry her fiancé, she kept saying “yes” but, in her enthusiasm, moving her head “no” – to the point where the judge decided he couldn’t accept her verbal answers. They had to call in an interpreter to verify her responses. “I tried to explain,” she laughed, “but I could tell the judge was worried.” In turn, I told her about trying to gauge students’ understanding during a lesson and finding myself completely bewildered by the sea of heads shaking all different directions.

“But… when did you live there?” she wanted to know.

I had to calculate. “Um… 1995? Nearly thirty years ago!”

“And you still remember the language?!” Her astonishment was clear.

“Oh no!” I laughed. “You just said about half of what I remember. The first half of what you said was more or less what I memorized so that I could leave phone messages for people. And the second part was about teachers.”

I spent a year teaching in Bulgaria. I loved it – the teaching, the country, the people, the language. As I started to make friends, I also started needing to call people. The problem was, no one lived alone in Bulgaria, so I always needed to ask to speak with the one person I knew – who was almost always the only English speaker in the home. I quickly learned to say, “May I speak with…?” (Мога ли да говоря с) Then, I waited. If there was silence followed by a familiar voice, I’d found my friend. If instead there was a long string of what was gibberish to my years, I took a deep breath and said, “Кажи му, че Аманда се обади”… “Tell him that Amanda called.” And then I hung up. Because that was all I could say. I was pretty much terrified every time I made a phone call all year, which means that those two phrases are tattooed in my brain.

I can also still remember bits of what I used to call the “train conversation.” That’s the conversation you have when you take the train from your town to the next one if you’re a blond foreigner in a sea of dark-haired Bulgarians. It’s pretty much always the same: Where are you from? What are you doing here? How long have you been here? How long are you staying? Do you like our country?” The whole train conversation lasts just under 10 minutes, and I must have had the conversation dozens of times in several languages.

All of this came together this week when the parent was speaking because what she said was, “Dad, I’m speaking with I’s teacher.” And I can 100% remember all of those words – apparently even 30 years after I last needed them.

The rest of the conference went swimmingly. Shared language can do that. I’m confident that we can work as a team to support her child for the rest of the semester. And I get to spend a few days reminiscing about a year of amazing experiences – and trying to call up a few more words.

(Written for “Multi-Lingual Friday”)

Knock-on Effects #SOL24 7/31

Today, I got an *AMAZING* message from a former student. She is graduating from university and is “almost an RN now.” I am aglow with happiness for her – and for us: she’s going to be a wonderful nurse. I am proud to say that a tiny part of her story relates to my post from yesterday.

You see… back when Mr. 13 was Mr. 6, he was driving his teacher up a wall. They butted heads regularly (in a first-grade sort of way – the kind where it turns out that six-year-olds need to follow rules sometimes), most often in reading group. There, Mr. 6 would some days read fluently, then other days act silly, “reading” words that were not on the page. We were baffled. The story goes that one night, angry with my insistence that he try to sound out words, he “read” his entire book without looking at the pages *even once*. But he couldn’t read individual words.

Because his teacher was both kind and deeply experienced, she had already flagged his reading as potentially problematic. Because I knew that dyslexia ran in my family, I already knew to pay attention to my children’s reading. Because my colleague’s wife was a child psychologist who did lots of educational testing, she advised testing Mr. 6 asap, rather than following the school system’s recommendation to“wait and see.” Because we have good health insurance, we could pay for private educational testing. And because of all that, we discovered that Mr. 6 had dyslexia when he was, well, 6.

The chips continued to fall in our favour. First, even though I am a high school English teacher, I was already learning about how people learn to read, so I knew that people with dyslexia benefit from early intervention. Then, when the principal said it was “too bad” that Mr. 6 was going into Grade 2 because the school’s reading intervention program started in Grade 3, we were wealthy enough to pay for tutoring. Then, I began researching dyslexia and found Dr. Sally Shaywitz’s book, Overcoming Dyslexia which recommended specific research-based tutoring programs. In a final bit of good fortune, a local tutoring company specialized in exactly this.

Y’all, that is a lot of good luck. Learning to read should NOT be a matter of luck.

Now, let me tell you about my student. She had struggled to learn to read when she was little, but she was an incredibly hard worker, so she managed to stay on top of things. She was seriously smart, so she was able to figure things out, even though reading remained, well, not easy. By the time I met her, she was in 10th grade, and she was working her butt off. She was also doing extremely well in school.

Still, as we got to know each other over a few years, she confided in me that she wasn’t “as smart” as her friends because she took “three times as long” to do her homework and made “stupid mistakes” if she wasn’t focused. I believed her, but I didn’t know what to make of this… until about ¾ of the way through Shaywitz’s book. There, I read a description of a high school student with dyslexia. Right away, I thought of her. Pages later, Shaywitz listed some common signs of dyslexia – and suddenly I had concrete questions I could ask someone.

I explained to this young person that I had an idea about her learning. Then I read her the description in Shaywitz’s book. Recognition dawned: “That’s exactly me!” I am not an educational psychologist, so I can’t diagnose anything, but at least we had an idea of what might be happening. All we needed was some testing – which our school system couldn’t provide because, first, our limited resources go to students who “are not able to access the curriculum” and this student was on the Honour Roll and, second, those same resources are meant for students in our system, and she was nearing graduation. We fought on. One thing led to another, and things stayed plenty dang complicated, but in the end she was able to get accommodations when she went to university. Things weren’t easy, but they were, at least, easier.

Looking back, it all feels awfully precarious. What if my child’s teacher hadn’t noticed his uneven reading? What if we hadn’t known to get him tested? What if I hadn’t been reading about dyslexia? What if?

I think about all the people who will benefit from having this brilliant, determined, caring young person as their nurse. I know this is supposed to be a slice of life – and I really want you to know how much I admire the student I’m writing about – but I have to end with what I already said: learning to read well should not be a matter of luck. As a profession, we are trying to make changes so that more students learn to read well. I hope our systems don’t give up when our first attempts aren’t perfect. I hope our system doesn’t write off students who are already in high school. I hope we have success story after success story to tell in years to come. And I really hope you’re lucky enough to have this person as your nurse. That would, indeed, be lucky.

Par, pars, parsh, parch #SOL24 6/31

“Hey Mom! Can you come help with my English writing?”

I’m supposed to be doing my own writing – this writing, to be precise – and I’m still knee-deep in grade 9 projects, but he knows I won’t say no. Mr. 13 is an excellent writer – effective vocabulary, interesting sentence structures, good grasp of punctuation – and he is dyslexic. Years of Orton-Gillingham-based tutoring means that he reads well and knows how to make good use of extensions like Grammarly or Language Tool, but when push comes to shove, he still benefits from a once over by someone who’s not dyslexic. Also, he knows I like to read what he writes.

He’s reading his sentences aloud under his breath as I plunk down next to him. “Um… I need a word for like ‘kind of was related to the point but not 100%.'” My eyes widen as I try to figure out what on Earth he’s talking about. “Oh!” he snaps his fingers, “got it: partially!”

He types parsley.

He keeps going, then circles back to fix it. Parshly. Spellcheck suggests harshly as a replacement, so he changes it to parchly – and the new suggestion is archly. “Um, Mom?”

“Partially means ‘in part’ so it starts with the root part,” I say.

“Part isn’t really a root,” he interrupts. Then, “sorry.” He would know. He knows Latin and Greek origins of words; he understands spelling rules in ways I have never had to.

I laugh, “Just start with part.” He does. I break the word down orally so he can hear all the syllables, then I spell. “Now i a l…” I pause because he is looking at me like I have two heads. Finally, I reach over and type the word.

He stares for a long second, then shakes his head in wonder. “There is no way that word looks like /parshully/. I would never have guessed that.”

And he wouldn’t have. Which is why I was so angry last night when I found one of his old math tests where the teacher has circled his attempt at the word “isosceles” and written “Really???” with multiple question marks. He brushed it off – “I mean, she did tell us we had to be able to spell all the terms” – but she doesn’t see how hard he works to spell these words.

But now he’s moved on and is enthusiastically excoriating someone’s weak debate argument. He doesn’t need me again until the end, when I do a check for capital letters and other words that spellcheck didn’t get. This time, he’s mostly good. I ruffle his hair and head back to finish my own work.

I wish all teachers could understand his truth – the kind that looks good on the surface but is working awfully hard to stay afloat. “Isosceles,” I mutter, and his exasperated voice trails behind me, reminding me to let it go. “Mom!”

Dear boys’ bathroom

Recently, in the Writer’s Craft class I am teaching, we read Kobe Bryant’s “Dear Basketball” letter, and I prompted students to write a letter to an object. Of course I wrote in front of them and chose a hard/funny topic. Here it is, slightly revised and a little more scandalous than what I shared in class.

Dear first floor boys’ bathroom,

I don’t understand your allure. You are, apparently, one of the most attractive things in the school – boys flock to you, hang out with you, lie to be with you – and yet, I’ve seen you, and, frankly, you are nothing special. In fact, sometimes you are downright nasty.

What sanctuary do you offer? Sometimes I imagine you are a hiding space, a place for boys to be away from the prying eyes of teachers. Other times, I think you are an invitation to transgression: when boys spend time with you, they know they walk the line between what is and is not allowed. They’re kind of safe – after all, everyone needs the bathroom sometimes, and they have time to hide anything really bad when they hear an adult walking in. You offer just the kind of trouble that gets them sent back to class, out of your secret spaces and into the hallways where they must walk in the light.

I cannot imagine the pull of a stinky space where people go to take care of bodily functions as a place to hang out. But what do I know? I mean, Yeats wrote, “But Love has pitched his mansion in/ The place of excrement” lines that shocked me when I was in high school, so I’m probably not the best judge. Not that you know about Yeats; I suspect you’re more a reader of graffiti. Even as I write to you, my mind goes to brothels and back alleys, places that offer physical satisfaction and frissons of delight to those willing to go just to the edge of what society accepts.

Perhaps you are the opium den of our school, or the whorehouse – and if I’m going to share this, perhaps you are enticing me, too, to the edge of what is allowable. Still, downstairs boys’ bathroom, your siren call is undeniable, and I’m not yet willing to tie myself to the mast to keep students from being lured to your shores – or toilets. For now, I will gently suggest that boys ignore your temptations, knowing full well that they will not be able to resist.

Yours,
The teacher down the hall

How I Learned Canadian History #SOL24 4/31

Kindergarten: I met this fascinating man at a wedding. He told me he was from Ottawa and started to explain where it was. I stopped him, saying, “It’s the capital of Canada; I know where it is.” He was astonished. Later, he married me. These things are not unrelated.

First grade: Immediately after my permanent residency was approved, I was offered a job teaching Canadian Civics in French. I’m American, and my home language is English (though I speak French). I looked through the curriculum and politely declined. I knew nothing except that I didn’t know enough to teach Canadian Civics… yet.

Grade Two: I got a job teaching French in the English public school system, as opposed to the Catholic public schools or the French public schools or the French Catholic public schools. Just navigating the four public systems was an education in Canadian history – where minority language rights for the French and the Catholic system were enshrined in the law. I also learned that Canadians talk about Grade + year rather than the other way around.

Grade 3: I switched to a new position called “Student Success” where I helped students “recover” courses they had previously failed. Many of them failed Civics. Many many many of them. Remember that job I turned down because I didn’t know enough? Now I helped with dozens of failed Civics projects – and at least half a dozen Canadian History classes, too. I began to understand the Parliamentary system and even knew who the Governor General was. Riding? Premier? MP? MPP? I knew it all. Helping with Grade 10 History taught me a lot of battles, too. This would come in handy later.

Grade 4: I watched in fascinated horror during an election where an entire party got virtually wiped out. No one blinked. My spouse insisted that the party would come back in the next election. In Quebec, a young woman who had been running as a place-holder candidate in a riding that was all but guaranteed to go to someone else was suddenly elected and had to return from a trip to Las Vegas. She would turn out to be a strong MP. I realized that I needed to be able to vote in Canada.

Grade 5: I took the Canadian citizenship test. The people I knew told me it would be “super easy” but I took it under the Harper government, and they had a thing about the War of 1812. I knew very little about the War of 1812, so I studied the citizenship packet assiduously – and spent several hours taking practice tests online. I learned about Louis Riel and Indigenous fishing rights and much much more. The exam itself was multiple choice and while it’s marked as pass/fail, I’m pretty sure I aced that thing. For the record, I’m glad I studied.

Grade 6: My children started school. Elementary school projects were straightforward, but I was impressed by the attention their teachers paid to Indigenous peoples. Together, we learned about Indigenous cultures, granted in a somewhat general way, but it was good.

Grade 7: I spent several hours – twice! once with each child – helping prepare for a debate arguing the pros and cons of Canadian confederation in 1867. Sadly for my learning-to-time-spent ratio, child 1 was given the “pro” side and, two years later, child 2 was given the “con” side. Child 2 remembered this assignment at dinner last night. It is due today. I can now tell you about the Dorion brothers in Quebec and the Fenian raids and the arguments about how to pay for the intercontinental railroad. Heck, I can tell you how the US Civil War influenced the drive for Confederation and so, so much more.

Grade Eight: I know what’s coming next: a project about Louis Riel and the Red River Resistance. In French. Luckily, this one is due after March Break, so my Canadian History education will not have to take place largely in one week. Also, I’ve already had at least a middle school education in Canadian History, so I’m ready to go!

Nearby #SOL24 3/31

Years ago, a photographer friend of mine, Maggie Knaus, had an exhibition that she entitled “Nearby.” In it, she featured pictures she had taken when her brother-in-law had been nearby. He had passed away, but the images remained, beautiful and poignant.

I think about that exhibition a lot: the beauty; the sadness; the sense that noticing who is nearby, who is not quite in the picture, is powerful and important. Because of it, I find myself thinking about who is nearby as I go about my day.

Right now, for example, my spouse and his buddies are playing a board game in the next room. The game will last most of the afternoon, their laughter and chatter an accompaniment to my writing and planning. Dice rattle; pieces plunk onto the board. I love the easy camaraderie of these men, the way they gather often, using games to deepen their friendships. They laugh again, and here, mere metres away, I smile.

Mr. 15 is in his third-floor hideaway. The “chill room” was meant to be a shared space, but his bedroom is tiny, so he has spilled into this space, too: computer, books, beanbag – and all the detritus that trails behind teenage boys. When he is home, he is up there. Moments ago, we crossed paths in the kitchen as he cut two thick slabs of fresh bread, slathered them with butter and popped them into the toaster “to melt the butter just enough.” I silently marvelled at his tall and slender form, at his long torso stretching up from pajama bottoms knotted low around his hips. What a miracle, to watch my child become a man. I hug him when I can and keep my comments to a minimum. Now, he is hidden again: only his voice trails down the stairs, a murmured reminder that he is nearby.

Mr. 13 is in the room with me, but a bookcase and a bamboo screen separate us. He is nearly silent now. Only the click of the keyboard and the occasional slide of the chair across the floor let me know he is nearby. Soon enough, he will finish this task and join his friends online. At some point, his excited voice will rise up to fill this room, and I will say, “Seriously! Can you please tone it down?” and he will – for 30 seconds or a minute – until the game and the friends fill his brain again and his voice surges again.

In the kitchen, one cat sleeps in her perch near the sliding glass door. In the basement, the other cat sleeps in the box of giveaway coats that she has adopted as her own. And here on the couch, the dog has curled up next to me as I write.

In this mundane moment, I pause to recognize just how much love is near me, just how lucky I am.