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.

Second day jitters #SOL24 2/31

At first, this post may look like a poem – and it is! A pantoum, no less! – but it actually a tribute to mentors & the writing process.

On Day Two
How have I forgotten these early days
When doubt – or lack of sleep – drowns
any conviction that I have made
the right choice,

When doubt – or lack of sleep – drowns
the constant rhythm of the deep heart’s core,
which knows the right choice must be
the leap I have already taken?

The constant rhythm of my deep heart’s core
fears nothing:
The leap I have already taken,
the worry that I will share my imperfection,

fears, – nothing
you, too, have not felt before.
The desire to share imperfection,
and be seen –

you, too, have felt it before,
that conviction that we are made
to be seen.
But, oh, I had forgotten these early days.

How I started
(Mentor #1: Alice Nine, who blogged here when I first started, used to write something and then share her process. I found it endlessly fascinating. Today, I’ll share mine.)

I went to bed last night with my head full of ideas for blogging – and I woke up this morning with nothing. Nothing. “Why,” I asked myself, “did I even sign up this year?” (Note: I literally never considered NOT signing up, so this question is ridiculous.) I proceeded to spend a fairly impressive amount of time beating myself up: I overcommit, I take on new things but don’t let anything go, I compare myself to others, I should have chosen a theme for the month (Mentors #2 & #3: Sherri Spelic and E Griffin, both of whom have lovely themes for the month). You get the picture.

Of course, I quickly realized that I have been in this space before – the space where I doubt basically everything. It happens every March during this challenge (and usually right at the beginning, go figure). My mind leaped quickly to the truth that this is also how I felt when I had newborns: some combination of overwhelming excitement, fear and doubt. This leap, I am certain, came from reading a new-to-me blog yesterday, Ana Paton’s lovely post about overwhelm and holding her newborn daughter & poetry.

In my head I heard, “How have I forgotten these early days?” I scribbled that down & then free-wrote for a few minutes. It was poem-ish, probably because of that single line. Plus, mentor #4, my friend Earl Brogan once told me that if I was having trouble saying something, I should try poetry. (I think I harumphed, but he has been proven right.)

Getting unstuck
When I ran out of steam, I paused and wrote about what I was trying to write. I make my students do this meta-writing all the time, and I love it. I wrote, “Revision: This is a poem of fears and questions. Is the final answer yes? Or I am enough? Or one step at a time? Hmm… Or is the final answer a question?” The idea of questions and answers led me to try the duplex form that poet Jericho Brown invented because the theme seemed ideal for a conversation. I played with that for a while until I suddenly wrote, “Nope – not a duplex – because the second voice is insipid.”

Well.

One of the sites I’d used to remind myself of the duplex form had also discussed pantoum. I love pantoums but find them complicated to write. Still, my early draft had a lot of repetition, so I copied out the form.

Stealing a line
From there, I spent a fair amount of time tinkering with lines. A pantoum is not a weekday poem – at least not for me. At one point, I nearly threw in the towel, but then I remembered a line from (Mentor #5) WB Yeats’ poem “The Lake Isle of Innisfree” – the deep heart’s core. Once I would have eschewed that line as not mine, but I another trick I share with my students is to “steal a line.” So I did.

Having some courage
And here I am! I have a pantoum! And I’m publishing it! And for that, I need to thank other mentors like (mentors #6 – a bazillion) Margaret Simon, Glenda Funk and Fran Haley who regularly & generously share their poetry – plus the Monthy Open Write that Sarah Donovan hosts over at Ethical ELA.

As it turns out, I write in a community who does, I think, “see” me. And for that, I thank Stacy Shubitz, Melanie Meehan and everyone at TwoWritingTeachers.
Now, with day 2 under my belt, I move forward into day 3.

An unwelcome visitor #SOL24 1/31

I knew for sure that I had an unwelcome visitor on Saturday. I’d heard the quiet knocking every morning for days, but tried to pretend it wasn’t coming: I went to bed early, but soon sleep started to elude me; I woke daily with a tickle in the back of my throat. By Saturday there was no ignoring the visitor: the virus had arrived.

“I think I’m sick,” I croaked at my spouse, as if my voice and the circles under my bleary eyes didn’t make this obvious.

“I think you are,” he replied, and set me on the couch to recuperate.

We’ve had viruses visit before, of course. Mostly we greet them with tea and honey; we entertain them with ridiculous series on Netflix or long cuddles with good books; always, we like to offer them plenty of rest. This satisfies most viruses. After a day or two, they thank us politely and move on, sometimes leaving behind a bit of a mess, but nothing that we can’t handle if we’re cautious.

This virus though, the one that came on Saturday, this one has overstayed its welcome. I tried to coddle it over the weekend, hoping that it would be willing to move on by Monday morning, but no. Instead, the virus – which had initially taken up residence in my throat – decided that it was too confined and expanded into my lungs and my sinuses. There, it stretched out. “Ah… just what I needed: more space.” It took a particular liking to my lungs and hung out there, making it hard for me to breathe.

So, I took the virus to the doctor’s office where we tried to take a picture of it, but it was shy and hid from the x-ray. “Well,” said the doctor, “at least it’s not Pneumonia. She always overstays her welcome – a real hanger-on, that one.” Pneumonia has visited both me and my spouse, so I knew exactly what the doctor meant. She is a terrible guest. “Still,” the doctor continued, “there are some truly ill-mannered viruses going around right now. This one may stay for days.”

I nodded my head, but I didn’t believe her. I know how to deal with a virus, and I don’t get sick very often. I wheezed my way home and curled up on my couch. I played puzzle games with my virus and watched lots of bad TV. We downloaded a mindless game app and played for hours. We drank unending pots of tea with honey. We knit, pet the dog and took naps. Still, the virus stayed. It fiddled with the thermostat, so I tried to help it get comfortable with some ibuprofen. Then, ungrateful, it spent Monday evening painting my throat bright red. “Much better,” it squealed. After that, it yelled at me whenever I swallowed, “You’re ruining the paint job!”

Every afternoon, I checked in with my virus. “Maybe you could leave tomorrow?” I asked. The virus laughed, and watched me write increasingly tearful emails to the vice principal, telling her that I needed to be out yet again. Last night, as I created the fifth day of lesson plans, the virus was not even remotely helpful. In fact, it laughed even harder and said, “I *might* leave tomorrow, but I’m just not sure yet. Maybe you should go in just to see what I do.” I’d gotten wise to it, though. I knew that it just wanted to stay longer, so I called in sick and sent the (now pretty pathetic) lesson plans.

Today is the seventh day of the virus’s visit. I’ve told it that my spouse and I don’t typically welcome guests for more than a week without consulting with one another, so it is reluctantly packing up. The paint job it had so delighted in has largely faded, and it’s moved into a smaller space, mostly in my throat. I’ve offered it more tea and sleep, but I think it’s starting to crave something different, hopefully something it can’t find in this house. By Monday, this unwelcome visitor should be gone, and I should be back to work. Fingers crossed.

Sick Days

Second semester started with days of absent students. Some didn’t understand that the semester began in the middle of the week. Some thought the first few days were “kind of useless” and decided to stay home. Two were out of the country indefinitely. Lots of students were changing their timetables. Of course, most students were there, so I focused on the ones in the classroom, tried to make clear assignments for those who were out, and continued along.

By the end of the first full week, classes were well underway, but students seemed to be coming and going at an unusual rate. I chalked it up to, well, I don’t know what – but weird things happen in small environments, and schools are no exception. So, a lot of students were missing class, such is life, and talk at the teachers’ table at lunchtime suggested that this was true in many classes. Worse, some kids were getting sick and then were gone for days – days! None of the normal “sick for a day and then back” that usually happens. We couldn’t figure it out.

Then, last week, my youngest got sick. He doesn’t love school, so I often look askance at any request to stay home, but on Tuesday, he was visibly unwell, so we let him stay home – and there he stayed for three full days. Three days! He’s 13! 13-year-olds bounce back ridiculously quickly; they don’t stay home for days because of a nondescript cold. (It wasn’t covid.) But here we were. By the time Friday rolled around, he’d missed the annual ice skating outing, pizza day, and more. He was ready to go back.

So I shouldn’t have been surprised when I started feeling sick on Saturday. I was gentle with myself, but I figured it was just a cold. Just a cold… and here I am, four days later, still at home. I am sick. It’s not Covid, but I was sick enough to check with the doctor on Monday. They shook their head and said, “there are some nasty viruses going around.” Indeed. Them they x-rayed my chest to see if I had pneumonia – I don’t. I’m just sick. Last night I slept 13 hours. I’ve spent most of the last three days sitting on the couch. My throat is a hot mess. I’m sick.

When I check class attendance, I see that the students are still sick, too. To date, only 6 of my 26 grade 9 students have perfect attendance; only 4 of the 21 grade 12s. No wonder I’ve been spending so much of my afternoon literacy block trying to simply find the students I need to work with. Whew.

I’m out again tomorrow – and I really hate being away from school. If I’m lucky, I’ll be better by Thursday. At least I’ve solved the mystery of all the missing students – they’re sick!

A call from the teacher

The phone rang after dinner. I warily checked the caller ID, then perked up when I saw my sister’s name. Ah, exactly what I needed! But just as we settled in to a nice chat, I heard a beep.

Call waiting. I didn’t even know we still had call waiting. We’re already the odd family out because we still have a landline, but I can’t even remember the last time two people tried to call our house at the same time. Odd. (For what it’s worth, our reasoning for the landline is complicated, but the crux of it is that one of the kids still doesn’t have a cell phone AND we want them to be able to answer the phone in a general sort of way – you know, like if their grandparents call.)

Even odder, the tiny screen displayed the school district’s phone number. Someone was calling us from a school at 8:15pm. I asked my sister to hold on, and clicked over. My younger child’s teacher chirped a cheery hello. Quickly, I hung up on my sister (sorry, sis) and devoted my attention to this unusual caller.

I was a little concerned. I mean, when was the last time we had a not-automated call from the school? We got his report card last week and nothing looked terribly amiss. And he was already at home, playing video games & chatting with his friends, safely in one piece. More than that, when I’d asked, “How was your day?” he had pleasantly replied, “boring” as he does virtually every day. Everything seemed fine.

But his teacher was talking. I calmed my racing mind and paid attention. She was just calling to say hello and see how things were going. She was impressed with his math work. She knows about his dyslexia and complimented his writing. We talked about this and that. Finally, I asked if she was calling everyone. Yes, she was. She had decided to call all of her students’ families just to check in after report cards. After all, she said, it’s really too bad that the students who are doing well don’t get this sort of attention. We had a very pleasant conversation, and I hung up in a good mood. Judging from her voice, I bet she felt pretty good, too.

Before I called my sister back, I realized: I have done this. I have called home to say something nice. I have called home to check in. I have been the chipper voice on the other end of the line, the teacher saying that things are going well. But, I have never been the parent who got this call. And you know what? It felt nice. It felt like the sort of thing I might want to do for the families of this semester’s students. In fact, maybe I’ll start again this week.