Parking #SOL23 17/31

I used to drive a school bus. Yup, you read that right. When I taught in Washington DC the school was so small that PE requirements were fulfilled through after school teams and young teachers got our commercial drivers license so we could drive the teams we coached.

Most of the school’s bright blue fleet was short buses, but Amy and I coached the (giant) middle school soccer team, so we drove the full-sized bus all over the DC area. We regularly garnered startled second looks from drivers as they passed us on the highway, but that didn’t bother us: we knew we were more than competent. Mel, Head custodian and general fixer of everything (who was also in charge of the buses) knew it, too, which is why he trusted Amy and me to park the size bus after all the kids had been picked up.

Because the school was in the middle of one of DC’s downtown neighborhoods, there was only one nearby space that could accommodate the big bus. The operation required two people and a lot of nerve. We negotiated narrow one-way streets until we arrived perpendicular to a long alleyway. Here, we maneuvered our blue behemoth in a fifteenish-point turn, then threaded our way between two buildings, the sides of the bus mere inches from the brick walls on either side. About a third of the way up the alley, a pipe snaked up the side of the building on the right; a few feet further on, a meter jutted out of the building on the left. There was no room for error.

Once we made it through the alley, we emerged into the relative freedom of a very small parking lot, where we slid the bus into a spot right against a wall. Finishing was always exhilarating.

Which explains why I blushed with pleasure tonight as a group of us left the restaurant and the woman at the next table touched my arm and said, “I watched you park your minivan. It was amazing.” I looked out the window, suddenly realizing that everyone inside had been able to see me parallel park in a very tight spot, then I grinned, “well, I used to drive a school bus.”

Civilization VI #SOL23 16/31

I have spent all day – and I mean the entire day – playing a game. I started last night, went to bed much later than I intended, woke up & was vaguely friendly to my family (who then went out for the day – skiing 😆) and, after they left, started again.

It has been glorious. My mind has been completely engaged in planning a civilization, sending out settlers, city planning, diplomacy and more. I haven’t thought about school at all – heck, I even forgot to write a post this morning and I certainly haven’t started commenting. Instead, I’ve been Eleanor of Aquitaine, carefully building up my cultural and religious influence as I slowly gain power. I’ve fished and farmed and fought (as little as possible of that last; I maintain a big enough army that people don’t really want to attack me). I settled near Halong Bay and constructed Chichen Itza and the Colossus and the Hagia Sofia and more. Cervantes grew up in my empire, as did Rumi, and their writings have made us all very happy.

I’ve played for so long that my brain is seeing hexagons (the tile shape in the game) everywhere. Now, my family has returned and I’ve baked another batch of blondies (thanks to fellow blogger Arjeha who shared the recipe two days ago – because my children ate *the entire pan* yesterday) and I’m going to go for a walk even though the weather remains stubbornly cold and gray. Soon after that I’ll have to put on something other than sweatpants because we’re going out. Sigh.

Nevermind. In Eleanor’s world, I’m building a theater and an aqueduct. The closest volcano has gone extinct and I’ve circumnavigated the globe. I’m fairly certain that another Vietnamese city will soon ask to join my empire because of my amazing culture.

I’m a reader, and I get easily lost in a good book, but if you ever have a need to forget the real world for a few (ok, a lot of) hours, do I ever have a good game for you. (It’s Civ VI – if you didn’t notice that in the title😉.)

The day after Pi Day #SOL23 15/31

These days, it feels like everyone knows about March 14, Pi Day. I know we didn’t do this when I was younger, but now it’s a thing, so I thought about making some sort of pie yesterday, but skipped it because it’s March Break and I didn’t feel like it.

This morning, I came downstairs to find this (it was on my phone, but I needed my phone for the picture):

I’ll admit, it took me a minute. At first, I thought my husband might be referring to one of our new favourite things which a younger colleague recently shared when I was all steamed up: Cave Johnson Lemons

(Really, you should listen. It’s hilarious.)

But… no, I wasn’t quick enough. Here’s our conversation.

I’m pretty sure (but not 100% sure) that the final picture is from the internet and not from his office, but one can never tell: apparently, in our house, we skip Pi Day and go straight for the Ides of March.

What if? #SOL23 14/31

The first time I remember saying that I wanted to be a teacher was when we were living in California and had friends over for dinner. We were in the dining room because there were too many of us for the kitchen table, and I think a few of us kids were seated in a row on one side. One after another, we responded to some adult who had asked us what we wanted to be when we grew up. The boy from next door said he was going to be a pilot, like his dad. My youngest sister, who must have been four, declared her intent to be a garbageman. I said I was going to be a teacher. Both of us were met with scoffing laughter, in my case because, “you’re too smart to be a teacher.”

For years, I assumed that everyone wanted to be a teacher, kind of like lots of little kids want to be construction workers or, like my sister, garbagemen, and then they got over it at some point. I just couldn’t seem to get over it. I nurtured my secret desire while telling well-meaning adults that I planned to be a lawyer or, later, a diplomat. Meanwhile, teaching leaked through my every crack: I taught swim lessons and coached swim teams; I volunteered as a tutor; I nannied. Even though I attended a college that had no education major, I took a course that involved an internship, and convinced the prof to let me work in a third grade classroom; then I took a language acquisition course, then a children’s literature course. None of these were in my major.

When I finally accepted an overseas teaching position, I packed a stack of graduate school applications, already printed. I started filling them in after my first day in the classroom; I’d sent them all by the end of my second week.

Teaching is who I am; I am as likely to tell a stranger that I am a teacher as that I am a mother. In fact, I can’t imagine someone knowing me and not knowing that I teach, but lately I’ve been wondering… what if I weren’t a teacher? What might I be?

The serious options:

A lawyer – I deeply admire my friends who work for justice and equity through the law.
An editor – I have been blessed (?) with a brain that sees spelling and grammatical errors quickly and easily, and I’m pretty good at straightening out complicated sentences.
A librarian – I had no idea about all the cool things librarians could do. My librarian friends curate art, help with tech, do research for Parliamentarians, and much, much, more.
A nonprofit worker of some sort – which is what I did between college and teaching. I worked for the Red Cross and for a small nonprofit that worked with some UN agencies. It was kind of cool.
A psychologist – which, in some ways, isn’t that different from being a teacher.

The wilder options:

An actress – obviously (she pirouettes and takes a bow)
A former swim champion turned coach – ideally a champion with some medals or something
An organizer (one of those people you call to come help you get your house sorted out) – because I am *much* better at organizing other people than myself.
A midwife or a doula – in fact, ever since having my first child with a doula alongside me, I’ve imagined doing this, maybe after I retire. What a thrill to help someone bring life into the world!
And, in the realm of the completely impossible, a dancer or acrobat – I have precisely zero ability to do this, but every time I attend the ballet or watch Cirque de Soleil, I dream of being able to move my body like that. So impressive.

I’m sure there’s more I’ll remember after I publish this; it’s kind of fun to think about who else I could be. What about you? If you weren’t you, what would you do?

It’s all downhill from here #SOL23 13/31

The car, warm and humid, smells of dirty wet socks and preteen sweat with subtle notes of Dorito and popcorn. In the passenger seat, the oldest boy dozes, lost in headphones and dreams. Behind me, the youngest cheers, “I know where we are! Now that we’ve slowed down, I can open a window!” and the three middle kids guffaw over a phone. We are on our way home from a day at the ski hill.

I am not much of a skier, but I often wish I were. When I watch people swoosh down a slope and skid into a splashy stop right at the end of the line for the chairlift, I think that it looks like fun. When I ski, however, there is no swishing and no suavely swooping stops. Mostly, I pizza my way down the beginners’ slope, praying that I don’t look as stupid as I feel.

This is the first year my kids have skied since Covid began three years ago. Today was the first day I have skied in a decade. I wish I could tell you that it went well. Instead, I worried my way around the house as we left, all too aware that I didn’t know exactly what we needed for the day. Once at the ski hill, I sausaged my thighs into snow pants and had so much trouble putting on my boots (bought maybe eight years ago when I became convinced that to be a good Canadian mother I needed to own skis & take the kids skiing regularly, but never actually worn because I’m not actually a skier) that a young woman in the rental place took pity on me and helped me out after she had finished with the kids.

Immediately, my feet began to hurt, but I’ve forced my feet into uncomfortable ice skates year after year, and I know that ski boots aren’t meant to feel *good* exactly, so I pushed forward. Outside, the boys stepped into their skis and took off. I tentatively stuck my toe into the front bit and pushed my heel into the back, feeling proud that I managed not to slide down the (almost nonexistent) slope as I did so. Then I moved towards the bunny hill, pizza wedge already firmly established.

By the time I got there, my feet were screaming. I focused on figuring out how to get up the tiny incline to the magic carpet that takes tots to the top of the hill. I watched several little ones in front of me get on, and gathered my courage to step onto the mat. All the way up, I rocked from side to side, trying to give my poor feet a little relief from the pain. Just as I began to realize that the pain was coming from compression, not weight, I reached the top and had to return my focus to remaining upright.

Sliding down the bunny hill without falling took most of my concentration and, at the bottom, I felt a sudden burst of confidence. A much longer “green” slope was just off to my left. I could take the chair lift up and have a lovely easy ski, I thought. I couldn’t see the actual – it was just behind the trees – but I was certain I was ready.

I remembered how to sit into the chair lift & up I went. I rested my aching feet on the support bar and was grateful for what relief that provided. About halfway to the top, I began to worry about getting off of the lift. I tried to recall the tips and tricks for something I had never been expert at: lift your ski tips, let the chair push you out… I did it! Then I promptly fell over.

Once I righted myself, I spied the arrow to the green slope and skied over. Then, I stood at the top and panicked. I almost turned around to check that I had chosen the right run, but I knew I had. I took a deep breath, formed a wedge with my skis, and started down. I fell on the third turn. Once you’re on the hill, there’s nothing to do but keep going, so I stood up, took a deep breath and started talking myself down. Soon, I was talking out loud, encouraging myself down the hill like I might a small child, “You can do this, you’ve got this, okay here comes the turn, don’t worry, just put your weight on one leg and… don’t panic, don’t panic… Good job! You did it! See how well you’re doing! Here’s another turn…” I kept the positive patter up all the way down. As I turned for the last time and straightened my skis towards the bottom of the hill, I heard myself say, “Good girl! Now you never have to do that again.” I almost laughed out loud; my subconscious knew what was what.

As I skied towards the chalet, I realized that my feet were numb. When I finally sat down and took off those boots, sweet relief washed over me. Even my winter boots felt welcomingly roomy in comparison. “Well,” I told myself, “I guess that’s it: I’m done skiing forever.” I settled in with my book and became home base as kids came in and out, looking for food and warmth. I felt a little sad about being such a terrible skier, but my feet were really happy to be done.

Hours later, I pile exhausted, smelly kids into the car and drive them home. Over dinner, I describe our day to my partner, and a look of concern comes over his face. “Honey,” he says, “ski boots aren’t supposed to feel like that.” I explain how skates are uncomfortable and my feet are old and my arches need support and… “No. That’s not it,” he insists, “We need to get you some better boots.”

I nod my head bravely. I imagine those swooshing skiers. I thought I was done forever, but I might not be – but right now I’m too tired to think about it.

The Day Two Blues #SOL23 12/31

March Break officially started Friday at 3:25. Not that I was counting. (I was counting.) Today is officially day two of nine, and I am in the middle of the day-two blues.

Friday night we ordered takeout and didn’t tell the children to get off the internet and stayed up too late reading our books. Yesterday I was all, “yay for March Break” and “I slept in” and “let’s just sit around and do puzzles all morning” and “sure, I’d love to take a long walk” and “everyone can forage for dinner.” We watched a movie on Netflix; then we watched several episodes of a show we enjoy because why not?

Today is day two. I woke early and was thrown off by the time change, even though I knew it was coming. All day, I’ve been less certain of my sloth. I’m not sure if I like the book I started yesterday, I couldn’t quite decide if I should take a nap for so long that it got too late for a nap. I’ve been hemming and hawing about whether today should be a “get it done” day (so things aren’t hanging over me for the rest of break) or a “just kick back” day (because it’s day two). It’s 5:45 now, so it’s actually been a “talk about doing things but don’t do them” sort of day. Not my favourite.

Today, social media is full of photos of friends who’ve arrived at their beach vacations and friends who’ve already hit the ski slopes. Around here, Andre managed to shovel a path to the back shed and I went wild and crazy by taking *two* walks and folding the laundry. No, we did not post pictures.

Today I’ve been staring down the list of things I thought I’d get done during this break and realizing, as I often do, that I may have been a little overly ambitious. Today I’m feeling the full fatigue of the last few weeks. I’m fizzling out. Today, I’ve got the day-two blues.

So I’ve set out a puzzle and pulled out my knitting. I’ve snuggled into the couch and stayed in my sweats. I’m choosing some movies and chatting with friends. I’m letting go of (some of the) lists and allowing myself to feel at loose ends. Tomorrow is day three, and there’s no such thing as the day-three blues because it doesn’t rhyme. I can live with that.

Compliments #SOL23 11/31

Years ago, my colleague, Aaron Bachmann, walked into our office one day and told us that he had learned that people don’t get enough compliments and that, when they did, something like 90% of them focused on appearance. He was determined to change that.

Aaron set about giving us all compliments – real ones. It was hilarious and cheesy, but it also felt good. And he kept it up. He gave compliments all the time, to the point where even now, years later, whenever I think of him I smile. Sure, I remember him fondly (we haven’t worked together in almost two decades, more’s the pity), but it’s more than that: when I think about Aaron, I feel better about myself.

There’s tons of research about the power of compliments (here, for example) and, naturally, about how to do it “right” (here), but you already know the truth: voicing your sincere appreciation of someone else does all sorts of wonderful things.

Now, I have *no* research on this next part, but I think most teachers don’t get a lot of compliments – or at least not the kind we can fully believe. I mean, I love when a student gives me a compliment, but most of the time a part of me is also a tiny bit wary because students have a clear interest (grades) in telling me that they like what we’re doing. (This is why students who stay in touch and say nice things later on are really meaningful to me, even though I’m pretty terrible at writing back in a timely manner.) But the truth of our job is that we spend most of our days alone in a room with students. We spend our days trying to meet the needs of many humans, and we are often all too aware of the ways in which we don’t live up to our high standards. Parents are rightly concerned about their child’s development and happiness, so they don’t often give compliments either: when things are going well, they leave us alone; when things aren’t going well, we hear about it. As for administrators, well, that is highly dependent on the administrator, but my experience is that most high school principals are not big on compliments.

This week, our Literacy Coach, Xan Woods, came to our school. When she wasn’t assessing students or compiling data or supporting other people, she had time to watch me teach. This is one of her go-to supports: whenever she can, she observes, then provides feedback. Xan knows that these past few weeks have been extraordinarily difficult for me, and she knows how I’ve struggled with my own concerns about my competency in the Reading class I’m teaching. I was excited to have her sit in because I knew she would have good feedback and new strategies to help me improve.

But here’s what actually happened: at the end of the day, she complimented me. She noticed that the students in the class are starting to respond to the instruction. She told me about the various ways she saw them support one another. She pointed out that they were willing to write on the board (a huge step forward), and that every student read aloud – not just in choral and echo reading, but at least one sentence on their own (a miracle) – for the first time. She was genuinely excited for me and said, “You’re amazing! You’re really doing it!” then talked about strategies that were working. Later, she posted a short video clip of me, teaching, on Twitter and outlined things that were going well. I almost blushed. She does this for many of the teachers she observes, so that we can learn from each other as we teach in our separate classrooms. It’s incredible.

I can’t even begin to express how much this meant. She didn’t say I was perfect. She didn’t say that there were no improvements we could make. She simply noticed where I was doing a good job, and for a while, the difficulties that have been dogging me felt less heavy. When I taught the next day, I was a bit more relaxed, a bit more confident in my choices. Xan made a difference.

This writing challenge, too, lifts me up. Yesterday, a high school friend, Katie, told me she loves the time of year when I publish every day. I glowed. Maybe Stacey and Melanie and the others at Two Writing Teachers knew this would happen. Maybe they knew teachers needed this space. Every March so many teachers use their precious time to write something and publish it every day. We make ourselves vulnerable in ways I don’t think we always share: Who will read (and maybe judge) our public writing? What if, as a teacher, I publish something that is not very well-written?(Um, I do this every March. 31 days in a row is a lot of published writing; some of it is necessarily not great.) Whose story can I share? What may I reveal about myself? Others? The school? It’s a lot. Yet every day, people reply to our posts and say wonderful things. We write to each other, sharing connections, observations, thoughts and, always, compliments. For one month, we lift each other high and say what Xan said to me: “You’re amazing! You’re really doing it!”

Aaron knew it all those years ago: compliments change everything. So, to Aaron and Xan, to the people behind Two Writing Teachers, and to everyone who is writing and everyone who is commenting, thank you. Your words change the world for the better.

Open Tab Poetry #SOL23 10/31

Sherri’s slice today inspired me right away; in it, she lists the titles of her open tabs. “Well,” I thought, “that is truly a slice of life.” I knew I wanted to try the same thing – not least because it would be easy, right? Ha. Writing is pretty much never exactly “easy”: first, I got all judge-y about the number of tabs I have open. (It’s a lot.) Then I got even more judge-y about the quality of my open tabs. And then I got judge-y about my judgy-ness. Harumph.

I stared at my list and wished I could change it. Moments before despair set in, I realized that, of course, I could change it – because that’s what writers do, they change words, and I’m a writer.

So I present to you the equivalent of book spine poetry except now it’s “open tabs poetry.” And because I just made up the genre, I decided that when you write it, you can use parts of the tab titles & just cross out the other bits. Also, I decided that I would use tabs as titles for each poem, too. Now I present to you three of the world’s first-ever “open tab” poems:

My Honest Poem

A Trick of the Light
Poetry Couture
Microjoys
if this is therapy, then i am all in

The Reading Performance ~~– Understanding Fluency through Oral Interpretation~~

32 Million U.S. Adults are “Functionally Illiterate”
21 Lives Lost ~~Invitation to Submit~~
No Time to Waste
What If Schools Truly Partnered With Families Living in Poverty?
Designing Trauma-Sensitive Classroom ~~Management Strategie~~s
I want to change the world~~, one proficiency sequence at a time~~

5 Exercises to Keep an Aging Body Strong and Fit

Art ~~– Jarret Lerner~~
March Madness Poetry ~~Bracket~~
Thinking ~~About How Visual Images Support Writing~~
Reading Visual Texts ~~with “The Call”~~
Memoir Writing ~~101 handout~~

Literature made me do it #SOL23 9/31

Look. I’ve slept through my alarm, so my husband has to wake me up, and this morning’s shower is non-negotiable, so in I go even though I am already running late. As I wash my hair I mentally review my closet and select the navy and white sundress even though it is March and still cold because I know I can layer the light gray cardigan over top and no one will be any the wiser.

I am out of the shower, face cream on, hair combed, mascara on and down the stairs for breakfast in under five minutes. Andre has made me a smoothie – he really is the best – but I have to wait for the water to heat for tea. Breathe. Crossword. The water boils and I pour it over the tea, gulp a little more smoothie, run up the stairs to wake the boys then back down the stairs to stop the tea steeping then back up the stairs to finish getting ready.

Black leggings are obviously a no – the dress is navy. I dig for gray leggings. Nope. The only available tights are also black. I search again for the gray leggings while my brain again mentally scans my closet. Ah, there are the leggings! I dry my hair then brush my teeth, wishing – not for the first time – that I were ambidextrous, a skill I imagine using mostly to do things like dry my hair and brush my teeth at the same time. Superpowers, I think, would be wasted on me.

Ok. Ready. Just socks.

Socks.

What the heck kind of socks am I going to wear with gray leggings and a navy dress? Gray. I need gray. There are no gray socks in the drawer. I have white – that’s a no – brown, black. I stare at the socks. In the caverns of my mind I hear my stepsister, Jamie, saying, “I’d go with the _______ pair. ______ goes with everything.” I have no idea whether she said “brown” or “black.” ARGH.

Um… Ok, focus on shoes instead. Which shoes will I wear? I slip on a brown pair, then catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror- nope. I grab a navy pair – but with which socks? Precious seconds slip by. Andre walks into the bedroom and stares at me, barefoot, with multiple pairs of socks on the bed and several pair of shoes on the floor. He looks perplexed. “What are you doing?” I explain my conundrum and he suggests solving it with brown boots. Perfect! I zip them up. Not perfect. They look…wrong.

My carpool buddy will be here any minute. I have not had any tea. I need to be ready about three minutes ago. I still haven’t made my lunch. I stare at the sock drawer as if gray socks might magically appear. I remember that I threw out my last pair a few weeks ago – holes. My carpool buddy arrives downstairs. Suddenly, the solution is obvious: Shakespeare socks. I’m an English teacher! Sure, they don’t match, but they say “To be or not to be” so I can claim literature and no one will be the wiser. Precisely no shoes (probably in the world) go with a navy dress, dark gray leggings and blue-ish Hamlet socks with white skulls and green crowns, so I throw on some navy slides, rush down the stairs, toss a bit of tea down my throat, grab my lunch and run out the door.

No one commented all day long, but I’m pretty sure it was one of the more unusual outfits I have worn in a while. Whatever. March Break starts in under 24 hours. And tomorrow I’m wearing jeans.

Reading Instruction Rabbit Hole #SOL23 8/31

Consider listening to this song as you start reading this post. With apologies to Joni Mitchell…

🎜Help me, I think I’m falling
Down the reading instruction rabbit hole again
When I get that crazy feelin’, I know I’m in trouble again…🎜

I may or may not have quite a few (ahem, a very large number of) tabs open on (more than one window on) my computer. They may or may not be largely (ok, almost entirely) about teaching reading to adolescents. I may or may not be trying to teach myself how to teach reading by consuming as much information as possible in the (already full) hours after work and before (ok, often well after) bedtime while the course is already in session. It may or may not be true that this is part of the reason that I’m writing this at 8:30pm rather than, well, any earlier hour.

I know the title of this blog is “Persistence and Pedagogy” but I’m usually at least a little more balanced. These days, I feel like I’m all persistence in search of pedagogy. So far, all the podcasts and books and articles have taught me one thing for sure: teaching reading is something that someone should take an actual class in, ideally before they are given a class which requires them to teach reading. But here I am.

On February 5, I turned to Twitter. I tweeted:
Have successfully lobbied for a hs #reading class for rdrs who need extra support. Now not sure where to start. 10 kids every day. Have done screeners for phonics & vocab. Everyone’s needs are different. Ideas/best practices for this class? Help?

I got lots of good ideas. Y’all – there are LOTS of good ideas. So. Many. Ideas. The good news is that there are a lot of other teachers out there (I see you Anne-Marie!) doing all sorts of good work with this, and plenty of them are willing to share. My Knit Night crew has lots of ideas to offer, too. There is a lot to read about reading, let me tell you.

Today, I realized that our class may have found our rhythm: we open with a bit of phonics, practice with prefixes and suffixes, create words and brainstorm word families, echo read, choral read, read aloud independently, then take a break. Whew. Next comes vocabulary, then some work with sentence structure, maybe a word game & then the bell rings and, exhausted, we leave. Mostly, the cell phones stay away. Mostly, the students will at least whisper-read the words out loud.

I’m keeping documentation of student learning, and I really really hope this course has some positive outcomes for these students because reading well feels so desperately important. If you’re a reading teacher & you have ideas, feel free to send them my way.

🎜Help me, I think I’m fallin’ in the science of reading abyss
It’s got me hopin’ for the future and worryin’ about the past
‘Cause I’ve seen some hot, hot theories come down to smoke and ash…🎜