The Shadow of a Yeller Pierced by the Light of a Kind Heart

Lessons Learned

The Power of Kindness. The Strength of Gentleness.

That glorious summer after first grade witnessed the heart-soothing balm of the summer sunshine and the comfort and calmness of home. But as June faded to July and July to August, there loomed an anxiety-evoking reality; the beginning of a new school year. Following a frightening first grade year with an incessantly yelling teacher, trepidation filled this young heart in anticipation of second grade.  Fear, one method of classroom management and control, manifests in students through their downcast eyes, rounded shoulders, and obvious crushed confidence.  First grade accomplished this for me. Just weeks from second grade, hopes were not too high for anything better.  Upon arrival in the new classroom, we second grade students were greeted with a breath of lovely fresh air. In a word, kindness. This kindness was to escort our class throughout second grade, refilling our learning sails with a gentle breeze of optimism allowing and encouraging us to bravely and excitedly explore new oceans of learning. Kindness.  A gentle voice. Happy eyes.  Probably not attributes asked about on a teacher job application, but clearly attributes deeply affecting classroom morale and ultimately individual and collective classroom successes. Kindness pierced through the learned fear of the previous school year and nurtured a restored eye contact, strong shoulders and a sweet growing confidence among all of us blessed to be in this happy second grade classroom. I do not recall content taught nor content learned in second grade, albeit to recognize that we all advanced to the third grade. I do recall, however, with vivid and joyful recollection, the loving-kindness of a very gentle, very special, very encouraging teacher, whose tender ways brought smiles and motivated excellence. I have never forgotten to consider the tone used in delivering words to children. Kindness matters. Kindness builds up. Kindness outlasts content. Kindness is soothing, healing balm to the wounded spirit that has been staggering under the excruciating weight of another’s bitterness. Kindness lifts and restores. Kindness is free. Kindness is priceless.

You're Hurting My Ears.

Lessons Learned

In The Classroom Of A Yeller

My previous blog article reflected on the gift of a gentle tone, a peaceful classroom, and the calmness, contentedness, and security students feel when wrapped in the comfort of this. I learned a different lesson early on in school.  1965-1966. First Grade. A big year for reading and learning, as they all should be.  Unfortunately, my first grade teacher was a yeller and her perpetually frustration-laced, roarish voice filled our classroom with fear rather than sweet wonder and encouragement. Regardless of one’s tender years, one quickly learns the survival strategies of not making eye contact  and not rocking the boat, so as to be able to inconspicuously fly under the classroom teacher’s radar and avoid being at the receiving end of her verbal attacks. It’s pretty tough to be “bad” in first grade as little ones long to love and please their teachers.  Can’t imagine the exponential increase in volume and in anger had we been naughty.  We were not naughty. We were, however, terrified, and when you are afraid, it is extremely difficult, perhaps even impossible, to learn. Fear has no place in a classroom, because it’s unfair and it’s paralyzing as it squeezes the life, the joy, and the hope out of a classroom leaving nothing but cold walls and clock hands that don’t move fast enough.  I survived. I learned to read. At home where I was not afraid. At home where I was encouraged and smiled at. At home where no one yelled at me. I wonder how my first grade classmates did? I played school at home. My best friend and I took turns being the teacher. We were never like her. The lesson she taught, which has been indelibly etched into my heart, is how not to be. I am sorry for her because she missed the joy, the opportunity, the brilliance, the wonder, the miracles that are forever happening in a classroom of discovery and delight.  I have been a teacher for thirty years, and now in pseudo-retirement, a substitute teacher. Each class, each day, each year is new and exciting and fresh and full of limitless possibility. A classroom full of children represents the hope for the future, and to have the privilege of serving in this way and tending to this great treasure is exhilarating. Teaching. It bears a weight of responsibility such as no other. Precious children, uniquely gifted, wired, inspired, filled with wonder and dreams and infinite potential to touch, change and serve this world as no one else can; these are the treasures entrusted to our care eight hours a day, five days a week, nine months a year, every year throughout their most formative years. With clay feet and great weakness, I stand before each class, each day in full knowledge of my inadequacy. What have I to give them but love, encouragement, and the best of what I have and am.  I am honored and humbled and thankful to be a teacher.

The Lovely Busy Days Of December In An Elementary School

For thirty years, I danced in the lovely swirl of December in an elementary school. With exuberance  at an all-year high, sparkly artwork celebrating the hallways, concerts, programs, and pageants exciting the calendar, and creative gifts secretively being crafted and wrapped with an anticipatory energy that was nearly impossible to contain, we tried to continue marching through lesson planned academic curricular content, but needless to say, distraction was a fierce opponent. Creative work that supported learning, encouraged focus but fun, and still reflected the beautiful themes of December were favorite tasks of the students during these happy days. One set of five sheets that we especially loved to work on can be found at the link below at my TeacherPayTeacher Store, One Arts Infusion Collaborative.    

http://www.teacherspayteachers.com/Product/Five-Christmas-Rhyme-And-Draw-Sheets-1598489

Even As A Sub, One Is A Treasure Keeper

Lessons Learned

Treasure

Interestingly, even as a Sub, one is a treasure keeper. Even as a Sub, one needs eyes of the heart that perceive and then respond gently but deliberately to the subtle personality dynamics and uniquenesses of each new class. They(the students) come with their gifts and, depending on affirmation or not, they quickly and aptly assess the value given them. This personal, internal assessment, accurate or not, has a clear bearing on confidence and subsequently, behavior. Each child, each student is a treasure. Unique. Priceless. Beautiful. Even as a Sub, one must tenderly tend to this treasure.  Truly, each classroom is a miraculous treasure box filled with infinite, marvelous treasure, and that sparkling treasure is, of course, the students. Uniquely wired, uniquely gifted, unique in every conceivable way, these precious students enter our classrooms and our hearts unknowingly seeking the unique gifts we possess in order that they might be inspired to reach, stretch, grow, dream, and imagine. Their confidence, their compassion, their success will be their future and ours, as well. Not long ago, I asked an elementary class, “Is love a dessert or a vegetable?” After considerable discussion, the entire class responded, “Both, because desserts are delicious and fun, and vegetables are something you need.” “Okay,” I said, “Is love winter or summer?” “Both,” they replied again. “Winter because it draws you close in hugs to keep warm and summer because it makes your heart feel free and joyful.” We questioned and answered for a lovely long time. Each one fully engaged and bubbling to the brim with clever, divergent responses.  The children never ran out of ideas. They never ran out of enthusiasm for chasing and concocting creative solutions to questions. They never ever ran out of imagination; children don’t you know. Inexhaustible. Boundless.  This is fortunate, for one day these inventive minds will be required to help solve the complexities of life facing us all. So we stir the fire that lights their eyes, their imaginations, and causes them to believe in and use the great gifts planted in the rich soil of their hearts. Treasure. Here is the treasure.   For the duration of but one school year, or in the case of a Sub perhaps just one day, we teachers are charged with the privilege and immense responsibility of caring for and cultivating the treasure entrusted to our keeping, bravely leading them on captivating and daring adventures through every content area and sometimes simply gathering them all in closely together on the reading rug for a magic carpet ride through the pages of a book.

On Being A Sub...

Lessons Learned

A Day As A Sub

The term “Sub,” at least in an educational realm, conjures a multiplicity of images running the gamut from stern, unsmiling autocrat where fear and distance command submission, to loosey goosey, bff where control is surrendered with the very first popularity seeking smile, and every hue, tint, and shade of classroom  management style  in between.  Regardless of the image or actuality, however, the thing remains that a Sub is a target and waves of expert archers show up with each new class that walks in the door.  As a student, I remember Subs and, deep down inside, feeling very sorry for them but clearly never doing anything constructive to allay the wide-eyed look of desperation that undoubtedly appeared sometime before 9AM and lasted until the 3PM bell. Shame on me.  As a pre-teaching career, newly graduated from college Sub, I switched sides of the table and stepped extremely tentatively, even a bit sheepishly into the first classroom, knowing full well that turnabout was fair play, what goes around comes around, and all of the rest of those philosophical truths that simply pointed out the obvious; may you get what’s comin’ to ya! Let the arrows fly. I liked Subbing. It was always new. I tried to walk the tightrope between autocrat and bff, and quite honestly, some days were definitely better than others. But I did like it, except the one time I was assigned to middle school PE and had to ref a basketball game during my lunch hour that day. The only thing I knew about basketball was how to be a cheerleader for it, and my ignorance was only accentuated by the fact that I was wearing wooden clogs, a plaid woolen skirt, and a monogramed sweater; not at all suitable for one seeking the appearance of possessing a certain degree of authority.  It was a truly tragic and hopeless event, but, hey, when the lunch bell rang sending players and crowd parading back to afternoon classes, we turned the page and chalked it up to what does a Sub know? I was a music and drama specialist, for Pete’s sake! This brief stint as a Sub was followed by a lovely 30 year career in education; the career of my dreams and of my heart.  And now, well now it’s time to Sub again. It’s good. I like it. A little math, science, spelling, reading, projects, presentations, recess duty, pre-k through 5^th grade; Subbing is always new.  Yesterday, though, was the first day I Subbed in my specialty of music and drama, and it was magical. We sang and sang and sang through every class through the entire day. Every song was new to the students, but they learned them all and sang them all with great gusto. We talked about stage presence and projection and the proper way to bow. Unreservedly, each class enthusiastically and wholeheartedly took up the challenge of learning the new songs and by the end of each class we had prepared our performance for us and it was undeniably fabulous.  They knew it and couldn’t stop smiling. I knew it and was so proud of them even though I barely knew their names. They fully engaged and were willing to give this Sub a chance, and I am so very thankful they did.

Don't Let The Bullies Run The Class

Lessons Learned

Each One Precious

I was hired to fill a long-term substitute teaching position in a fourth grade classroom just months after my December college graduation.  Young, eager, optimistic, all appropriate and helpful attributes for a new incoming sub, nicely complimented my satchel stuffed with freshly acquired scholarly educational theories, philosophies, and cutting edge fail-safe strategies designed and promised to reach all and teach all. With squared-shoulder confidence and change-the-world spirit, I entered that classroom and encountered reality. Reality always somehow seems to smack of a bit of disappointment.  People can frequently behave so disappointingly human regardless of their ages. Human nature depicts endless layers of self and emanating from this myopic vantage point can be a fairly insidious disregard for others.  Somewhere between taking lunch count that first day and starting our new novel, the leaning-toward-the-toxic classroom cliques magically appeared with great clarity and unapologetically. This group. That group. The power group. The Loner. Just one loner.  She steered clear of the fray, kept her eyes down, and tried to fly under the radar. They “let” her do so to a certain extent, that is to say, after “they” snipped and cut enough to make sure she knew that her radar flying was by their permission. Power. The lust for power starts young, but where exactly does it originate? I sincerely want to know that.  It’s poison, of that I am certain. To the oblivious or insecure teacher, it will run rampant and dominate your classroom in extremely covert, though devastating ways. It is the root of bullying. And bullying is at the root of a pain that can be so excruciating, so consuming, so silent that it completely debilitates in its rendering of powerlessness. Who bestows this power? Who perpetuates it? Do we all? I was just a young long-term sub walking into a classroom with its established and accepted climate, but my eyes, as those of one who understood the wrath of a bully, remained fixed upon the loner.  I would help her in quiet, unassuming ways. An encouraging word in passing.  An affirming smile.  A “random” opportunity to teacher-assist on an errand to the office.  An extra superlative word written on a corrected assignment. Continual, covert building up day after day after day after day.  The bullies, the exclusive cliques, the power seekers were not given voice other than to participate according to my directions. We were one class. We would learn to care for each other and recognize that each one brings gifts and stories that are unique and worthy of being celebrated. Not one more than another, but each one. On  my last day with the fourth graders, the loner, who no longer was one, brought me a gift that she, her mother, and grandmother had made.  It was a stunningly beautiful beaded necklace strung in the Native American tradition of their family and their tribe. She simply said, “Thank you for noticing me.”  Her simple message did more to inform my teaching than all of the stuffing in my satchel.

How Do You Learn To Be A Teacher? By Witnessing Excellence.

Lessons Learned

Maybeth: A Life of Serving Others

In retirement, one is compelled to reflect on a career, on life, and on moments that shaped, defined, and solidified the commitment to and affirmation of a particular path or life trajectory. One is compelled to consider opportunities, open doors, and answered prayers that brought great confidence and great hope to each faith-filled step forward through the years. One is compelled to recall with excellent fondness the beautiful individuals whose gifted, gracious lives indelibly touched and deeply inspired one’s own  dreams and subsequently one’s own work. One such individual for me was Maybeth.  Maybeth was a member of the church I grew up in. She was a teacher whose amazing life tremendously influenced and inspired my teaching.  Maybeth was born in the late 1800’s. Her sharp, inquisitive mind and fierce commitment to learning propelled her to the top of her class each year in school. She went off to college where she studied to be a teacher. In college she met the love of her life and they were married soon after graduating. With great hopes and dreams and nothing but brilliant promise before them, they set out to share their gifts and touch the world. Within a year or two, however, her sweetheart and soul mate unexpectedly passed away. Devastation seared her heart ,and her shattered dreams lay shrouded in the black agony of deep excruciating loss.  How do you forge ahead, so young, alone? Maybeth chose to pour herself completely into her teaching, her students, and service to others around her.  She became the life-changing teacher that students never forgot. During the summers, Maybeth would travel to Taiwan and teach English to children in an orphanage. Every summer throughout her teaching career and then beyond. The children loved her and she loved them. When ultimately the day came that she could no longer make the trip to Taiwan, she chose to use her sewing machine to make clothes for the children at the orphanage. Every summer, she sent many large boxes of beautiful home-made clothing  stitched and packed with the greatest of love to the precious children who held her heart. She gave all she had to do all that she could and in so doing she brought infinite blessing to countless others, which in turn filled her heart with wonderful and immeasurable joy.  The inspiration of her passion has rippled for generations. Her life lived for others taught me.

Will You Believe I Am Special, Or Will You Believe What Everyone Tells You About Me?

Lessons Learned

Wipe The Slate Clean

Within the first few days of school one particular year, a young student very innocently, very sincerely posed undoubtedly the most compelling question of all when he asked, “Can I change?”  Wondering if he was seeking permission or questioning possibility, the teacher probed, “What do you mean?”  The student, who carried, along with his new backpack, a red-flag reputation in teacher-talk, proceeded to spill his heart through the story he shared about his school experience so far. Not a good listener. A little disrespectful.  Frequently yelled at. In the lowest groups. Probably a trouble-maker.  Never invited to a birthday party. School was stupid. Mom told him he needed to change, and he needed to change now, because things were not going to ever get better if he didn’t.  Can I change? Do I have the strength and courage necessary to turn this behavior boat around?  Even if I can, can others accept this new me and change their expectations and opinions of me? If their perceptions are cast in stone and unchangeable, why should I even try to be different than the bad boy they expect? This was a tremendous amount of significant contemplating for a young mind to be processing during those early days in a school  year when most were struggling to line up in the proper order  and to recall their locker numbers. The teacher, realizing that questions of this sort which come right from the deepest chambers of a student’s heart, felt overwhelmingly humbled to be entrusted with this huge amount of vulnerability.  The student’s  eyes were wide, trusting, and demanding. This answer was to be as important as the question in terms of behavioral trajectory.  With focused eye-contact , tender vocal tone, and unmistakable belief, the teacher  promised that precious little boy that each year was a new year, that each day was a new day, and each one was a new opportunity to begin again with a clean slate. We all make mistakes and bad choices for which we are not proud, but apologies, grace and forgiveness are powerfully strong.  It’s never too late to turn around. It’s never too late to make a new and better choice.  Now is the time. Start now. This is how we learn, and this is how we grow. “Yes, you can change,” said the teacher.  “This is going to be a good year,” smiled the boy. And it was.

Favorites: A Pitiful Model

Lessons Learned

Don't Do It

I never was one. That honor was reserved for compliant, quiet pleasers who, if given the choice, always chose the first desk in the first row on the first day of school. If given the choice, I always perused the classroom crowd for a familiar face and bee-lined toward that row; optimal positioning for talking.  Unfortunately, it was the mid-sixties and seating choice gave way to alphabetical order which year after year landed me in desk one, row one with the name Anderson. This was absolutely not premium classroom real estate for a talker. And a talker cannot really be a pleaser; not in the sixties and not especially now either for that matter.  I remember lobbying as I got older for alphabetical seating by first name rather than last name, but to no avail; I think they were on to me. I didn’t mean to be bad with talking; there simply was much to talk about, all of the time. As an aside, students who are talkers often grow up to be teachers, which is a tremendous profession for professional level talkers. In any event, I was not a favorite, but I surely knew who the favorites were; everyone did. The favorites always ran the teacher’s secret messages to the office, always got picked for the special tasks and privileges, always got called on first, always laughed the loudest at the teacher’s not-always-that-funny jokes, always brought the first and biggest armful of spring flowers to the teacher, and always really enjoyed knowing that we all knew who the favorite was.  It didn’t matter that much because we figured that we “un-favorites” were in excellent company. Fast forward many years through college and student teaching to my own classroom, and I remember specifically asking myself, “Would I have a favorite?”  Oh I hoped not. The entire “favorite” model seemed to smack of insecurity and division, set in place to create a power differential, which is the not-too-distant cousin of bullying. Why would someone have a favorite unless the motive was to diminish, reduce, or keep in check someone else? Why would someone choose a favorite except to make clear that someone else was not? Why would someone want to be a favorite knowing subtle, covert ostracism would most likely be the ultimate outcome? Favoritism has no place in a classroom, a home, or in any significant relationship because favoritism hurts. It alienates. It offers shallow, insincere affirmation which breaks apart easily upon its fragile, fickle foundation. It’s about control, which is about power, which creates a protective wall of resentment, which absolutely impedes learning.  All sour grapes aside, I am grateful that I was never a favorite.

Running On E

Lessons Learned

Just Say Thanks

It’s really quite simple.  When the car is running out of gas, you fill the tank; that is, if you want the car to continue moving. People are not dissimilar to this with respect to appreciation and encouragement. Kind, gentle, affirming words fill the soul with energizing joy despite the age of the hearer. And kind, gentle, affirming words are free of charge; no need to add a line to the budget.  Balm to the soul. Impetus to run a little farther.  Uplifting to the heart.  The push to carry on, to try harder, to jump higher, to get up again, to not walk away.  Sometimes, all that’s needed is thank you. And yet it seems we have a strange propensity to hoard these sorts of words, as if uttering them diminishes us or will serve to arrest aspiration in the hearer. We, however, freely and generously pour out our unsolicited opinions that bite and snip, our whiney complaints, and our interminably long lists of chores and orders, in much the same manner as a spigot stuck on high. Is it really easier and more beneficial to beat people down with the work harder speech than it is to offer the encouragement or appreciation speech and watch them work harder of their own volition in response to verbal affirmation? Which stirs the most meaningful motivation? Which builds and nourishes the strongest loyalty? Which empowers for the long-term? In our classrooms, which, in obsessive pursuit of metric excellence, have frequently become places of scripted interaction driven by the time constraints associated with high-stakes testing, the unscripted but life-giving words of affirmation which desperately  need to be said and heard often get lost in a stressful flurry. Unless I tell you it’s not good, assume that it is good and keep at it. What sort of motivation does that limp verbiage inspire? Emptiness is the result of that limp verbiage. And no one can run on empty.  We direly need to stop. We direly need to breathe. We truly and absolutely need to look one another in the eyes and speak encouragement and affirmation and appreciation to one another. Students. Colleagues.  Family members. Neighbors. We’re running on empty and the fuel to share, the fuel we need is free. Why are we waiting?

Absolutely No Fun Getting Sick At School.

Lessons Learned

The Fliptop Desk

The early eighties and before boasted most frequently of classrooms with desks containing attached seats that rather creakingly wobbled from side to side as one needed to get in or out. But the greatest feature of the desks was the wooden fliptop, which when one opened it revealed a large cavernous space perfect for storing and losing an entire school year’s worth of papers, notes home, permission slips, consumable workbooks, number two pencils, all one hundred and sixty four completely unboxed crayons, secret notes from friends, and all sorts of other necessary tools of the students’ trade.  When the fliptop was open, hurricane would be the word that would come to mind in description of the helter-skelter within. Cleaning was intermittent and half-hearted at best so as not to disrupt the delicate balance between control and chaos wherein the spirit of imagination and creativity reside.  When the fliptop was closed, peace, tranquility, and order were the illusion a visitor to the school might be impressed with if he or she peeked into our classroom.  The first graders and I were, at that moment, dwelling in the illusion state as they were putting finishing touches on some art projects, fliptops closed,  and I was savoring their unbridled creativity as they created artwork upon their fliptops. Gerry was suddenly looking a bit pale.  Are you okay? Yes; just a little too full from lunch. Do you need to visit the nurse? Oh no, I just need to rest my tummy. I can rest my tummy while I’m working; see? You are doing a great job, Gerry, but if you need to see the nurse, you just let me know. A bit paler. Gerry, how are you feeling? A little better. You sure? I’m sure. Let me know if you would like to see the nurse.  Nobody likes to get sick at school. Feeling icky is no fun.  Gerry was looking a real bad shade of green, and I went to get the trash can from the front of the room. On my way to Gerry, I saw him lift the wooden fliptop of his desk.  Gerry got sick inside the desk, then closed the wooden fliptop and put his head down upon it.  It was sad. Gerry was sad. We all felt sad for Gerry. The nurse came for Gerry and he went home to really rest his tummy.  After that, the janitor came and removed Gerry’s fliptop desk for a sound cleaning. Monday would be Gerry’s turn to restore the proper balance to the interior of his fliptop.

Not Good Enough

Lessons Learned

I Didn’t Do It

The knee-jerk response to most every “shouldn’t have done it” incident is I didn’t do it. I didn’t do it. I didn’t do it! Regardless of the age of the spokesperson, two to ninety-two, this response more often than not remains consistently uttered, for it represents the finest in Teflon outfitting defending one against all sorts of true or false but always uncomfortable allegations. I can be watching a student do the very thing he or she has been instructed not to do and when called on it will almost unequivocally, bordering on the brazenly, assert, I didn’t do it. Many times a day. This phenomenon is certainly not exclusive to schools and students, however, for these students have had to be carefully taught, which they absolutely have been. The I didn’t do it mentality and societal norm seems as automatic to human nature as bowing for applause.  I didn’t do it is usually followed by a bit of anemic bantering along the lines of yes you did, no I didn’t, yes, no, etc. where it then fizzles to conversational complacency, a very safe place where it quietly rests until it is needed again. It never gathers moss nor grows dusty waiting, though. In complacency it is deemed not a worthy fight, and in complacency it is perpetuated with increasing shamelessness.  But it’s a lie. A big, fat, bold-faced lie. I am not sure why we are okay with this. Over and over and over again in every walk of life and living from classrooms to legislative halls, from snarling interactions with referees, police officers, and parents to defensive exchanges with neighbors and road rage enthusiasts, we fight to abscond from the responsibility of simply owning what we do. The reality is, despite what our insecurities may shout at us, owning our actions, fessing up to our behavior, or begging the pardon of our screw-ups does not in fact really hurt that much. Mild embarrassment perhaps.  Or maybe a pinch of shame.  But honestly, bearing responsibility for our good or bad behavior strengthens integrity and is honorable. We all make mistakes with great regularity for it is in our very nature to push back a bit against the rules, even the most compliant among us. Own it. Claim it. Confess it. Apologize for it. Then be free of it. If you refuse to own it, it will in fact own you, and you will be diminished by it. The automatic I didn’t do it response is not good enough for today’s students, or yesterday’s for that matter, because it doesn’t call students forth to be strong or to be responsible, both of which they will need to become the leaders they are capable of becoming.

Fear In The Second Grade Backpack...Assuaged.

Lessons Learned

In The Aftermath Of A Yeller

Following a frightening first grade year with an incessantly yelling teacher, trepidation filled this young heart in anticipation of second grade.  Fear, one method of classroom management and control, manifests in students through their downcast eyes, rounded shoulders, and obvious crushed confidence.  First grade accomplished this for me. Just weeks from second grade, hopes were not too high for anything better.  Upon arrival in the new classroom, we second grade students were greeted with a breath of lovely fresh air. In a word, kindness. This kindness was to escort our class throughout second grade, refilling our learning sails with a gentle breeze of optimism allowing and encouraging us to bravely and excitedly explore new oceans of learning. Kindness.  A gentle voice. Happy eyes.  Probably not attributes asked about on a teacher job application, but clearly attributes deeply affecting classroom morale and ultimately individual and collective classroom successes. Kindness pierced through the learned fear of the previous school year and nurtured a restored eye contact, strong shoulders and a sweet growing confidence among all of us blessed to be in this happy second grade classroom. I do not recall content taught nor content learned in second grade, albeit to recognize that we all advanced to the third grade. I do recall, however, with vivid and joyful recollection, the loving-kindness of a very gentle, very special, very encouraging teacher, whose tender ways brought smiles and motivated excellence. I have never forgotten to consider the tone used in delivering words to children. Kindness matters. Kindness builds up. Kindness outlasts content. Kindness is soothing, healing balm to the wounded spirit that has been staggering under the excruciating weight of another’s bitterness. Kindness lifts and restores. Kindness is free. Kindness is priceless.   

Why Yell?

Lessons Learned

A Teacher Has A Choice

1965-1966. First Grade. A big year for reading and learning, as they all should be.  Unfortunately, my first grade teacher was a yeller and her perpetually frustration-laced, roarish voice filled our classroom with fear rather than sweet wonder and encouragement. Regardless of one’s tender years, one quickly learns the survival strategies of not making eye contact  and not rocking the boat, so as to be able to inconspicuously fly under the classroom teacher’s radar and avoid being at the receiving end of her verbal attacks. It’s pretty tough to be “bad” in first grade as little ones long to love and please their teachers.  Can’t imagine the exponential increase in volume and in anger had we been naughty.  We were not naughty. We were, however, terrified, and when you are afraid, it is extremely difficult, perhaps even impossible, to learn. Fear has no place in a classroom, because it’s unfair and it’s paralyzing as it squeezes the life, the joy, and the hope out of a classroom leaving nothing but cold walls and clock hands that don’t move fast enough.  I survived. I learned to read. At home where I was not afraid. At home where I was encouraged and smiled at. At home where no one yelled at me. I wonder how my first grade classmates did? I played school at home. My best friend and I took turns being the teacher. We were never like her. The lesson she taught, which has been indelibly etched into my heart, is how not to be. I am sorry for her because she missed the joy, the opportunity, the brilliance, the wonder, the miracles that are forever happening in a classroom of discovery and delight.  I am now a teacher and have been for thirty years. Every year is new and exciting and fresh and full of limitless possibility. A classroom full of children represents the hope for the future, and to have the privilege of serving in this way and tending daily to this treasure is exhilarating. Teaching. It bears a weight of responsibility such as no other. Precious children, uniquely gifted, wired, inspired, filled with wonder and dreams and infinite potential to touch, change and serve this world as no one else can; these are the treasures entrusted to our care eight hours a day, five days a week, nine months a year, every year throughout their most formative years. With clay feet and great weakness, I stand before each class, each day in full knowledge of my inadequacy. What have I to give them but love, encouragement, and the best of what I have and am.  I am honored and humbled and thankful to be a teacher.

Diffusing, Deflating, Denying The Bully.

Lessons Learned…

The Gift

I was hired to fill a long-term substitute teaching position in a fourth grade classroom just months after my December college graduation.  Young, eager, optimistic, all appropriate and helpful attributes for a new incoming sub, nicely complimented my satchel stuffed with freshly acquired scholarly educational theories, philosophies, and cutting edge fail-safe strategies designed and promised to reach all and teach all. With squared-shoulder confidence and change-the-world spirit, I entered that classroom and encountered reality. Reality always somehow seems to smack of a bit of disappointment.  People can frequently behave so disappointingly human regardless of their ages. Human nature depicts endless layers of self and emanating from this myopic vantage point can be a fairly insidious disregard for others.  Somewhere between taking lunch count that first day and starting our new novel, the leaning-toward-the-toxic classroom cliques magically appeared with great clarity and unapologetically. This group. That group. The power group. The Loner. Just one loner.  She steered clear of the fray, kept her eyes down, and tried to fly under the radar. They “let” her do so to a certain extent, that is to say, after “they” snipped and cut enough to make sure she knew that her radar flying was by their permission. Power. The lust for power starts young, but where exactly does it originate? I sincerely want to know that.  It’s poison, of that I am certain. To the oblivious or insecure teacher, it will run rampant and dominate your classroom in extremely covert, though devastating ways. It is the root of bullying. And bullying is at the root of a pain that can be so excruciating, so consuming, so silent that it completely debilitates in its rendering of powerlessness. Who bestows this power? Who perpetuates it? Do we all? I was just a young long-term sub walking into a classroom with its established and accepted climate, but my eyes, as those of one who understood the wrath of a bully, remained fixed upon the loner.  I would help her in quiet, unassuming ways. An encouraging word in passing.  An affirming smile.  A “random” opportunity to teacher-assist on an errand to the office.  An extra superlative word written on a corrected assignment. Continual, covert building up day after day after day after day.  The bullies, the exclusive cliques, the power seekers were not given voice other than to participate according to my directions. We were one class. We would learn to care for each other and recognize that each one brings gifts and stories that are unique and worthy of being celebrated. Not one more than another, but each one. On  my last day with the fourth graders, the loner, who no longer was one, brought me a gift that she, her mother, and grandmother had made.  It was a stunningly beautiful beaded necklace strung in the Native American tradition of their family and their tribe. She simply said, “Thank you for noticing me.”  Her simple message did more to inform my teaching than all of the stuffing in my satchel.