A Slice of: What Are You Reading? Life #IMWAYR #SOL18

An Unexpected Discovery…and A Warm Reception

My eyes skirted across a kaleidoscope of colors, scanning the shelves for familiar spines or popped out covers. Already my arm crooked protectively around a stack of books. Crouching to peruse the lower shelves, I leaned in close. Head tilted sideways I skimmed the author names and drank in the varied fonts. My eyes snagged on something and I reeled my attention back across the shelf.

“Ah, Smart Cookie! I was so glad to have that delivered to my door last week when it was released,” I thought. “Two book treats in the same week.”

I adjusted the books balancing on my hip and began to stand. But there, just next to the gorgeous blue hardcover was a matching volume. Shorter. Slimmer. But the same hue, and was it? It was. The same title!

I reached for the paperback edition. Pulling it free from its shelfmates, I inspected the book more closely.

“Is this pirated?” I wondered. “How does The Strand have this days-old book in paperback…and for $3.50 no less?!” But the cover gave no other clues. Nowhere did I find it stamped ARC or Not for Release…or anything.

Part of me was mystified at finding this bargain copy of the book that was waiting, hot off the presses, for me in my hotel room. The rest of my brain was doing a happy dance and hollering, “Woohoo! All the better for sharing!”

So today I carried both copies with me to a 4th grade classroom I’ve been embedded in for the past month. Just before I left, I pulled the copies out with a flourish, hugged them close, and asked: “Would you mind if I just gave you a tiny book talk about this book?”

Twenty two pairs of eyes looked back. Nonplussed.

I began anyway.

“So readers, I’m so excited to tell you about this book because I got to meet the author.” One or two glazed looks cleared.

“Actually, I had dinner with her in September.”

“Is it the author of One for the Murphys?” a boy called out. I’d book talked that to his club recently and they were desperately trying to hunt down two more copies.

“No, but I actually had dinner with both those authors the same night,” I responded, as though such things happened all the time. “It’s actually the author of Finding Perfect.” I glanced at the girl I’d slipped that book to months ago.

“Oh! I loved that book,” she exclaimed.

Now all eyes were on me.

I told of the moment of discovery, then pitched the story. Before I’d finished speaking four arms were wagging. When I started to suggest I could leave these two copies in case anyone…

“OOOooohh! Ooohh!”

Half the class is on a waiting list. When I left, the lucky readers to get it first were drawn at random. A little while later I tagged our only copy of Finding Perfect with a sticky note: “If you’re waiting to read Smart Cookie, you might try…” and sent it back to that classroom with a student.

*wink*

 

Unexpected Bonus

I also recently received Peter Reynolds’ Word Collector on its book birthday. I honored it with cake.

It was displayed on the counter in my office waiting for when I returned from a mini institute at Teachers College so I could share it with classrooms. I thought, maybe I’d guest read and spread some word love with my book love.

Rewind.

I’m standing in line with hundreds of other teachers early on a Sunday morning. My eyes still a little bleary from a late night show on Broadway. My hands cupping a warm tea, breathing in its steam and drinking in some much needed caffeine.

As I approach the front of the line and find my section of the alphabet, I notice an array of name tags, piles of handouts, and each person walking away from the table is carrying a copy of Word Collector. 

Someone hands me my pile of materials and now, instead of sleepily sipping my tea, I am hugging Word Collector to me. Suddenly alert, I consider that Random Acts of Kindness Week is about to begin. I have two copies of this delightful, delectable book.

Hmmm.

Fast forward.

This morning as I wrapped up a meeting with my second grade team, I pulled out a copy of the book.

Let’s just say that while the teachers didn’t resort to the popsicle sticks, there’s a waiting list for that one, too.

 

An Invitation

E-mail Inbox: “Happy snow day! Would everyone agree to read From Striving to Thriving by Stephanie Harvey? I’m starting it today and would love your thoughts…”

Why, yes I would!

I love the PLNs I’ve joined through Twitter, the Connecticut Reading Association Conference Committee, and other conferences across the northeast. Met you in the Learning Lounge (well, setting it up), the conference room, the Storified chats. See you from time to time in blog comments.

Would anyone like to keep learning?

Yes, please.

Thanks!

 

Laughing with Neighbors

I recently jumped at the opportunity to join my kindergarten neighbors as a guest reader on pajama day. (It also happened to be World Read Aloud Day.)

Prepared, I showed up in my pajamas with a book under my arm–The Incredible Book Eating Boy.

Very seriously I presented the book. In a stately voice, I began to read.

“Eeewwww!”

“What?!”

“He’s eating them! The paper!”

There were squeals of overwrought disgust. Then giggles. And finally belly laughs.

Gradually, as the boy becomes too full of books to eat any more, the mood shifts. One final groan of protest as he turns green and spews their contents.

Thoughtfully, I pause.

“You know, readers, this book is kind of reminding me of you.”

Pause.

“I know you aren’t eating books, that’s so silly. But when you first came to kindergarten to be my neighbors…you hardly even knew any letters. But then I heard you through our secret door. You were writing letters in the air, and singing songs about them, and when I came in to visit one day, you were writing WORDS. And now…you’re gobbling up whole books during reading time!”

Heads bobbed confidently up and down. Skinny, pajama-clad bodies bounced on their knees. Another round of giggles burst from them.

We finished the story…and they ran off to their bins to devour more books.

 

Reminds me of…

Speaking of more books.

One of the other books I climbed to the highest shelf in The Strand to retrieve was Amina’s Voice by Hena Khan. I’d seen pictures of its cover in Twitter posts. The cover art was gorgeous. So much so that I’d assumed it was a picture book. But here it was, a slim one inch novel.

It reminds me of Shooting Kabul, the story of an Afghan boy searching for his place in America (and for his missing younger sister). He had photography as a lens through which to examine the twists and turns of middle school, relationships, and San Francisco. Amina has her singing and a seemingly tangled knot of friendship, identity, and too little confidence. Funny how art can be both an outlet and an entry point in life.

It reminds me of Wishtree where being different felt hard at first, but where everyone found welcome and community in the end. Amina’s Voice has similar gems of language sprinkled throughout. While I haven’t finished this story, the tone is hopeful.

 

Oh, what a week in books!

 

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A Change of Pace

A Book treat.jpg

This morning began with an unexpected gift

Of time, of peace,

Of a slackened pace.

And those two hours somehow stretched

Encompassing the day,

With breaths

And “Hello, how are you?”s.

Yet in spite of fewer hours

There was magically more time,

More readers,

More dinner and dessert…

And tomorrow’s lunch-making.

More lesson reading,

Unit writing,

College alumni report writing

…and somehow, still more time

For book mail, and a neglected blog

A gingerbread slice of life with a dollop of cream.

What a treat!

 

I’ve been writing a lot…just not my blog…or my book.

Lighting a Candle- For Hope. For Equality. For Justice. For Kindness. For Reason. For Children’s Health. For Access. For Each Other.

I’m getting to this post a little late tonight. There is political commentary, which I don’t usually tackle so directly in this blog. If you prefer not to read it, that’s your choice. If you care to read it and either agree or disagree, that’s valuable, too. Next time you check in I’ll be posting about kids and books and community.

 

Tonight is the first night of Chanukah, the festival of lights. We gathered around the table and lit two candles together in memory of a time when things worked out better than we’d hoped. The flames were tentative at first, hesitant to catch. Tiny lights began almost transparent, gradually gaining strength and substance. Finally they stopped flickering and stood tall. As is tradition, we set the menorah in front of the window so others could see the light of our celebration.

Indeed there was an extra little light shining tonight as the Alabama Senate race came to a close. Though that candle sputtered through the weeks of the campaign,and felt ready to gutter out entirely, it stayed lit. Now it’s flame glimmers across the entire country.  I am heartened by two main things:

  • Voter turnout significantly exceeded expectations. History is made and written by those who show up. Today’s turnout at the polls (and following along from across the country) suggests that more Americans are awake. They recognized a crucial moment in our nation’s existence and showed up.
  • People chose decency over bigotry and disregard for others. People chose the constitution and the law over someone who repeatedly showed disdain for it while claiming to support it. And in some cases, people chose these things over party despite potential political ramifications.

But the light is a candle. It will flicker in a draft. It sometimes burns brightly but too fast, then burns itself out before a bigger blaze is set.

This flame needs to be protected and nurtured. One candle is pretty, but group them together and they become mesmerizing.

Let’s all light the candles of our hearts from today’s shamish. Then let’s recognize the other vital issues close to our own hearts and be on fire about them.

Are you fired up about equal access for all people to the internet because you believe that censorship can look like keeping books off the shelf, but also like making it more difficult to access some information and tools than others according to the priorities of…well who knows? Maybe net neutrality is your issue. If so, game on! The vote is this week.

Are you bound and determined to choose kind in this climate of chirping and disrespect? I Wonder. Do you believe that we have more in common than what divides us and that treating everyone with human decency and a touch of kindness isn’t just good politics, it’s a good way to live in the world? Maybe you care about a cluster of issues like tearing down artificial walls instead of building physical ones. Of letting people into our lives and communities instead of banning them. One immigrant’s choice does not reflect all, or most, or even many. Thinking of cake? Maybe you believe we shouldn’t codify discrimination in the guise of someone else’s personal freedom. Whatever you believe, let your leaders know. Decisions are happening now. Better yet, I want to be in the room where it happens. Maybe it’s time to step into leadership officially or unofficially.

Are you burning up over the idea that we’re about to leave nearly 9 million children, through no fault of their own, without health insurance? If you’re a teacher or a parent, you care about kids. It’s what you do. No doubt you support the kids close to your life in many ways. This week, reach out and speak for the millions who may not be able to see a doctor, who may miss more school, who will suffer if we don’t. Speak up for CHIP and for children.

Are you steamed that powerful men are working behind closed doors to change American life in profound ways–ways that far exceed the economic effects? Does it bother you that fundamental issues of personal freedom and access to healthcare are being pushed through a tax bill because a straight up vote on its ‘merits’ has repeatedly failed? Do you mind that economic systems are being designed by the powerful to benefit the powerful at the expense of the less privileged? And to add insult to injury–or perhaps graver injury to the initial insult–those same powerful people are already announcing that in order to recoup the financial losses created by this scheme, more, drastic cuts will need to be made in the near future to the parts of the system that were designed to help those already struggling at the bottom.  My sense of fairness has been scorched.

…Like much of California. My hopes have often felt drowned–flooded with storm water. Left in the dark for months like Puerto Rico after two major hurricanes. Yet the agency tasked with protecting our air and water is being dismantled from within, denying science and undermining efforts to mitigate the contributing factors and even the effects of climate change. My head is a raging wildfire some days.

And there is plenty more. But no Moore.

Tonight we lit the first candle for hope. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow we’ll light another for access, for equality, for justice, for kindness, for children’s health, for reason, for each other. Chanukah is eight days, but the light of our hope needs, miraculously, to last longer than we’ve dared to believe. With each candle, each issue we rally to, the light will shine brighter.

Until the world feels the heat.

Add your light to the world.

 

Look Who’s Making the Cupcakes Now

When my oldest was in preschool, I was the mom who made homemade cookies for his class on every holiday. They were the kind you have to roll out. Cut. Bake. Then frost with tinted icing one by one. Even though I was working, it felt important to make something to show him he was loved.

My second son came along and maybe those frosted cookies were just sprinkled with the same color sugar. It saved time.

By the time my oldest was in first grade, I was teaching, back in grad school, and somehow found myself PTO co-president halfway through the year. Schoolwork happened after the kids went to bed. And PTO emails often happened at odd hours of the night (or was it morning by then?).

Needless to say, there were no more cookies for school on holidays.

Sorry kiddo.

But there were still the hastily baked birthday cupcakes to share with teammates on their birthdays. Those cupcakes lasted into middle school.

This week I have a (kind of big) birthday.

Tonight at dinner while we were coordinating the details of who’s heading to practice, who’s studying for which chemistry test, and what’s for dinner tomorrow, my husband reminded the oldest about making “cupcakes for Mom to bring to work.” And after a flurry of post-dinner cleanup and packing for hockey off went my husband and youngest leaving Daniel and I in the kitchen.

Daniel, as he is wont to do, noticed something about the hand mixer that none of the rest of us ever have. He observed in fascination. I smiled.

He measured and mixed. He ladled the batter into the cupcake tins and tucked them in the oven. I worked on a tomato sauce nearby.

I watched him with a mother’s awe, remembering the round baby cheeks, soft toddler hands, and playful boyish face I kissed as I made cookies and cupcakes for all those holidays. Now he’s lean, with chiseled features. He knows his way around the oven without my help.

So while I’m feeling my new age, I saw tonight a glimpse of the love that has filled the years. I was filled by something more than pride as I looked up at my son.

Plus, it was fun to spend an hour together in the kitchen. Most days we’re heading in opposite directions. Lately, my love is shown through asking about chemistry with interest (though it’s so foreign I don’t know how I ever made it into organic chem).

Cupcakes. What a treat!

 

Spreading Happy Endings

A Few Slices of Life and It’s Monday Tuesday What Are You Reading?

The book rested on the lunch table, a note sticking out of its pages: “If you could use a happy ending today–try this! You can put it back in my box when you’ve finished.” I looked back over my shoulder to check that it was visible to anyone coming into the teachers’ room for lunch. I smiled a warm residual smile. I’d finished Wishtree the night before and it was too good to hold onto.

Wishtree

Several days later the book appeared on the floor outside my locked office door, a sticky note emblazoned across its cover: “This was exactly what I needed! Thanks for sharing.”

I smiled and made a U-turn to the lunchroom. Again, I nestled it in the center of the table.

Two weeks flashed by in a blur of conferences and late fall responsibilities. I didn’t think much of my little book afloat in the school…Until one day it reappeared. In a hurry this time, I tossed it atop the leaning pile on my desk and ran off to the next appointment (or crisis). When I returned to my desk, deflated and in need of my own happy ending, there it was. It took a little while to notice the small note tucked between its pages: “Sorry I had it so long. We read it together as a family!”

This time the book had actually traveled between two different teachers before it made its way home. Thinking about which teams in my building could use a little pick-me-up, I hand delivered it to second grade. They were usually eager book testers.

Last Tuesday the book found its way back in the hands of a second grade teacher. She’d loved it. She was thinking about using it as a read aloud. “Wonderful! I’m so glad you liked it. With everything going on, it feels like we could really use this story right now.”

“There’s just one thing,” she worried. “The family is Muslim. Do you think the religion will be a problem?” We talked this through. While it’s implied (or possibly stated) that the girl’s family is Muslim, the book doesn’t talk about religious beliefs, it focuses on how, really, we’re all much the same with our own hopes and worries. I reassured her that I thought it was not only appropriate, but heartwarming.

Alas, later the same day she returned the book with a note: “I’ve decided against it. Too risky. I’ll find another read aloud.” My heart crumpled. If we aren’t brave enough to read and share stories that aren’t even about religion, how can we hope to have conversations when issues of race, or exclusion for any number of reasons confront us more directly? To be fair to this teacher, at our December schoolwide assembly last year or the year before second graders shared their research into the various holidays celebrated by many people (including some students in second grade) at this time of year. Students chose which holiday to research and teach about. Students decided what they’d learned and what they’d share. (Can you see it coming?) It was innocent. It invited inclusion and understanding. The children were in no way biased or judgmental about Chanukah, Diwali, Kwanzaa, or the others they’d chosen to present. Unfortunately, some staff members and some parents were. No more winter sing-along. No more sharing traditions from cultures or religions other than the dominant one–so none at all. Even Frosty has been outlawed.

Feeling more than ever like Wishtree needed to find another heart to reach, I left it perched on the door handle of a colleague who’s going through a challenge with regard to acceptance and exclusion. Her heart is warm. She’ll probably share it with her own family, I thought.

So walking out the doors for Thanksgiving I was glad.

I’m grateful for this story that has touched so many colleagues already.

I’m grateful that ours is a school community where we share and celebrate and mourn together.

I’m grateful for every adult hearts it touches in hopes that it will ripple outward and touch children’s lives as well.

If you could use a happier ending today, check out Katherine Applegate’s Wishtree.

Rethinking the Story of Thanksgiving

The original Thanksgiving of our national legend is the story of vulnerable newcomers, immigrants, supported by those who called the place home for generations or more. It is, perhaps, the one time in our American story that we give a nod to ourselves as the other. Often, even in the story of the first Thanksgiving we gloss over reality and cast ourselves in the leading role, relegating the Wampanoag to a supporting one.

There is much we could learn from the mythology of our own beginnings, if we could come to the story with new eyes.

When I spent a year living in England (a temporary immigrant), I and the other American students in the college tended to cluster together. It provided a sense of security and familiarity even in a relatively similar host culture. Like immigrants everywhere we were gathering with others from home, carrying on our own familiar traditions, possibly challenging the norms of our new home. Of course, we didn’t think of it like that at the time–we were just trying to thrive as transplants.

When Thanksgiving rolled around, it was a holiday for only twelve of us. We were (academic) pilgrims seeking opportunity in the old world. A minority among natives. Without kitchens in our rooms, we were dependent on the dining room for sustenance. Fortunately, the kitchen staff were kind. They tried to make us feel at home by serving their version of a Thanksgiving feast. Yet, it was unlike our familiar fare–nary a pumpkin or apple in sight. For dessert they served a Mississippi mud pie.

Another experience that was eye opening was an excursion into Scotland at the New Year. Since I was traveling alone, I signed up with a tour group. Our guide was a Scot. Most of the other travelers were Aussies or New Zealanders. Only two of us were American–and we didn’t know each other. I spent much of the trip watching. I formed opinions of what Aussies and Kiwis were like as a (potentially) representative group. I also watched the other American. I was struck by what Americans must look like to others around the world–loud, brash, demanding, entitled. And I was sorry to have left that (potentially) representative impression with the fun-loving, but considerate members of our tour group. It struck me most profoundly when they dubbed me “The Quiet American,” as though it were an anomaly.

That year some of the many theater productions I attended were Shakespeare’s plays. A few were what I considered traditional stagings. Many were intriguing because the directors took a show written to be set in one time and place and transplanted it. Twelfth Night was translated into a kind of timeless Lego landscape. One of the history plays, a Richard or a Henry, perhaps, was set in what looked like World War I with dough-boys as the characters. Another was set in Imperial Japan. By changing the time and place, the director was reminding us of the universality of the stories told through these hundreds-of-year-old plays.

Lately, I’ve been reading and thinking quite a bit about immigration and refugees in particular. What if we had a director today who would recast the Thanksgiving story? Maybe Anglo-Americans would stand in for the role of Native Americans (or First Immigrants as my father refers to them). In this role, perhaps, we would acknowledge the fear and uncertainty that come with having Others land on our shores, rely on our resources, and often depend (we imagine) on our generosity. It seems we’ve previously forgotten to acknowledge the very real concerns of the Wampanoag and others who were already here when we landed.

Perhaps the director will cast Syrians, Afghans, or Iraqis as the Pilgrims—those who braved the unknown and survived (or didn’t) countless horrors and deprivations for a chance at a better life. Those who landed in a place both beautiful and promising, but also dangerous and menacing—a place where to carve out survival, let alone a thriving existence, is an uncertain venture at best. Maybe the director would cast men, families, or unaccompanied minors from Central and South America fleeing poverty, extra-judicial killings and ruthless drug cartels.

What must life be like that a mother would rather send her child alone on a journey of hundreds or thousands of miles with no guarantee of successfully reaching safety than keep them home? What would possess a mother to climb aboard an ill-suited and overcrowded raft with a toddler for the chance of arriving in Europe? Maybe it’s like the Irish mothers of the mid-nineteenth century who sent their children away to avoid starvation.

They are us. Who we were yesterday. Who we’d be if we left home now.

Maybe if we, as today’s Americans, were to see that version of our story, we’d come away thinking and feeling differently—kinder, more compassionate—like we all are part of the same story.

A Day Full of Ups and Downs (or Sometimes Coaching Is About Surviving & Thriving Rather Than Technique)

“Oh, Ms. So-and-So, isn’t it funny that we both have our coats on right now?” I inquired with a sly grin.

“Mrs. Gordon, we have our coats on because it’s cold in the art room today.”

“What do you know? I was feeling a little cold as well.”

We smiled over the heads of her kindergartners. Mine was a touch ironic. Hers was tired.

It had been an up and down…and down…and down day for her already. The team had rallied, but it was taking its toll.

I checked the time on my phone surreptitiously. Three and a half minutes.

The art teacher greeted the class at her door. Upon hearing about the cold art room she apologized with a wink and a nod.

As the students filed in through her door I said, “Come on. Let’s get a change of scenery. How about a coffee?” When I signed us out in the front office, our secretary was already holding the walkie talkie. We slipped out just ahead of the ruckus.

For the next 20 minutes, my unofficial mentee and I chatted about anything and everything but school. Where we grew up. Our weddings–one past and one on the horizon. Friend outings. We sipped coffee (or cocoa) and strolled around the green in the sunshine.

It was lovely.

There’s never a bad time for sunshine, and after a couple of gloomy weather days it was especially welcome. Not to mention the stormy conditions in her classroom for a few days.

I’ve been in classrooms almost continuously this week (and before the crazy conference week), but I’d been reflecting recently that it didn’t feel like I’d done much literacy coaching. Rather in this room, and one other, I’ve been making regular appearances as a support to make the day to day work possible. I’ve conferred with students and provided proximity influence for restless kiddos to extend the reach of an adult so teachers could take on small groups or conferences of their own without interruption.

It’s not, as one colleague shockingly announced to me in frustration, that these teachers have poor classroom management. (Really?!?) I’ve been a firsthand witness to their calm demeanor, clear and consistent structures and routines, obvious rapport with students, and truly admirable patience and appreciation of the little people in their charge. I have also been witness to the sudden and repeated outbursts of certain little humans in their care.

So while I’d intended to be coaching hard for small group work and new units of study this fall, lately it’s been looking rather different. I’ve been sharing resources about mindset work and teaching into self-regulation. (Thank you Kristi Mraz and Christine Hertz!) I’ve been stopping by more frequently regardless of whether it’s a workshop block, and in addition to conferring with kids and sharing impromptu class read aloud breaks, I’ve been doing wellness checks on teachers.

Today that took the form of an emergency off-site coffee break. Being loving and patient in the face of physical, verbal, and emotional outbursts is taxing. If we’re going to provide a classroom that’s safe and nurturing for our kiddos, we need to feel safe and nurtured. We also need to know that we’re not in this alone. We celebrate together and we back each other up when it gets tough. That might look like: in the moment triage, post-game reflection and problem solving, or recovery strategies.

I’m not going to say the afternoon was easy, but something about basking in the sunshine and breathing the fresh air together made it approachable.

Tomorrow is a new day. A new week, new month, and new trimester are just around the corner. Teaching is a profession of many fresh starts. They are a gift. So soon I will get back to intense, focused literacy coaching. For now I will coach kids through tough words or confusing paragraphs until they have strategies of their own. I will coach teachers through difficult classroom dynamics until new patterns start to emerge, or new plans are formulated.

My Revised Plan:

  • De-escalate.
  • Look through an admiring lens and recognize strengths.
  • Offer choice and ownership of the type of support or strategies to receive.
  • Provide strategies and support.
  • Invite reflection.
  • Allow for a fresh start.

That’s funny–it looks a lot like coaching.

 

 

Being Brothers

There they were, heads bent together, shoulders nearly touching. Daniel’s voice was low and reassuring. I tried to see without looking so I wouldn’t spoil the moment. It looked like Q’s shoulders relaxed.

The scene tonight reminded me of an old photo we have of the boys when they were maybe two and four. They were stretched out on their bellies in the living room watching something, knees bent and feet in the air. I hadn’t noticed it at first, someone pointed it out later, but Qaiden’s little toe was just brushing the side of his brother’s leg as if to say, “OK, just making sure you’re still there.”

Brothers in sled

When I walked in tonight the tension was palpable. Three surly males barely grunted in response to my greetings. Somewhere between carrying in school bags and putting laundry away I discovered what was ailing each of them.

Gradually, ever so carefully, I dug for the calmest, most knowledgeable teacher-self hiding in the shadows after a long Monday. And I reached for all that I knew about each of my boys.

Daniel’s first source of contention was smoothed into a rough plan within a few minutes. (It sounds like an oxymoron–because it is. That particular source of angst will return every night that there’s homework.) The second, girl-related, I left for a quieter time.

I noticed Qaiden working on math, but hadn’t he just said the only homework he had was to read? Puzzled, I put a pin in that one and had a conversation with my husband.

Soon enough those pieces, too, fell into place. Friday, Q was invited to join the math team at school. My hockey and lacrosse playing, so-close-to-an-A+-explaining, perfectionist was invited to do something he’s good at, but that feels hard.

A little background might help here. When Qaiden was three, he came home from preschool and made a shaky letter Q that they’d practiced for the first time during the day.

“Ugh!” his gravelly little voice exclaimed, fists thrust in the air above him, “It’s not even round!”

In third grade, he sobbed in my arms for over an hour the only time his weekly spelling PRE-test was a 70%.

“I won’t even get into college!” he wailed.

As his mother, there must be some way that I’ve contributed to his world view and self-image. But I swear, when he brought home the 70 I celebrated that, “Finally, we have new words you can learn! That will be great.” And when he bemoaned the crooked Q, I cheered him on. “I knew just what letter you were making!”

Our mantra for him became, “patience and perseverance.” Unlike with my first child, I praised the effort rather than the outcomes. (Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do?!) But somehow he has always, from three years old, had it in his mind that when it comes to anything in a school building he should know it before a teacher has to say it.

I think he was proud to be invited to the math team. But more than anything, I bet he was terrified. Because to him if it’s hard it means he’s not smart–and his whole self is built around being smart.

Tonight it wasn’t math homework he was working on. It was a set of practice problems from the first math team meeting this afternoon. Apparently there are three members of the team so far…and he’s “the worst.”

Now, there are times when my boys get along. Usually when they’re working cooperatively on some wild project. But just as often–or more–they’re giving each other a hard time. In jest. In earnest. In flat out anger. Rivals in anything that can remotely be construed as competitive.

But not tonight.

Tonight Daniel stood shoulder to shoulder and leaned in close. He studied the questions. He “Hmmm”d and “Ohhhh”d.

“Well, these two you’ll probably learn later this year or in 8th grade. That one down there we just did a few weeks ago [in Algebra II]. The rest of them, I bet you can figure out on your own.”

There they were, heads bent together, shoulders nearly touching. Daniel’s voice was low and reassuring. It looked like Q’s shoulders relaxed.

And that was better than Mom coming to the rescue. With just a few words and a minute of his time, his big brother had made him feel competent again. They stayed like that for half a moment longer before Daniel’s gentle self-deprecation turned livelier as Q volleyed.

But for a moment…brothers.Brothers at the ferry

#IMWAYR It’s Monday. What Are You Reading?

Last week was, among other things, our school book fair (one of my favorite times). I always go in with a few lenses–myself as a reader, my children at home, and of course my readers across K-5 at school. Most years I have time to shop the fair 2 (or even 3) times and add to or refine my initial selections. I may set aside a couple of intriguing biographies for a 4th grade class, or a little something special for an intervention kiddo I know well. This year I had one shot.

I ended up selecting three stories that actually shared an overarching theme–You are strong enough to survive whatever comes your way.

Historical fiction is a favorite genre, and World War II always seems to grab the attention of a few readers when we focus on that genre at school. Our WWII collection for 4th & 5th grade readers is a bit slim, however, because of the obviously challenging content that can be associated with war. So when I spotted Sink or Swim: A Novel of World War II by Steve Watkins and Prisoner of War: A Novel of World War II by Michael Spradlin, I decided to give them a try. I stayed awake way too late for a few nights last week gobbling them up. Both were engaging.

Sink or Swim is the story of a boy who runs away to the Navy to help his family. At only 12, he has to lie about his age and rely on how urgently the Navy needs sailors to combat the growing German U-boat threat. Besides, he has a personal grudge against those subs. Maybe because the life on a ship really is repetitive, the story felt like a repeating list at times. However, it would be a good example of foreshadowing as events early on presage the ones later. Interestingly, this book was inspired by the true story of the youngest boy to serve in WWII. Readers will enjoy the loyal friendship and the depth charges in a race to blow subs out of the water. Then they will pause with Colton when he realizes that up close the enemy looks a lot like him. Some of my 5th graders could handle this book, though it would be well suited in a middle school class library as well.

Prisoner of War was a much more intense story before Henry ever left home. With the help of his loving grandfather (and a surprising lack of a birth certificate) he fled to the Marines to escape his father’s abuse. As another example of a tall, sturdy boy who passed for 18 long enough to be shipped off to the Phillipines, Henry found himself adopted by two members of his unit who kept a close eye on him. All three were captured and forcibly moved to a POW camp in what is now known as the Battan Death March. Very soon Henry finds opportunities to protect those who had protected him. Always concerned that his fear made him a coward, Henry was the epitome of courage in the face of insurmountable odds. Frequent beatings and torture make this a book I’ll pass along to my middle school counterparts. But the message that emerges is that we are stronger–and strong enough–together.

Finally, I read The Trail by Meika Hashimoto because my oldest has said repeatedly that he’d like to go off and live in the woods for awhile. This was a touching story of finding yourself by getting lost, unmoored from all that had previously defined you. Caution: a secondary character attempts suicide late in the book. On the positive side, the kindness of strangers prevails.

If you need to feel strong enough, maybe one of these three stories is for you. Or if you need to reach out to someone whose reading life lives a little on the edge, perhaps you’ll pass one of them along.

Happy reading.

 

A Little Midnight Flash Draft for #NaNoWriMo–Empathizing with my character

Can’t Sleep (940)

 

Around me the tent was filled with even breathing and soft snores. Ben had fallen asleep before we even finished our ‘Can You?’ story. Jake was snoring minutes after it ended.

I was staring through the mesh at the top of the tent. It was so late even the stars were winking out. Ok, clouds were drifting across the sky and blocking them. Also I had no way of knowing what time it was.

I rolled over in my sleeping bag as quietly as I could. But every sound seemed amplified–louder in the deep quiet of this summer night. Still my feet sounded gargantuan as they wriggled around inside the sleeping bag.

How could they sleep through this noise?

I tried to stay completely still. I held my breath and counted my heartbeats. One bu-bump. Two bu-bump. Three.

The more I thought about being still, the more my body felt like it had to move.

Outside the tent were other sounds. A constant chirping buzzed in my brain. Were those crickets? Could you really tell the temperature by counting their chirps? Or were they cicadas? I remembered that cicadas could completely cover trees and leave their dead bug bodies littered along the ground. Were we having a cicada invasion? I didn’t really think so.

My eyes burned from feeling tired, but every time they slipped closed my brain jolted them awake.

If I couldn’t count heartbeats, maybe I could count stars. It seemed like I’d tried camping out as many times as there were stars left to see.

I always told my mom that I was cold when I crept inside during the night. She would be curled up asleep on the couch. I don’t know why she fell asleep on the couch. Every time she’d tuck me into my own bed and pull the covers up to my chin.

When she kissed my nose she never said, “Get warm.” Instead she always said, “Here you are in your very own room. Sleep tight. I’ll be right downstairs.”

Sometimes my pillows were still in the tent and she’d give me her pillow from the couch. The pillow would still be warm from where she had been leaning on it.

I stuck my arms out the top of my sleeping bag and folded them behind my head. I wasn’t really cold.

Tonight mom didn’t remind me about an extra blanket. I brought one anyway. But she did check the batteries in my flashlight.

What was that in the bottom of my bag. Something was near my feet. No wonder they were so restless. I squirmed until I could pull out the soft lump. It was too dark to see colors, even with the bathroom light on inside the house.

But I didn’t need colors to know this was Baby Jaguar. The stuffed cat was usually under one of my pillows. I’m not sure how it got into my sleeping bag….Maybe it was left over from the last time my grandparents had visited and slept in my room.

Since they were asleep, Ben and Jake would never know that he was here. I guess I might as well let him breathe instead of suffocating down by my feet again. I tucked Baby Jaguar under my arm and closed my eyes.

Gradually my breathing slowed down.

My heart kept beating the same restless rhythm, though.

A few minutes might have passed, my brain was feeling fuzzier.

‘I’m so tired,’ I thought.

I just want to fall asleep.

I just want to wake up in the morning and still be here in the tent.

Maybe.

Then a noise jolted me awake again. Where was it? It sounded like it was near the back of the garage. Did I forget to close the gate? Could someone have opened it after I checked it so carefully?

Now I was certain I was hearing footsteps. I clutched Baby Jaguar to my chest, squeezing so hard neither of us could breathe.

What had footsteps like that? A fox? An opossum? Oh, please don’t let it be a skunk.

Alex and his friends swore they heard a bobcat last year when they were camping in his friend’s yard. He said it sounded like screaming.

These were just sneaky footsteps. Were they coming closer to the tent? Could I get out the back and slip around the tent to the house? Would I really leave my friends here to the beast?

I needed a plan.

Just then, I heard the whine of a zipper!

Whatever it was was trying to get into the tent! I sat straight up.

The zipper opened wider and a shadow fell across me. I blinked a few times too be sure what I was seeing.

“Hey,” he whispered. “I thought I’d sit out here for a while.” He must have noticed my mouth hanging open. Alex went on, “I just got home and my room is too hot.”

“I’ll just borrow this extra pillow and stretch out over here near the door. Do you mind?” Alex asked casually.

“Whatever,” I replied a little gruffly.

“Don’t feel like you need to stay awake for me. I closed the gate behind me. It’s latched. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Fine,” I muttered as if I hadn’t just been wondering about the gate.

Alex fluffed the extra pillow and leaned on his elbow. He was already ignoring me, too busy looking at his phone.

I rolled over with my back to him. Baby Jaguar was tucked in next to my cheek.

I barely heard it. It might have been, “Sleep well, Will.”

My eyelids were drooping.