Confessions at the Board Retreat

I wanted to tell him, "You know, I don't usually cry so much at school." But then, who am I kidding? I cry pretty regularly, if anyone was paying attention. At the farewell luncheon at Live Oak, when I could not get the words out as to how much leaving that school was going to impact me. When Lucas' parents informed us they were pulling him from our program, with only weeks to go before the end of the school year. At moments of desperation, when I felt cornered and exasperated by a lack of support from my boss. And these are only the big tears - the smalls ones are like minor earthquakes: they happen frequently, we just don't feel them as much as we go about our day.

Still, today we were asked to conjure up an image or memory that made San Francisco School feel special to us. It was my first impulsive thought, and immediately I could feel my eyes filling with unwanted water, No, I decide, I won't share this one...I clearly haven't processed it in a healthy way if it makes me feel so emotional. So I switched it, on a dime, and told instead another recollection that was equally touching but more palatable to strangers, or even to those who know me a little. But then, when we were asked to move from our seats and share out with someone else... There he was, asking if I wanted to share with him. And I just spit it out: "Wow. Ok. Well, it was the first thing that came to my mind, and I'm going to cry a little when I tell it, but I'll tell you anyway." And quickly I unwrapped the moment, of watching the election results coming in online, of the graphics of the New York Times starting suddenly to flipflop as the unthinkable was laid out before me - evidence of a projected and decent early lead began to take a compete nose dive. I felt socked in the stomach and thought, what do we do now? How do we survive this? And, then - what will Steve say? I clicked on to my school emails, and finally, there it was...his words, his guidance. No answers, no explanations, just, "Come in tomorrow morning and let's find a safe place to share our emotions." That was a rare moment, when I knew SFS was not like anywhere else. I struggle with all its imperfections on a daily basis, but in moments like this I recognize what makes it so very unique as well. They are what make my eyes fill with tears when I think about saying goodbye to it all, someday. One day but not yet.

Too many names to choose from

“Naomi S! Naomi S!”  Daniella kept shouting her name over and over again when it was time to clear her table after snack today. But here’s what I couldn’t figure out: Naomi S. was sitting only a short distance away, and she was staring right at Daniella. So why was she still yelling to get her attention? Finally, I said, “Daniella...Naomi S. is looking right at you - is it Naomi M. that you’re trying to talk to?” Daniella stared blankly at me for a few seconds, trying to take in what I was saying to her. It’s tough in a classroom with 39 children to navigate everyone’s name - even harder when there are duplicates. This year, besides two Naomi's, we have three Miles' to content with, a June versus a Juni, as well as an Abby and a Gabby. So it’s no wonder the children are still getting confused two months into the school year with who beongs to which last initial, etc. Finally, Daniella picked right up with her yelling, only this time she’d corrected herself: “Naomi M! Naomi M!” she sreamed, but now her desired recipient was almost halfway across the classroom. Wanting this all to stop, I went over to Naomi M. and said, “Naomi, I have no idea what Daniella needs you for, but can you please just go over and find out?” Dutifully, Naomi M. stopped wiping her table and headed over. “Yeah?” she asked Daniella point blank. And, cool as a cucumber, in the sweetest voice you’ve ever heard coming out of a three-year-old, Daniella whispered back, “Hi.” I caught the eye of my co-teacher at this exact moment, and we burst into laughter. It’s hard to explain to someone who doesn’t work with small children how much energy the simplest of things seems to take in any given day. Getting someone to stop yelling across the room without yelling at them yourself requires all the patience and energy one can muster. But when you're met with the sweetest, softest little of hellos, you just gotta enjoy the moment.

A vist from John

Anika would have loved John anyway, just because he was a visitor with a kind voice who talked nicely to children. But it was his guide dog, Joelle, that I think really sealed the deal. After John had read a section from a children’s book using Braille, it was Anika who raised her hand to come over to try and describe the illustrations that accompanied the text. When he later opened things up for them to ask questions, I was kind of surprised to see only a few hands go into the air; perhaps it was my earlier request for them to be on their best behavior that had dampened too many of them from braving a hand. As I later told John, even their worst behavior is usually pretty good, so I probably should have just left it to them. At any rate, it was Anika who found John afterwards, to tell him, “I drew you a picture.” “You did?” said John, with sincere pleasure in his voice. “Can you describe it to me?” “It’s you and me, and the sun.” Warm and kind, a wonderful first meeting. Thank you, John, for sharing your uniqueness, and your heart, with us today.

Is it worth it?

Finally home, after a long day that pushed right into the early evening. Our end-of-year Pot Luck was tonight, and I really did tried to imagine I had taken a large valium and just did.not.care. Compared to the last two years, when I was in complete shock by the lack of cooperation, the undisciplined parenting, the children behaving so out-of-character compared to a typical school day...I decided I was not going to let that enraged monster surface again tonight. But it required not stepping outside into the yard, where kids were pulling plants out of the garden and in generally behaving insane, all under the watchful eyes of their respective adults.

The other part that somewhat floors me is the relatively few genuine comments of thanks I get on this night. I keep thinking, am I being ungrateful? Or is this just a lost art for this generation of parents? I actually find myself making an effort to go up to people; people are not naturally coming up to me, and it just feels strange. Did I miss something? Here we are, wrapping up a year with 36 children, and I received one (1) hand-written card. Of course, there were monetary thanks - in gift card form, or penned by room parents collectively giving thanks. And I won't take for granted the people who actually did say something - those who were super kind, sincere and appreciative with their words. But in general, it just seems like...I could have done way less and received that same number of sentiments. I mean, I spend half of Sunday, drafting personalized emails to each of my kindergarten families, of which I made a point to note their child's academic and social achievements for the year. Of the twelve I sent, only five acknowledged them. So in the end, was it worth the work? I know I would have felt I'd short-sheeted the children if I didn't do it, and so...I put in the effort. But next time? I'm not so sure. This level of commitment really takes a toll. I'm not convinced, at the end of the day, the rewards offset the headache.

Three Days To Go

I try not to work on my computer when kids are in the classroom...but with only a few days left and so much still to do, I had to get a couple emails out. Raiden came over, asking if I would play cards with him. I quickly brushed him off, saying I couldn't right now. A few minutes later, he was back, this time informing me he was going to write me a message. I didn't think more of it...in fact, when he finished it and placed it next to where I was working, I didn't even see it. As we began wrapping things up for the day at Home Time, Raiden asked if I saw his writing. "Gosh, Bud, I forgot to look!" And so I walked over to my desk, and found this beneath my computer:

These children are so dear! Writing is not something that comes easy to Raiden; he struggles to hold a pencil and form his letters correctly, but still gives it his all. To write a message is no small feat, and it makes this note all the more special to me. At this time of the year, I'm tired and frustrated and am so ready to hand these little gremlins on to the next teacher. And yet, they are also wonderful, and loving and sincere, and I will miss them all when they move onto first grade next year! Raiden in particular...

Remembering Memo

He was almost out of breath when he came bursting through the sliding glass doors into the classroom. I was putting out cushions in preparation for our afternoon circle, but was stopped with the whirl of excitement that blew in with him. "Carla, we've got a problem!" He continued: "Some girls outside... They're chasing me around the yard. And when they get me, they hug me!" "And you don't like this?" I replied. "Well, actually...." he said, after a second's thought, "I do!" And out the door he went again, as quickly as he'd come in. It was nice being reminded of this moment today - one of those rare days when Memo was connecting with his classmates, enjoying being part of the game, and just having fun. I hear he's now really happy at Armstrong, doing well in his classes but also socializing and making friends. I couldn't be happier for him!

Telling Time

I have no idea why sometimes a unit or lesson just sings - perhaps it's the mix of kids that year; maybe it's truly that time of year, when they are more matured and ready for the content. But somehow, the unit I'm teaching to the kindergarteners right now on "telling time" is going really well. I guess I've figured out a rhythm - a way to introduce it, not going too big or too small, but keeping them engaged and monitoring who is getting it and who is not. It helps that they come in with previous knowledge on subject matter like this - this is when teaching to a particular demographic of students makes a difference, when I know they have had exposure and discussions at home and I don't have to struggle with teaching through a second language, etc. There are so few things that I take the time to complement myself on when I teach, I wanted to stop and make a note of this. The funny thing is, I don't think think this is anyone's else's lesson or unit, either - I think I figured this one out on my own. Maybe that's why I feel particularly good about it - it feels authentic. Sometimes I can almost see the little kindergarten version of me out there in the group, giving me a thumb's up, saying, yes, carla - they way you're teaching this in connecting with me! Good job!

Joyful Reading

Sejal just wanted me read a story to her, but there is something about reading to a child on our reading platform.... with no "lesson" in mind, no preconceived idea about content or learning, I can really take a deep breathe and enjoy my role in the classroom. After Sejal made her selection, she scurried onto my lap...she refers to herself as a "Bald-hopper" - one part Bald Eagle, equal parts Grasshopper - at these times, as I've told her me lap is reserved for our youngest children now, the Grasshoppers. So, occasionally she likes to "regress" to her younger self to see if she can still get  away with it. Today, I was totally fine with it. Once we got started, Mirja showed up, groggy and shoeless from the nap room. She just wanted a cuddle, and so over she slumped, too, putting her head squarely on my legs. Then Anika appeared, and then Sammy, and Marlow...and, well, it didn't take long until a little audience was piled up on top of me. My favorite stories contain big characters who finally just give in and have a good cry. I don't know why, but I love to bawl as big as the Cowardly Lion at these times - children immediately break into laughter, which just eggs me on to keep it up. So away I cried as I read to Sejal, as the smiles got bigger with each turn of the page.

I need to find more moments in the day to plop down on the reading platform, to just sit back with my crowd and cry!

The Race is On

Every year at this time, the anxiety really starts to kick in...so much to do, such little time to do it. I start to feel so inadequate as a teacher - like if I had scheduled my year better, fought for better and earlier intervention for some, the group as a whole would be so much more prepared for first grade. Every minute that I lose now is a minute that I could be pushing in more content...and yet, I don't really believe that as a teacher. I DO subscribe to the theory that the learning is in the doing, in the play, too. That the social-emotional growth - of which we've done a good job supporting on so many layers this year - is also of paramount importance, too. And I know that pushing reading to kids at a stage that is earlier than they are ready does no good - in fact, it can actually do harm. But...there is the expectation for them to be exiting with a certain reading level under their belt, and I feel I have failed a little with each child who will not reach that bar by June. Today, I was stressed again - and when I tried to really own it, to figure out what was eating at me the most, it came down to how I interacted with R. today. It is becoming more and more clear to me that he has some sort of processing disorder, that his dysgraphia is tied up with some other information overload problem. And yet, I was pushing, prodding, making him anxious for not staying on track, not picking up on visual cues, not listening to my words. I don't think I'm very good at differentiating, even though I know how important it is. I have done such a "good" job of convincing people I know what I'm doing, that I'm afraid to ask for help in the areas I don't, like supporting these differences. I'm sad that I might have caused anxiety for R. today. I don't know how to undo it. He's such a lovely child... how do I back off, give him space and time and positive reinforcement? And how do I manage all the stress I'm carrying, so I can end the year feeling proud, instead of worn out?

Body Engine Check for Adults

It would be easier to blame my lack of sleep last night (how about this whole week? or this whole month?) on the Super Blue Blood Moon that glowed red in the sky last night. But who am I kidding? Recent demands at school – board and staff meetings, hiring committee conversations, early morning conferences, after-school admissions sessions, not to mention my own insatiable desire to DO MORE and BE MORE as a teacher – well, they had me acting like a crazed lunatic this morning during our Bald Eagle writing lesson. I am feeling tremendous pressure – a pressure, it should be noted, that starts and ends with me – and the bar keeps getting set higher and higher around what I can teach, how much can I teach, what more can my students be learning. Today, when I heard myself getting more and more impatient, it was another one of those times when I realized I was losing it. And still, I went on, asking them to sit with their hands on their heads because they were not listening, getting mad at students who would not (could not?) make a lowercase "a" based on my verbal instructions. Finally, after I could not take it another minute, in exasperation I declared, "OK, that's it! We're done here for the day!" Dejectedly, I heard more than one of them say softly, "Sorry, Carla..." as they handed in their papers. And that, finally, was my lightbulb moment as I thought, What the hell are you doing?!?! You're teaching a whole-group lesson on something they should be doing in small groups, or even one-on-one. You are yelling at them for something that cannot do, not something they do not want to do.

Later that morning, after they returned from PE, I asked them to come sit on the rug for a minute. I'm sure more than a few thought, what have we done now? But thank God for them, and their kind, generous hearts... I reminded them of the Body Engine Check we do in class so often, and asked them why we do it. Alex responded, "So we can tell each other how we're feeling, if we're in the green or not." I explained that I did not check my own engine that morning, but if I had, I would have seen I was in the blue from too little sleep, and in the yellow (maybe the red?) from other things, too. "And I took it out on you." I told them I was teaching them something that was hard for them, and that it should have been ok for them to find it hard. I made a mistake, and I needed to tell them I was sorry. And that I will try to do better next time. Part of me almost felt like crying when I said it, but I didn't. They each nodded their heads with understanding, and then they ran out the door to play. I wished I had given them each a hug. Tomorrow, I still may. They are such earnest souls! But I reminded myself afterwards: Carla, you don't get to do that multiple times this year. Yes, adults can make mistakes and ask for forgiveness. But don't let it become a pattern, don't let them learn to expect the wrath of an unrelenting slave driver who then sheepishly returns after a few lashings to beg for forgiveness. Remember the sound of these impressionable little voices saying "sorry" to you - and take that f^&ing whip out of your hand - the one you use on your own back first, then take out on them when you feel exhausted by it all.