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.