VIP: Very Important Post

This collaborative video of spoken word and visual art contains within its 7+ minutes all that we feel, all that we must remember, all that we are as students, teachers, humans. It speaks for itself.

See the project at http://tothisdayproject.com/.

The Bossa Nova

When summer comes on full blast, I almost long for the days of my youth. Memories of angst and acne aside, summer still means one place, one person to me: Camp Maria Pratt and Bernie Moore. When I try to explain myself to people now, I always mention Bernie, and I always say, "She made me who I am." It's difficult to go beyond that very cliché statement, difficult to put into words, verbal or written, why I have had only one hero in my life, and why I credit that one hero with more of my making than my parents, siblings, or life-long friends.

Bernie was a woman comfortable in her own skin. That, more than anything, is reason enough to call her a hero. For this young girl in the 1970s and into the 80s, an older woman who didn't complain about her figure, fuss with her hair, or need a matching bag and shoes was an unknowing godsend. And add to that someone who could cook an entire meal over a fire, play the panicky victim in a lifesaving drill, bike for miles, and dance the bossa nova. Bernie rocked, we knew it, we adored her, and she adored us. But she also instilled in us a great sense of responsibility and respect: for the environment, for the importance of routine, for equity and justice, for our selves.

As a camper, I remember Bernie in several ways. I remember her cooking fried dough on the porch of the lodge: white apron over green tee shirt and jean shorts, wavy silver hair pushed back from her face, sweat running from every pore. Every now and then she'd take a break, come onto the tarmac where we huddled in small groups, put her arms around all of us (somehow), and make us feel as if we were the most important people she knew. I remember Bernie dancing on that same tarmac, keeping time to the bossa nova with those few bangles around her wrist that she wore at all times, stepping lightly in worn sneakers and somehow getting all of us to join her. I remember her best at candlelight ceremonies, where we'd mark the close of another session in one immense gorgeous candlelit circle. Bernie would recite, "If you stand very still in the heart of the woods…" and no one would move, speak, or giggle, simply because we recognized the beauty of the moment and wanted to hold onto it, forever.

When I was old enough to work at camp, Bernie became so much more than the coolest camp director ever. She became a parent for eight weeks, urging and challenging, scolding and comforting. Bernie's cardinal rule for staff was, "Whatever you do on your free time, you better be able to be at 100% for your job the next day." On more than one occasion, I took advantage of the freedoms allowed me at camp, and a few times, I had to answer to Bernie the following day. You always knew if you'd let her down. She'd approach wearing a serious expression, and you'd know you fouled up again, and that somehow, she knew where you'd been, what you'd done, and with whom. Bernie would talk of your responsibility, then her concern, and finally, the ultimate response, disappointment. All quietly, patiently, and firmly but lovingly, usually with her hand on your arm or her arm around your shoulder. Tears would come, then the hug. Getting in trouble didn't get any better than that.

I couldn't bring myself to visit Bernie in her old age, or even, most days, to ask others about her health once she was ill. I was, thoroughly and completely, in denial. To picture my hero anywhere else but camp, or in her cozy home she made with Harry, was (still is) impossible. And despite the years that have passed since Bernie died, I can't accept that she won't be somewhere this summer, teaching young girls how to paddle, making the perfect campfire dessert, or dancing the bossa nova into the warm night.

Delayed Gratification

In few professions besides education is the gratification for a job well done so delayed. Firefighters? They rescue and extinguish. Chefs? Their customers eat and praise. Project managers? The client and the boss are pleased. Truckers? Product is delivered. Pilots? Passengers delivered. Athletes? Race, game, match won (or at least done).

Teachers? Teeth pulling, hair pulling, pushing kids, pushing buttons. We grunt and groan through our jobs sometimes, coaxing and encouraging and suggesting. Then we watch and wait. And watch some more, and wait some more. Sure, we might see results on a unit assessment, or on an essay, or at the marking period's end. In a perfect world, these are the appropriate indicators of success, where benchmarks are measured and noted. But for so many of our students, and hence, so many of us, these moments are few and far between, and rarely are they recognized as highly meaningful.

I mean not to diminish results based on standards. They matter (and will soon matter even more). But for me, the true measures are not measurable. And while some are instant (the scribbled notes of appreciation on my board, the kid asking me if I was feeling better today), the best ones come later... sometimes much, much later.

Twenty years ago I watched a student graduate who'd come to school as a freshman completely disinterested in anything academic. Actually, he was disinterested in anything, period. Except maybe lacrosse. But even his fervent passion and extraordinary skills in that sport were no match for the malaise that governed his every day. Somewhere between that first year and his last, he grew to at least be responsive to the gifts of time, encouragement, knowledge, and compassion that his teachers and coaches shared so readily with him.

Today, I sat in the audience and listened to this same former student share his story with current students at his alma mater. I was a guest, and a surprise guest at that. I wasn't sure what to expect, but I knew that my pride would carry me through the experience. And while he spoke - of his struggles, of his growth, and of his deep appreciation for what we teachers had done for him - I knew this would become a moment that I would replay in my mind for a good long while. He was gracious and understanding, inclusive and grateful. He noted that he'd been a "handful" and then he thanked, by name, several of us who'd been there through it all. What a joy to hear it. What a joy.

Moments like today's carry us through the weeks and months we may go without a moment like today's. I have been lucky to have many such moments in my career - former students who write to say they've become teachers because I have inspired them, parents whose end-of-year appreciative comments and emails recognize my influence in their child's growth, administrators who praise my work in conversations and evaluations, colleagues who recognize the time and energy I dedicate to them as their union president.

This week I scored in every category. It was a very good week. And since it might have to suffice for a while, I'm going to relish it. I might even take Monday off.

Taking More Poetic License

Class Photograph, Miss Chick's School
Lancaster, Massachusetts

Perhaps they mean to stand side by side
In 1941. "Friends forever" one whispers
"...and ever" comes the unspoken reply, a rote
Lesson for two who will bear each other
Up through disease, five children
(The last two a party's legacy),
Two divorces, betrayal and booze,
Too many deaths. Perhaps they mean to
Stand together nearly sixty years later
In a kitchen too small to hold their lives
And whisper those words again.

L.A. Rice
2000

The Teacher in the Grocery Aisle

I was probably eight years old when it happened to me. I was in Morey's IGA with my mother, in the condiments aisle. Partly because I was working toward a Girl Scout badge, partly because I was sort of a nerdy kid, and probably more because I was already showing some math deficiencies, my mother used to have me figure out the better deals on products based on cost per volume (or some such mathematical formula). So there I was, calculating the price of relish, when around the corner came a lady pushing a cart and smiling at me from a distance. She looked very familiar. I thought maybe I knew her. Maybe she was one of my friends' moms, or one of my mom's friends. Maybe she went to my church. Maybe she worked at the hairdresser, where I got my not-so-cute pixie cut. Maybe she worked at my doctor's office, where I sat three times a week as I waited to see if I had a reaction to my allergy shot. Maybe she was a lunch lady. Yeah, I knew her from school probably. Maybe she was a secretary. A bus driver. A room mother. She wheeled closer, close enough for me to finally place her. Mrs. Hebert! My teacher! In a grocery store! Wait, Mrs. Hebert? My teacher? In a grocery store? I ran.

The sudden (it's always sudden) realization that teachers are human beings is a universal experience for kids. And the epiphany is neither a one-time deal nor reserved for just the elementary years. Over and over, again and again, we discover that our teachers are somehow, weirdly, normal. I saw my high school Spanish teacher smoking in his office once. Sure he was a neighbor, too, but that teacher-aura still existed... until I saw him in that cramped, smelly, cloudy space. And I can tell by their expressions that my students whom I see at the beach in the summer are startled and struggle deeply with the idea that I... swim. And dive! And eat picnic lunches! And drink beverages in bottles! And wear a bathing suit!! And have tattoos!!! Several students through the years have come into class after seeing me "out" (as if I've escaped from the zoo or something) and proclaimed their discovery to me and to their classmates: "I saw you at Stop & Shop." "I saw you driving on my road." "I saw you at my therapist's office." Uh, yeah, so you did.

I'd like to think it's a form of initial idolatry, balanced out by our human connectedness, sort of like when we used to see a television star who lived in town going to the grocery in her slippers (there she was, on-camera gorgeous and witty and so put together, but really, look, just like us). It's sort of flattering. And it's a good reason to be mindful of both perceptions: the first, that we are unique, and somehow special, and the second, that we are normal and human. We can be, and we should be, both extraordinary and ordinary. Clearly, it's what our students need us to be. And, more importantly, it's what we are.