Everyone knows I love a good book. And, yes, I mean everyone. I've made it my goal this year to share literacy and my belief that building better readers = building better thinkers. And thus, better citizens.
Each of my students has a 40 book goal. All of my classes are over 10% of the way toward their class totals. Ten percent in 5 weeks... I'm going to call that a success. Especially since it took almost a week for all my students to realize, truly, that I was not pranking them.
Since August 27, I've also read 15 books of my own 40 book goal. They've been delightful and beautiful and wonderful. I found that by asking my students to read more, it's encouraged me to read more as well, and I've been provided an opportunity to find new, incredible authors and stories and to share them with every kid I see. I find myself asking, "Whatcha readin'?" to almost every under-18 face I see -- even those I don't specifically know.
I've spent quite a bit of money on my classroom library this school year as well. It's meant a few cuts in other areas of my budget, and that's been tough in the moment. I waited a month for new Back-to-School sneakers. I've traded golden highlights for good hardbacks, and I've missed almost every tv premiere this week. I haven't even had a pedicure in over 8 weeks. That's a lot of free wine that the salon has saved itself. And it's been hard. Although I don't consider myself high-maintenance, I do have a streak of self-spoiling behavior that I do enjoy. It hasn't been easy to choose what's most important.
But, you know, it's been worth it. Cracked heels and overflowing DVR, be damned!
I looked around my desk today and counted over 20 books piled around me. Usually, piles are overwhelming. I wandered to my shelves and found books sitting askew and out of sorts. Usually, messy shelves are frustrating. And, in all my classes today, I had to wait 4-5 extra minutes to gain students' attention. Usually, it's because they're talking. Not anymore though. Now, piles warm me and comfort me. Messy shelves mean that students are constantly browsing, discussing, trading, taking.
And the quiet? Don't worry. I'll wait for you to finish that page, kids. I'm busy enjoying the silence and dreaming of my next good book. And maybe, possibly, a glass of wine to go with it.
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
Monday, September 3, 2012
The Only News Worth Knowing
Dear Kellen,
Since you don't know me well yet, I will tell you this:
I'm not any good at 4:38 AM. In fact, I'm downright unpleasant.
So, knowing that, there are only two acceptable reasons to dial my number at 4:38 AM. One is death. The other is life.
And in the wee hours of September 2, 2012, your little life made its way into my heart. At 4:38 AM. That is how miraculous you already are. Your mere arrival in the world brought a smile to my face, even at 4:38 AM. It even brought on coherent thought and a heartfelt reply. Miraculous.
I went to see you last night. Your Auntie Laurie and I planned it out by text... the exact right time of the day to visit where we would only have to share your chubby cheeks and new baby smell with only one another. It's a small concession to make, to share with one another, but I knew I would get there before her anyway.
Aunt Laurie brought dinner for all of us. Now, forever, I will think of you when I smell garlic bread baking in the oven. It seems only natural. One of the closest links your mother and I share is an unnatural attraction to freshly baked bread.
Aunt Laurie entertained us with a slideshow of her trip to Yellowstone. Don't tell Aunt Laurie, but I didn't really look at her pictures. Not when you were sitting so warm and snuggly and squeaky in my arms. She'll show me those pictures again. I think she was really only filling time until her turn again anyway.
Your mother laid in bed, let us hog you, and asked questions of everyone else. Sometimes I am amazed at how nonchalant she can be even just 15 hours after bringing someone so glorious into this world. She sat, drinking her Diet Coke, laughing at our stories, and pretending that it was an ordinary day. An ordinary day where she produced 9 lbs 4 oz of perfection without the aid of either drugs or a doctor. Like I said, nonchalant. And amazing.
Your dad lamented that he didn't have a chance to go buy a newspaper to mark the day you were born. I can't imagine that the Star Telegram would think to put your face on the front page, so I can't help but wonder what the use would be. You, sweet boy, are the only news worth knowing on September 2, 2012.
Since you don't know me well yet, I will tell you this:
I'm not any good at 4:38 AM. In fact, I'm downright unpleasant.
So, knowing that, there are only two acceptable reasons to dial my number at 4:38 AM. One is death. The other is life.
And in the wee hours of September 2, 2012, your little life made its way into my heart. At 4:38 AM. That is how miraculous you already are. Your mere arrival in the world brought a smile to my face, even at 4:38 AM. It even brought on coherent thought and a heartfelt reply. Miraculous.
I went to see you last night. Your Auntie Laurie and I planned it out by text... the exact right time of the day to visit where we would only have to share your chubby cheeks and new baby smell with only one another. It's a small concession to make, to share with one another, but I knew I would get there before her anyway.
Aunt Laurie brought dinner for all of us. Now, forever, I will think of you when I smell garlic bread baking in the oven. It seems only natural. One of the closest links your mother and I share is an unnatural attraction to freshly baked bread.
Aunt Laurie entertained us with a slideshow of her trip to Yellowstone. Don't tell Aunt Laurie, but I didn't really look at her pictures. Not when you were sitting so warm and snuggly and squeaky in my arms. She'll show me those pictures again. I think she was really only filling time until her turn again anyway.
Your mother laid in bed, let us hog you, and asked questions of everyone else. Sometimes I am amazed at how nonchalant she can be even just 15 hours after bringing someone so glorious into this world. She sat, drinking her Diet Coke, laughing at our stories, and pretending that it was an ordinary day. An ordinary day where she produced 9 lbs 4 oz of perfection without the aid of either drugs or a doctor. Like I said, nonchalant. And amazing.
Your dad lamented that he didn't have a chance to go buy a newspaper to mark the day you were born. I can't imagine that the Star Telegram would think to put your face on the front page, so I can't help but wonder what the use would be. You, sweet boy, are the only news worth knowing on September 2, 2012.Tuesday, August 21, 2012
The First "First Day"
I always say that the best part of my summer job as a camp director is bearing witness to the moment that a child falls in love with camp. It is, truly, a magical moment.
The other amazing part (and privilege) is watching that child grow up and bearing witness to the change he or she has upon the rest of the world.
This is Katie. She is the human, of course. I'm sure I have clearer, better pictures of Katie, but this just happens to be one of my favorite pictures of her because I think it encompasses who she truly is and has always been: loving, kind, and generous.
Katie is a kid that I've known as a camper, Counselor-in-Training, Junior Counselor, Senior Counselor, and, for the last two summers, as one of the CIT Directors. In every one of those roles, she has been the same: loving, kind, and generous. And incredible.
And, tomorrow, she'll be a second grade teacher. An incredible second grade teacher, I might add.
So, my Katie-did, as you begin your very first day in this new career, I want you to remember something.
You are more equipped for success than 90% of the teachers in the field. You have lived with your classrooms for years, surrounded by a tribe of dirty-faced, question-filled, needy (and sometimes whiny) children for weeks at a time. You've taught them to chop vegetables and cook over an open fire. You've hiked and played and explored and prolem-solved in the 110 degree heat. You've held the hands of countless homesick children, dried their tears, and found a place for them to belong. You've explained the multi-step mysteries of the shower to dozens of clueless 7 year-olds.
Reading and fractions can't be much more difficult.
Tomorrow, seventeen tiny faces will stream through your classroom door. You will probably not feel ready, but believe me, little one, you are. You've been ready for this since the first day I met you.
Tomorrow will fly by before you know it. As a teacher, your life will be filled with a great number of "first days of school", but you will only have one first "first day". Savor it. Whether things go perfectly (they won't) or completely fall apart (they won't), it will be a day unlike any other. And this is the beauty of teaching... every day, every moment, is a brand new chance for the best day ever.
Those 17 faces? They will wear you out. They may drive you crazy, even. Remember: that's every kid's job. So what do you do? Love them. Be kind to them. Be generous with your time and attention and spirit. I know you will because that's who you are, sweet friend. It's who you've always been, and they are going to adore you for it. They will be, I predict, the luckiest 2nd graders in the state of Oklahoma.
Have the best, most wondrous, first "first day" ever, Ms. Krambeer. And then, maybe a drink and a nap. You're gonna need it.
I love you, kiddo, and I'm so very, very proud of you.
The other amazing part (and privilege) is watching that child grow up and bearing witness to the change he or she has upon the rest of the world.
This is Katie. She is the human, of course. I'm sure I have clearer, better pictures of Katie, but this just happens to be one of my favorite pictures of her because I think it encompasses who she truly is and has always been: loving, kind, and generous.
And, tomorrow, she'll be a second grade teacher. An incredible second grade teacher, I might add.
So, my Katie-did, as you begin your very first day in this new career, I want you to remember something.
You are more equipped for success than 90% of the teachers in the field. You have lived with your classrooms for years, surrounded by a tribe of dirty-faced, question-filled, needy (and sometimes whiny) children for weeks at a time. You've taught them to chop vegetables and cook over an open fire. You've hiked and played and explored and prolem-solved in the 110 degree heat. You've held the hands of countless homesick children, dried their tears, and found a place for them to belong. You've explained the multi-step mysteries of the shower to dozens of clueless 7 year-olds.
Reading and fractions can't be much more difficult.
Tomorrow, seventeen tiny faces will stream through your classroom door. You will probably not feel ready, but believe me, little one, you are. You've been ready for this since the first day I met you.
Tomorrow will fly by before you know it. As a teacher, your life will be filled with a great number of "first days of school", but you will only have one first "first day". Savor it. Whether things go perfectly (they won't) or completely fall apart (they won't), it will be a day unlike any other. And this is the beauty of teaching... every day, every moment, is a brand new chance for the best day ever.
Those 17 faces? They will wear you out. They may drive you crazy, even. Remember: that's every kid's job. So what do you do? Love them. Be kind to them. Be generous with your time and attention and spirit. I know you will because that's who you are, sweet friend. It's who you've always been, and they are going to adore you for it. They will be, I predict, the luckiest 2nd graders in the state of Oklahoma.
Have the best, most wondrous, first "first day" ever, Ms. Krambeer. And then, maybe a drink and a nap. You're gonna need it.
I love you, kiddo, and I'm so very, very proud of you.
Monday, August 20, 2012
Waiting For Inspiration
Hey, friend.
Remember me?
I didn't leave you forever. I've just been busy. And tired. Really tired.
But I'm still here, waiting to be inspired. Waiting for something to write. But nothing amazing seemed to happen for a while, so I have just been waiting. And waiting. And waiting.
You know that feeling, don't you? That emptiness -- that loneliness -- that comes with waiting? If there is a Hell, I'm sure it will not be a pit of fire; it will be a waiting room. Or the line at the DMV. Nevertheless, it will be a feeling of doom, underscored by the lilting insanity of elevator music and boredom.
But today, I was asked to list the interesting things I've done this summer. (It was the first day back to school for teachers, and, inevitably, whether you are 13 or 35, this is the first assignment. Teachers... we never change.) I panicked as I stared across at someone who I knew had traveled and lounged and done "interesting" things for the past 2 months. What would I say? "I worked. At camp. I slept a coma-like sleep on every break." Believe me, exhausted comas do not equal "lounging". It took me a few minutes, but I eventually came up with a couple of answers. I still wasn't happy, and the question nagged at me the entire drive home. It itched my brain while I shopped for sneakers, waited on my take-out, and priced refrigerators online.
Only now, hours later, do I realize what I wish I'd said.
Remember me?
I didn't leave you forever. I've just been busy. And tired. Really tired.
But I'm still here, waiting to be inspired. Waiting for something to write. But nothing amazing seemed to happen for a while, so I have just been waiting. And waiting. And waiting.
You know that feeling, don't you? That emptiness -- that loneliness -- that comes with waiting? If there is a Hell, I'm sure it will not be a pit of fire; it will be a waiting room. Or the line at the DMV. Nevertheless, it will be a feeling of doom, underscored by the lilting insanity of elevator music and boredom.
But today, I was asked to list the interesting things I've done this summer. (It was the first day back to school for teachers, and, inevitably, whether you are 13 or 35, this is the first assignment. Teachers... we never change.) I panicked as I stared across at someone who I knew had traveled and lounged and done "interesting" things for the past 2 months. What would I say? "I worked. At camp. I slept a coma-like sleep on every break." Believe me, exhausted comas do not equal "lounging". It took me a few minutes, but I eventually came up with a couple of answers. I still wasn't happy, and the question nagged at me the entire drive home. It itched my brain while I shopped for sneakers, waited on my take-out, and priced refrigerators online.
Only now, hours later, do I realize what I wish I'd said.
- I worked at camp. All summer. It was exhausting and stressful.
- I worked at camp. All summer. It was exhilarating and full of renewal.
- I watched my best friend's son spend his first 2 nights at camp. He only stopped loving his counselor, activities, and friends long enough to hug me twice. Well... once. I stole the second, fair and square.
- I saw my favorite campers -- kids I've known since they were 8 -- graduate from the C.I.T. program and then come back as junior counselors.
- I spent 49 days working alongside my third generation of camp friends. They are the most dedicated, supportive, and talented groups of people I've encountered in a long time. Well... since my 2nd generation at least.
- I watched children from all over the world -- literally, from Mexico to the Czech Republic to England to China -- fall in love with the magic of camp.
- I laughed. My God, I laughed.
- I cried. My God, I cried.
- I busted kitchen raids.
- I narrowly escaped the clutches of Grandaddy Raccoon during one of his late night dumpster dives.
- I lured the camp dog out for a swim in the lake -- much to the delight of the canoeing class.
- I sang beautiful songs, with wonderful friends, on a gentle breeze by the light of a dying campfire.
- I sang loud and silly songs, with wonderful friends and giggling children by the roar of a fresh fire.
- I saw children become more than a stereotype.
- I saw children without a home find the home they never expected.
- I witnessed friendships forged, stronger than steel, and bridges burn with the spark of regret.
- A circle completed itself as one of my campers from my cabin at grief camp became a counselor at the same camp, fifteen years later. Her healing helped to heal another cabin of litle girls.
- I waved goodbye to one friend to finish his bachelor's degree, one to finish his doctorate, and one to ready her very first classroom.
- I prayed that they won't be gone for long.
- I spent far too long from another best friend's children this summer, only to be welcomed back into their home with squeals and giggles and kisses from their grown-up faces.
- Just days ago, I saw another friend's son, one of my favorite miracles, walk to me with steps that were never guaranteed.
- I cried about that one too.
- And I read. I read 14 books this summer, and I've got about 24 more on the stack.
Friday, June 29, 2012
The Slightest Touch
Camp is hectic right now. Hell. It's been hectic for a month because that's what camp is -- hectic -- the very nature of the beast. But I try hard to slow down a few times each day and snap a mental picture of the beauty that truly surrounds me.
Tonight there was a moment -- a sweetly perfect moment -- that summed up all the reasons I do this job, this crazy, hectic, tiresome job. And it was a moment so innocuous and slight that it overpowered me with its sheer simplicity.
It was one of our campers, completely blind, who stood unknowingly in the middle of the "last song circle" at the dance. It was another camper, completely unknown to her, reaching forward to place his hand on her shoulder, including her in the fold without forcing her into line. A touch that allowed her to be connected without being swallowed up. He held it there for the entire song, never breaking that connection. I'm not sure anyone else noticed, but it caught me so unaware that I felt the hot tears of surprise building in the back of my eyes.
And that is what all of our campers and CIT's and staff have done this week for our Lighthouse kids -- welcoming them in without swallowing them up. Moving the circle instead of moving the child. Accepting that we don't all fall into line the first time but saving a spot for when you do.
I think often about the beginning of a wave -- the tiny splash that creates the ripple that builds to the wave that washes over us all. It begins with the slightest movement: a raindrop, a fish flop, a breath of breeze. Is that how all great movements begin, how all great revelations occur? With the slightest touch?
My Lord, I hope so.
Tonight there was a moment -- a sweetly perfect moment -- that summed up all the reasons I do this job, this crazy, hectic, tiresome job. And it was a moment so innocuous and slight that it overpowered me with its sheer simplicity.
It was one of our campers, completely blind, who stood unknowingly in the middle of the "last song circle" at the dance. It was another camper, completely unknown to her, reaching forward to place his hand on her shoulder, including her in the fold without forcing her into line. A touch that allowed her to be connected without being swallowed up. He held it there for the entire song, never breaking that connection. I'm not sure anyone else noticed, but it caught me so unaware that I felt the hot tears of surprise building in the back of my eyes.
And that is what all of our campers and CIT's and staff have done this week for our Lighthouse kids -- welcoming them in without swallowing them up. Moving the circle instead of moving the child. Accepting that we don't all fall into line the first time but saving a spot for when you do.
I think often about the beginning of a wave -- the tiny splash that creates the ripple that builds to the wave that washes over us all. It begins with the slightest movement: a raindrop, a fish flop, a breath of breeze. Is that how all great movements begin, how all great revelations occur? With the slightest touch?
My Lord, I hope so.
Sunday, June 3, 2012
Fact:
Fact: There are certain moments in one's life when you must realize that you are old. These moments are inescapable and somewhat disheartening.
For example:
Not that any of those things happened to me today.
Nope. Not. At. All.
For example:
- When you can't "understand a damn word they're sayin' in that song on the radio".
- When your knees ache after a game of tag.
- When you trade the 9:00 PM pool party for some "peace and quiet".
- When you realize you need to leave the pool party because, perhaps, you nodded off on the deck of the pool and a bug flew in your mouth, causing you to choke, panic, and re-evaluate your life choices only to realize that you just fell asleep at a pool party for crying out loud, and when did that start happening?
Not that any of those things happened to me today.
Nope. Not. At. All.
Saturday, May 26, 2012
It Only Takes a Spark
So, in my last post, I told you about the most beautiful book riot I'd ever seen. Well, it's the only book riot I've ever seen, and it happened to be beautiful. Wondrously so.
I've been writing this blog for just around two years, and that post is, by far, my most popular with almost 95 pageviews in just under a week (It doesn't sound like much, but, believe me... it's huge.). This is funny to me as each time I read over it before publishing, it just didn't feel right. I didn't feel as though I'd perfectly captured the moment. I'm not sure, however, that any number of words ever could. But somehow, it struck a nerve.
Actually, I don't think it was the post at all. I think the Book Giveaway in itself struck a nerve. A great nerve. A friend of mine reposted it on Facebook (thanks, Debbie Schmidt), and someone I don't know at all decided to give away books on her next trip. Our school's lovely theatre arts teacher and her boyfriend picked up and went to Half-Price books so that she could purchase books for students to choose as their end-of-year gift. Other teachers, from other schools, in districts far away filed the idea for next year. Throughout our school, teachers and principals alike have been astounded to see our Mustangs with their new books. The kids have shown them off proudly, compared with one another, and then promptly stuck their noses between the pages. One of my fellow English teachers witnessed a child's heartbreak over not getting his copy of The Hunger Games and relayed the story to her college-age son who promptly told his mother that they'd just go get him a copy at Wal-Mart. You wouldn't believe the smile that $6.95 can buy. Another of my fellow English teachers saw a student not choose a book (a student that we debated over whether he'd buy in or not, really), and when another young lady found out, she traded a bag of Takis for him to go choose a title that she'd wanted but couldn't get because she was only allowed one choice. A bag of Takis buys a pretty good smile, too.
It was a huge risk -- that Giveaway -- and I had steeled myself for "The Look" many times leading up to it. You know... that "what-would-I-need-with-a-stupid-book" face. But it never showed, even from those few that didn't choose a book. No eyerolling. No exasperated sighs. Just smiles. And isn't that the only look that truly matters?
It certainly matters to my shopping list. I'll give you one guess what you're all getting for Christmas. Or your birthday. Or next Wednesday. I'm prepared to risk "The Look" from now on because this week, I saw a hundred more smiles than I could have ever wished for.
Thank you all for reading and sharing in the joy my students and school have had this week. I pray that this small reading revolution will grow and continue for a long time after this school year has ended. But my truest wish is that my sweet little rioters have given you some hope or some laughter and possibly even sparked an inspiration for you to spread the love of reading to all those children hungering for it.
UPDATE: That lovely theatre arts teacher, Angela Stidham, just sent me this message:
".....and after a long, hot, joyous day at the zoo Friday- those students of ours that couldn't afford a yearbook, ran around the gym asking their friends & teachers to sign their new book. Oh yes they did! :-D You know that long after they've finished reading that novel our school so generously gave them, they'll still keep it forever now because it's filled with the signatures of their classmates from 2012: the year they were given the gift of reading. I thought that was pretty cool."
More than just pretty cool. It's the beginning of a wildfire on the horizon. I feel it.
I've been writing this blog for just around two years, and that post is, by far, my most popular with almost 95 pageviews in just under a week (It doesn't sound like much, but, believe me... it's huge.). This is funny to me as each time I read over it before publishing, it just didn't feel right. I didn't feel as though I'd perfectly captured the moment. I'm not sure, however, that any number of words ever could. But somehow, it struck a nerve.
Actually, I don't think it was the post at all. I think the Book Giveaway in itself struck a nerve. A great nerve. A friend of mine reposted it on Facebook (thanks, Debbie Schmidt), and someone I don't know at all decided to give away books on her next trip. Our school's lovely theatre arts teacher and her boyfriend picked up and went to Half-Price books so that she could purchase books for students to choose as their end-of-year gift. Other teachers, from other schools, in districts far away filed the idea for next year. Throughout our school, teachers and principals alike have been astounded to see our Mustangs with their new books. The kids have shown them off proudly, compared with one another, and then promptly stuck their noses between the pages. One of my fellow English teachers witnessed a child's heartbreak over not getting his copy of The Hunger Games and relayed the story to her college-age son who promptly told his mother that they'd just go get him a copy at Wal-Mart. You wouldn't believe the smile that $6.95 can buy. Another of my fellow English teachers saw a student not choose a book (a student that we debated over whether he'd buy in or not, really), and when another young lady found out, she traded a bag of Takis for him to go choose a title that she'd wanted but couldn't get because she was only allowed one choice. A bag of Takis buys a pretty good smile, too.
It was a huge risk -- that Giveaway -- and I had steeled myself for "The Look" many times leading up to it. You know... that "what-would-I-need-with-a-stupid-book" face. But it never showed, even from those few that didn't choose a book. No eyerolling. No exasperated sighs. Just smiles. And isn't that the only look that truly matters?
It certainly matters to my shopping list. I'll give you one guess what you're all getting for Christmas. Or your birthday. Or next Wednesday. I'm prepared to risk "The Look" from now on because this week, I saw a hundred more smiles than I could have ever wished for.
Thank you all for reading and sharing in the joy my students and school have had this week. I pray that this small reading revolution will grow and continue for a long time after this school year has ended. But my truest wish is that my sweet little rioters have given you some hope or some laughter and possibly even sparked an inspiration for you to spread the love of reading to all those children hungering for it.
 |
| Pootie recommends Scat by Carl Hiassen. Maggie the Cat (in the background) is clearly finished with her selection. |
UPDATE: That lovely theatre arts teacher, Angela Stidham, just sent me this message:
".....and after a long, hot, joyous day at the zoo Friday- those students of ours that couldn't afford a yearbook, ran around the gym asking their friends & teachers to sign their new book. Oh yes they did! :-D You know that long after they've finished reading that novel our school so generously gave them, they'll still keep it forever now because it's filled with the signatures of their classmates from 2012: the year they were given the gift of reading. I thought that was pretty cool."
More than just pretty cool. It's the beginning of a wildfire on the horizon. I feel it.
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