At the Halfway Point

Last year, after reading a book called "The Book Whisperer" by Donalyn Miller, I took on the challenge of trying to increase the levels of reading stamina for my kids.  I also joined a literacy team at my school where our first order of business was to order hundreds of books to give away.  It was delightful.

I'm telling you... seeing those kids at that giveaway changed my life.  Everything about it made me remember why books and stories were so important to me as a kid; how important they are to me still today.  Stories are my passport, my escape, my guidebook.

On the first day of school I told my students that we were going to read. Every day. Without fail.  We would treat going to the library like a national holiday.  We'd discuss books and characters and authors as if they were our own.  And we'd have fun.

I set the goal at 40 books per student (with any book over 300 pages counting as 2 books).  After a quick poll, I realized that the average number of books my students read last year was just below 4.  I was pretty nervous that this would be a huge failure.  That kids wouldn't get to 40.  They might not even get to 10.  I reminded myself that it's just a number -- a high number -- but that the real goal was to get the kids to just read more than they ever have.  My goal is to get them to fall in love with reading again.

This was the photo I took on Thursday.  This is our bulletin board where we update once a month.  The number on the left is the number of books read, and the number on the right is the class goal (40 per student in class -- some are adjusted for late arriving students).

That's 946 books since August 27. Or 987 if you count mine as well.  And I do.  Three of my students have already surpassed their 40 book goal and challenged me to double my original goal as well. For the record, last year, I read 21 books (including the summer).  Every student has surpassed their total from last year, and it's only January.  My classroom library has grown from 62 books that hardly ever left the room to 507 books that are constantly being checked in and out, traded and reviewed, loved and hated.

I'd say we're doing pretty well.  Delightfully so.

The $2.00 Prayer

I stopped at Walgreen's just to drop off some Redbox rentals and pick up some cat food.  That was all I intended, really.  But it's not all that happened.

On my way to return the movies, I noticed a man, trying desperately to stay dry and warm in the downpour, standing next to the machine.  On reflex, I pulled my purse closer to me because I didn't know him.  I wrinkled my nose at his unwashed stench.  I cast my eyes downward to avoid making eye contact.  I did my very best to ignore the situation. 

And then he spoke.

"Excuse me, miss.  How are you?"

I nodded and mumbled that I was doing fine.  All the while, I wondered why the machine couldn't move any faster.

"And how has the day treated you?"

"How had the day treated me?' I thought. I woke up this morning in my extra-warm bed.  I took a shower, put on clean clothes, and had a choice in my breakfast.  I went to my job -- a job that I love and that provides me with more than I need.  My students had come back to school... happy, ready, and able.  I got no fewer than 20 hugs and even more "I missed you's".  I was surrounded by friends and colleagues who love and appreciate me.  And, on my drive home, my only complaint was the slow-moving traffic that might delay the start of my basketball game on t.v.  So how had the day treated me?

"Fairly well.  I'd say it's been the best day in a long while," I replied, with a smile.

"That's good.  Real good," he grinned back. "You don't think you might pass on some of that good luck to me, do you?  You don't have any spare change?"

In my mind, little Roman candles of cynicism burst forth.  Beggar.  Bum.  Vagrant.  Drunk.  Stranger.

But when was the last time a bum asked me about my day?  Better yet, when was the last time anyone who wasn't a close friend asked me (and really wanted more than a "Fine. And you?" in response)?

In my pocket was a dollar bill.  The fact that I had any sort of cash is a small miracle, so I thought that maybe it'd bring him a little luck.  I chirped at him to stay dry and try to stay warm, and I went in to finish my errand.  As I was checking out, the machine asked me if I wanted cash back.  Thinking of the man huddled under the flickering Walgreen's sign, I clicked the $10 button and waited for my change.  I walked out, folded it up, and handed it to this stranger.

When he took the money from my hand, he also took my hand.  I stiffened, alarm bells going off in my head, panic rising.  And then I saw him bow his head to pray.  To pray for me.  When he looked up,  there was genuine kindness and thanks in his eyes. 

With the money clutched in his hand, he had yet to even look and see that it was a $10 bill.  I smiled a bit as I walked to my car.  During those few moments, a total stranger in a much-worse position than I, took the time to pray for me... for what he thought was $2.  And his $2.00 prayer renewed me just a bit.  When have I ever been so grateful for just a few dollars?  Not in a long while.  Not until that moment.

So, no... catfood is not all I picked up at Walgreen's today.

Shipwrecks

A writer I adore, Black Hockey Jesus, once wrote that "we are all made out of shipwrecks".  Man, that's an image.  Have you ever seen a shipwreck on the shore?  Car wrecks and train wrecks... they all get cleaned up, erased from public view.  But a shipwreck stays, forever, molding and rotting and junking up the scenery.  They are constant reminders of the pain and loss.  I like that image because that's how I felt yesterday.  It's how I feel about most of my pain.  That I am navigating the shallow waters, eyeing the shipwrecks of my past, dodging the jagged rocks.

My post yesterday was shared by a few friends who took solace in my feeble attempts to make sense of the senseless.  It's why I made the attempt... because words are my weapon, my shelter, my compass.  If they gave comfort to no one but me, I'd still be glad I wrote them.  And then this morning it was shared by a few relative strangers -- people who know me in only short spaces -- my 140 character friends, if you will.  And their words gave me solace and comfort as well.  For a while.

I went back to bed in the late morning, and I slept until mid-afternoon.  This is my fall-back.  I avoid the shipwrecks by never leaving the dock.

But I couldn't stay in bed forever.  I had made a promise to see my little buddies, Elliott, Brooklyn, and Kellen, and deliver their ornaments. 

As soon as I pulled up to Chris and Courtney's house, I saw Brooklyn and Ell out front with their dad.  By the time I'd gotten out of the car, I could hear Ell's squeals of "Deana, Deana, come find meee!" 

Just FYI, if you ever need to find a 3 and a half year old, just pull a Christmas gift bag out of your car.  He'll find you instead.

We went inside, unwrapped gifts (because they need to be hung upon the tree), and then were back out to play.  Elliott's new favorite game is Hide-and-Seek.  This involves me counting, VERY slowly, to four while Ell hides.  At the announcement of "four", he jumps from his hiding place and squeals in anticipation.  Which makes Brooklyn giggle.  Which makes everyone giggle.

I'm telling you, if we could harness the power of squeal giggles, we'd solve the energy crisis.

Then Ell wanted to take a walk to look at the Christmas lights.  Not to be left behind, Brooklyn came toddling behind us, arms raised, eyelashes fluttering.  So I picked her up, placed her on my hip, and asked Elliott if he was ready to go.  He said "yes" and stuck out his hand.  It's hard to be sad when someone so beautiful wants to hold your hand.

And so we walked, my tiny navigators and I, cruising the shallow waters together, making way for open sea.

Hands

It's been 24 hours since I learned about yesterday's tragedy in Connecticut.  Given 24 years, I don't think I would still be able to find my words to register my true feelings about what happened.  It's been 11 since September 11th, and I still don't have any for that either.

Grief is a funny and terrible thing.  It stalks you, hanging around just until you think it's gone, and then it rears its head once more.  Now, our country grieves again.  When I think of our nation's most mournful times, I see incredible things.  Heroes emerge.  Kindness appears.  Strangers connect.  And in those moments, the impossible seems possible, and change can happen.

Yet so often, it doesn't.  Or at least it doesn't happen quickly. 

All over my social media, there are shouts and rumblings.  And blame.  There's always blame.  Fingers point at the other side, and arguments occur.  Gun control.  Second Amendment.  Republicans.  Democrats.  Right-wing.  Left-wing.  The absence of God.  God's will.  Your fault.  The President's fault.  The shooter's fault.  His parents' fault.

Let's get real, people.  It's our fault.  And it will continue to be our fault as long as we, as a nation, refuse to meet in the middle.  It will continue until we all stop needing to be so right that we are all wrong.

But I don't know how to change a whole nation.  If I did, believe me, I'd tell you.  The trouble is, I don't know if anyone would listen.

I do know this, however.  God is in our schools.  You can't take God out of a school anymore than you can take him out of your home or your heart.  He is in my basketball team as they pray for the health of a fellow teacher's mom -- our #1 fan.  He is in my students as they refuse to break Fast for even the thrill of a Snicker's bar won on a correct answer.  He is in my moment of silence each morning as I pray for the health and safety of those I hold most dear.  He is in the mouth of the child who told me, "I'd never let anyone hurt you, Miss Naz." 

I get it though.  It's easy enough to blame the absence of God when tragedy strikes because how could God let it happen?  But tragedy is a continual undercurrent of our entire history.  The atrocities that one human can inflict on another are a daily, moment-by-moment occurrence.  And I don't always know where He is.  Admittedly, He and I have always engaged in a cosmic version of Hide-and-Seek.  My only hope is that He's with those who have been left behind, giving them the strength to survive now and live later.  Those are two completely different things, you know.  Surviving and living.

I also know that the answer to school violence isn't by putting a gun in my hands or in my classroom, as a few have advocated.  To be honest, I can barely find my own keys most days.  I'm not sure I'm cut out for the vigilante lifestyle.

The only answer I have is to love one another.  Listen when someone needs help.  Ask for help when you need it.  Let go of your platform and have a conversation.  Seek out beauty, and, where there is none, leave some.

And, maybe, just this once, we use our hands to help or to pray or to hold... but not to point.

True Story: John Deere Changed My Life

When I was 10, I was a Girl Scout.  In fact, I was a Girl Scout for a really long time, but at 10, I was a scout who was desperate to go to summer camp.  I didn't realize it at the time, but my family didn't have the extra money to send me to a week of overnight camp.  The year before, my mom had recruited the local junior college basketball team, the Lady Bulldogs, to buy and sell hundreds of boxes of Thin Mints in order to send me, but I think that the next year, there was some kind of Cookie Moratorium laid down by the coach.  I was devastated at the possibility of not returning to camp.

Somehow, my dad -- the King of the Trade -- worked out a deal with the camp's site manager that he would mow the camp property all summer in trade for my time at camp. My dad had a big ol' John Deere tractor that he and my brothers ran tirelessly all summer to supplement our income, and now that I think about it, that tractor changed my life.

• I went to camp for 4 more years until Camp Cibola closed.
• My wonderful memories and realization of camp's influence never left me.
• In 1995, on a trip through the student union at ASU (a school I chose because I'd been to student council camp there), I applied for a job at Camp El Tesoro in Granbury, TX.
• At El Tesoro, I met the best friends I've ever known.
• I kept going back to El Tesoro for 8 summers as a counselor, program director, assistant CIT director, and, yes, even the camp nurse.
• At ET, I decided to change my major from Elementary Education to Secondary Ed.
• At ET, I met Heather Wilson who introduced me to Linda Denson.
• Linda Denson hired me at Nichols Junior High (even when she didn't TECHNICALLY have a job open yet).
• Thirteen years and over 1,200 students later, I am still at Nichols Junior High.
• Also, while at El Tesoro, I met Laurie Johnston, one of my many mentors in how to work with children.
• Nine years ago, LJ talked me into volunteering at Camp Carter YMCA to help start a camp for blind and visually impaired children.
• I became the day camp bus driver, the camp nurse, and the assistant camp director.
• In 2012, I became the director of overnight camping for Camp Carter.
• In 26 years as either a camper or staff member, I've worked with thousands of children and hundreds of staff members.
• Over 200 of my most valued, creative, generous friends and acquaintances came either directly from my time at camp or from a connection at camp.
• Statistically speaking, if you're reading this, you're one of those 200. 

Almost every decision I've made, every goal I've accomplished, and every dream that I've dreamed has been a result of my time at camp.  Nearly every person I interact with on a frequent basis is somehow a result of my time at camp.  Every place and moment and friendship is connected, and camp is the undercurrent of them all.

All because of a John Deere tractor.

This year, Camp Carter YMCA has set a goal to raise $63,000 to provide scholarships for both day and overnight camp for area youth.  As of this morning, we had $14,000 left to go.  We are hoping to raise that amount in the next 6 days.  I cannot promise you that I'll run a marathon to earn your donation.  Or walk 60 miles.  Or jump rope a thousand times.  But what I can promise you is that your donation, if you choose to make one, will change a child's life. 

Remember... not everyone's parent has a John Deere trade up his sleeve. 

If you would like to donate, you can do so in one of two ways: 
A) Go to Camp Carter's website, and follow the "donate" button located at the top.  Choose "Camp Carter's Annual Campaign". 
--OR--
2) Email me at coachnaz@hotmail.com or DM me with your mailing address and your pledge amount.  You don't have to pay right away.  You can pay out your pledge in installments if that makes it easier.

And, for the record, apparently there's a Kindle Fire being raffled off for those campaigning for Camp Carter.  Y'all know how I feel about e-readers, so if I win, I'll raffle it off to one of my donors!

On Saying Good-bye to Free Wine and TV

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.

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.