Disclaimer: Earlier this week, I read a prompt over here. The prompt was about the profound or not so profound things that have crossed the lips of our students. One particular student came to mind. I have long thought about writing about him, have even started writing about him many different times, but have been reluctant to post any of that writing publicly because the story involves quoting words that make me blush. In general I choose not to employ profanity in my writing or speaking. Maybe you're like me or maybe you're completely comfortable with all sorts of colorful words. Either way, I hope you enjoy the story about one of my most memorable students. And if you're offended by my choice of words, please accept my apology in advance.
"HOLY SH*T!"
The words bounced off the spines of books carefully shelved in our school library. I stood frozen, considering how the year had led up to this exact moment.
My classroom had a small hole in one of the windows. In the span of years I taught in that room, it was never repaired. The winter wind whistled through that hole, a faint sound I only heard during moments of peace before school or after I’d zipped my little ones into their jackets and sent them home for the day.
That year my students were particularly noisy, there was not a timid voice in the whole bunch. They were hard workers, but in their work they were noisy, talking aloud to themselves, reading with enthusiasm, counting in booming rhythms. Even their whispers were deep and throaty. The constancy of their voices was the running monologue of our classroom. And it was loud.
Clyde was six years old and his legs grew quickly, stretching out his kindergarten belly, inching his pants up above his ankles. He face was milky pale, with only a hint of color gathering in the hollows under his eyes. His brown eyes were wide and his forehead wrinkled into folds under his shaved head whenever he asked a question, which was all of the time.
Clyde’s mother was deaf and his primary language was sign language. In class he constantly searched for the words to voice the thoughts he could so fluidly convey with his hands. When he heard a new word, he snatched it up and added it to his vocabulary regardless if he knew the meaning.
It was this voracious hoarding of words that brought Clyde to words like sh*t, holy sh*t, to be exact. When he was excited about something, that pair of pungent words flew out of his mouth. The first time I heard him curse, my mouth fell open. His face belied the fact that he didn't know what the words meant. I pulled him aside and explained their meaning and we came up with a list of phrases he could say instead like “Oh, boy!” or “Wow!” To his credit, Clyde did his best to use the substitutions and only slipped up now and again.
Clyde was a meticulous artist. He could draw anything and everything in exquisite detail, but most of all he loved to draw cars. He drew convertibles with sleek lines and monster trucks ready to rumble off the page.
Every week our class went to the library to check out books and each week the librarian handed out library awards. There were two things a class had to do to earn a library award; keep the library clean and remain quiet. My class excelled in keeping the library tidy, but we'd never earned a library award, because try as they might, my little guys just couldn't keep their voices under wraps.
That is until one particular trip to the library. Every child was quietly checking out books, quietly reading them at tables, quietly poring over the pictures. I grinned as I watched the librarian pen an award for us. I pictured it hanging front and center in our classroom, a monument to the day we'd finally, finally quieted ourselves.
The librarian mentioned that there were some new drawing books over in the corner. Clyde's ears perked up and he walked over the corner. The new drawing books were on display on top of a bookshelf. There were books with sketches of horses, cats, dogs, and carton characters. And there was a shiny new book about drawing cars.
I watched Clyde flip to a page demonstrating how to draw a race car. I watched his eyebrows shoot up. I watched as he hoisted the book above his head like a trophy. And I watched him search for the words to describe his jubilation. I waited for one of the phrases he'd been practicing in class. As I walked over to share in his excitement, he let fly.
“HOLY SH*T!!!”.
My entire class, my entire formerly quiet class, let out a collective gasp followed by an explosion of voices all calling out "Mrs. McCauley, Clyde said a BAD WORD!" Realizing what he’d done, Clyde quickly plugged in one of his substitute phrases, stammering out an embarrassed, “I meant, ‘Oh boy!’”
But it was too late. I smiled at his effort, smiled at his enthusiasm over a book, and I even smiled at the librarian who tore our library award right down the middle before throwing it in the trash can.
A day or two before Christmas vacation, I sat at my desk after school scrawling lesson plans. The Good News Club was meeting in my room and I listened as they sang Christmas songs. Clyde was a regular member and he sang along happily with the CD of carols. When Silent Night came on, he excitedly told the club leader he knew how to sing this song in sign language. I put my pen down and watched as Clyde stood in front of thirty or so other kids, signing each word, each verse with small hands still dirty from the playground. The other children began to sign with him, copying his motions with their own hands.
I was captivated. Clyde's version of Silent Night was so beautiful that it both broke my heart and filled it at the same time. His hands moved through the air, telling the story of Christ come to Earth, telling it in a way that brought me to tears. The stunning story of the holiest of nights as told through the hands of a six year old was breathtaking. After the song, Clyde sat back down on the carpet without ceremony. I sat dabbing my eyes. For a moment there wasn't another sound in the room.
We never did get a library award that year. And that's okay. On the last day of school, I fingered the hole in the window, feeling the hot breath of summer leak into my classroom. There was no wind to blow through and in the silence of my empty classroom I found myself wishing for the voices of my students.
As I think about the most profound thing I've heard a student say, I think of that loud group of children. But mostly I think of Clyde. I love knowing that the kid who peppered the year with profanity was also the child who used his hands to speak what words cannot.
October 16, 2010
October 10, 2010
Things I Learned Last Week
I'm reading "Living the Questions: A Guide for Teacher-Researchers". (Don't worry, it's way better than it sounds.) And no, this isn't another post about teaching. Anyway, I'm responsible for reading chapter 4 in the next couple of weeks. I had every intention of just skipping ahead to chapter 4, but in the same way that I can't jump into a novel at chapter 4, I can't just skip over the first 3 chapters. The authors put them there for a reason, right? So this afternoon I was reading the first chapter and stumbled across this odd little poem:
Things I Learned Last Week
by William Stafford
Ants, when they meet each other, usually pass on the right.
Sometimes you can open a sticky door with your elbow.
A man in Boston has dedicated himself to telling about injustice. For three thousand dollars he will come to your town to tell you about it.
Schopenhauer was a pessimist, but he played the flute.
Yeats, Pound, and Eliot saw art as growing from other art. They studied that.
If I ever die, I'd like it to be in the evening. That way, I'll have all the dark to go with me, and no one will see how I begin to hobble along.
In The Pentagon one person's job is to take pins out of towns, hills, and fields, and then save the pins for later.
Naturally, I had to stop reading chapter 1 and create one of my own because if I didn't, I'd never get the image of ants passing on the right out of my head. And then there would simply be no chance of ever making it to chapter 4 because I'd be thinking about those darn ants all day.
Things I Learned Last Week
by: Alicia McCauley
Birds automatically empty their waste before taking off in flight, so it's nothing personal when I leave my front door and the birds living in my Morning Glory let fly as I run in terror.
Sticks and stones may break bones, but words can pierce the heart. And there's no cast to fix that kind of injury.
The kid who one day only produces a title and two words of the first sentence is the same kid who will crank out two pages the next day and run up to me beaming, "Mrs. McCauley, you just gotta read this!"
The old movie theater now only costs $1 on Tuesdays. Tuesday nights just got a whole lot more interesting.
Splitting and doubling down are not the same thing. At all.
For the bargain price of $900, 24 friends and I will be spending the night at the planetarium and environmental camp. This is the same camp I attended in 5th grade where I was mistaken for a boy. Let the PTSD flashbacks commence.
Before you go, I'm curious to know what you learned last week. So go ahead and drop some nuggets of newfound knowledge in the comments section. Now I have to go make a sugar trail in my kitchen and observe the traveling etiquette of ants.
October 1, 2010
Something to Remember
Dear Little One,
You were the best part of my day. You finished your work and sprawled on the rug with your notebook. Last year's Easter dress ballooned around you and one of your silver glittery ballet shoes slipped off your foot as you moved onto your stomach to write. I watched you write, sweet little princess. Your eyebrows gathered together, your mouth sounded out each word carefully. Other kids plopped on the rug with their notebooks, but you didn't even notice. I wondered what it was that had captured your attention so dramatically. As I moved around the room, my eyes kept flicking over to you. You never took your gaze off the page.
It came time for Author's Chair. To my delight you sat at the rug, notebook in the crook of your lap, and raised your hand. Anticipation tingled in my veins. You began to read about missing your granddad. You wrote about wishing he was still here with you. My heart lurched because I know what it means to miss someone with that kind of urgency. Oh, yes, I know it like I know the flecks of gold in Terry's eyes, like I know the sound of my mother's voice.
Your last line cut deep. "I wish I had something to remember him by." You blinked back tears and I was blinking them back right along with you. I think we all were. When you finished, a flurry of hands shot up, not to be the next reader, but to share about losing a loved one. You gave us that moment and for that I'm grateful.
I know you wish you had something to remember your Granddad by, something to hold in your hands or rub against your cheek. I wish I could give that something to you. But, Little One, let me just say that you created something to remember him by today.
Love,
Mrs. McCauley
You were the best part of my day. You finished your work and sprawled on the rug with your notebook. Last year's Easter dress ballooned around you and one of your silver glittery ballet shoes slipped off your foot as you moved onto your stomach to write. I watched you write, sweet little princess. Your eyebrows gathered together, your mouth sounded out each word carefully. Other kids plopped on the rug with their notebooks, but you didn't even notice. I wondered what it was that had captured your attention so dramatically. As I moved around the room, my eyes kept flicking over to you. You never took your gaze off the page.
It came time for Author's Chair. To my delight you sat at the rug, notebook in the crook of your lap, and raised your hand. Anticipation tingled in my veins. You began to read about missing your granddad. You wrote about wishing he was still here with you. My heart lurched because I know what it means to miss someone with that kind of urgency. Oh, yes, I know it like I know the flecks of gold in Terry's eyes, like I know the sound of my mother's voice.
Your last line cut deep. "I wish I had something to remember him by." You blinked back tears and I was blinking them back right along with you. I think we all were. When you finished, a flurry of hands shot up, not to be the next reader, but to share about losing a loved one. You gave us that moment and for that I'm grateful.
I know you wish you had something to remember your Granddad by, something to hold in your hands or rub against your cheek. I wish I could give that something to you. But, Little One, let me just say that you created something to remember him by today.
Love,
Mrs. McCauley
September 21, 2010
A Bundle of Thank You's
Dear Apple,
Thank you for building a very sturdy Mac Book. I discovered just how sturdy mine is when I was happily typing away on my couch and a big, black spider crawled across my bare arm. Naturally I shrieked, jumped up, and inadvertently threw my Mac Book to the floor. After I'd finished shrieking and doing the heebeejeebee dance, I picked up my computer and was delighted to find it was none the worse for wear. Job well done, Apple.
Sincerely,
The girl who will try not to throw her computer again
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Dear Terry,
Thank you for shaking out my couch blanket until the monstrous spider revealed itself. Thanks for only saying once how tiny it really was and for not arguing with me when I insisted it looked much bigger close up. And thank you for stomping the spider into oblivion. I was only a little grossed out that you stomped it with your bare foot. Your chivalry is much appreciated.
Love,
The girl who will try not to be so shrieky
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Dear Spider,
Thank you for crawling on me when I was awake instead of crawling in my mouth when I was asleep. I'm sorry your trip did not end well.
Cordially,
The girl who is not that sorry
Thank you for building a very sturdy Mac Book. I discovered just how sturdy mine is when I was happily typing away on my couch and a big, black spider crawled across my bare arm. Naturally I shrieked, jumped up, and inadvertently threw my Mac Book to the floor. After I'd finished shrieking and doing the heebeejeebee dance, I picked up my computer and was delighted to find it was none the worse for wear. Job well done, Apple.
Sincerely,
The girl who will try not to throw her computer again
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Dear Terry,
Thank you for shaking out my couch blanket until the monstrous spider revealed itself. Thanks for only saying once how tiny it really was and for not arguing with me when I insisted it looked much bigger close up. And thank you for stomping the spider into oblivion. I was only a little grossed out that you stomped it with your bare foot. Your chivalry is much appreciated.
Love,
The girl who will try not to be so shrieky
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Dear Spider,
Thank you for crawling on me when I was awake instead of crawling in my mouth when I was asleep. I'm sorry your trip did not end well.
Cordially,
The girl who is not that sorry
September 20, 2010
Going Bananas
I am not a morning person. Like, at all. As I stumble out of the shower, it's all I can do to brush my teeth and deodorize my pits and not the reverse. So when it comes to breakfast, I need something easy enough for a monkey to manage.
Enter the banana, possibly the most perfect fruit of all.
Earlier today I was caught in a conversation with other people who actually cook. Like with pans and stuff. One person made scrambled eggs and chorizo for breakfast. Another whipped up pumpkin pancakes. Their breakfasts sounded awesome and I'm sure they tasted great, but I cannot even begin to fathom being coherent enough to operate a stove safely in the morning. I'm 98.976% sure the smoke detector would be involved. It's just a bad idea.
As my friends talked about their breakfasts, I began to feel a bit embarrassed that I'd run out the door and scarfed down a lonely banana in the car. Even more embarrassed that I do this all the time.
Then this afternoon I read another blog and the topic was what people eat for breakfast. People posted tales of homemade maple syrup drizzled over French toast, steaming bowls of steel cut oats with fresh fruit, and waffles hot from the press. My banana and I were shamed. Again.
Well, let me tell you, friends, I love bananas. And it's not just because they don't require any cooking, although that is a major plus for those of us who are cooking challenged.
Bananas are a wonderful breakfast food no matter what mode of transport I'm taking. Walking or driving? I just crack that baby open and toss the peel in field near my house. Actually, most days I aim for the field and somehow manage to land it in the bushes lining the front of the field. Riding my bike? I shove that yellow treat in my jersey pocket and scarf it down at a stop light. And then throw the peel in the field. Or the bushes. Whatever.
The point is, the next time I'm trapped in a conversation about breakfast masterpieces, I'm going to tout the simple beauty of the banana.
Or maybe I'll just get a life.
Enter the banana, possibly the most perfect fruit of all.
Earlier today I was caught in a conversation with other people who actually cook. Like with pans and stuff. One person made scrambled eggs and chorizo for breakfast. Another whipped up pumpkin pancakes. Their breakfasts sounded awesome and I'm sure they tasted great, but I cannot even begin to fathom being coherent enough to operate a stove safely in the morning. I'm 98.976% sure the smoke detector would be involved. It's just a bad idea.
As my friends talked about their breakfasts, I began to feel a bit embarrassed that I'd run out the door and scarfed down a lonely banana in the car. Even more embarrassed that I do this all the time.
Then this afternoon I read another blog and the topic was what people eat for breakfast. People posted tales of homemade maple syrup drizzled over French toast, steaming bowls of steel cut oats with fresh fruit, and waffles hot from the press. My banana and I were shamed. Again.
Well, let me tell you, friends, I love bananas. And it's not just because they don't require any cooking, although that is a major plus for those of us who are cooking challenged.
Bananas are a wonderful breakfast food no matter what mode of transport I'm taking. Walking or driving? I just crack that baby open and toss the peel in field near my house. Actually, most days I aim for the field and somehow manage to land it in the bushes lining the front of the field. Riding my bike? I shove that yellow treat in my jersey pocket and scarf it down at a stop light. And then throw the peel in the field. Or the bushes. Whatever.
The point is, the next time I'm trapped in a conversation about breakfast masterpieces, I'm going to tout the simple beauty of the banana.
Or maybe I'll just get a life.
September 19, 2010
Dear Sore Throat,
Dear Sore Throat,
Thank you for arriving in full force today. Yesterday you were just an aggravating tickle, meaning that I ignored you while I cleaned the house, did laundry, went to a birthday party, ate dinner out, and went to the movies.
But today you will not be ignored. And while I prefer that you not visit at all, thank you for arriving today, a day when I had nothing on the books. I bundled up in my bathrobe and sent Terry on an emergency Kleenex run. I transformed the couch into a Fortress of Sickitude, complete with throat lozenges, blanket, tissue, teddy bear, and sole possession of the remote control. Then I hunkered down for a day of napping, reading, and watching Sixteen Candles for the infinitillionth time.
Having said that, Sore Throat, I would really appreciate it if you'd pack up and leave today. Let's face it, you are not all that helpful when I'm trying to teach a roomful of little ones.
Sincerely,
Alicia, Queen of the Fortress
Thank you for arriving in full force today. Yesterday you were just an aggravating tickle, meaning that I ignored you while I cleaned the house, did laundry, went to a birthday party, ate dinner out, and went to the movies.
But today you will not be ignored. And while I prefer that you not visit at all, thank you for arriving today, a day when I had nothing on the books. I bundled up in my bathrobe and sent Terry on an emergency Kleenex run. I transformed the couch into a Fortress of Sickitude, complete with throat lozenges, blanket, tissue, teddy bear, and sole possession of the remote control. Then I hunkered down for a day of napping, reading, and watching Sixteen Candles for the infinitillionth time.
Having said that, Sore Throat, I would really appreciate it if you'd pack up and leave today. Let's face it, you are not all that helpful when I'm trying to teach a roomful of little ones.
Sincerely,
Alicia, Queen of the Fortress
September 14, 2010
Black & White
A long time ago in a space that seems fuzzy and far away, before I owned a road bike or called myself a cyclist, my step-dad, Chris, used to take me mountain biking. I use that term loosely because it's not like I was hopping up boulders or screaming downhill, whipping through singletrack or anything. I was riding mostly flat dirt trails on my mountain bike.
Often Chris would bring along his dog, Jack. Jack was the blackest dog I've ever seen. His coat was a glossy obsidian color and as he ran alongside us, his pink tongue would hang out. His tongue had one black spot right in the middle. In his more nimble days, Jack would get so excited about riding bikes that he would bite at our tires. I would nudge him away with my foot, half smiling at his mischievous side. Not that I could relate or anything.
As I tootled along the dusty trails, I tried, with varying amounts of success, not to get lost and not to crash. Quite often I got separated from Chris and he'd send Jack to find me. I was never afraid of being lost when I rode with Chris because I knew Jack would always come back for me. As I stood befuddled as to which way to turn on a trail, Jack would lope up to me, his polka dot tongue waggling at me. I would say "Hi, Jack. Thanks for coming to get me. Take me to Chris." And sure enough, Jack led me to Chris every time. He was my own personal rescue dog.
Today Jack died. And I am sad. I know he was old and no longer spry enough to run rescue missions on the trails. And I know he wasn't even my dog. But I am sad. Sad that he will never nip at my tires or grin at me with his silly polka dot tongue.
I rode my bike to school today and in the late morning Terry dropped by my classroom with a bouquet of stark white roses. When it came time to go home, I jimmied the bouquet into my backpack and strapped on my helmet. The roses bumped against the back of my helmet as I pedaled up the hill home. Every little bump seemed to release a new wave of fragrance into the air. It was lovely.
As I inhaled the scent of the white roses, I thought of black Jack. I thought of how grief is anything but black and white. It is shades of gray, birthed from black sorrow and white joy stacked one upon the other, like crying and laughing in the same breath.
When I got home today, I plunged the roses into a vase of water. A lone petal fell onto the counter. I fingered its pale skin, grateful today for the juxtaposition of loss and love. I stood in the kitchen and gave thanks that in my life there is more laughing than crying, more love than loss, more white than black.
Often Chris would bring along his dog, Jack. Jack was the blackest dog I've ever seen. His coat was a glossy obsidian color and as he ran alongside us, his pink tongue would hang out. His tongue had one black spot right in the middle. In his more nimble days, Jack would get so excited about riding bikes that he would bite at our tires. I would nudge him away with my foot, half smiling at his mischievous side. Not that I could relate or anything.
As I tootled along the dusty trails, I tried, with varying amounts of success, not to get lost and not to crash. Quite often I got separated from Chris and he'd send Jack to find me. I was never afraid of being lost when I rode with Chris because I knew Jack would always come back for me. As I stood befuddled as to which way to turn on a trail, Jack would lope up to me, his polka dot tongue waggling at me. I would say "Hi, Jack. Thanks for coming to get me. Take me to Chris." And sure enough, Jack led me to Chris every time. He was my own personal rescue dog.
Today Jack died. And I am sad. I know he was old and no longer spry enough to run rescue missions on the trails. And I know he wasn't even my dog. But I am sad. Sad that he will never nip at my tires or grin at me with his silly polka dot tongue.
I rode my bike to school today and in the late morning Terry dropped by my classroom with a bouquet of stark white roses. When it came time to go home, I jimmied the bouquet into my backpack and strapped on my helmet. The roses bumped against the back of my helmet as I pedaled up the hill home. Every little bump seemed to release a new wave of fragrance into the air. It was lovely.
As I inhaled the scent of the white roses, I thought of black Jack. I thought of how grief is anything but black and white. It is shades of gray, birthed from black sorrow and white joy stacked one upon the other, like crying and laughing in the same breath.
When I got home today, I plunged the roses into a vase of water. A lone petal fell onto the counter. I fingered its pale skin, grateful today for the juxtaposition of loss and love. I stood in the kitchen and gave thanks that in my life there is more laughing than crying, more love than loss, more white than black.
September 9, 2010
Eggshells
Dear Little One,
You are so timid, so fragile, like you are made from hollowed eggshells. The computer makes you cry. The bathroom makes you cry. Talking makes you cry. You fog up your tiny glasses with rushes of hot tears. I didn't even know that was possible. You dart your eyes away from mine and have never made eye contact. I think your goal each day is to be invisible.
Our goodbye routine is always a high-five. Never a hug. Never a smile. And when our palms meet, I can't help but notice yours is trembling. I think your tiny twig arms tremble like that all the time.
Yesterday, after our standard goodbye high-five, I asked you "Are we ever going to hug?"
You looked at the wall.
"I've got a hug waiting for you when you want it." I smiled.
"Tomorrow.", you said, hurrying to the coat rack to retrieve your backpack. You wear your backpack in front, like a shield, and I wonder what it is you're protecting yourself from.
Today I thought all day long about how you'd choose to say goodbye. Would you offer your wavering palm? Or maybe, just maybe, would you drop your guard enough to let me hug you?
The end of the day arrived and you opened your arms and stretched them toward me. They were shaking. Your whole body was shaking. I hugged you tight and undoubtedly too long.
I let you go and you took a step toward the coat rack. And then you looked back at me. You looked me in the eye and said "See you tomorrow, Mrs. McCauley."
"See you tomorrow." I replied, unsuccessfully fighting back tears. Little one, I promise to see you, really see you, every day, especially on days when you are willing yourself into invisibility behind your glasses.
Let go of your fear. Put down your shield. I am safe. I will not break you, sweet little one made of eggshells. My arms are open to you. Be brave, little one, brave enough to open yours again.
Love,
Mrs. McCauley
You are so timid, so fragile, like you are made from hollowed eggshells. The computer makes you cry. The bathroom makes you cry. Talking makes you cry. You fog up your tiny glasses with rushes of hot tears. I didn't even know that was possible. You dart your eyes away from mine and have never made eye contact. I think your goal each day is to be invisible.
Our goodbye routine is always a high-five. Never a hug. Never a smile. And when our palms meet, I can't help but notice yours is trembling. I think your tiny twig arms tremble like that all the time.
Yesterday, after our standard goodbye high-five, I asked you "Are we ever going to hug?"
You looked at the wall.
"I've got a hug waiting for you when you want it." I smiled.
"Tomorrow.", you said, hurrying to the coat rack to retrieve your backpack. You wear your backpack in front, like a shield, and I wonder what it is you're protecting yourself from.
Today I thought all day long about how you'd choose to say goodbye. Would you offer your wavering palm? Or maybe, just maybe, would you drop your guard enough to let me hug you?
The end of the day arrived and you opened your arms and stretched them toward me. They were shaking. Your whole body was shaking. I hugged you tight and undoubtedly too long.
I let you go and you took a step toward the coat rack. And then you looked back at me. You looked me in the eye and said "See you tomorrow, Mrs. McCauley."
"See you tomorrow." I replied, unsuccessfully fighting back tears. Little one, I promise to see you, really see you, every day, especially on days when you are willing yourself into invisibility behind your glasses.
Let go of your fear. Put down your shield. I am safe. I will not break you, sweet little one made of eggshells. My arms are open to you. Be brave, little one, brave enough to open yours again.
Love,
Mrs. McCauley
September 8, 2010
Dear Little One,
Dear Little One,
Today I sat down next to you to see how your writing was going. You were writing a letter to a friend. You winked at me and told me you'd put one in my mailbox, too. Actually, you haven't learned how to wink yet, but you blinked with purpose and I got your drift.
You stopped writing for a moment, cupped my face with both of your hands and said "I just love you, Mrs. McCauley." And then you hugged my neck. You smiled and I saw the window where you'd lost your first tooth. I hugged you and left you to finish your letter.
After school I had to deal with an angry parent. And then I had to deal with a student who is being untrustworthy. I left school drained of all joy.
And then I thought of you.
I thought of your little smile, your little hands, and your big heart. You are the reason I teach, little one. Thank you for reminding me.
Maybe tomorrow I'll teach you how to wink.
Love,
Mrs. McCauley
Today I sat down next to you to see how your writing was going. You were writing a letter to a friend. You winked at me and told me you'd put one in my mailbox, too. Actually, you haven't learned how to wink yet, but you blinked with purpose and I got your drift.
You stopped writing for a moment, cupped my face with both of your hands and said "I just love you, Mrs. McCauley." And then you hugged my neck. You smiled and I saw the window where you'd lost your first tooth. I hugged you and left you to finish your letter.
After school I had to deal with an angry parent. And then I had to deal with a student who is being untrustworthy. I left school drained of all joy.
And then I thought of you.
I thought of your little smile, your little hands, and your big heart. You are the reason I teach, little one. Thank you for reminding me.
Maybe tomorrow I'll teach you how to wink.
Love,
Mrs. McCauley
September 6, 2010
Goodbye, White
Labor Day is here, banishing white pants to the back of the closet for another season. Well, I don't own any white pants, 'cause my bottom half just doesn't need that level of attention, so instead I'm writing about other white things that have come and gone.
Goodbye white lace on the baby pillow my mom stitched for me. I loved you until you were dirty tatters framing the yellow gingham, Come to think of it, goodbye white stuffing that filled the pillow and in the end came out in puffy lumps through the hole where I loved that pillow too thin.
Goodbye white stephanotis corsage that I wore to a junior prom. You were so much more beautiful than the red roses all the other girls wore. Good riddance to the boy that gave me that corsage and didn't ever talk to me again because I wouldn't smoke a joint and sleep with him. Wait, not even good riddance to him. Just riddance.
Goodbye Saturday morning sweetmilks with mounds of snowy powdered sugar spooned in the middle. This isn't so much a goodbye as it is a "See you later on a lazy winter morning." I will wipe powdered sugar from my lips and remember wiping my mouth on the corner of Grandpa's "Kiss Me, I'm Norweigan" apron.
Goodbye white seashells washing ashore in the shadows of the pier. I keep you in a jam jar on my night stand, remembering the day I last kissed my grandmother. I can't wait to walk barefoot in the sand and gather more shells for my jar.
Goodbye white wedding dress, all boxed up on the top shelf in my closet. I take you down every now and then and blow the dust off the front of the box. You made me feel like a princess on our wedding day. You were spotless and new and so was I. One day I will work up the nerve to free you from your box and wear you around the house. Until then, wait for me with your satiny train all tucked in.
Goodbye blackberry blossoms, bursting white among the thorns. It's time for you to rest, time to pull fall's burgundy blanket up to your chin as the earth breathes a sigh of relief. It's Labor Day and the laboring is done. For now.
Goodbye white lace on the baby pillow my mom stitched for me. I loved you until you were dirty tatters framing the yellow gingham, Come to think of it, goodbye white stuffing that filled the pillow and in the end came out in puffy lumps through the hole where I loved that pillow too thin.
Goodbye white stephanotis corsage that I wore to a junior prom. You were so much more beautiful than the red roses all the other girls wore. Good riddance to the boy that gave me that corsage and didn't ever talk to me again because I wouldn't smoke a joint and sleep with him. Wait, not even good riddance to him. Just riddance.
Goodbye Saturday morning sweetmilks with mounds of snowy powdered sugar spooned in the middle. This isn't so much a goodbye as it is a "See you later on a lazy winter morning." I will wipe powdered sugar from my lips and remember wiping my mouth on the corner of Grandpa's "Kiss Me, I'm Norweigan" apron.
Goodbye white seashells washing ashore in the shadows of the pier. I keep you in a jam jar on my night stand, remembering the day I last kissed my grandmother. I can't wait to walk barefoot in the sand and gather more shells for my jar.
Goodbye white wedding dress, all boxed up on the top shelf in my closet. I take you down every now and then and blow the dust off the front of the box. You made me feel like a princess on our wedding day. You were spotless and new and so was I. One day I will work up the nerve to free you from your box and wear you around the house. Until then, wait for me with your satiny train all tucked in.
Goodbye blackberry blossoms, bursting white among the thorns. It's time for you to rest, time to pull fall's burgundy blanket up to your chin as the earth breathes a sigh of relief. It's Labor Day and the laboring is done. For now.
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