the layers / stanley kunitz

There is more to say about Blue Ridge, harder stories, but it might take a while for me to say it.  For now, this poem:

I have walked through many lives, 
some of them my own,
and I am not who I was,
though some principle of being
abides, from which I struggle
not to stray.
When I look behind, 
as I am compelled to look
before I can gather strength
to proceed on my journey,
I see the milestones dwindling
toward the horizon
and the slow fires trailing
from the abandoned camp-sites,
over which scavenger angels
wheel on heavy wings.
Oh, I have made myself a tribe
out of my true affections,
and my tribe is scattered!
How shall the heart be reconciled
to its feast of losses?
In a rising wind
the manic dust of my friends,
those who fell along the way,
bitterly stings my face.
Yet I turn, I turn,
exulting somewhat,
with my will in tact to go
wherever I need to go,
and every stone on the road
precious to me.
In my darkest night,
when the moon was covered
and I roamed through wreckage,
a nimbus-clouded voice
directed me:
''Live in the layers,
not on the litter.''
Though I lack the art 
to decipher it
no doubt the next chapter 
in my book of transformations
is already written.
I am not done with my changes.

Especially this little guy, him of the Timbaland boots and scratchy voice and ''half-Indian'' origins, who ''doesn't speak Spanish'' and laughs at the reindeer he thinks look Chinese (so bad, I know....), but who is smart and tender at times and interesting and very aware.  Who sucks his nostrils into slits like a snake and makes outrageous faces and is one of the smallest in the class, dressed like a gangsta, who misses his mom all the time, and who I constantly have to remind, ''Teacher Cari, not just Cari.''

Yeah, this one basically represents how I feel about that entire out-of-control and sweet and off-the-wall first grade class.  And that is always the hardest thing about leaving...

Agatha still thinks fondly of her legless doll, Anna.*

*A sentence from one of my phonics group's curriculum.  
Here's one more good one: ''The wickedness of the repellently lipless frogmen who had hatched in the rank dankness of the vast dismal bogs on this godless planet left us despondent.''
I should start counting the references I see to ''dismal bogs'' in those books. Numberless, really.


Now for a few more great quotes from two of mis favoritos, Seth and Sirgio.
Seth: ''I'm a little sick right now, so you might not want to touch me.''
Seth again: ''Man, that's an old life.''  -Comment regarding Amos McGee's propensity to wake up early, quickly trade his pajamas for a freshly pressed uniform, measure three spoonfuls of sugar into his oatmeal, and put on the kettle for tea in the story A Sick Day for Amos McGee


Sirgio (el gansta pequeño): ''Is it hot in here, or is it just me?'' (Mr. Garcia and I made eye contact at this, trying not to laugh, but Sirgio maintained a straight face, so perhaps he actually was feeling warm).
Sirgio again: ''What's on your eyes?'' (regarding my turquoise eyeliner) 
me: ''Oh, just my eyeliner.  I thought I'd try something different.''
Sirgio: ''Why?''
Me, explaining to Sirgio that his birthday on June 21 is not just the first day of summer, but has a name.  ''It's called Summer Solstice.  It's very special because it's the longest day of the year.''
Sirgio, in his gravelly little voice: ''Oh yeah!  My birthday's the coolest day of the year!''  


Now a writing sample, Seth again, summarizing A Sick Day for Amos McGee: ''Amos Mcgiy wuc uq rliy.  he gits sick.  thay hav a sliqovr.''

(that's, ''Amos McGee woke up early.  He gets sick.  They have a sleepover.'')

popcorn mutiny

''My grandma, she is rich.''

''How many money does she have?''

''199.''

''My grandma is rich too. She has 420.''

-conversation overheard between Alejandro and Dominic, on the way to first grade small group

For a school fundraiser in January, Blue Ridge decided to sell popcorn for $0.25 a bag. Not realizing how many kids would be excited about this, the popcorn ran out before K-2 got a chance to buy. ''Where is the popcorn truck?'' a tall black kindergartner asked me at recess, concern furrowing his brow. ''We're about to have a popcorn mutiny on our hands,'' the principal joked.

Recess means I'm pushing kids on swings, counting to sixty in Spanish until it's time to switch, holding one end of the jump rope while tiny kindergarten Alice jumps carefully, tongue sticking out in concentration. I'm trying to convince kids to keep jackets on--most of them have variations of the same jacket, thanks to Wal-Mart and similar stores.

We play Apples to Apples Junior with my third grade phonics group (the Spanish-speaking ones). I wonder about how it will go and get a clear idea when, in the first round, the adjective ''famous'' receives the subjects ''science experiment,'' ''mustard,'' and ''Pinocchio.'' (And if Pinocchio is indeed famous, it's because I helped that student choose that word--her English is the lowest of the four). Another example: someone enters the word ''crown'' for ''enjoyable.'' The good thing? They seem to be enjoying themselves, and it gives us a nice break from the sometimes painful work of reading and practicing pronunciation correctly and spelling.

Dylan likes to go by Dilly B. Slippy (the B is for Beatrice, he tells me). Kimberly's sister's birthday party has a tie-dye, zebra stripes, and peace sign theme. We talk about the meaning of the word ''ache,'' and Virginia tells me, ''Like I get really sore arms from using the mouse.''

''We gonna get a medal and a picture of you when we graduate?'' Dominic asks me, referring to our first grade poetry group. He is all about incentives--prizes, stickers, rewards of any sort. Even a photograph of me, I guess. Heh.

When we work on sentence building with our vocab words, Alejandro, who gets really into it, writes, ''I have a drone house with three windowe.'' ''A dream house?'' I ask, clarifying. ''No, brown,'' he tells me.

Oh, what would life be without these little guys?

poems for first graders

Part of my job is teaching four rotations of first graders poetry, rhyme, and sentence construction every afternoon. They each have journals to work in with words and pictures, and every week I write a new little poem based on the story they're reading from their lit book... I wanted to share these two from the last few months.

~~~

Winter came, and I burrowed in the ground

When the snow showed its face, I was nowhere to be found

In my tunnel I stayed till spring was on her way

And through December I dreamed of the Butterfly Queen

Of her wings the color of my heart.

~~~

We spent the summer picking apples

From sunrise until dusk

The light kissed my cheek in the morning,

Painted my hair with its dust

When darkness fell, in the kitchen

Grandpa would hold me close

Tell me stories of his boyhood

He talked of Mexico the most

And when I slept, I dreamed of those days

Mi abuela in long bright skirts

Of my Grandpa's hands playing guitar

Red apples, the color of the earth.

storytime

''Did the hobgoblin inhabit the distant dismal bogs?'' reads the sentence in our phonics book. Emilio, reading, stumbles over hobgoblin: ''Hhh...hob...hobble...hhh...hobblegob...hobgob...'' This is one of those rare occasions where I burst out laughing in front of my students. ''It's not you,'' I quickly reassure Emilio, ''these sentences are ridiculous.''

Need more proof?

''This pathetic ostrich is exotic but not splendid.''

''My despondent dentist consults with a skillful calligraphist about his dismal penmanship.''

I understand the point of phonics is to teach, well, phonics, not vocabulary. But when you are working with kids who speak functional English, who maybe understand one-in-four words I say and far less of the ones we read... well, it just gets a bit silly. I will not knock the program though, perhaps in the long run, it really helps. I only wish I could get a job writing sentences as ludicrous as that!

favorite blue ridge quotes

Me: 'You look tired, Xavier. Did you go to sleep late last night?'

Xavier: 'I went to bed at 20.'

Mr. G: 'Diego, are you going to be a police officer? Because you're sure questioning Jose like one.'

Kailer, to me on Ash Wednesday: 'Oh cool, you got your forehead pierced?'

'My story is a but a wisrd,' Seth, with backwards s, doing journal work.

Mr. G, having confiscated four or five toys from Gerardo by the end of the day: 'Teacher Cari, I think I'm going to have a yard sale this weekend with all these cool toys.'

Me: 'I'll be there, Mr. G, I could use some new toys.'

Gerardo: starts weeping, Mr. G looks at me with a whoops expression; I go to Gerardo and try to offer comfort--solo un chiste, mentiras.

'I like all the ones that are brown.' -4th grade Ashley, offering her opinion on Barack Obama, and presumably US presidents in general

'I'm walking with first graders, not frogs.' -the things you hear yourself say on a daily basis

Oscar: 'One day I saw Teacher Cari and Maestra Lupe at... uh... at.... uh... Green....'

Me: 'Green Park School?'

Oscar: 'Oh, yeah!'

La substituta, trying to get everyone back on track: 'Alright, that's a neat story.'

O. again, talking to me about bringing a special treat to school for Valentine’s Day: 'But not to him (pointing to Xavier) because he doesn't brush his teeth.' I should add that O’s mouth is full of six-year-old lost teeth gaps and silver.

'Or you could not get those, since you're not a child.' -Girlfriend overheard in Grocery Outlet, regarding juice boxes, to boyfriend. Not sure if that relationship will last.

on working at the best school

Today I was filling out paperwork to for a routine dental check-up in my new town, and as I checked no to question after question (gum pain, discomfort chewing, bleeding, coldness, numbness, tooth decay, blisters, sensitivity, erosion, jaw pain, etc, etc, etc) I remembered again how much we have to be grateful for that, most days, I confess I fail to even notice.

After site shadowing at another elementary school in a neighboring county, I decided to make a list of all the reasons I love Blue Ridge. I've worked in seven schools now, and attended ten more, and it really is such a unique, energizing atmosphere. Here's why:

• First of all, the building is underground, a grassy knoll on one side, exposed windows on the other. Huge skylights overhead allow light into each stairwell so even the basement hallway is lit. The structure is ''an architectural gem 30 years ahead of its time'' according to one architect from Boston I met last weekend, who said he spent some time studying the building's design when he moved out west.
• We do zumba every morning for 15-20 minutes. 'Nuff said.
• The color makeup. I hope this is not shallow, but after visiting a very white country school, and having a conversation with a six-year-old about hunting and how he shot a deer in the foot and thought it was super funny, my appreciation is majorly renewed.
• Latino teachers. Young teachers. Brown teachers. Six male teachers. That is kind of unheard of in elementary.
• Recycling. I know that seems standard, but trust me, a lot of schools don't.
• Many bilingual teachers and students.
• The view of the Blues (for which it is named)
• The eagle mascot
• The Turkey Trot. The best!
• No gossip/teacher drama.
• The salad bar.
• The secretaries.
• Hearing and speaking Spanish every day.
• The kids, duh!! Some of the most hilarious and precious and ridiculous and wonderful little ones I've met... not that I'm biased or anything...

McTeacher's night at Blue Ridge

Yes, I can say it now: I have worked at McDonalds.

Okay, truth be told, I don't think I've visited the establishment since something like 2004, and when I first found out about the school fundraiser, I admit I felt a little morally conflicted. But I couldn't resist the opportunity to see all our kiddos, so this Tuesday night, I could be found on 9th, preparing desserts.

Did you know they sell hard ice cream and coffee there now? Crazy times! I made McFlurries, Sundaes, and many messes, chatted it up with Spanish-speaking and teenage employees, and found an item on the menu that is, count them, 1090 calories. The Big Breakfast with Hotcakes (Regular Size Biscuit) but without syrup & margarine.

Put that in your pipe!

more from blue ridge

Buenas dias, I greet the school secretaries each morning. Los lunes, miercoles, y viernes nosotros hablamos español en la escuela--en los pasillos, los mensajes, los conversaciónes. This is excluding actual classes, where math and English are in English, and Science and Social Studies are in Spanish. I walk in at 7:35am and head downstairs where the kids are eating breakfast.

Terrible breakfasts by the way, Lucky Charms or Cinnamon Toast Crunch or Cookie Crisp with chocolate milk, muffins, corndogs, ''breakfast pizza,'' canned fruit on the side, maple bars every Friday. They don't eat much, and the whole philosophy is, ''The two meals they get at school may be all they get in a day or most of what they get for the weekend, so we have to pack in the calories,'' which I understand, but there are better ways to do that, and what they do eat, at school at least, is just packed with sugar...

Anyway, I start the mornings greeting kids, trying to engage them as they warm up for the day with food, or come down from the violence and craziness at home, and at 7:50am our ''Team Time'' starts and the whole school, teachers included, does zumba. The coffee sloshes around in my stomach but the dancing is fun and the songs are ridiculously inappropriate for elementary schoolers and I just laugh. The brothers with cerebral palsy arrive and I help the second-grade one for the first half-hour of the day. We say Happy Birthdays and the Pledge of Allegiance.

This week I was greeting a group of kindergartners with the general, ''How was the weekend? Thumbs up, thumbs down, thumbs to the side?'' when one little guy responded with, ''I went with my mom to get her... pierced.'' ''Oh her ears pierced?'' I replied, not catching the middle word. ''No, her chest,'' he said, grabbing his nipples.'' ''Oh wow, you went with her?'' ''Yeah, to the tattoo shop. She has a tattoo on her butt.''

So that was one way to begin the morning with a five-year-old.

Other funny/sad observations lately: one of my 5th graders has a new baby brother. His name? (Last name changed, don't worry). Boston Riot Young Cortez.

A Bed Full of Cats is this week's story in the first grade lit book. Disturbing visual there.

Gunner, Garrison, and Twelve Gage: the names of K. and T.'s new landlord's three elementary-school sons. He is a retired sniper. Wow.

Walking into the Y last week, listening to a middle schooler yell, ''Austin, come on!!'' then add, parenthetically, within earshot of all nearby: ''He has pink-eye.''

When the rains came to our leaking Honduran house

corrugated-tin roof and gaps under the doors

water would spread over the brick-red tiles on the floor,

any clothes on the line soaked through all over again.

I remember that particular night, running back through the storm alone,

lightning-lit sky and the road a river of rainwater,

my sandaled feet metronoming a watery rhythm.

For Earth Day, we planted watermelon and frijoles,

and I watched amazed as one often disengaged student, Arnold,

came to life pushing wheelbarrows and shoveling dirt.

An hour and a half left me with blisters on my thumbs and a sore back,

leavings of the labor I was so unaccustomed to.

I think of the problems I faced with perra and prostituta namecalling, of those boys, beloved, who wept when I made them apologize, explaining that real men don't use those words.

I can't remember Jose Javier without smiling, the little guy who was okay with being called Jose, Javier, Javi, or even ''J.J.,'' but when I called him ''Javs'' informed me with utmost seriousness, ''My name is not Hobbes, Miss.''

And when I tire of my first-floor, plainish apartment, what about that week in March, when we found five tarantulas living in our casa? Later there were triple termite hatches of thousands and always, of course, the occasional cockroach.

Buses were graced by creepy and pitiful-looking payasos performing screamed songs for a lempira or two. Tambien, ladies, men and children selling cheap fried snacks to earn their exhausted living.

This land I long for, that which breathed life into me and drew my blood, leaving me unchangeably wounded and marking my mouth with its taste, so I will never drink water the same way, my leg muscles not forget how to move upon the uneven earth of the South. I take the strangeness and the heartbreak and beauty and hold it close to my cheeks. My Latin time is not finished, I know, and speaking Spanish daily meets a deep need, but the chosen separation still makes me ache inside.

back at blue ridge

Today, when we are discussing ''Los opciones de Kelso (la rana) para resolver problemas grandes y pequeñas,'' we come to ''Calmate.''

''Cool down your chicken,'' Sirgio says, explaining the meaning of ''Calmate.'' I ask him if his mom says this, and he nods his head.

Of the same child, a bright reader, I must frequently request, ''Read it again please, this time nicely,'' as he lapses into funny accents almost without fail by the end of the first sentence on each page.

Later Seth raises his hand as la Maestra asks everyone to put their hands down. ''I was going to say something important,'' he declares.'' ''You have one second to do that,'' she responds. Esta maestra es una poca intensa.

''My great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather died 10,000 years ago,'' Seth says.

First grade is about following directions; stomachaches and hard falls can be cured with an ice pack or drink of water. I've been working a lot on reading with these little ones lately, in Spanish and English. Teaching reading to a kid who struggles to connect sounds to letters is no easy task, not to mention that English has 1100 rarely reliable ways to spell 44 sounds for Spanish's 38 and 35 reliable ones.

If preschool and kindergarten are about concepts (time, family and community, spatial and mental categorization), and in grades 6-12 we teach content, then grades 1-5 are all about skills. Cutting, coloring, pasting, tying shoes, ordering, arranging, writing, reading, adding, subtracting, dividing, multiplying, problem-solving, observing... I guess I just never took the elementary teaching vocation very seriously, but think of where you'd be without these basis abilities?

Last week my Latino first grade teacher pointed out that the reason our afternoon block can be a little crazy with behavior problems is because we have all the English readers in one room at that time. ''You mean the behavior kids are white,'' I said, a bit boldly, knowing we were both thinking of the eight or so kids who consistently tend to act up. He nodded, embarrassed. He isn't trying to stir up anything, and culture plays a large part, but it's true.

So, there's that.

More from the Blue Ridge

''Also they had hot chocolate,'' fifth grade Julio writes as the fourth box in his story flow-chart, mapping the plot of The Polar Express.

Teaching is trying to help kids understand story-sequence, yes, and picking out what is important, but it is also first grade playground mediation and addressing the constant complaints of, ''Teacher, he cutted.''

It is playing Hide and Seek with kindergartners at recess, which really just means I chase them around while they scream with pleasure, and doing ''work-outs'' with second grade girls--jumping jacks, high knees, lunges.

It is covering a smile when little gangsta Sirgio tells me he has the ''chicken pops,'' rolling up a baggy sleeve on his skinny arm to show me the little bumps.

It is trying to figure out what to say when later we are reading a story and Sirgio looks at the picture of the reindeer and wants to know, ''Is that reindeer Chinese?'' He is laughing because he thinks this is funny, the reindeer's eyes narrowed in sleep. This is the little guy in Timberland boots who I often hear say things like, ''Girl, I'm Mexican,'' and, ''I'm half-Indian.'' He is six.

How do you talk about race with six-year olds? How do you teach appropriate playground mediation? How do you address poverty and resources when A. and F.'s parents donate Christmas ornaments and pencils and candy to all their first-grade peers for the Christmas party, and A. and F. are thanked in front of the class by the teacher? Or when some kids' parents come to the holiday concert, while other kids are left to perform alone? Do six-year-olds notice things like this? They are so much more astute than you'd think.

Oh for wisdom! And blessings to those little ones these two weeks we don't see them. They are so precious.

book review

The role of language and story was one thing that especially struck me in Ruby Payne’s book, A Framework for Understanding Poverty, which addresses the hidden rules and understandings of poverty, middle-class, and wealth cultures.

Payne discusses discourse of language, explaining the five different registers we use: Frozen (liturgical, wedding vows); Formal (standard sentence syntax—for school and work); Consultative (formal conversation); Casual (language between friends, full of non-verbal assists, 400-800 word vocabulary); and Intimate (language between lovers or twins, language of sexual harassment). (27)

To participate in larger North American society, a person must learn formal register English, either through acquisition (natural immersion) or learning (direct-teaching/study). Formal register is the direct, to-the-point, correct and complete sentence syntax used for job interviews, in the workplace, at parent-teacher conferences, for standardized exams, and more.

Lacking the ability to access formal register, a person cannot communicate effectively in writing without non-verbal assists and will struggle to adequately speak the language of the middle class, setting that person outside of the middle class. (28)

Language also includes ordering of narrative and sequencing of story: the ability to spatially, chronologically, or otherwise categorize information. The problem with being unable to sequentially tell story is that information is received and processed in an associative, random way, which is okay sometimes, but makes it difficult to assign information to categories, or to weave a web of knowledge. (93)

Categorization essentially allows us to organize space, assign meaning and place in a narrative structure, and understand a coherent and truthful story of ourselves and of the world.

Payne’s words have made me think of language as resource and the privilege of access to paper. Literacy is a huge tool to own, though so easily taken for granted. What presumptions do I bring to the table in my interactions with others? That everyone I know also came from a house full of books and has parents with multiple college degrees? That access to fancy personal technology, that goldmine of information, is a given? What language am I speaking, and what language do I assume will be spoken to me?

At Blue Ridge, where a large percentage of the parents I see are pajama-clad, poverty, at least based on income, is the culture of 93% of the students. When many of the teachers come from a middle-class background, a lot is lost in cultural translation between teaching-style and learning receptivity. Maybe we would be better teachers if we spent more time developing strategies to speak the culture of poverty and teach the language of the middle class, to help provide more opportunities to our kids and point them to a door out of poverty.

on not giving up

'My grandpa hates carnivals,' one of the more difficult first graders tells me as he eats his breakfast, explaining why he didn't attend the school carnival last night. 'He thinks they're lame.'

I spent the night running game booths and selling .25 cent tickets to families spending $2 or $3 on multiple children; the two unbroken twenties passing through my hands obvious. These things you notice.

I've been thinking how bipolar is a word we use because we want to explain insane behavior (the way I always wished he was an alcoholic: measurable, explainable, blameable--rather than just himself).

NPR did a report on 'How the Northwest Handles Mental Illness' this week, and I can already spot the kids at Blue Ridge--not to negative prophesy, but--the ones who will probably struggle all their lives.

And I cried to the school counselor trying to articulate the hardness of sending some of those precious ones back into adversity each day. Seven hours is such a short time for structure and sanity, and even kindness.

But I still want to sing the song of healing and freedom. I still want to proclaim the Gospel of Peace as it becomes true in my own heart and life. I still want to hope where others have none.