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?

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...

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.''

it takes an ocean not to break

In Bellingham two weeks ago, L., J., and I crashed a wedding. On a napkin I scribbled this snatch of handwritten vow, ''For freedom from doubt and suspicion, I commit to interpret your behavior seeking to understand in love.''

Now, aside from the fact that any man saying that to a woman, or person saying that to a person, makes me want to weep, all this reflection on the salient and unspoken rules of classes and cultures has me thinking: when you exist in the dominant experience, or at least the headlining one, unintentional ignorance and/or willful oblivion comes easy.

When the different does appear (in the form of homelessness, minority cultures, women's experiences, etc), it is so easy to regard with distrust and suspicion, which we know gives birth to judgment and pride. In the flicker of a brain wave, you are ruler of your own universe, miles and miles from the heart of God.

But to learn to seek to understand and face situations and cultures and people not being wise in your own eyes, giving the stories of others fullest attention and questions and empathy--now this may be something like that woman Wisdom! And oh, how I want to walk closely with her!

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.

gratitude in paying attention

To the man sitting outside at Safeway, ready for the night, and all I offer is hot coffee and a pastry, and he is peeing now, on the side of the building, and though I have seen much more in my young years I am startled, and wish him a good evening, and he thanks me, it's going to be a long night, he says. And I drive my nice heated car home in the 30 degree weather to the apartment without enough windows but is nonetheless so well heated and with a huge sliding glass door and how could I ever be ungrateful when I have been given so much?

And to the kiddos at Blue Ridge, dirty fingernails and so many with permanent lice in their hair--who knew it is so expensive to remove? And many don't have their own washing machines and all the quarters it costs to kill the parasites, let alone scissors and glue and crayons at home, which is why they're always so worried when they don't finish art projects at school.

And to the leaves in piles on the sides of the streets, grace and more grace piling up, falling down.

To each day of sunshine in December, how hard winter is for me and yet full of its own particular beauty.

To American flags in churches (ask those questions honey, should they be there?--but with love for the bride and not malice in your heart).

To G, J, and J, mama of two cerebral palsy brothers I work with each morning. 'Dejelo mi esposo,' she told me when we met. They live at the YWCA, and she works at Burger King, saving money to rent a house with the four kids and her own mother.

And to dented cars when mine has none and tin can trailer hovels when I dream of (and expect!) a handmade home of wood and glass some day.

Oh, how entitled we are, when we deserve no thing.

Sometimes I feel like I'm cheating on my kids in Honduras by falling in love with these kids here. But the gifts we are given are not exclusive to each other. By receiving one, you don't negate the others. And oh, I have been given a thousand, thousand gifts.

And now to the dock where I arrive each night: to jump or wade into the waters of dreams, worlds where I am immersed, swimming, one third of my life, fluctuating between English and Spanish, kicking and pulling my weight through the blue. There are so many portals, so many doors to enter, and return to.

Sometimes I see you,
even we talk
Does this mean you also dream of me?
Or is it a only a projection,
a mere copy of you
sailing the waves of my mind?

When I dream of you, things are never settled,
never well between us
but perhaps they are getting there
or perhaps not.
Who can say?

Here where the subconscious rises to the surface,
submerged cedars and sitka spruce surfacing for air,
where fear and desire uncoil
loosen and probe their snaking possibilities
in worlds where you are only an actor,
an observer, and yet a participant.

You awake where you began,
to find your testimony forgotten,
and every dreamed truth lost.

But take regard, young one,
do not disdain what you have beheld,
for you will be a witness
on a fogged and shining earth.

patterns of numbers

Today is a Thirteen, and I've been thinking about all the important Thirteens in my life.

13.11.08, three years ago today: spending the night in the gym while the Tea Fire burned through campus.
13.7.10
13.8.10
13.01.11 the first day of teaching quinto grado en Nuevo
13.06.11 the day I left Honduras
13.09.11

Strange you know, how days can carry so much weight.