Glass Full

Our ranch manager helped me transfer a number of boxes from our cabin to the pump room. Not a long distance, but enough of a schlep that I would have had to make several trips. We piled the cartons in the back of his pickup, and I sat on the tail gate while he backed up to the pump room. Once unloaded, I hopped (in a manner of speaking) back on and told him I was set for the ride back to his cabin and the barn.

Few things never change: riding in the back of a truck, legs dangling from the tailgate is one of them. The metal warmed my legs; the truck jounced and creaked through the potholes of the ranch road; wind stirred the cottonwoods and aspens; the mountains and fenceposts and irrigation ditches remained in exactly the same spots they were sixty-five years ago. I could not have been more content. Had my driver been headed the eleven miles to town, I would have stayed put on the tailgate, though I wonder if such things are illegal now. Probably. No seat belts in sight.

Find yourself a pickup and an amenable driver. Or find yourself something that connects directly to your childhood. Climb a tree. Jump in a stream. Listen to some music from your youth. Read a book you loved as a teen. Lie on your back in the grass. Play jacks or marbles. Borrow a hula hoop. Jump rope.  Doesn’t have to be for long. Just do it. 

My husband and I attended an FCTucson (Football Club Tucson) match on a lovely July evening. We arrived early, not sure of parking (free and close to the front gate, it turned out) and enjoyed our second row bleacher seats as we watched a constant parade of Tucsonians: babies, toddlers, young kids, experimenting teenagers, parents herding the aforementioned, and plenty of elders like ourselves. The crowd was wonderfully diverse and full of enthusiasm for the hometown soccer match.

Directly behind us were a forty-something fellow and his mother, as well as a forty-something woman who clearly was his date. Not that I was listening or anything, but it’s difficult not to eavesdrop when someone is basically speaking over one’s shoulder. It was kind of fun to hear exchanges familiar to any generation: Where did you grow up? What was your major? How many brothers/sisters in your family?  Asked about her team affiliations, it became apparent this was the younger woman’s first soccer match. Lack of experience thwarted not her enthusiastic “coaching,” however, and I was impressed by her general grasp of field tactics.

She was also sensitive to the presence of her date’s mother and periodically asked questions about her own history. At one point, she queried, “Did you play any sports in high school?”  Rather gently and very matter-of-factly, but with a touch of wistfulness (to my ears), the older woman responded, “I was before IX.”  There were no girls teams on which she could have played. Her choices were band and drama. She chose band and played the trombone. She represented so many millions of women.

A week later, we returned with friends to another game. Our longtime friends were accompanied by their granddaughter, a sophomore in high school. When she noted that she had played soccer in middle school, I told her that I had played for thirteen years (twenty-six seasons) as an adult. Her grandmother, our good friend for fifty years, asked if I had ever gotten hurt. Her granddaughter asked what position I played. 

Two weeks later, my husband and I had brunch with two couples, new acquaintances, only slightly older than we. As part of the Get-to-Know-Each-Other conversation, one of the women asked the men whether they had played sports in high school and/or college. It never occurred to her to ask me or the third woman (who, it turns out, had been a cheerleader, the only option open to her at the time). Therein lies so much difference, so much loss for women for so many years.

I was more fortunate. I grew up in Southern California and an environment in which there were girls’ teams as well as boys’.  I was encouraged at every turn to participate and play hard. Through sports I learned the value of conditioning, of team work, of communication, of balancing wins and losses, of constantly looking for ways to improve and to contribute. In short, I learned what boys have been taught forever, and I found myself much better prepared for the work world than many of my female counterparts. I was used to dealing with men as an equal. I could give orders as well as take them. The business world is often referred to as a team sport. What chance did/do women have who have never been allowed to play?

I participated on women’s and coed teams in multiple sports through my mid-60s, just as many men have done. I never tired of the thrills of competition, teamwork, and playing hard. Sadly, as the saying goes, my spirit was willing, but my flesh grew week. There came a time with I was more a liability to the teams on which I played than an asset. Again, something men have experienced forever – and women post Title IX fully understand. Shared experiences and emotions are good for us. They tend to unite, rather than divide.

One needs only compare the facilities provided for women’s teams in college – and salaries for professionals—to recognize full equality has not yet been served. Title IX is seven months older than was Roe v. Wade. One is a law enacted by Congress; the other a decision made and subsequently reversed by the Supreme Court. Women’s rights and opportunities – girls’ rights and opportunities – matter. We all deserve to play.

My Friend Mike

It has been one of those days, full of run-arounds with electronic answering responses, none of which are helpful, many of which simply tell me that I don’t really exist then cheerily hang up. I am not pleased. In fact, my language has become more and more colorful by the moment. It’s a good thing I am retired and no one can hear me. 

My biggest frustration involves a new bank. “New” in the sense that our  previous bank, one with whom I loved doing business, now has a different name. So far, I am not impressed. The woman with whom my sister-in-law and I had a conversation last month establishing a ranch account, initially says she remembers us, but she refers to a situation in which we could not possibly have been involved. The app that I downloaded accepts my ID and Passcode, then offers to send a security code to a number that belongs to neither my sister-in-law nor me. When I call the number affixed to the debit card sent me by said bank and try to activate it, a male voice consistently tells me the last four digits of my social security number are not really the last four and then hangs up on me. My language becomes more colorful. And louder.

Finally, I call the bank branch itself, and an actual person answers. Mike. My new best friend. He immediately apologizes for the challenges I have been experiencing and acknowledges I am not alone in finding on-line navigation impossible. He quickly has me laughing. My language reverts to acceptable. As does my blood pressure.

I appreciate technology, really I do. I am not so keen on technology that hangs up on me without giving me the option of connecting with a human. While in my 70’s, I’m actually pretty adept at maneuvering through the ether. There are millions of folks my age who are not. Millions with millions in the very banks that can be such a challenge to access.

The power of a friendly, competent voice is extraordinary. Mike promised to return my call once he has explored whatever glitches exist. I know he will. Then I will contact his supervisor and give Mike the credit he deserves.  We all need to do that when someone helps us. Too many people only make the effort when they have complaints.  When I make calls to express appreciation, supervisors are delighted and appreciative right back. Being the bearer of good tidings is a gift given and received. Try it.

Two  hours later, Mike has called back – just before the end of the work day on Friday —  and I am able to access my account. I ask to speak to his supervisor. Turns out that he is the supervisor. Wise appointment, new bank.

Fifty years ago, Wayne and I moved to Tucson, Arizona, eight-month Hillary in tow. We drove across the country from Maryland in our 1972 MGBGT, pulling a small tent trailer. So much for child safety seats: Hillary either slept and played in a swing seat basket on the back seat or sat in my lap. Fortunately, we all survived. We purchased a house ($19,900), using the VA loan Wayne earned through four years in the navy. No air conditioning, but we were young. And hot.

For three years, we taught at Green Fields School – he full time and me part. I did not yet have a degree. Working the hours we did in such a close environment, we got to know our students well. Despite tiny classes, the range of ability and interest was huge.  Quite a challenge for brand new teachers. Wayne taught history and Russian and coached various teams. I coached, taught PE and a non-credit, elective class called (are you ready for this?) People’s Awareness. It was the early 70s… We learned a great deal about our students and about ourselves.

We remain connected to some of our former students. Memories of many are vivid. We follow some through Facebook. Some have disappeared. A couple of favorites have died. There are some for which we have no idea of their whereabouts. It is highly likely they have no idea how much we cared about them then and now.

Robby Daniels was such a person. I do not recall the specifics of why he was living with his grandparents, but it is fair to say that the perception was his parents didn’t/couldn’t have him around. Tough for a teenage boy, or anyone, for that matter. He was not “easy” in a traditional sense. He was not a dedicated student nor a promising athlete, but he remains a favorite for three reasons. Two are things he did with and for our daughter; the third is what Robby taught me about the inside of a boy, as it were.

Green Fields School traditionally kicked off each school year  by taking the entire student body (grades 3-12, 80 students, max) for a 3-day camp out up Mt. Lemmon, a respite from the August heat. The trip was an all-hands-on-deck affair, with all faculty members in attendance and assigned to various camping, climbing, hiking duties. Because Wayne and I were both teachers, Hillary went with us. Frankly, I don’t recall who took care of her while I was belaying students all day, but I remember vividly the drive back down the mountain the last day.

 I was driving our Ford pickup (MGBGT blew an engine once we reached Tucson), with Hillary in a car seat. Robby Daniels and some other student rode in the pickup bed. The road is a very winding one, and about halfway through, Hillary threw up all over the place. There was not much I could do. No water to clean her up. No way she could continue in the car seat. So Robby snuggled her onto his chest and let her sleep, vomit-soaked clothes and all. He did not complain. He did not want special thanks. He simply took care of our little girl.

Fast forward eight months to baseball practice after school. Wayne coached. Hillary, by then fifteen months old and slow to walk, and I were watching practice. Suddenly she rose to her feet and trotted off to explore. Her very first steps. Second to notice after me was Robby Daniels, who hollered with huge delight for everyone to watch. He was thrilled. No sign of the contemptuous, withdrawn young man he could sometimes be.

I think of Robby Daniels frequently. Far more than he could possibly imagine. There have been many students along the way who allowed me a glimpse of their cores. For some, doing so is easy. For a child who feels abandoned, the walls can be nearly impenetrable. As adults, it is easy to stop at those walls and not even try to find the chinks. Robby let me in.  More accurately, Robby cared enough about a tiny child’s comfort and progress that he  let her in and ˆdidn’t even try to mask that warmth. Robby was the first of many who taught me to believe in the goodness of young people and to look for ways to give them a chance to do the right thing.

We loved working at GFS for three years. Loved our colleagues; loved the students; loved Tucson in general. We were challenged in good ways to learn as fast as we could how to be good teachers. We camped with kids, coached kids, traveled with kids, shared their lives with our small cadre of colleagues. Those years were invaluable and treasured. I finished my degree at The University of Arizona, and we had Allison three weeks prior to my graduation. Life was busy then and has been busy ever since.

We are back in Tucson. We bought a house for considerably more than $19,900 – and it’s air conditioned, so there is that. It feels like coming home. We have already reconnected with some folks with whom we taught five decades ago. We hope to reconnect with former students. I would love to know where Robby Daniels is. It’s about time I thank him for the gifts he gave me as a young teacher and mother.

Gary Wayne and I have been married for over 53 years. He is a wonderful man who contributes a great deal to our partnership on many levels. He does not “do” the taxes, nor has he bought the last couple of cars. I have. Therefore, I find it intensely annoying when the assumption on the parts of people like car dealerships and tax preparers, is that “Gary” is the one making the important decisions. Especially, when they have had next to no contact with said Gary, and all conversations, paperwork, and payments have been with me.

When I purchased a new car last spring, I was quite sure what I wanted, having done appropriate research, not to mention, the car was for me. Wayne has his own car. Having worked with the dealership before, I was also comfortable in placing the order after a test drive and a couple of related explorations. When it came time to do so, the salesman asked me if I didn’t want to check with my husband first. Unstated: to get his approval. No, I did not.

A few months later, when I wanted to schedule a service appointment for the car, the dealership had no record of me. What? They certainly were happy to accept my cash for total purpose. Oh, wait, could it be under another name? We have a Gary Glass… I cheerfully informed them that I was the owner of the car, and that unless their records were changed to reflect to whom communications should be directed, I would take all future business elsewhere. It remains to be seen whether or not they actually did so. Therefore, it remains to be seen if I will take my business elsewhere. Since I have now purchased two cars through them, it behooves them to pay attention. Yes, his name is on the title, secondarily, because, should anything happen to me, he will have automatic ownership. The flip applies to his car. I am listed, secondarily. Strangely enough, no communications related to that vehicle come addressed to me.

Similarly, apparently there is an assumption that taxes should be filed under the husband’s name. Tradition, I suppose. Why not assume that the person bringing in all the materials is an equal partner and list her name first?

Why, you might be asking, does this bother me? Because I don’t believe for one moment that if a man is purchasing a car, they risk losing his business by asking if he doesn’t want to consult with his wife before signing a contract. Because this is yet another example of unconscious – or conscious, for that matter – treatment of women as second-class citizens. I love the ad on television that depicts a woman going to a car dealership and having no one pay her any attention – until she pulls out a male puppet, whereupon the salesmen leap to their feet. She orders on-line and elsewhere.

We all do things unconsciously, falling into patterns created over centuries. It takes a concerted effort to be more even-handed. Do you think of all couples you know as male and female (Wayne and Ruth vs Ruth and Wayne)? I have been consciously trying to think in terms of whom I have known longer: Melinda and Rob, Nelson and Cindy, Mary and Dan, John and DeAnne. If we’ve met both at the same time, I work on switching out who comes first. Perhaps it doesn’t matter to you. It does to me, and I think it matters tremendously how we consider the equality of girls and boys, boys and girls for the future.

The ongoing, on-line “discussion” about banning books disturbs me on many levels. 

First, I believe that those who want to ban books because they might make their children “uncomfortable,” clearly show a complete disregard for the children who feel uncomfortable every day because of the ways they are represented — or invisible — in curricula.  In addition, for some reason they don’t trust their own children’s ability to think, and they must not trust their own parenting. I believe, from long experience, that most children, if freed from their parents’ fears and insecurities, are able to love and be loved in return. Why is it that the parents who first cry “bully” in schools are most often the biggest bullies themselves? What a better world this would be if we all operated from a position of gratitude and sharing rather than fear and greed. 

Recently, someone thoughtfully asked me the difference between banning, say Catcher in the Rye and Fifty Shades of Gray, and how could adults retain some sense of oversight? I  completely agree that the former is literature, and the latter is not. My response to her was the following:

 My first experience with a library was a book mobile in Ojai, California. 1st-3rd graders technically chose books from one side; 4th-6th from another. If you were “promoted” from one side to another early, your parents were aware. As a teacher, occasionally parents objected to a book that was required reading. I would talk to the parent, ask what they were afraid of, request that they read the book, and explain the perspective I would use in class. I never had a return parent. 

In “my” schools and classrooms, for independent reading (this was through middle school), kids were required to get parent approval for their choices. By high school, and even middle school, kids are going to find the books they want to read. How many men of our generation hid Playboy (and much worse) under their mattresses?  It is safe to say that children today have far more access to sources that pale beside books that are apparently on the banned list. We all read books that would have surprised our parents. The more books are banned, the more that makes them titillating to kids. 

While I, personally, would not find value of having 50 Shades in a school library,  and would, in fact, advise against it, if I saw my child or another student reading it, I would start a conversation. Also, I would much prefer that any of the suggested banned books I have seen — which don’t included 50 Shades in my experience — be read and discussed in a classroom or parent setting than in secret. The point of literature, controversial or not, is to prove good conversation and thought. We all should be reading books that make us stop and think, make us consider the experiences of others, help us learn appreciation and empathy. I cannot imagine a classroom in which 50 Shades would be deemed appropriate. If such exists, that is a problem.

A colleague of mine responded to my recent Facebook post with the following: 

“Also when a book has been used to educate kids for a long time, and is found to be objectionable, we should also interrogate ourselves as a nation and society. Are we moving away from the book because it has had unintended impact on a sub-group – kids of color, girls, lgbtq kids? Have we moved forward toward a place of greater enlightenment? Are we moving backwards in a reactionary manner? Perpetuating denial? Are we reacting across politics in the adult world?”   I appreciate and value his addition to the discussion. He is asking vital questions. There are times when books read for decades are no longer appropriate for relevant curricula.

Books are meant to inform, entertain, amuse, and add to our lives, whatever our ages. The notion of “banning” becomes a notion of “choice” as we grow older. On a much lighter note, shortly after it was published, I had heard 50 Shades of Gray  was popular but had no idea what it was about. My daughters, who are normally on target with such things, said I wouldn’t like it. That said, I bought a copy to take on a trip and was reading  it in the airport when an attractive, 30ish man plunked down beside me, glanced at the book and said, “My mom is reading that but won’t tell me what it’s about. What’s it about?” I slammed shut the book and blushed. I have heard that that 50 helped Kindle sales skyrocket so that people could read without anyone knowing what they were reading.

Kids will find ways to read what they want. Best we have some notion of what it is. Most kids can be trusted to respond appropriately to what they read. Most of that notion of “appropriate” comes from the messages they learn at home.

Many years ago, as a school year was just commencing, I unexpectedly had to pinch hit for a 7^th & 8^th grade social studies teacher. Joseph Lekuton was on his return from Kenya, where he had spent the summer with his family, when he heard that his village had been attacked. Understandably, he headed home immediately. There were no lesson plans.

Moved by Joseph’s situation and  not wanting to start anything that he couldn’t/wouldn’t  continue when he appeared, I created a short series of lessons that sticks with me today and would be as timely. I asked each student to interview a family member or friend of a different generation and ask what had been the ten most significant historical events in their lifetimes. For me, as for most of my generation, President Kennedy’s assassination and the first moon landing were givens. However, my school was in the outskirts of Washington, DC, and the students came from diverse and frequently international backgrounds. Many individual lists included events of which I was not aware – or if aware, only dimly. In short: US history and current events ignored much that was pivotal in other countries. Some of that is to be expected everywhere. The experience of seeing the collected lists, including the events that were repeated and those that were unique, was a valuable lesson in itself. For everyone.

Since that time, each generation has had to recognize its own seminal events. I’ve rarely stopped to wonder what they might have been, other than 9/11 and, now, COVID. For the young people of Jackson, Wyoming, my guess is that the evacuation of Afghanistan and the death of thirteen young marines toward the very end of that process will always rank high on their lists of most significant historical events. Rylee McCollum, killed at age twenty while serving his country, was a hometown boy.

Late on a Friday afternoon in September, hundreds, possibly thousands, of residents and tourists and those who simply happened to be here, gathered to welcome home the remains of Rylee. The crowd was diverse, clearly representing a continuum of political persuasions and attitudes. I worried that the occasion might become some sort of protest. I needn’t have. The moment the hearse bearing Rylee passed, the crowd spontaneously rose, stood at attention, and was absolutely silent until every last vehicle passed. Young children saluted. We were moved. We were united. We all paid tribute to a young man who gave his life in the service of his country. During a period of painful division, this was a moment of shared respect and unity. None who were there will forget it.

Today marks the sixteenth anniversary of my mother’s death. While she was nowhere near New Orleans, her passing coincided with the onslaught of Katrina. Even as we mourned her loss, my family was acutely aware that Mom had lived a very full and rewarding life, while thousands of other families were struggling to come to grips with very different ends. The same holds true as I write: In the wake of Hurricane Ida, the ongoing devastation of COVID-19, and the unimaginable losses in their wakes, my heart goes out to those in our country and others whose lives have been so violently disrupted.

My mother, Margaret Noble Appenzeller Huyler, was born and raised in Seoul, Korea, the daughter and granddaughter of Methodist missionaries. She left Korea at the age of sixteen to attend UC Berkeley and was not able to return to her homeland for the next thirty-six years. When she and I landed in Kimpo Airport in the fall of 1969, Mom’s eyes brimmed as she witnessed the Korean flag flying on Korean soil for the first time in her life. In the decades that followed, I had the privilege of returning with her on several occasions as her Appenzeller and Noble families were celebrated in extraordinary ways. The legacy they created remains profound.

Mom had an astute sense of people, of privilege, and of things beyond personal control. Some of that came from her childhood and from a deep faith that was founded during those same years. I rarely heard her complain; she had a sense of generosity and selflessness that I wish I could emulate more. She had a brilliant way of asking questions that made one reflect non-defensively. Her queries ran along the lines of, “Have you thought about how someone else might be feeling? How a decision now might play out in the future?” When I remember to do that — which is not always, unfortunately — it is so much easier to have productive conversations.

She was also a beautiful woman, though she never appeared to be aware of that beauty. After she died, I was both touched and amused by the confessions of former students of Dad’s – and by extension, hers – of their lifelong crushes on Mom. She managed to be both unreachable and respectful. Those stories were endearing.

In our 57 years together, my mother taught me to recognize and appreciate that our lives are filled with many blessings and to try to empathize with and respect the perspectives and experiences of others. She asked questions designed to make me step back and think. At the same time, the notions of honesty and integrity were essential to her decision-making. My brothers and I knew the only thing that could possibly diminish her support would have been if any of us had been dishonest or not protected others. It took me years to be able to stand up for myself — there was never a question that I would stand up for those who could not do so for themselves.

Since Mom died, both of our daughters have found and married wonderful men. We have a granddaughter who is in first grade. While Johanna and her great grandmother never had the opportunity to meet, they will always be connected. JoJo has already heard stories and seen photographs.  She will see and hear more. They share a similar sense of humor and a spirit of adventure. I miss Mom every day, even more so at this time of year. I will always be proud to be her daughter.

In the wake of Ida and the pandemic, I am not sure what Mom would have done in terms of distant outreach. I do know that she would have gone to great lengths to protect others and to remind us to be grateful for what we have. She would have tried to appreciate the fears and sensitivities of those around her. She would have made clear that, convenient or not, serving the Greater Good was always a priority.

Thanks, Mom, for the heart and soul you shared so generously with so many. You were loved. You are loved. 

There is a running joke in my family and among friends that my nickname should be, Forget Me Not. With remarkable frequency, I am the one whose package is delivered with eleven of the promised dozen somethings, my dinner plate arrives minus the ordered baked potato, I am skipped over on a waitlist, etc. The evening I explained this phenomenon to my brother, he scoffed at the notion – until all at the table were  served the drinks they had ordered, except me. I was served nothing. The waiter apologized and said he had somehow missed me.

This particular trait is generally more amusing than annoying. It can hardly be said of me that I am shy and retiring or that I don’t speak clearly or loudly. In fact… Sometimes, however,  being invisible takes on greater weight.

Last week I called the Toyota dealer from whom I have purchased two cars to make an appointment to have my Miata serviced. I bought the Mazda elsewhere, but I have had it serviced at this site. The young woman in the Service Department was pleasant, but she could find no record of me or my cars. The only way to track down my history, in fact, was to give her the VIN number. “Oh,” she said, “It’s under Gary Glass.” 

Huh. Really? I am the one who bought both cars and the only one who has brought any of them in for servicing. My husband’s name is on the title of both Toyotas because, should anything happen to me, he would not have to hassle with ownership questions. He has never written a check or used his credit card with them, nor has he scheduled any appointments. Yet the assumption, apparently, was that his name, not mine, was the appropriate one under which to file any records. No one asked me. No one asked him. He wasn’t even there when I finalized the purchase of the last vehicle – though the dealership did ask me if I didn’t want him to come in for final approval. The kind of question that could have motivated me to take my business elsewhere, had I not been two months into the process.

 I’m still a bit stunned, despite the fact that I should “know better.” What is it about our society that stillautomatically defers to men? In the future, I will make very clear that any business dealings with me must, in fact, be with me, or I will find another source. I’m tired of automatic relegation to second class citizenship. If you think it’s no big deal, consider Texas.

I was never going to be a teacher. My father was a teacher. I knew at an early age what was involved in being a good teacher. Plus, as already noted, my father was a teacher… Three years ago I retired, following 46 years as an educator: teacher, administrator, consultant. I could not have asked for a better, more fulfilling career. As each new academic year begins,  perhaps especially as I no longer carry school responsibilities, I stop to honor the teaching profession.

Our culture does not, as a whole, respect or appreciate teachers as they deserve, and, frankly, that ignorance plays out in ways that too many people never stop to consider. I vividly recall a conversation twenty-five years ago with an international demographer whom I was to introduce at a major conference. When I wondered aloud what the impact on prison populations might be if all children in the United States (and their parents) had access to early childhood education, he was stunned by the question. To his credit, his response was thoughtful, but this man, who had studied national demographic trends for several decades, had never even considered an educational perspective. 

Good teachers impact the lives of thousands of children over time. They make a difference in the ways young people learn to look at others and themselves. They teach children to think and communicate thoughtfully and critically, how to discern news that is fake from that which is real. Good teachers consistently and supportively insist that students be their best selves. They recognize and celebrate the uniqueness of each child and work extremely hard to develop the strengths and interests and ameliorate the weaknesses. Classrooms are microcosms of the societies around them. They should stress personal and group responsibility. 

The teachers who create those positive, interactive environments benefit their charges at the moment and far into the future. I am amazed when students I taught long ago share the effect that some experience had on them. Sometimes it was a specific lesson plan. Much more often, their memories center on bigger, ongoing conversations. They recall when a classmate’s father died unexpectedly and how we talked about it as a class, while their own parents didn’t know what to say. Neither did I, frankly, but when kids ask, teachers must respond. Former students refer to simulation exercises during which they were exposed to exclusion and its impact on everyone in the class. They laughingly remember learning how to diagram sentences, wondering how such drudgery (or delight, as some of them experienced it) would ever help them in life – then discovering the huge advantage they had when learning a foreign language or that their English grammar and writing skills were so much more advanced than their peers’ who had no clue about a participial phrase.

My classroom was my work, my playground, my joy, my challenge, my fulfillment. Hundreds of thousands of teachers around the country are assiduously planning for the school year ahead and the children for whom they will deeply care. The most significant way to help them is to give them our trust, support, and gratitude. The best educational experiences for children occur when parents and teachers share a partnership. Parents have insights into children’s personalities that are unique. So do teachers. Youngsters usually act differently at home than they do at school. And they know how to push parental buttons. If your child comes home with some fantastical account, stop and consider whether it makes any sense at all, before responding. If there is a legitimate problem, ask your child what s/he wants you to do about it. Frequently, they simply want you to listen. Most important, remember that teaching is a profession. A career that requires careful training and ongoing education. Educators deserve the same respect as doctors, lawyers, and CEOs. They make a difference.