Glass Full

Our society is quick to recognize and applaud those who read early and those who read quickly. Sadly, that ability is too easily misconstrued as evidence of higher IQ and, equally damaging, greater maturity.  Too often, young children are “tracked” into classes based on their ability to read (aloud). Traditionally, early readers often skipped entire grades, only to run into unexpected walls later in their educational careers. It’s an easy assumption; If a child can read words aloud, s/he must be smart. And, of course, the converse: Slow readers must be, well, slow…

True teachers learn to recognize that trap with the help of students who are thoughtful, articulate, insightful, patient, and not necessarily speedy readers. I had such help early in my career, though it took Alexandra Smith, in my 6^th grade homeroom, to fully open my eyes. Alexandra was a brilliant young woman in many ways. When one considers multiple intelligences, her scores on any athletic field, her EQ, and her logic were tops. She was not a fast reader. She rarely raised her hand.  Not surprising, given that a majority of teachers (at that time, at least) generally called on the first hands raised. Judging from previous report cards, teachers liked Alexandra – she was no trouble, after all – but none recognized her potential.

For reasons I cannot recall, I started calling on Alexandra. Sometimes giving her advance notice (“Zander,  tomorrow I’m going to ask you what you think about X.”); sometimes not. Her answers were stunning: detailed, supported, connecting dots few others had even seen. Zander was a “slow reader” because she read every word and thought about them all. She remains one of the most thoughtful and insightful students I’ve ever had in class.

We have so much to learn from our students. Ask kiddos how they learn best, and they will tell you. Pay attention. Give everyone time to process. Listen to the levels on which they think. Set the expectation in your classrooms that you are not looking for speed; you are looking for insight and logic, thought and questions.

My granddaughter has not had an easy time learning to read. She is quick, curious, uses a stunning vocabulary, can reason with the best of them. But reading is hard, and she is self-conscious of that. Fortunately, she has been blessed by a school and teachers who recognized both her strengths and her challenges early on. She has not been tracked or typed. She does receive helpful one-on-one time. Her parents support and applaud her for who she is. Were you to have a conversation with her, you would never guess that reading has been difficult. She speaks using sentence structure, grammar, and vocabularly that suggest a much older child. Thank goodness she is recognized and appreciated for who  and what she is, not who and what she isn’t.

Among the many excellent teachers that I had throughout my education, Michael Taggart is on the varsity team.  Starting with 7^th grade history, Mr. Taggart taught a variety of classes and also coached our softball team for several seasons. In addition, in the context of President John F. Kennedy’s national fitness program, he was assigned oversight of the 7^th -9^th grade daily girls’ calisthenics. 

Calisthenics occurred every day during morning break – that sacred time when students were served milk and graham crackers and had probably twenty minutes to socialize. Same for teachers. No fool he, Mr. Taggart recognized that taking attendance and directing calisthenics would take twice as long as he wanted to give up for himself or for us. Accordingly, he assigned me to take attendance. He knew me to be a conscientious student and a very involved athlete. He picked me because of those factors and because I was “svelte.”  I looked it up. It meant slender – though now I read that it also suggests elegance, something I was decidedly not at thirteen. I took  daily attendance and forged Mr. T’s initials, with his instruction and permission.

I suppose such an arrangement would not be possible now. First, to suggest anything at all about a girl’s physique would be considered harassment. It wasn’t at that point; Mr. Taggart was merely recognizing that I got plenty of exercise ever day. Second, teaching a youngster to forge your  signature  is not generally advisable. He knew me well, however, which is really the point. I wouldn’t dream of abusing the privilege.

Mr. Taggart was the teacher who, in 9^th grade, had to tell us that President Kennedy had been shot and killed. Many years later, I recalled that class. He said it was among the most difficult of his entire career. He was deeply aware of the responsibility of finding the right words. Such a weight never occurred to us students at the time. What was critical was that someone whom we trusted spoke to us honestly and respectfully. Things that happen in the greater world are inextricably intertwined with what students remember about their teachers and their education. It’s okay to be at a loss for words. It’s not okay to share political opinions.

Final Mr. Taggart story. At a time when many schools did not have girls’ sports teams, when Title IX was not yet on the horizon, Mr. Taggart insisted that we young women had opportunities equal to our male classmates’. He expected us to practice, play hard, support each other, and demonstrate good sportsmanship. I suspect we won more than we lost, but I don’t really remember. He gave us life skills.

Interestingly, while my best friend at the time liked Mr. Townsend, I was surprised to hear, many years later, that he wasn’t a particular favorite of hers. Reminder that each of our students looks for and responds to  different qualities in us.

Cleaning up old files, I ran across this today, written four or five years ago. In the midst of a world that is being crushed by distrust and violence, it seems to me that we need to be reminded of the value of humanity. The following occurrence, which was between two total strangers, is just such a reminder:

Last week, on a bluebird Tahoe day, I went skiing. I’m retired and can do such a thing. Recent snowstorms had provided an excellent base across the mountain, and I thoroughly enjoyed the long, groomed runs that I prefer. The slopes were stunningly uncrowded. What a joy.

No crowds meant no lift lines and no particular reason to slow down, which also meant I was ready for a mid-morning break. There were two of us on the deck of Snowflake Lodge: a fellow about my age, who nodded cordially then sat quietly, and I, both of us basking in the always-astounding view of Lake Tahoe. 

We were enjoying our separate quiet spaces, when his cell phone rang, and he answered. While the deck was hardly private and we were seated not far from each other, I made a point of not listening to his conversation, though I noticed the tone was upbeat. Closing the call, he came over to me and said, “That was my sister. She was just told that her cancer is in remission. I knew you’d want to know.”

If this fellow and I had ever seen each other before, neither of us was aware of the fact. I have no idea who he was. But he was correct, his news, his sister in North Carolina’s news, was absolutely something I was thrilled to hear. He had something big he needed to share, and I was the lucky person with whom he shared it.

There is power in good news, even among strangers. There are concerns and fears that we all share in some form or another. Similarly, there are joys and unexpected gifts. There was more in the moment than a brother celebrating out loud. He didn’t tell me he had great news he just had to voice. He said, with certainty, that he knew I would want to know. He was so right. What a gift on a bluebird Tahoe day. May his sister live for many years to come. 

I have always been a reader. First as a listener on my parents’ and grandparents’ laps, then as an increasingly competent independent. Mom noted in my “baby book” that I came home from my first day of first grade and announced “Well, I haven’t learned to read yet!” I vividly recall the (limited!) adventures of Dick , Jane, Sally, Spot, and Puff and the ever-widening world to which they introduced me.

Those of us who are readers can chart our interests and  maturing passions by recalling what captured us and when:

Winnie the Pooh (friendship, curiosity, poetry)

The Box Car Children,  The Little Princess, The Secret Garden (books that still appeal to children over sixty years after I read them)      

I crossed the country with Laura Ingalls Wilder and Caddie Woodlawn. We named our first daughter after the wildly adventurous Hilary in Hilary’s Island (sadly, no longer in print, and I am reluctant to shell out $147 to purchase the one copy I can find on line).

Seventh grade summer reading required that I devour  The Prince and the Pauper, Around the World in Eighty Days, and Swiss Family Robinson. That same summer, my life perspective was changed forever by a family visit to The Secret Annex, and my hours with The Diary of Anne Frank.

The first book (possibly the only one) I remember hiding behind a text in class was Atlas Shrugged. To be fair, the class, was a boring one… My high school senior year schedule provided a study hall for the last two periods. My wont was to check out a book from the library and read straight through until Sunday evening, when it was time to do homework.

During our honeymoon, when rainstorms in NYC prompted a quiet afternoon, Wayne gave me The Hobbit, and I trailed him happily through that series until I was devastated by Frodo’s death at the end of Return of the King. Wayne was at sea for twenty-eight days at a time the first year of our marriage; I lived by myself in Japan and Guam. Books were the company on which I could count.

Since I retired four years ago, I aspire to read 100 books annually.  As of today, I’m on number eighty-four… I listen to some, pick up others from the library, and download others on my Kindle. Toting a pile of hardbacks from the library will always be the most satisfactory, but I’ll take books any way I can get them.

This is the time of the year when various sources publish the Best Books of the Year and the Best Books of All Time. Not to mention the lists of Banned Books. I am grateful to have read many on the first two lists and almost all on the third.

PS. For some reason, this Blog format elected to erase the underlining of all titles. I know better.

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.