Glass Full

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… July 1, 2018 marked my retirement from 46 years as an educator: teacher, administrator, consultant. I could not have asked for a better, more fulfilling career. While I am happy to be retired, every year as the school year begins around the country, I am reminded of Dad’s commitment to create The Best Year yet. This year I am inspired to share some thoughts that might help current teachers accomplish just that.

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 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, the thought had never occurred to him. To his credit, he responded with thoughtful surprise. 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 strengths and interests and ameliorate weaknesses. Classrooms are microcosms of the societies around them. They should stress personal and group responsibility.

Teachers who create those positive, interactive environments benefit their charges at the moment and far into the future. I am constantly amazed when students I taught long ago share the impact 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.

Mr. Taggart

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.

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.