My son asked me to list about 10 memories of his life. Something he needed for a school project. I had such a good time reliving precious moments that I couldn't resist posting them. I hope you will endulge me a bit.
When I was pregnant with Merrik, he loved to kick! His favorite place was up underneath my ribs ... especially at night when I was sleeping.
The first time I saw Merrik after his delivery was in the NICU. I was so worried about him and if we would be OK. The doctor told me this was just a precaution - he would be fine - but I wanted to see for myself. Boy ... did I ever see for myself! There he was, a whopping 8 pounds 12 ounces, laying flat on his back, sprawled out. Serving as bookends were two premature babies. I prayed those mothers didn’t come while I was there. I would have been so embarrassed!
In the hospital, we had Merrik circumcised. A decision I didn’t take lightly. Again, I worried about my baby. Again, the doctor assured me that he would be OK. “This is a routine procedure,” she said. When they finally brought him back to my room, I was anxious to hold him in my arms. I reached out, took Merrik from the doctor, and saw the look on his face. He didn’t cry ... he didn’t make a sound. He just sat there, staring at me, with this angry look on his face like “you did this to me.” I spent the rest of the night saying I was sorry.
As some people know (mother’s mostly, I assume) babies actually loose weight right after they are born. It’s perfectly normal and they quickly regain it soon after arriving home. Not my son. Merrik actually gained weight. It was only two ounces but when you’re expected to loose weight, it’ a pretty big deal. So big, in fact, that the nurses weighed him twice ... then told all the other nurses.
One of my favorite sayings when Merrik was a toddler, “Up me, Mommy. Up me.” He would look up at me with his hands in the air, opening and closing his little fists. So cute.
A terrifying memory: It was right after Merrik started sleeping in a toddler bed. He had outgrown his crib and was doing quite well in his “big boy bed”. One night, I was awoken to the most blood-curdling scream I have ever heard. I sat straight up trying to determine what that sound could have been. Then I heard it again. It was my child ... Merrik. Someone must be attacking him. Oh, no! Someone must of gotten into the house and is hurting my baby! I jumped out of bed and ran down the hall to his room. Merrik was on his back, eyes wide open, body stiff as a board, screaming. I grabbed him in my arms ... he must be in terrible pain. I called his name, tried to hold him close to me, rocked him. But nothing worked. His body remained rigid. His screams never subsided. My words of comfort did nothing. After what seemed like an eternity, as quickly and mysteriously as it had started, it stopped. And Merrik was fast asleep. I was later told that what Merrik experienced was called “night terrors”. The good news: Merrik would be fine. He would eventually grow out of it and remember nothing. The bad news: I would never EVER be the same again.
When Merrik learned to ride a tricycle, I would take him around the block. He would peddle, pumping his little legs, laughing, having the time of his life. Along our journey, there was a garage that looked like a barn door. Each time we passed, Merrik would exclaim, “Look Mommy! A barn, a barn!” Each and every time. And I would act surprised, as if I hadn’t seen it before.
A ritual. When Merrik went to daycare, he developed his own unique way of greeting me when I came to pick him up at the end of the day. When he saw me come through the door, he would jump up and charge at me full speed, jumping into an enormous hug. I loved it. Of course, until he kept getting bigger and heavier and still wanted to run at me full speed and jump into a hug.
Merrik’s first year in school. The local paper decided to do an article on the “little school that could”. Amazingly, or not so amazingly for anyone who has actually met Merrik, among the entire student body, the reporter found a charming young lad and chose to interview him.
Merrik was in an after school program at St. Barnabas. When I picked him up, he could be found playing games, running around, talking with other students or the adults (who, by the way, were totally enthralled with him and his conversations). One day during third grade, he was sitting with one of the teachers playing Connect Four. I started to say something but was met with a harsh “shhhhhhhh!” from onlookers. So I waited. And waited. And waited. Apparently, Merrik had been playing for almost an hour, continually beating the adult ... legitimately beating the adult. It was like he was in a trance; staring only at the game board. Placing in his pieces one-by-one. When he achieved victory, he uttered not a word. He simply pointed out his “four”, slid the lever to clear the board, and began again.
A mother’s worse nightmare. We were out at a mall. Merrik was about 10 or 11. Old enough to linger behind, giving his all to appear like he wasn’t a with me. I hadn’t realized that the gap between us had grown so great until I was outside and heard a man calling ... screaming actually ... “Miss! Miss! Is this your son?” Oh, dear God. What did he do? (Sadly, although Merrik was not one to actually “do” anything in public to warrant this response, it was the one that came to mind.) “Yes, he is.” “Well, I just had to come out and tell you what a fine, young gentleman he is. He has such good manners - something you don’t see too often anymore. I’m telling you, he’ll get far in life. You should be proud.” And, indeed, I was.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Sunday, February 28, 2010
To all the educators out there
My principal emailed this to the staff. One of the best things she's ever sent.
WHAT DO TEACHERS MAKE?
The dinner guests were sitting around the table discussing life.
One man, a CEO, decided to explain the problem with education. He argued,
"What's a kid going to learn from someone who decided his best option in
life was to become a teacher?"
To stress his point he said to another guest; "You're a teacher, Barbara .
Be honest. What do you make?"
Barbara, who had a reputation for honesty and frankness replied, "You want
to know what I make? (She paused for a second, then began...)
"Well, I make kids work harder than they ever thought they could.
I make a C+ feel like the Congressional Medal of Honor winner.
"I make kids sit through 40 minutes of class time when their parents can't
make them sit for 5 without an iPod, Game Cube or movie rental.
"You want to know what I make? (She paused again and looked at each and
every person at the table) I make kids wonder. I make them question.
"I make them apologize and mean it. I make them have respect and take
responsibility for their actions.
"I teach them to write and then I make them write.
Keyboarding isn't everything.I make them read, read, read.
I make them show all their work in math. They use their God given brain,
not the man-made calculator.
"I make my students from other countries learn everything they need to
know about English while preserving their unique cultural identity.
"I make my classroom a place where all my students feel safe.
I make my students stand, placing their hand over their heart to say the
Pledge of Allegiance to the Flag, One Nation Under God, because we live in
the United States of America.
"Finally, I make them understand that if they use the gifts they were given,
work hard, and follow their hearts, they can succeed in life."
Barbara paused one last time and then continued.
"Then, when people try to judge me by what I make, with me knowing money
isn't everything, I can hold my head up high and pay no attention because
they are ignorant.
"You want to know what I make? I MAKE A DIFFERENCE. What do you make Mr. CEO?"
His jaw dropped; he went silent.
WHAT DO TEACHERS MAKE?
The dinner guests were sitting around the table discussing life.
One man, a CEO, decided to explain the problem with education. He argued,
"What's a kid going to learn from someone who decided his best option in
life was to become a teacher?"
To stress his point he said to another guest; "You're a teacher, Barbara .
Be honest. What do you make?"
Barbara, who had a reputation for honesty and frankness replied, "You want
to know what I make? (She paused for a second, then began...)
"Well, I make kids work harder than they ever thought they could.
I make a C+ feel like the Congressional Medal of Honor winner.
"I make kids sit through 40 minutes of class time when their parents can't
make them sit for 5 without an iPod, Game Cube or movie rental.
"You want to know what I make? (She paused again and looked at each and
every person at the table) I make kids wonder. I make them question.
"I make them apologize and mean it. I make them have respect and take
responsibility for their actions.
"I teach them to write and then I make them write.
Keyboarding isn't everything.I make them read, read, read.
I make them show all their work in math. They use their God given brain,
not the man-made calculator.
"I make my students from other countries learn everything they need to
know about English while preserving their unique cultural identity.
"I make my classroom a place where all my students feel safe.
I make my students stand, placing their hand over their heart to say the
Pledge of Allegiance to the Flag, One Nation Under God, because we live in
the United States of America.
"Finally, I make them understand that if they use the gifts they were given,
work hard, and follow their hearts, they can succeed in life."
Barbara paused one last time and then continued.
"Then, when people try to judge me by what I make, with me knowing money
isn't everything, I can hold my head up high and pay no attention because
they are ignorant.
"You want to know what I make? I MAKE A DIFFERENCE. What do you make Mr. CEO?"
His jaw dropped; he went silent.
Friday, February 12, 2010
High Praise
As I've blogged before, I'm truly grateful for social media. It has helped me reconnect with old friends, stay in touch with current friends and family, and meet new people and organizations.
Recently, I was "chatting" with my nephew on Facebook. (He's away for his first year of college - Facebook is a godsend.) Some how, the chat turned to the seasons. I told him how Fall was my favorite and a few reasons why: the spectacular, brilliant colors; the crisp air - cool enough for sweaters yet warm enough to leave the coat at home; the crunch of leaves under your feet; the light smell of burning wood as fireplaces are brought to life.
In response, my wonderful, beautiful, artistic nephew replied, "Auntie, you should write a book; maybe a book of poetry."
By far, this was some of the highest praise my writing has ever received. To think that a young, gifted, talent such as my nephew would be interested at all in me or my writing was pretty special. Yes ... he's my nephew. Yes ... he loves me. Yes ... he may be a bit biased. But ... still ... he didn't have to comment at all.
Thank you, Junior, for caring enough to comment. This post if for you. My little way of saying "Thank You" and "Happy Birthday".
Much love.
Recently, I was "chatting" with my nephew on Facebook. (He's away for his first year of college - Facebook is a godsend.) Some how, the chat turned to the seasons. I told him how Fall was my favorite and a few reasons why: the spectacular, brilliant colors; the crisp air - cool enough for sweaters yet warm enough to leave the coat at home; the crunch of leaves under your feet; the light smell of burning wood as fireplaces are brought to life.
In response, my wonderful, beautiful, artistic nephew replied, "Auntie, you should write a book; maybe a book of poetry."
By far, this was some of the highest praise my writing has ever received. To think that a young, gifted, talent such as my nephew would be interested at all in me or my writing was pretty special. Yes ... he's my nephew. Yes ... he loves me. Yes ... he may be a bit biased. But ... still ... he didn't have to comment at all.
Thank you, Junior, for caring enough to comment. This post if for you. My little way of saying "Thank You" and "Happy Birthday".
Much love.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Oprah vs. Opera
Well, I read my last post - after it was up, of course, and realized that I had spelled Oprah. Oprah, if you're out there and you just happened to stumble across my blog and just happened to be bored enough to read it, please accept my sincere apologies. " : )
As you may have noticed, I am a bad speller. No ... really ... a horrible speller. I have been all of my life. I can remember being in 3rd grade and purposely mis-spelling a word I knew so that I could be out of the spelling bee before I was really embarrassed. Then, there was 5th grade when the only solace after a Friday spelling test was getting to hear my teacher read "The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe". I let the world of Narnia take be away from the reality that I had failed a spelling test ... again. I think it was around middle school - maybe even high school - when I realized that I had spelled "tomorrow" wrong my whole life and no one seemed to tell me until then.
My wonderful, loving grandmother, who raised me and was a special education teacher, would tell me to "look it up" when I asked her to help me spell a word. What! Look it up? Like in a dictionary? If any of you out there are non-spellers, you can appreciate the irony of this form of "help". For those of you who have the natural affinity for spelling and may not understand, let me help you. When you cannot spell a word, the absolute worse thing you can do is tell the person to go "look it up"! If I don't know how to SPELL the word, what makes you think I can LOOK UP the word! Again, I say "seriously". I was such a bad speller that I could be looking through the entire section of "T's" before finding "tomorrow". And don't get me started if the word started with a vowel!
Thankfully, sometime during my college years, I discovered this wonderful thing called "spell check". It saved my spelling life. finally, there was something that could help me with my poor spelling. You see, I can read the word; I just can't spell it. During school, my reading level was always several grades ahead while my spelling was several grades below. Something my special educator grandmother recognized as probably a mild learning disability but never bothered to tell me until I was in my 20s.
The good news is that my poor spelling never held me back. I finished high school, went onto college, and am now a teacher. Before teaching, I was even a secretary, believe it or not. I was able to overcome my "learning disability" or whatever it is. Thankfully, I had a supportive family who never, for one moment, made me think that I would be anything less but successful.
Think about this the next time you encounter one of your students who just doesn't seem to get a concept, Yet again. After explaining it for the 5th time. Yes, this child could be the most annoying person who, if he would just pay attention, would be able to learn what you are teaching. Then again, she may be just like me. Intelligent, capable, curious, talented. Just a really lousy speller.
As you may have noticed, I am a bad speller. No ... really ... a horrible speller. I have been all of my life. I can remember being in 3rd grade and purposely mis-spelling a word I knew so that I could be out of the spelling bee before I was really embarrassed. Then, there was 5th grade when the only solace after a Friday spelling test was getting to hear my teacher read "The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe". I let the world of Narnia take be away from the reality that I had failed a spelling test ... again. I think it was around middle school - maybe even high school - when I realized that I had spelled "tomorrow" wrong my whole life and no one seemed to tell me until then.
My wonderful, loving grandmother, who raised me and was a special education teacher, would tell me to "look it up" when I asked her to help me spell a word. What! Look it up? Like in a dictionary? If any of you out there are non-spellers, you can appreciate the irony of this form of "help". For those of you who have the natural affinity for spelling and may not understand, let me help you. When you cannot spell a word, the absolute worse thing you can do is tell the person to go "look it up"! If I don't know how to SPELL the word, what makes you think I can LOOK UP the word! Again, I say "seriously". I was such a bad speller that I could be looking through the entire section of "T's" before finding "tomorrow". And don't get me started if the word started with a vowel!
Thankfully, sometime during my college years, I discovered this wonderful thing called "spell check". It saved my spelling life. finally, there was something that could help me with my poor spelling. You see, I can read the word; I just can't spell it. During school, my reading level was always several grades ahead while my spelling was several grades below. Something my special educator grandmother recognized as probably a mild learning disability but never bothered to tell me until I was in my 20s.
The good news is that my poor spelling never held me back. I finished high school, went onto college, and am now a teacher. Before teaching, I was even a secretary, believe it or not. I was able to overcome my "learning disability" or whatever it is. Thankfully, I had a supportive family who never, for one moment, made me think that I would be anything less but successful.
Think about this the next time you encounter one of your students who just doesn't seem to get a concept, Yet again. After explaining it for the 5th time. Yes, this child could be the most annoying person who, if he would just pay attention, would be able to learn what you are teaching. Then again, she may be just like me. Intelligent, capable, curious, talented. Just a really lousy speller.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Passions of Life
I don't watch Opera regularly but I do like her "Things I Know That I Know". For me, one of the "Things That I Know That I Know" is that life is really not worth living if you don't have a passion.
As you've probably figured out from reading my blog - if anyone besides my one follower is actually reading my blog! - is that I am a teacher. This is one of my passions in life. And I consider myself blessed to be able to have my passion as my career. However, I'm also blessed that teaching is only one of my many passions. Others include reading, writing, children, natural hair. The list goes on.
The important thing for everyone is that you find the passion in your life. And we all have them and for those of you who think that you don't - think again. Remember being a little kids and becoming lost in something. Maybe it was playing trucks or dolls or riding your bike. But I'm sure it was SOMETHING. Think of what you would do, or want to do, even if you weren't being paid.
That's the point. There is something in our lives that makes our hearts sing. Find that. Connect with that. Hold on to that. And if someone tries to tell you to grow up or that your passion is childish, pointless, ridiculous - ignore them. Pity them. Pray that they find their passion.
Let it fill you. Let it hold you. Let it support you in the darkest times. Let it surround you in the best of times. Most of all, let it be you.
This post is dedicated to my one follower - Dan. One of the most caring and compassionate humans beings I've be privileged to know. I thank social networking for reintroducing me to this gentle soul.
As you've probably figured out from reading my blog - if anyone besides my one follower is actually reading my blog! - is that I am a teacher. This is one of my passions in life. And I consider myself blessed to be able to have my passion as my career. However, I'm also blessed that teaching is only one of my many passions. Others include reading, writing, children, natural hair. The list goes on.
The important thing for everyone is that you find the passion in your life. And we all have them and for those of you who think that you don't - think again. Remember being a little kids and becoming lost in something. Maybe it was playing trucks or dolls or riding your bike. But I'm sure it was SOMETHING. Think of what you would do, or want to do, even if you weren't being paid.
That's the point. There is something in our lives that makes our hearts sing. Find that. Connect with that. Hold on to that. And if someone tries to tell you to grow up or that your passion is childish, pointless, ridiculous - ignore them. Pity them. Pray that they find their passion.
Let it fill you. Let it hold you. Let it support you in the darkest times. Let it surround you in the best of times. Most of all, let it be you.
This post is dedicated to my one follower - Dan. One of the most caring and compassionate humans beings I've be privileged to know. I thank social networking for reintroducing me to this gentle soul.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
2 Little Words
It's amazing the power of words. Never underestimate them. As a teacher, I have the power to build up or tear down - all with the power of my words. I hope fellow educators realize this. We all should realize the power our words have.
Here is a journal entry from my time with the Writing Project:
This morning’s discussion with the jigsaw articles, especially “Helping African American Males Reach Their Potential” was so powerful. I don’t know if it was the topic or that we initiated the discussion rather than the facilitators or what but it was the most lively and interesting discussion all week!
This is the type of environment I love and thrive in: passionate, heated, opinionated exchange of dialog. I, like the author, am so connected to the topic of African American male achievement. Not only do I teach African American males, I have two at home. Making sure they live up to their potential and achieve is a constant topic in our home.
They are in a positive light: surrounded by examples of academic success; two parental figures in the home both with college degrees, middle class environment; exposure to a variety of elements conducive to the academic world including travel, music, theater; high expectations with the support to achieve them; positive adult support structure. And still we worry about them academically and their future. We fully realize that we may have to pay for High School to ensure they have the best learning experience to make them competitive for college.
Then I think about my students who don’t have nearly as many resources as my children. As somone said during our discussion, I fight even harder for them.
Which takes me to the idea of expectations. I’m still bothered by the idea of “at least”. They are only two little, one-syllable words, yet they speak volumes. To me, you lower anything you put them in front of.
At least you’re off the streets.
At least you’re not in jail.
At least you go to school.
At least you went to college.
At least implies that there’s no more to do – or if you do achieve more it’s “gravy”. The expectation implied by at least is that you weren’t supposed to make it to where you are, the thing you put behind those two words. What power we yield with those two words. You have the power to knock someone down, to crush their dreams, to stifle their motivation. You’ve taken away what they are supposed to do or what you expect them to do. You are saying, “I expected you to do less so at least you are doing the minimal above that expectation.”
At least; the minimal.
I expected you to end up in the streets – at least you're not.
I expected you to be in jail – at least you’re not.
I expected you to drop out of school – at least you did not.
I expected you to never make it to college – at least you did that.
Here is a journal entry from my time with the Writing Project:
This morning’s discussion with the jigsaw articles, especially “Helping African American Males Reach Their Potential” was so powerful. I don’t know if it was the topic or that we initiated the discussion rather than the facilitators or what but it was the most lively and interesting discussion all week!
This is the type of environment I love and thrive in: passionate, heated, opinionated exchange of dialog. I, like the author, am so connected to the topic of African American male achievement. Not only do I teach African American males, I have two at home. Making sure they live up to their potential and achieve is a constant topic in our home.
They are in a positive light: surrounded by examples of academic success; two parental figures in the home both with college degrees, middle class environment; exposure to a variety of elements conducive to the academic world including travel, music, theater; high expectations with the support to achieve them; positive adult support structure. And still we worry about them academically and their future. We fully realize that we may have to pay for High School to ensure they have the best learning experience to make them competitive for college.
Then I think about my students who don’t have nearly as many resources as my children. As somone said during our discussion, I fight even harder for them.
Which takes me to the idea of expectations. I’m still bothered by the idea of “at least”. They are only two little, one-syllable words, yet they speak volumes. To me, you lower anything you put them in front of.
At least you’re off the streets.
At least you’re not in jail.
At least you go to school.
At least you went to college.
At least implies that there’s no more to do – or if you do achieve more it’s “gravy”. The expectation implied by at least is that you weren’t supposed to make it to where you are, the thing you put behind those two words. What power we yield with those two words. You have the power to knock someone down, to crush their dreams, to stifle their motivation. You’ve taken away what they are supposed to do or what you expect them to do. You are saying, “I expected you to do less so at least you are doing the minimal above that expectation.”
At least; the minimal.
I expected you to end up in the streets – at least you're not.
I expected you to be in jail – at least you’re not.
I expected you to drop out of school – at least you did not.
I expected you to never make it to college – at least you did that.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Reaction to "Girl"
A great way to connect with a book ... for yourself or your students. Write a reaction to something you've read. I had to do this to a text called "Girl". In quotes is the portion I chose to write my reaction to.
“… this is how to behave in the presence of men who don’t know you very well, and this way they won’t recognize immediately the slut I have warned you against becoming …”
Mama, I don’t want to become a slut. I want to be a good girl. I really do. I’m trying so hard to do as you say. I want to obey you. I want you to be proud of me. But, mama, I also want to grow to love someone. I sometimes think about boys. I know I’m not supposed to, I know. But, mama, isn’t it OK to think about a boy, a nice boy mama, someone you would like. Because I do, sometimes I think about what it would be like to hold his hand or have him say I’m beautiful. Maybe even ask me to take a walk or go to a dance. Wouldn’t that be all right, mama? Wouldn’t it be OK if a nice boy asked me to go on a walk? If he came to you and papa and asked your permission first so you know he’s a good boy? If it happened that way, mama, then I wouldn’t be slut. Right? I would be a good girl, who was liked by a good boy, who asked a girl’s parents properly, right mama? Then, maybe, I could enjoy the walk and not feel guilty for liking a boy – and, maybe, not be the slut you warned me against becoming.
“… this is how to behave in the presence of men who don’t know you very well, and this way they won’t recognize immediately the slut I have warned you against becoming …”
Mama, I don’t want to become a slut. I want to be a good girl. I really do. I’m trying so hard to do as you say. I want to obey you. I want you to be proud of me. But, mama, I also want to grow to love someone. I sometimes think about boys. I know I’m not supposed to, I know. But, mama, isn’t it OK to think about a boy, a nice boy mama, someone you would like. Because I do, sometimes I think about what it would be like to hold his hand or have him say I’m beautiful. Maybe even ask me to take a walk or go to a dance. Wouldn’t that be all right, mama? Wouldn’t it be OK if a nice boy asked me to go on a walk? If he came to you and papa and asked your permission first so you know he’s a good boy? If it happened that way, mama, then I wouldn’t be slut. Right? I would be a good girl, who was liked by a good boy, who asked a girl’s parents properly, right mama? Then, maybe, I could enjoy the walk and not feel guilty for liking a boy – and, maybe, not be the slut you warned me against becoming.
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