A Life Of My Own

After all these years, I still get the itch, 
right about now, to set up my classroom. 
It can't be helped; it's in my fat cells.


The urge to staple red and orange leaves to the bulletin board, sharpen a fistful of #2 pencils, 
prop up big bear by the bookcase, 
fill the crayon bin to the brim, 
lay out journals for emerging writers ~
is still alive.


Some of my dearest friends were second graders. 


During my most recent excavation of papers, I found a newsletter from 1995 that our class put together.


We called it:


FRIENDS
A CLASS NEWSLETTER
2-J
MARCH 1995
VOL. III 


The theme for Vol. III was When I Grow Up.


This piece is from Anna, a yellow-haired, bright-faced girl from a large Russian family.


When I Grow Up


When I grow up I will travel to China and Russia. They are my favorite places in the world. The second thing I want to do is have a husband and kids. The third is to have a house that is blue and has yellow doors, windows, and has a lot of furniture. Like pink couches and gray walls. I would like to have a life of my own.


By Anna Sinistsky


Here's to Anna, pink couches and a life of her own...

Alway Change My Mind

One summer, many years ago, I was brought to my knees by a terrible depression; a phantom that came in through the window. 


It swooped in, dark and heavy, and would not leave. 


Until I surrendered.


I was living with my daughter, Jesse, in a little farmhouse in town. Her father had died the summer before, tragically and much too young, due to complications from alcoholism; the fall-out from his life and death didn't really hit me until a year later. 


And still the after-shocks.


I made it through the school year, then I crumbled. Food shopping was a huge effort. When the phone rang, I'd flinch. 


In August, Mom came to visit and help with Jesse's birthday party. It's all a blur, paper cups, burgers on the grill, girls. I couldn't stand the smell of food. I remember the day Mom was leaving. I watched her putting her bag in the car. I felt frozen inside, not able to speak, but then I said, "I need you to stay a bit longer, Mom. I'm afraid to be alone right now." She stayed. 


I was very concerned about not being able to go back to my teaching job. I had lost a lot of weight, was weak, and tired. How could I possibly handle a room full of second graders, faculty meetings, the principal. 


I was always afraid.


I remember being with a friend. We were walking slowly around my neighborhood. I walked very slowly that summer, turtle-slow.


"I'm not sure what to do. I don't know if I can go back to school. What if I can't handle it?" I said.


"You don't need to worry about that right now. School doesn't start for three weeks. Right now, let's walk. And when you have to make a decision about school, you will. Remember this, you can always change your mind. Always."


This memory bubbled up on my morning walk with Chewy. Not in a sad way, no. More a noticing that the honest and kind things we do for one another ripple on for years, washing over us in a fresh way.


That long ago summer, I died to my old self, and rose, out of the ashes to a new one. I returned to my classroom and got stronger as the fall turned to red and gold. It took a couple of years to come back fully from that experience and there are times I fear the phantom's return. It's less likely to get its claws in me as long as I speak up, ask for help, and know I can always change my mind.


Go ahead, say it out loud. 


I can always change my mind.

Call Me Bubbles

I spent the day with over a hundred seventh graders and frankly, I'm flipping exhausted. Five periods, forty minutes a pop. This was my friend, Susan's Intro to German class so the name tags read Wolf, Eva, Heinz, Bruno. Some students wrote their English names as well, Michael, Rital, Achim, and others chose aliases for themselves; Lulu, Sir Peter, Mr. B, Klappy. Lulu was a cute boy with dark brown hair. One kid wanted to be called Bubbles. Okay.

What was my objective? To light a fire, the tiniest spark, under these kids. To help them find their own voice, through writing, with some improv stuff tossed in for the sheer fun of it.

Each class had forty minutes to make something happened. I said, "Write a name on your paper. No Lady Gaga, no video game heroes, no Sponge Bob. Now let's write, The first thing you should know about me is..."

Then the kids stood up in lines of five and we got to meet their characters.

Bruno stood up and said, "Hello, My name is Maggie. I like to juggle."

There was guy who carried a cat in his suitcase, the lady who watched Jeopardy on television every night, the man whose name was Shark Bait.

I asked them what came to mind when they heard the word, writing. We made a quick list, then went around the room shouting out a word (although a lot of these kids spoke so softly I could barely hear them.)...imagination, stupid, sentences, adventurous, stinky, poems, nervous, essay, discovery, boring, freedom. There were no wrong answers. I mean, let's face it, writing can be very stinky. But for me, it's always about freedom. And that's why I go to schools and jump around classrooms like a mad hatter to write with kids. And teachers too.

Writing is my cure for feeling weird. And I'm thinking that's a really useful tool to pass on to a group of seventh graders. Or seventy year olds. It works with anyone.

But here's the thing I'm thinking right now as I type this. There are people out in the world who still believe that teaching is one big cake walk, with summers off.

I just want to say, You're kidding, right?