Settling My Thoughts

It has been a while since my last post.  Tonight, a friendly stranger may have become the catalyst that fires up this soul, and encourages me to continue this self-examination.  Who knows where this will lead?  I do know that I hope my experiences will benefit someone who grasps the characters etched upon this medium.  Sometimes one needs to step away from the "rush" in order to allow thoughts to permeate the surface, and breathe new life into the endeavor.  Tonight I purpose within my heart to again visit Yesterday's Threads on May 31st - my son's 23rd birthday.

Finding My Way

Ninth grade year was one that I did not look forward to.  No longer would I have the safety of "group" trips to the cafeteria or library.  In high school we had free lunch - and we were allowed to "hang out" with our friends during that time.  Normally I did not eat lunch at school, so that hour or so of independence was something that caused inner strife for me.  I did not have the luxury of having ample friends around.  I found Lisa and Patty - two girls who were "outcasts" from the class, and tried to cling to them as "hangout" lunch buddies.  Eventually I felt like an "outcast" from the "outcasts."  I had to find a way to keep myself focused.

Enter Mrs. Page.

My ninth grade English teacher, Mrs. Page, seemed to be an unlikely friend.  She was pretty hard on students in class, but she wanted things the way she wanted them.  I had her class just before my lunch period.  One day during first semester I approached her and asked if she would allow me to just remain in her classroom during lunch.  She had lunch at the same period - and left her classroom daily.  She agreed, and would lock me in the classroom - (the door opened from the inside and remained locked on the outside).  Each day I sat at the back of the room during lunch, and placed myself in a desk that could not be viewed through the windows of the door.  There I would either do my homework or sleep until 1:00 - the fifth period of the day.  When the bell rang, I would gather my things and go on to my Algebra 1 class.  That time allowed me to focus and study as I needed to.  I did not worry about having friends --- just used that time to "get the job done."  I was always thankful to Mrs. Page for understanding.

Ties That Bind

You hardly ever hear the positive stories from yesterday about race relations, though there are many out there to be shared.  I wonder why human nature trends toward the negative?  My mom, a former teacher, had a story to tell yesterday that left me speechless.  I vaguely remember the time - but the year was 1970-1971..the year for total desegregation...  Mom was moved from the local historically black school to teach at the "white" school across the little town.  Most if not all of her students were white.  She was also shifted from elementary to seventh grade (we all know how challenging middle school/junior high students can be.)  That was an extremely tough year for my mother.

Saturday, 4/7/2012 mama received a call from one of her former students from that middle school experience.  Some forty years later, this lady still found a way to reach out to her seventh grade teacher -  just to touch base and see how she is doing.  My mom stated that, over the years, the lady has always just "popped up" out of the blue just to speak to her on the phone - checking to see how mama is doing, and sharing her life updates as well.  It warms my heart to think about how, even within the raging storm of the process of desegregation, there was a quiet, uncelebrated bond formed between a black teacher and a white student that would last for generations.

Paying the Price

After a year of "fun" in the seventh grade, reality struck -- I had to make the greatest contribution toward my success.  Thankfully I do not believe that I ran into a teacher who tried to make it harder for me to be successful - at least not at this point.  So "buckle down" became my mantra.  I lost my beloved grandmother at the beginning of my seventh grade year.  At the beginning of the eighth grade I prayed to God and asked for three things.   1) I wanted a boyfriend who would respect my values.  I believe I used the phrase, "give me another love from which to draw since I lost my grandmother."  2)  I wanted to lose the extra weight that I had been carrying around all of my life; and 3) I wanted to be smart again.  It is strange that 37 years later I still remember the requests of a 13-year-old.  I met some teachers who left strong impressions on my life, including Ms. Tusai - one of my favorite English teachers.  She never knew just how much of an impact she had.  I remember the names of five of my 8th grade teachers (out of six?).  The rest are a blur.

Math that year was a terrible experience.  No matter how I tried, I could not grasp the concepts that this teacher was trying to communicate.  When I think of that teacher today, I see her sitting behind the desk more than anything...maybe that is why I could not grasp those concepts that year.  She made a statement to me at the end of the year that has puzzled me ever since.  It was something along the lines of, "You are a very bright young lady.  I never understood why you were in this class and not the top class."  In my mind I knew why, but I always hoped that the eighth grade  powers-that-be would see the mistake and move me to the "higher level."  It didn't happen that year.

Ninth grade year had a feel of its own.

First Friends

In the seventh grade I found friends.  What a lovely surprise that was....after five years of basically walking the road alone.  We were in the "top class," and I learned that I could have fun in the classroom.

Ours was a very creative bunch.  Whenever I reflected upon my own practice as a teacher/speech therapist, I tried to remember what things were like for me when I "was at that age."  Sometimes I could make the connection, sometimes I couldn't.  But I often say to others, "I chose not to teach at the middle school level because I remember what a terror I was in the seventh grade."  I was always concerned about reaping what I had sewn.

That year Myra, Paula and I were basically inseparable.  We were in the "top class" and having barrels of fun as a group.  Our creativity was so astute that we had descriptive names for each of our teachers:  "Mr. Rubber Nose," "Ms. Same Hairstyle," "Ms. Paddle."  The creativity didn't stop there.  Members of our class took turns writing "True Romance" stories to pass around for group consumption.  That year my grades again plummeted and I remember my mom wondering if her efforts to get me in school early caused me to have such minimal success in the seventh grade.  I did not have the heart to tell her, "Mom, I know I am not doing well, ---- but I have FRIENDS this year."

I realize now that again my son's choices and mine often parallel.  I wish I had shared this story with him when he was still in junior high and high school.  You see, the thing about my seventh grade year, I did not realize that though my friends Myra and Paula were probably having as much fun as I, they had the presence of mind to get their work done also.  Eighth grade year - I lost my friends as they remained in the "top class" and I was shuffled to a second highest class.

Why can't we be born with wisdom???

Man (or woman) in the Mirror

I asked my son (who is 6'4" or so) how many of his close male friends would be considered short.  He thought about it and said his friends are all tall.  I asked him does that make him biased or prejudiced?  Before he could answer I told him that this was a natural thing - we tend to be attracted to (or favor) people who are "like us."  It could be a matter of height, hair color, weight, gender, religion, etc.  The problem comes in when we judge people or disregard them because they are not "like us."  The solutions come into play when we examine ourselves and become aware of the natural biases that we have - then remain aware of that as we interact with others.  That discussion brought an "ah-hah" expression to his face.

We should each take a moment to become more aware of ourselves.

Music Soothes

I found music in the sixth grade.  Otherwise, for me, sixth grade is basically a blur.  We watched a film and the song that was sewn into my heart was, "I'm Just A Poor Wayfaring Stranger."
My grandfather passed away that year, and the lyrics soaked into my spirit as I remembered him:

I'm just a poor wayfaring stranger
I'm traveling through this world of woe
Yet there's no sickness, toil nor danger
In that bright land to which I go
I'm going there to see my mother/father
I'm going there no more to roam
I'm only going over Jordan
I'm only going over home.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Wayfaring_Stranger_(song)

I do remember one lesson in music where the author was trying to guess what music in the year 2000 would sound like.  There were electronic sounds that really impressed me, but the sound was so mechanical that I could not imagine that he could be correct.  Our music teacher tried to teach us how to direct songs.  "Glad That I Live Am I" was the song that everyone attempted to direct.  Guess who was most successful?  I'm sure that the rest of the class has forgotten that lesson, but it stayed with me.  For the first time, I had experienced success in front of our whole class, and I felt that I had finally arrived.  Isn't it funny how music brings back memories and associations?  Too bad I had to return to the regular class.  But my grades must have been pretty good because I was placed in the "smart class" in the seventh grade.  That is the first year that I found true friends --- Myra and Paula.  Seventh grade is another story all by itself.

Sprinting Toward the Finish Line

My own child was the very best that I had to offer the school - and I trusted the process.  After all, I had already spent twelve years of my life educating and loving the children that came into my care.  I could not even begin to consider my child being found in a situation that did not magnify his strengths and shape his shortfalls.  Yesterday I spoke of my own fifth grade experiences.  Jaren's fifth grade was a little different.  Fifth grade for him matched him with a teacher who was unshaken by his uniqueness.  One afternoon I went by her classroom and she stated, "Jaren was really in rare form today.  I finally said to him, 'Jaren, since you know so much today and you don't feel that you need to pay attention, you may teach class.'  Jaren got up, went to the front of the room and said, 'Class dismissed.' "

This teacher, Ms. Rose, laughed as she recounted his actions.  Class resumed without incident.  Needless to say, that was one of Jaren's most successful years in school.  He made the highest score of *all fifth grade students* on the end of grade reading exam that year.  Ms. Rose was truly a Rose of a teacher, and I believed that Jaren was on his way toward the brightest educational experience.  I often imagine another teacher taking that situation and responding in a different manner......sending him to the principal for disrupting class.  If the second scenario had been the reality, both Jaren and his teacher would have lost.

Teachers can make a child, or they can break a child.  Our assignment in life is a powerful one.  Mark Wasicsko, (director of the National Network for the Study of Educator Dispositions (NNSED) )  states, "“We are all emotional learners.  What really good teachers know is that it is all about people. You can get magnificent learning to happen when you know that.”  I have observed throughout my educational experiences (and my son's) that teacher disposition does have an impact upon student success.

I choose to be on the construction crew - not the wrecking crew.

Two Worlds Collide

So, I have introduced my son partially, and that compels me to bring two fifth-grade stories to the electronic canvas.

I was introduced to desegregation at the beginning of my second grade year.  The superintendent hand-picked the minority families that he wanted to attend the "all white" school.  My parent's children were among the "chosen ones."  I did not realize this fact until I was long into my adulthood.

It was fifth grade year for me, when after three years of partial desegregation, those children from the "black school" were set to join the students from the "white school."  We went to a brand new middle school and I was excited because now there would be more people "like me" in my class.  After the first few weeks, I found myself again wondering why I could never make a connection with any of the new students.  One day, another child had the vocabulary to actually express her feelings in a manner that drove the point home.  She said to me, "You act too white."

Thus began my "bird walk" between the two (really three) races.  In essence, I was an enigma, and recess continued to be lonely.

I will have to examine Jaren's fifth-grade story tomorrow -

Diverging Lines

Something happened last week as I worked a conference registration table.  A participant came by to retrieve her registration packet and I noticed that she had the same last name (Tusai) as a teacher who lit the fire within my heart for English instruction in the eighth grade.  After my eighth grade year, she left, and I never knew what happened to her.  When I commented to the participant that her name was similar to one of my favorite teachers, she replied, "She's my sister-in-law."  Tears filled my eyes as I realized just then what an impact this teacher had upon my life - even after 36 years, the compassion within my heart remained.

Then I reflected upon my ninth-grade year.  Mrs.Tutor ignited my love for Algebra I and math - something that I had struggled with in the 8th grade.  Because of Mrs. Tutor's positive influence in Algebra I, I completed Advanced math and Calculus before graduating from high school.  Two teachers who changed the course of my life still remain within my heart.

Fast-forward to 2007, the year my son graduated from high school.  His experiences in school were so different from mine.  Each year there was a struggle to get classroom teachers to accept him and foster his intellectual growth.  In seventh grade he was especially beaten down because I insisted that the principal place him in pre-Algebra (he absolutely adored math and up to this point, had the grades and scores to match his passion).  His teacher set her cap for him that year, and he was not successful.

--I trust God

How were our experiences with teachers so different?  Why does there exist a gulf between my success in school and his?

An educator can make you or break you.

I always chose to be a part of the construction crew.

The Struggle - Year Two

My third grade teacher was as gentle as the dew-kissed petals of a rose on Sunday morning.  I was still the only one who looked like me in my class, but at least this teacher did not pinch my shoulder or glare in my face.  Friends were not a priority.  I only wanted to do my best so that I could gain her approval.  My grades improved to a place that was similar to my first grade experience, and I remember just working hard.  Self-confidence was alien to me, as I was also the "fat girl."  But I could look forward to school because of the kind face that sat behind the teacher's desk.

Recess was not my friend.  Even if we had an organized game of kickball, I was always the last one chosen to be on a team.  If we played "red rover" no one ever asked for me to be sent over.

My parents had a new challenge to meet - my younger brother was now in a first grade class with a teacher fixed upon labeling him "crazy" because he shook his leg as he concentrated while working.  Only as an adult did he admit that the teacher ignored him in that class, and coldness was the norm.  We never heard about that in our home at night.  He wanted to please also, but eventually found that the only way to get attention was to "act out."  Needless to say, he was not successful in first grade.

I had three older sisters.  The twins were sophomores that year, and one was in the sixth grade.  Through my eyes, everything seemed perfect for them, and I wished that I could feel accepted like they seemed to have been.

Checking the Foundation

I admit - often I choose to remain quiet rather than speak.  This blog is my attempt to examine myself as it relates to my experiences in education, and see if my experiences can be used toward an understanding of others.

I was a child of the 60's and 70's, spending the first grade being educated in an all-black school.  My parents chose to move their five children to the "all white" school, after being approached by that system's superintendent....and so my journey began.  The year was 1967 ..... and imagine my comfort level upon entering the second grade class and there was no one else there who looked like me.  We had not gone through "total" desegregation in the south.  The teacher spent many days glaring in my face and pinching my shoulder as a form of reprimand.  I was a straight-A student in first grade.....  The only grades that I could attain that year were C's and D's.  None of the girls would play with me at recess; the guys were nice enough, but little boys were not to play with little girls.  So I dreaded free time and recess.

My sisters tell me that every evening I would come home and cry at the the drop of a hat.  What thoughts, fears, disappointments were being threaded into that little girl's spirit?  How would those experiences ultimately shape her future?  I sometimes wish that I could visit that little girl and assure her that everything would be okay.

Walk with me and let's learn more together.