Showing Up, August 2008
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Uncle Harry is my dad's cousin, twice removed. (That is to say, he is a cousin through marriage to a cousin.) Uncle Harry is 98 years old, has a girl friend, drives at night, lives independently, and enjoys his life. He has not been to a doctor in ten years. ("What I don't know won't kill me!") But the best thing about Uncle Harry is that he writes to my dad every two weeks, without fail. He has been sending these handwritten letters and "showing up" for more than six years, ever since my dad had a severe stroke and we moved him to Seattle from New York, where the two "cousins" had rooted for their beloved Yankees for decades.

My dad's face still lights up when my husband Frank or I, or our son Peter and his family, visit at the nursing home and we have a letter from Uncle Harry. Hearing these newsy and humorous letters (he often ends with a joke) brings back memories and makes my dad feel he's involved in the lives of others. At the age of 91, my frail father rarely hears from old friends, family members, or business associates. One by one, just about everyone has disappeared into the fabric of their own busy lives—except for Uncle Harry.

A few years ago a well-meaning aide was cleaning out my father's drawer and she tossed all of Uncle Harry's letters, some of which included irreplaceable family photos. At the time, I could barely contain my anger and sadness at that thoughtless act. But Uncle Harry kept writing, and today I have a large stash of his precious letters safe at home, a legacy to my father's past and a testimony to steadfast love and friendship.

Here's what I've learned from Uncle Harry. He shows up because he cares and because he's lived long enough to know how much it matters. He shows up because he knows it brings joy and humor to me and to my father. He shows up because he loves my dad and wants my dad to know it. And, he shows up because life is about caring for the disabled and troubled, the gifted and the needy, even when no one is looking. It's the same for us as teachers, isn't it? We give our all to our students—even when we're exhausted and burdened, even when we're not getting the recognition we think we deserve, even when we don't want to—because we know we can make a difference in their lives and because, plain and simple, it's the right thing to do. Uncle Harry would be proud.

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Advocating for Students, February 2008

It is late fall in a first-grade classroom where I am teaching students to tell, write, and publish important stories from their lives. I am having a public writing conference with Marco. He has written some random letters on his paper, and his teachers believe that is the best he can do. We soon learn that he is capable of much more. With lots of back-and-forth conversation and encouragement, Marco tells a story about falling off the monkey bars on the playground and hurting his back. Sitting side by side and gently questioning ("How did that happen?" "Were you badly hurt?" "Then what did you do?") I guide him to write on his own and apply what he knows about letters and sounds. His classroom teacher immediately publishes his story by hand. She writes it on four pages with one line per page. Marcos illustrates it and, with great pride, reads his very first book to his peers.

I later learn that Marco has an Individual Education Plan for reading, math, and speech and is "pulled out" of the classroom three times daily to receive support from three different specialists. When his conscientious classroom teacher asks the specialists what she can do to help him learn, she is advised to "have him copy words from a book." Sadly, it is all too common for students like Marco, many of whom come from poverty and are English language learners, to have kind, well-intentioned teachers who expect little from them.

When the classroom teacher and I speak a couple of months later, she reports that test results indicate that Marco has made no demonstrable progress. That is, despite five months of daily support, nothing of significance has changed for this child. I advise her to advocate for him and take more responsibility for teaching him. Rather than fidelity to the program or specialist, we teachers need to have fidelity to the child and to restore common sense to any support plan. We need to ask ourselves: What do my experiences with the child tell me? What would I want to happen if this were my child? What does this child most need, and what is the best way to provide it? How can all available support services in a school be reconfigured so that more children benefit?

I am constantly stunned and saddened at how often we teachers unwittingly put the child last. Exhausted by having to implement yet another new program and to deal with testing demands and mandates, teachers become victims of learned helplessness. I am sympathetic to my fellow teachers, but I am heartbroken for the child. Who will advocate for our children if we do not?

Marco is fortunate. His caring classroom teacher has begun to take action by meeting with the principal and specialists to craft a plan to accelerate his learning. Her advocacy gives him a chance to become a learner; his learning gives him a chance to share in the American dream.

Picking Blackberries, August 2007

When it's blackberry season, I don't care about stained purple fingers, prickly scratches, messed up clothes, or muddy shoes. Filling up a bucket of blackberries is pure joy. I love the tart, juicy, sweet taste of the berries. (Only half of them make it into the bucket.) I love being out in the hot sun in the midst of all the wild bramble bushes. I love making blackberry jam and blackberry pie and sharing those fruits of my labor with people I care about.

Most of all, though, when I really think about it, what I love best are the exquisite memories that blackberry picking evokes—wonderful family times when we picked berries together. Life seemed so uncomplicated then. Picking blackberries reminds me that life is sweet and sour, smooth and thorny, and always an adventure—sometimes within easy reach and other times a great challenge. So it is with our teaching—now and then prickly, always challenging, and with moments of pure delight.

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