On the Flip Side...There Is Joy...

Love love love my kids this year. I nearly always do, but this could prove to be an exceptional group, and an exceptional year for my school. I do hope you can visit. It’s unlike any other school I’ve seen, let alone taught in. Very interesting slice of our district. Poverty and ethnicities. We have a 30-something teacher at 6th grade this year who is a graduate of our school. If you can make it out of the ingrained poverty in that neighborhood, it’s cause for major celebration. Our school psychologist came from Mexico at 5 or 6, enrolled at this school knowing no English, lived in a converted garage with a dirt floor, went on to get her degrees at the region's State College and is thrilled to be back at at her home school. Her parents are illiterate. She says, “We always come back,” which is interesting to me cuz my fiance went to this school, and when his kids were school age, he moved back to the hood and they are going to his school, too. And he works there, doing yard duty at lunch.

1st Grade Teacher, 23 years of certified public education

After my recent post regarding this year's rigorous test scheduling in one friend's 2nd grade class, I received an email from another good friend, also an elementary school teacher in another small to mid-sized urban center in another part of the country. Geography and demographic may vary but the fact that the school year has begun points to commonalities for our schools and the communities they represent. I wanted to share this side of the coin.

Teachers are fiercely dedicated to their work. They have to be to do it well. And they are best at it if they love children/young people. Teachers work in varied settings, schools made in the 1920s of brick, schools built in warm climates with lockers outside in open breezeways, schools in small rooms on native soil, and cinderblock walls of detention centers, or someone's dining room. Teachers will teach wherever they must and with whatever they are afforded. They understand and respect the critical need as well as the miracle that is learning.

Teaching artists, those of us in the fine arts who choose to share our craft and our complusive drive to create in community settings where learning is happening, to help make learning happen,  we harbor a dual passion: the need to express ourselves artistically and the desire to teach what we know about and how we experience the world. We know our art forms can communicate concepts, processes, knowledge of all themes and subjects, in ways that support the standard pedagogy of our nation's classrooms. The holistic education that arts-based learning accents builds more than data regurgitators. The creative space to ponder and experiment in movement, form, color, language, and thought strengthens a different muscle mass.

We also know that our commitment to education does not diminish our identities as artists. In most cases, I argue that the sharing and the creative problem-solving, the critical thinking and asethetic approach to developing lessons and curriculum, the constant inquiry from students actually enhances our craft. The adage is true: teach what you want to learn.

Teachers greet their school year knowing that they have many odds to overcome but the success of their students is the primary objective and they will do whatever they must to support that success. They will advocate for the learners before them. They will withstand all of the obstacles, even if they can see a way that negates the need for the obstacle. They deserve their salaries, they deserve the resources it takes to teach our children well. But our political climate is fostering a tone that spins those expectations so that they seem to be asking for too much. The devaluation of the American citizenry is becoming more and more obvious in the Monopoly game strategy of our current legislators. Teachers are the front line of this battle and they fight for themselves and the right to a safe, productive workplace. They also fight for families. They fight to insure the future that, Monday through Friday, is walking off the bus, being dropped off by an SUV, or walking neighborhood streets to the front doors of America's schools. It doesn't matter public or private, charter or home school, rural or urban. School is often the place where our children discover and develop their own capacity for learning or it is squelched.

I teach in two school districts that employ many teachers who have returned to the schools they attended, a connection similar to the lineage detailed in the opening quote. I also teach periodically in the district from which I not only graduated after completing all 12 grades but the district that first fostered me as a young writer.

Teaching artists live day by day often, patching together a quilt of jobs to make it through, all in the hopes of creating more time for making art. It is still another chicken vs. the confusing egg koan of modern life. We are often vulnerable in this economy and current tone of politics. We understand why teachers need unions. We too stand as an element of society that is on the front line for funding, respect, and recognition of our value.

We also understand why a teacher is gleeful when a child is empowered by his own achievement. It is not about the product, but the wonder, as my dear friend and role model, Richard Lewis (Touchstone Center for Children), has shown in his many years of working with young people. The end product of the good grade or a piece of art, to take home is a wonderful affirmation. There is no denying that. But what first makes a person choose to teach, select a career in education in any form, and then to consider returning to the school they attended? It can only be that it was safe, it was nurturing, it created a space for wonder, achievement, community, a home.

Our educators create all that and more. My many teacher friends illustrate this all the time. Teachers protect, observe, and advocate for those in our society who have little choice in what direction their own lives may be driven yet must adapt, our youth. My teaching artist friends are driven by the same fuel. My friends who teach are passionately committed and that is why they speak what they witness. This is why I reflect what they speak to you. I share the passion. I recognize the joy. 

Snack Time - New Culinary Discoveries...

When I visit classes in elementary schools, there is an inevitable session that falls just as snack time is ending or scheduled. The students' desks are topped with an array of finger foods and crunchy treats, juice boxes, carrot sticks in zip lock bags, cookies. The teacher will often have big barrel-shaped plastic containers of snack mix or pretzels as thick as a thumb. They would have paid for that staple out of pocket at Aldi's or the Dollar Tree.

One of the treats I have been introduced to I find addicting is the junk food delicacy of Takis. A Taki is a Nacho Dorito on steroids, combined with a hint of salt and vinegar potato chip flavor. They stain your tongue and fingers red. They cause your tongue to tingle and pucker. You can only eat about 10 before maxing out.

I cannot find a bag of Takis in upstate NY so I bought a couple of them in Newburgh before I left Orange County at the end of my 2010-11 contract with Middletown Schools. I finished one bag about 6 weeks ago. I am hesitant to open the second because I know that, once I do, there is no turning back. I will devour them over the course of about a week. Then they will be gone.

My Treasure Files

Over the years in which I have worked in schools, both daytime and afternoon programs, I have received many small gifts from students. Often these gifts are little drawings that children have made, perhaps even while listening to our lesson. Sometimes they are portraits of me, a lovely reflection of who I am to the young humans before me. Other times the gift may be a poem, either handwritten or printed off a computer. These will likely have colorful, creative fonts and clip art illustrations. Teens give me gifts as well, Anime pencil drawings perhaps but mostly copies of writings that they want me to read and to remember them by. Poems they hope I will affirm. There is always something positive to state about the work. They often linger until most of their classmates have transitioned out the door toward the next class. Their need is earnest. Often my name is spelled in creative ways.

Students also seem somewhat surprised that their gifts are appreciated. I tell the elementary students that I will keep their gifts in myTreasure File. In the early days of my work with youth, I started a file folder for the little scraps and pieces of construction paper, notebook paper unclipped from 3-ring binders, origami cranes of various sizes and colors, friendship bracelets braided from embroidery floss. I graduated to the larger document pockets when I outgrew the first folder.

Sometimes students give me other gifts, little trinkets or bookmarks from the school library. This past school year, one 3rd grader slipped an ice-blue rubber bracelet over my hand to my right wrist from his own on my last day with his class. "Ms. Popoff, I want you to have this. I won it in basketball in gym..." I told him I was not sure that I should accept the gift since it was his and it represented his achievement but he insisted. I accepted but still I questioned, did I have the right to take this child's marker of doing well? I was also conscious that he was not a child of privilege. But I remember his face as if he were right before me now and I remember his huge grin in the act of giving. I had given him something of value and he was reciprocating. That is a basic human act and we are bonded by a small circle of rubber.

I noticed later that the bracelet was imprinted with a slogan something to the affect of "Remember Autism" and an Autism support organization web site. I have close friends who parent children with Autism and related processing abilities. I have taught many students who process differently than I do. For the next couple of days, every time I looked at my right wrist, I thought of my generous young man as well as my many creative students in supported classrooms.

Three days later, in the school hallway near the art rooms, I passed my young benefactor in line with his class. I have a little sign of greeting I share with students so we can be excited to see each other in the halls but maintain the decorum expected in the common areas. It is like a private handshake and it avoids most outbursts of "HI MS. POPOFF!!!" in the library or outside the lavatories. After sharing the our coded greeting, I caught the eye of the boy and pointed to my wrist, the band of blue. His eyes got big and he exclaimed, "You still have it!" I placed my index finger to my lips as a reminder we were in the hall and then I whispered with a genuine and gigantic smile, "Of course I do."

I knew at that moment that I was right to keep the bracelet. I wore it every day for nearly 3 months. I never took it off. After awhile, the white print of the organization and its motto wore off. The summer heat soared to 100. The sweat under the band was annoying so I took it off. Right now it is in a small dish on my nightstand with some Silly Bands that my nephew gave me. I will add it to the Treasure File when I am ready to not notice it every day, when I remember his face without the visual prompt and I keep the talents and skills of my students with special needs and abilities in the forefront of my consciousness.

The Natural Rhythms of Summer and a Foreboding Forecast

It has been a rough-n-tumble summer, given the huge impact of the current state of the nation and how it will affect everything, most certainly how it will hobble the world of education. I am piece-mealing my way through the summer months with some freelance work and a bit of teaching here and there. It has been cause for anxiety and a lot of soul searching. The cloud banks on the horizon are ominous and tunneled for most of us, not the least of whom the art educators like me, working independently and without a net. We are quite vulnerable, even more so than we have known previously.

But this afternoon I am curiously at ease all of a sudden. I have been in deep self-examination since May, no stone unturned. At times it has been a fire walk. I have managed to achieve a great deal of clarity.  I have taken a magnifying glass to my reasons for the career path I have chosen. In spite of the disruptions of our current economic and political climate, I believe that this is the work I should be doing.  I will persevere. 

I experienced a lengthy poetic quiet time. It lasted throughout much of the 80s and into the early 90s. In the silence of my pen, I invested a significant course of study in my spiritual understanding, learning principals of metaphysics. Poetry had fulfilled my spiritual need throughout my life until my early 30s, when the words ran dry in the face of constant frustration and roadblocks to living my truest identity as poet. It was a crisis of faith and I searched for understanding. This was equally frustrating since the questions, I have discovered, are often confounding, rarely answered and, if somehow there is an answer, it is  generally anything but concrete.

I had a caring teacher who opened me to an understanding of healing and connection that is based in faith and intuition, the metaphysical realm of being that became an even stronger part of who I am in all ways. Rev. Joan D. Lee had a classroom in the basement of her suburban split ranch that served as a conduit to community in so many ways. There are countless ones such as myself who have reasons to honor and thank Joanie for all she presented to us, the keys to our knowledge, faith, and talents, that we then used to open a multitude of doors. For many of us, we embraced our life work. Our circle grew quite wide.

Rev. Joan has been on my mind this week, as is generally the case in August. It is her birthday month. We are no longer in touch. I knew that her husband of 55 years, Raymond Lee, made his transition this past winter. I wondered how she was going to get by. Joanie didn't drive.

This morning, as is my habit, I checked the obituaries on line. There was a notice with Joanie's name, stating that she passed into the Light on July 17th. I gasped. Then I offered my gratitude and bid her well in her journey. Thank you, Joan, for opening my eyes to my own capacity at a time when I needed both a mirror and a guide. Tonight I will light a candle in the garden for both Ray and Joan. I will place it between my two rose bushes that struggle on in their bed with not enough sun. I wonder who will inherit your rose beds. Will they understand how much you loved them? How long they have danced their seasons for you?

During my poetic quiet time, I learned much, including a healthy regard for the quiet times; an artist needs them. I also reflected often to the universe, If I may be of service with my words, please allow me to have them back. That was 17 years ago.

In these 17 years, I have created my life based on my true self, the one I knew intimately when I was first comprehending that I loved words. I am a poet. I take this very seriously. 

In those 17 years, I have built a pedagogy and a sound practice that may be summed up in a 3-word motto: Empowerment through Language. I thank my friend Amanda Gormley for assigning the task that led to this summary. I have also written and published three books. There are at least four in my brain right now, waiting for my fingers to translate them into written language. One of them carries the title Psychometry. I will dedicate it to Joan.

In my work as a writer educator, no matter the age or circumstance of the students before me, I approach my work with intention and integrity. I have no agenda other than to foster the ability of others to engage truly with themselves, with others, and with their own connection to language, and earn a living sharing the knowledge and perspective I have developed over the 50 years I have identified as poet. I hope that what I have to say has relevance to others. I hope that people will cross more bridges of understanding the poets of the world provide to us all so we may learn of the world beyond the small stamps we each create on this planet. 

This is a devoted path. It is my life. And now I trust that the recognition for my work will be expressed in a way that I am able to continue to earn my living and build some sense of security I do not have now.

It is a bit intimidating but we are all faced with fears in this moment in history. It is a crossroads for us all, one way or another. The horizon may appear dark but the sun is always just beyond, sometimes just beyond reach as well. But honor your belief in the sun. It is a constant.

A Brief Visit Home

Last week, after 2 days of my start with middle school students, encounters with the demons that plague classes with substitutes because the teachers are out, wondering why I even do this work, the snows hit. The storm of all storms for the Northeast. It was unlike any winter storm in 30 years for New York, New Jersey, parts of Pennsylvania, all places not as equipped as Central New York in dealing with the repercussions. It was also that heavy snow that is more water than ice, causing much damage.

Wednesday morning was certainly a snow day. I relished the fact that I was awake early, coffee in hand, and a day to myself in a home other than mine so I had fewer distractions, or so I thought. I spent a great deal of the day tending the fire. I was all Laura Ingalls Wilder in my brain. I had my knitting, a number of books, my journal, and then there was the artful act of observing the snow globe world through the window. 

Thursday morning the weather seemed just as ominous but my computer did not show a closing on the school web site. How could this be?! It was horrid outside. Then I realized that my page was not loading properly...magically the red font of a weather emergency displayed itself as the connection was made to the greater world. Day 2 and this one, I slipped back into bed for a nap. What luxury. And the day of fire tending would rest before me once I rose. I settled into a lovely peace.

Thursday night I thought I would be able to take a train from Poughkeepsie to NYC on Friday morning to attend one of the last of the Association of Teaching Artists board meetings of my waning term of service. Most of my colleagues had made it safely into the city from their homes and since I would not be in the classroom, as I had anticipated, I was delighted that I would be able to attend after all.

But that notion was put to rest by an unplowed driveway and a plow guy with a broken plow, coupled with the dreadful weight of that wet heaviness that was deeper than the hubcaps of my little car that I often describe as Shaquille O'Neal's rollerskate.

My friend Lani, with whom I was staying, had cancelled her plans to drive to Boston for the weekend in an act of prudence. Since Saturday marked the celebration of Purim, Lani was going to bake her famous hamatashen and she agreed to teach me.

I love when I get to be student. I watched her mix the dough, stir the ingredients and cook them down for different fillings, then the rolling of the dough, the portioning, the careful press to make the triangles that are the essence of this tradition. I tried the rolling and Lani was patient. I know she had knots in her stomach. It was a good time for her to wash some of the mixing bowls and pans while I made a mess of my first attempt. And when we cut our circles from the sweet thin dough, my little triangles hardly looked like an adult was involved. I felt like a 5-year old again but I also saw the benefit of experience.

The house filled with the perfumes of cookies baking, coffee in the pot, and fires at both ends of the house. There was music. Lani told me of her joy in walking through the halls where she works delivering the pastries to friends and colleagues. She shared the Purim story with me. And we sampled all the flavors. Yummy they were.

The universe made the decisions for us. We needed more to stay put than to wander out. In the afternoon, we went out to play in the snow for a little while, as well as survey the damage to the trees from the weight of the precipitation. Lani declared that she had never made a snow man as she packed a snowball. She is from Los Angeles. Snow men are not part of the culture. Since I have not made a snow man since I was approximately 9 or 10, of course we had to put ourselves to the task.

We giggled like kindergarteners. We rolled and patted our "snow chick" because it was obvious that she had a gender. We made her beautiful, a talisman to the day of peace and grounding. She has already melted but we took pictures so she is immortal. Lani made snow angels but the snow was deep and she needed to be pulled out. I was full of laughter.

When I returned to school on Monday, it had been 5 days since I had seen the teachers and students. Many of the kids had shoveled for cash and were proud of their industry. I think in an odd way, many of them were ready to be back in school, back in their routines. My routine and process was back in place as well, although I had to regroup five different groups of students and bring all of the brainstorming to the forefront. But I was rested and optimistic.

Three days later, I got in my car to drive home for 4 days in my own space. I did banking,  paid bills, took my car in for well-overdue maintenance, had brunch with my friend Jennifer, watered my plants. I read a month's worth of posts on my friend Jill's blog, as well as entries in Linda's. I made bread in the bread machine as soon as I got home. I realize now that I need much more respite than I used to require. Perhaps that is where inspiration resides. Maybe that is the cave where the poems rest. And that is where I center and remember who I really am.