The Way We Are

For me the jury will always be out on Facebook.

I'm not really a picture poster of my morning walk or my pot of soup or my new shoes. Still, through Facebook I've been found by great people who have been absent from my life for decades. I've read some interesting articles I wouldn't have discovered on my own. I've been inspired by artful banners with lovely sayings.

Recently, however, I happened onto a heated exchange among students I taught at an independent high school in the 80s. I was amazed.

In all honesty, I couldn't remember much about some of them, but some I will always know like the back of my hand. Teach teenagers for four years in a small school and sponsor them in extracurricular activities, and their emotional fingerprints leave marks on your heart.

My husband Cliff and I met at that school. He taught in the elementary division, and over the years, his students began to show up in my classes. By trading notes, we realized they hadn't changed from kindergarteners to freshmen. The rowdy ones were still racing down the halls. The anxious souls were still biting their nails. The excellent students were still academically engaged. Children were children.

But here's what snapped me to attention as I scrolled through the Facebook ranting. They really hadn't changed in adulthood either. Grades and classroom behavior were no longer the issue here.

Civility was.

Tolerance was.

Goodness was.

No matter how many degrees they'd earned or spouses they'd had or children they'd raised or careers they'd exchanged, their personalities were basically the same.

I was relieved to no longer be responsible for the difficult ones. But I missed the dear ones like all get out. Their considered comments made me smile. Few things are better than knowing you once played a part in the sweet lives of people who have maintained their clarity.

We are who we always were. For better or worse.

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The Strategy of Belief

Children come easily into the lives of some people. That was not the case for Cliff and me. Armed with a wing and a prayer, we ended up on the roller coaster ride of international adoption in the 1990s.

China had their rules. The United States had theirs.

Our job was to send countless notarized documents back and forth across this country and theirs. I walked around with my hands in the air, ready for yet another round of fingerprinting. Cliff said there was no reason to put his checkbook away because every office wanted another fee. 

Then everything changed. China said the baby demand required an overhaul. They padlocked their adoption bureau doors. Our paperwork was trapped inside. It would take however long it took.

We waited.

Like a lot of women in my shoes, I avoided toy stores and children's departments. Tiny sweaters and stuffed bears were painful reminders. They went into the hands of every child except ours.

Then one spring shopping day in the middle of housewares, I needed to believe in her, our anonymous oversees baby. Ceramic ducks and glass eggs lined the shelves, and I remembered the Easter decorations my mother displayed every year. They made the holiday real for me. I wanted something that would make the holiday real for her. Some day. With us.

Magical thinking is hard to explain. There is no rational equation here. Every heart clings to something.

Suddenly I spotted them: a sugar and creamer of adorable bunny sweethearts. He held the yellow mirror so his girlfriend could admire her bonnet. I knew she'd love them, this child I'd never laid eyes on.

A year later, she did.

Maggie carefully positioned her face to peek into that tiny mirror, adjusting the girl so she could see herself. She's done that every year of her life with us until this one. In that offhand teenager way, she said it didn't matter.

I've been thinking about this. For several years we've played a game when I'd make out a grocery list. I'd ask if she needed anything. She'd offer several items: strawberries, peanut butter, and a boyfriend. "I'll look," I'd say, pretending to add that, too. I finally realized this year she has the thing she's wanted for years--a sweetheart of her own.

I moved the girl for her.

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Teaching in the Dark

I don't know that people can really be taught how to teach.

Anyone can memorize strategies. Anyone can follow the Teacher's Guide. Anyone can give a multiple choice test. But what do you end up with? None of that accomplished what I thought ought to happen in a classroom.

I once had a sophomore English class of 15 or so kids who wouldn't talk. They were good kids, but I don't know if any of them were destined to become college English majors. Scheduling controlled the kind of students who ended up in a section. Maybe these were excellent math/science minds. The answer needed to be 24 or it was wrong. The experiment needed to prove at what temperature oil boils.

Discussing a novel was wide open territory. That kind of horizon might have been too far to travel for them. I knew it would be a long year if I couldn't bring them along on the journey.

Out of desperation, I decided to make them invisible. If no one saw them, they wouldn't have to risk being embarrassed for an answer. So I took a lantern that we were using for the fall play to class. The windowless room would be pitch black without the florescent lighting.

I struck a match, replaced the globe, and lowered the wick, knowing most of them had never seen a lantern lighted. When I told the girl near the switch to turn off the lights, she hesitated. This was not a direction ever given. "Go on," I said encouragingly.

There was a soft gasp. I let the silence settle as their faces faded into the darkness. Every last classroom expectation disappeared.

They became anonymous.

I asked a question about the chapter. No one answered, as usual. "I know," I said. "It's a hard thing to think about. I'm not sure I know how to answer it either. I can wait."

They realized there was no point of raising a hand that couldn't be seen. They calculated this puzzle. Finally someone spoke quietly, admitting he wasn't sure either, since I wasn't sure, but thought....Then someone else spoke. Then someone else. I asked another question and another, all based on possibilities they'd offered. It was a discussion, all right.

I suppose you couldn't do that now. I'd be reported for having matches. A parent would complain that I'd endangered lives. I'd be written up for violating fire codes. It wouldn't qualify under Common Core guidelines.

But I can tell you this: Nothing was ever the same in that room again. They found their voices in the dark. And they weren't about to go back. I still have that lantern. If lighted, you'd see the same glow. But I see those golden sophomore faces.


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Lilies Nevertheless

In Minnesota, spring is a struggle.

I awoke on this April morning to five inches of new snow across the garden--pretty and fluffy but wrong.

On a day like this, it takes imagination to remember what lies beneath the snow. Below the cold drifts, my grandmother's lilies wait for their chance. Even though they are invisible, they hold their inevitable green and yellow promises close.

They are not worried. They are not frustrated. They are not desperate. They wait patiently. Theirs are resilient spirits. 

I cannot face making another pot of hot soup for dinner, not in April. Instead, I'm looking ahead, trying to be like a lily nevertheless. So we'll have poppy seed chicken and asparagus with fresh lemon juice. I'll let a few seeds fall onto the platter. Dinner will be a reminder of what people forget when faced with April snow.

Seeds.

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