Goodbye, Verona

I have a person very close to me who tells amazing stories about his childhood.  He has an uncanny knack for details about dates, times, and people that never ceases to amaze me, especially considering he has close to a couple of decades on me.  It often makes me wonder about events from my childhood and why I don't have the recall needed to tell a good story.  After all, I'm the "writer," not him.  But he's the talker, the storyteller, and I'm just the muller-over...or would that be the over-mullerer?  But I took a trip down Memory Lane when I visited my elementary alma mater over the weekend, and the stories came rushing back to me, albeit in bits and pieces.

My elementary school, Verona Elementary, is closing at the end of this school year.  (I'm at the :25 mark in that video, chatting with my kindergarten teacher.) I'm taking it a little hard, maybe a little harder than most people.  Let's face it, I take most things harder than most people, but I'm pretty sure that this one is with good reason.  No only did I attend school there, but my mother taught there for forty years.  Yes, forty.  Holy hell, that's a long time! So it's no wonder that Verona has been such a big part of my life.

My mom and I toured the soon-to-close building on Saturday, along with a small crowd attending the open house commemorating the closing.  I got a bumper sticker and a card-stock print of the school, which is pretty nice, but nothing compared to being able to walk the sidewalks and visit the classrooms one more time.  Mom made a production (or so I felt) out of introducing me to people I didn't know, and proudly telling them I was a teacher at "the middle school," and talking about how much time I spent in her classrooms through the years.  And I got choked up.  You see, not only do I have the typical elementary school memories that all kids have, but I have another whole set of memories connected to that school just from being a teacher's kid, and those are just as powerful. Maybe more so.

I met my best friend Angie in kindergarten.  I don't remember how we met, just that we did, and that our kindergarten teacher bit her to show her how it felt after she bit another student.  I swallowed a dime in kindergarten, too.  It hurt like hell.  I got mad because I already knew how to read and we were learning the alphabet.

In first grade, I got glasses.  I also got sent to second grade for reading class because I was so far above grade level.  Unfortunately, I was also a chickenshit, so I think it lasted about five minutes.  Can you blame me?  I was barely six, and thrust into a classroom full of kids who were probably seven and eight, and they seemed so old!  I think my parents split up around this time, too.

In second grade, I fell in love with Joey Chewning, who I'm pretty sure had failed a grade, or at least I thought he had, which made him even more appealing.  He had buck teeth and skinny legs, and I thought he was a bad boy, which is probably why I loved him.  His best friend tried to hold me still so Joey could kiss me on the hopscotch court one day at recess.  I kicked the friend in the shin and ran away, and that was the end of that.  Joey moved to Virginia Beach later that year, and I never heard another word about him.  We spent recess trying to uncover a "gold" utility cap we found against the second grade classrooms; we'd clean it off, get the gravel dust off of it, and use it for a base in our games of tag.  (I looked for that thing the other day; unfortunately, they covered the playground with topsoil and planted grass, and I didn't have time for the vandalism required to dig the damn thing up.)

In third grade, I read Greek myths and had a boy for a best friend for about ten minutes, but I remember it.  My favorite Greek heroine was Atalanta, which maybe explains my tomboy tendencies that year.  Jeff McWhorter threw a snowball at me on the playground (we actually went to school when there was snow on the ground in those days) and broke my glasses.  He apologized, but I held a grudge and never forgave him.  We wrote love notes and asked the boys we liked to write back.

I don't think I liked fourth grade.  I remember 4-H and being made to write "I will not talk in class" one hundred times for homework.  I remember telling my dad that on the phone, him calling the teacher at home, and me getting out of it.  That's embarrassing.  I probably deserved it.

Fifth grade was a turning point in lots of ways.  My BFF and I weren't in the same class, and we both made new friends.  I was jealous of hers, and mine didn't speak any English.  I spent fifth grade on a mission to teach Sandy English and trying to learn Chinese.  We made each other word books, and I went to visit her family in the motel they owned.  I stopped going to "Bible" as we called it, (Weekday Religious Education, for those of you not fortunate enough to have that bit of weirdness in your lives) that year, too, with some newfound conviction that religion didn't have a place in the school day.  I caught some hell over that from a lot of people, but I stuck to my guns.  I gave handwriting lessons, and I learned that racism was a thing.  Our school play was The Jungle Book, in which I was cast as an elephant, which traumatized me a smidge.  No cute costume for me, nope.  I had to wear baggy grey sweatpants, a baggy grey t-shirt, and a paper grocery bag elephant mask with an accordion trunk over my head.  I remember how that grey spray paint smelled--a little like shame.  I got in a fight with a girl named Michelle during a practice, and we both got in school suspension and kicked out of the dress rehearsal.  It was a strange experience to walk into the cafeteria on Saturday, where choir students were performing, to immediately recognize a song from The Jungle Book, which I performed on that very stage.

I watched General Hospital and Rick Springfield in the afternoons in my mom's classroom(s) while I helped her do teachery-stuff.  I put nametags on desks and graded papers.  I used the opaque projector to draw large characters for the bulletin boards, then I colored them with Mr. Sketch smelly markers before they got laminated.  I changed the monthly calendar and cut out leaves and turkeys to hang up for the dates.  I put a staple through my finger trying to reload a stapler.  I bought Tab from the teachers' lounge machine...one of those 1970's machines that sold glass bottles that we slid from one side of the machine down metal slots in the drink chest.  Truth be known, I learned how to be a teacher during those years, both from my mom and the whole slew of awesome teachers I had through the years, more so than I did in any college course I ever took.

Years later, I took my own son to visit his "Grammy" in his preschool years.  I'd pick him up at the sitter or at preschool, and we'd stop by for a visit.  He'd explore her classroom and she'd show him off to her teacher friends before we made the requisite stop to the modern playground equipment that was added long after they took out our beloved merry-go-round.  He'd play, and slide down the "firepole," and my focus was on him, not on the school or the possibility that it might not one day be there just as it always had been during my life.




I understand the need to close the school, in a fiscal sense.  But I'm fighting an urge to try to buy every piece of memorabilia possible from that building.  The tiny pastel chairs in the kindergarten and first grade buildings (which must have been great chairs, because they've lasted all this time). The avocado-green bookcases and rolling coat closets that were in every room.  The low-slung counters in the primary grades.  Even the bathroom stall doors that we used to lock and climb over so the next person couldn't get to the toilet.  The large piece of eternal pipe that we used to play on and hide in from the boys who were chasing us.  I can't do that, of course, but I can take the memories with me and smile a little at the fact that my mom remembers things the way I do.

Goodbye, Verona, and thank you.

School's Out, for Summer!

In the midst of my celebrating and "yahooo"-ing because it's FINALLY summer, and this very long, VERY weird year is finally over, a lot of things are running through my brain.  Some are personal reflections on the ups and downs I have been through this year, and others are about professional topics.  Still others are about the more humanistic side of my job, which, in spite of the data and the paperwork and the meetings, and in spite of what the politicians and the administrators want me to care about most, is STILL the most important part of my job, commas and question marks be damned. 

In no set order of chronology or importance, here are some of the things that will go down in my personal history as being a big part of the 2012-2013 school year.  My dad's illness and recovery.  The death of my sweet, sweet Kizzy.  The welcoming into our little family of our cute little fuzzball-turned-demon-hellcat, Goombay, and our bassett hound-turned-freight train Baxter.  Changing and developing friendships and a new BFF/sidekick, without whose support and encouragement I wouldn't have made it through the year. (There's your shout-out, Missy!) The tragic and sudden loss of a dear, dear friend.  Newfound inspiration to write and, after much turmoil, to broadcast it to the world.  The list goes on and on, and I'm afraid that I'm leaving out something monumental, but oh well...suffice it to say it was topsy-turvy.

Professionally, I was met with some challenges as well.  A new administration, new procedural "things" dealing with teacher evaluation and increased impossibility rigor in testing standards, and just a different, different way of doing things.  Added responsibilities of advising the drama club and directing a play on my own.  My "cheese" being moved all the hell over the place (that's for you, Jackie and Bill).  The interesting new perspective on budgets and pay raises and how things are done in this little neck of the woods.  I could go on and on here, too.  The point is, I survived it all, and came out smelling like a rose...or at the very least, a dandelion. 

So, I'm not mourning the end to this school year too much.  I'm pretty damn glad it's over, actually.  I need some time to recoup, to gather my wits, to relax and enjoy hanging out with my kid and the rest of the family.  I really need some time to do laundry and mop some floors.  All that aside, though...through this whole year, in spite of dealing with the unexpected and the uncertainty, one really important thing that my job provided to me was a degree of certainty and routine.  It's nice to have a schedule, a reason to get up and get motivated...it's even nice to have a mile-long list of things to do that can be accomplished within a day or a week and checked off.  Things at home aren't always that concrete or measurable, and I started thinking this week about how that is for the kids.

Kids, especially middle-schoolers, will tell you to no end that they hate school, and many celebrate the end of it as much as (well, maybe not as much) the teachers do.  But if you look carefully, there are those kids for whom the end of the school year is a panic button.  Some of my kids were sad today and not ashamed of it.  They told me they loved being on our team and in 7th grade.  Others wanted hugs, or their yearbooks signed; some promised to email over the summer.  And there were some who were uncharacteristically quiet. 

I'd been thinking all week about those "fringe" benefits that school provides, in addition to a stellar education.  We provide certainty, when so, so many of our kids live in chaotic situations.  We provide meals, when many of our students go home to empty cupboards.  We provide socialization, when some of the kids will spend their summers in front of a television in an empty house while their parents work.  We provide structure and routine...and safety, when a heartbreaking number of our kids are making do without. We hope we provide motivation and work ethic, when fewer and fewer of our students come with those instilled values.  

Needless to say, I've started off my summer doing what I do best...worrying.  Worrying about whether the pep talks and reading materials I gave my struggling readers will stay in their memory past the first episode of Spongebob.  Worrying about the students that I know don't have much food in their homes.  Worrying about the students whose parents don't even wake them up and get them going on school days, much less in the summer time.  Worrying that the kids who worked so hard only to be given a score of "Fail" on their SOL report card are going to be discouraged heading into the next school year.  And most of all, worrying that some of them are going to fall victim to those facets of their lives that make them panic and not celebrate on the last day of school. 

There's only so much we can do.  And I worry it's not enough.  And if there were ever a viable, logical reason for year-round schooling (wait, did I just say that?), that would be the one. 

Happy summer to all of my coworkers, and to my students. 

Superstitious

Andrew's elementary school does an awards ceremony every grading period.  They present ribbons and certificates and whatnot to the kids who have earned the honor roll, perfect attendance, and the dubious honor of "most improved" in you-name-it.  It's a quick and efficient little ceremony that parents are invited are attend, and all of the kids in the specified grade levels go watch and cheer on their classmates.  It's nice, for those kids being honored, but it can be a blow to the self-esteem for those who don't get anything.  I know this from experience. 

Second grade has been up and down for Andrew.  As is true with a lot of kids for whom things come easily, he spent part of this year unmotivated and trying to squeak by with a bare minimum of effort.  I have to accept the blame for that gene, I think.  Just ask my high school teachers.  Even the seemingly easy "Perfect Attendance" award isn't easy to achieve during flu season, for anyone who occasionally misses the bus, or who might get picked up early for a family trip.  (That's a sub-topic on this post...see the last paragraph for more on "perfect" attendance.)  Combine unavoidable absences with a bump in the academic road, and you've got a little kid who gets nothing.  There were a few grading periods where he didn't receive any awards, which crushed him!

So, for this kid of mine, whom I do not want to see become a slacker, especially this early in his school career, it's important that we make a fuss and try to be reinforce the good stuff.  He's sensitive (also my gene), and he takes the good and the bad to heart pretty easily.  So I told him I'd try my best to be there today, in spite of the fact that we were playing student-faculty volleyball and it's crazy at my own school during this last week.  I'm very glad I made it, because not only did I see his face light up when he saw me sitting in the risers at the back of the gym, but I got to witness a ritual I would have missed otherwise. 

Andrew sat respectfully during the kindergarten and first grade awards, but as the second grade awards began to be announced, I noticed him becoming more fidgety and excited.  The first thing that caught my eye was that he was sitting on his feet, and while I thought maybe it was so he could see over all of the rows in front of him, I soon realized it was something different.  See, Andrew didn't know he was getting an award like all of the other students did.  Notes are supposed to be sent home a couple of days in advance so that parents can make arrangements to be there, but Andrew's teacher has been out on leave and didn't send them home.  So I was banking on him getting one, but we didn't know for sure.  All of the other students who were getting awards were waiting patiently for their names to be called, and while I'm sure they were excited, the element of surprise--that "Oscar" moment-- wasn't there. 

Anyway, I soon realized that my reformed slacker was actually trying to give himself luck...he was sitting on his feet because he had his legs crossed under him.  He had crossed the fingers on both hands for luck as well, and at points, also had his arms crossed and his hands in front of his face like he just couldn't stand the suspense.  He REALLY wanted that award!  Thankfully, he was not disappointed, and was awarded Honor Roll recognition once again.  But is he now going to think that all that appendage-twisting actually worked?  I hope so...because I think believing in luck is sort of like believing in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny.  It's only going to be believable for a while, until he realizes that there's some a lot of stuff in life we have no control over.  (Never mind the fact that there are certain pieces of jewelry I won't wear to JMU basketball games because they're unlucky...that's a different story.)  And as long as he doesn't start thinking unwashed socks or eating certain foods before karate tournaments are "luck," I'll let him keep believing it. 

Subtopic Alert:  Andrew would have had Perfect Attendance this six-weeks, but he missed a day to go to our dear friend's funeral last week.  And while at first he said that he wanted to go to school, we talked about the RIGHT reasons to miss school and how this was one of the very best and most important reasons to miss...way more important than a Perfect Attendance award.  My THING, though, is that he could potentially have been picked up early or gone in late to attend...and still not gotten the award, even if he had been there.  I know, I know, the word perfect is like totally or completely.  There are no degrees of perfect.  But if missing a couple of hours of school to bid farewell to a loved one means imperfect attendance, so be it.  He made the right decision, but he shouldn't have had to.  I'd rather he have character, anyway.