Dear Aya

My longest friendship is with a woman who lives in another country.  Aya has been my pen pal since fall of 1993.  We began writing during my senior year of high school and my letters consisted of information about my classes, upcoming exams, and my part-time jobs.  Aya, a few years older than I, wrote of her education, her preference for the color pink, her admiration for birds, and her love all things Elvis.

During these seventeen years, we’ve written about men we’ve dated.  Men who we wouldn’t see again, and men who would become our husbands.  We’ve written about moving, buying cars, becoming teachers, and becoming mothers.  Our worlds have become larger and the subjects we write about have grown as well.

When someone finds out I have a pen pal, they are usually surprised by two things - the longevity of our friendship and the fact that we communicate with letters.  Old-fashioned, hand-written letters that require multiple stamps.  Letters that find their way back and forth at least once a month, with only the occasional e-mail.  There’s always a smile on my face when I see one of Aya’s letters among my utility bills.  Her stationery often features Disney characters or whimsical drawings of flowers or airplanes.  We adorn our envelopes with stickers and send pictures of our family back and forth over the ocean.  

We’re fortunate because we have met - several times.  Aya has many more stamps in her passport than I do.  I admire her courage and fearless spirit for flying hours on a plane to explore various locales.  She visited Hawaii and Las Vegas and Paris before I did.  And for a few months, Aya was an exchange student, residing an hour’s drive away.  We went out to eat, went to the movies, and shopped.  High price tags were not so high for Aya who informed me of the drastic price differences in Japan.

On a regular basis, thousands of miles separate us, yet we are close, and have shared in the milestones of each other’s lives.  I sat on the floor of our first apartment, speaking into a cassette player, recording a message of happiness, congratulations, and good wishes to be played at Aya’s wedding.  And a few years later, I returned home from a weekend in Laguna Beach to a phone message - Aya’s husband had telephoned to say Aya had given birth to a baby girl.  Almost eleven years ago, Reina entered the world and entered my life.  Her pictures hang in my home, just as my nephews’ pictures do.

Almost eight years later, my husband would send an email and a photo, announcing the birth of our son, Ryan.  Reina and Ryan.  Aya and Wendy, friends with birthdays each on the 7th. 

When we meet, we look very different.  Aya is a woman with acrylic nails, a Coach handbag, and high-heeled boots.  I am a woman with silver rings and clogs.  Yet, Aya knows me.  She knows my family, the names of my sister and nephews.  

I do not take our relationship for granted.  Generally speaking, friendships are not easy to maintain.  Written relationships are rare, and thus even more special and precious.  Just like Aya.

Holiday Greetings

***  Disclaimer - This blog is a reflection of my own opinions and beliefs.  It is in no way meant to offend, insult, or upset anyone who sends me the types of cards I am describing.  ***

I don’t think it’s an overstatement or an exaggeration of any kind to say that computers and the internet have changed our lives.

And I’m not just talking about making the world smaller or more accessible or faster and more convenient.  I’m talking about the computer’s trickle-down-effect that has extended its reach to holiday cards.

Every year, I receive an increasing number of  digital photo cards.  A family portrait or pictures of the children, sealed and delivered in all their glossiness with a generic message of joy and happiness at this time of year.  And the photo cards I receive are exactly the same cards a next-door neighbor or colleague receives.  And that’s the part that bothers me.

There’s no personalization.  There’s no special greeting specifically for my family and I.  When I open an envelope and find a generic, digital card inside, I feel like I’m opening an advertisement for the World Wildlife Fund.  I feel no personal connection to a mass-produced, mass-mailed holiday card.

Children are growing up with limited knowledge regarding the art of sending mail.

Instead it’s text messages, e-cards, and voicemail that are supposed to take the place for thank you notes, letters, and cards. 

Not me.  Call me old-fashioned, but I think there’s something special about opening an envelope and knowing that the contents inside were chosen just for me.  So, I addressed, stamped, and sealed my holiday cards myself.  I filled the slot on the front of the card with a picture of my son standing in front of a snowman.  And inside each card, I wrote a personal message tailored to the person opening the envelope.  My neighbor, my former boss, and my friend all received different sentiments because I have different relationships with them.  

Maybe you want me to remember that the important part is just receiving a card in the first place.  And I admit, it is nice to see holiday cards around the living room.  But, I want more.  I want a heartfelt, personal holiday card adorning my living room.

*** To all my readers, I wish you a happy holiday season filled with laughter, love, hugs, and hot cocoa!   ***

Dear Ryan

Dear Ryan,

   Do you ever feel like you have two different mommies?  They’re both me, it’s just that sometimes I feel like two different mommies.

   For half the year, I’m teacher-mommy.  That’s who I am right now.  I’ve been leaving the house earlier and I miss seeing you wake up.  I miss hearing you call out, “Ma, Da, Ry.”  I miss the first hug of the day, the first kiss of the day, the first rub of your satiny-soft cheek.  This past week, we haven’t shared our first hug and kiss until the afternoon.  Late afternoon.  And by then, I’m tired-teacher-mommy.  I’ve spent all day with other boys and girls - hugging them, making sure they’re safe, making sure they’re listening and following directions, making sure they’re learning.  And I’ve missed doing all those things with you.

   I know you’re having fun during the day.  I know these days are probably harder for me than for you.  And I’m glad you’re not missing me.  But, you have to know I’m missing you.  A lot.

   Soon, I’ll be on-vacation-mommy.  I’ll be home to feed you three meals a day.  I’ll be home to play “squish” with you first thing in the morning.  I’ll be home to sit on the sidewalk and color with our chalk.  I’ll be home to take you to the swings and push you high-in-the-sky.  

   When I’m on vacation, I won’t be waking up at 5 each morning, unless you decide you’re ready to start our day.  I won’t have papers stacked on my desk, waiting for me to grade.  I’ll have more energy to play puzzles on the floor or sing “head-shoulders-knees-and-toes.”

   Sweet Pea, even when I’m exhausted-teacher-mommy, please know that I am always your mommy.  I am honored to be your mommy.  You are what I am most proud of in my life.  My life is for you.  

   I give hugs and kisses and love to children at school.  But I never run out.  I always have an endless supply of hugs and kisses and love for you.  You are my number 1!  

   Ryan, I love you.  I tell you every day, and I won’t ever stop telling you - I love you one hundred, thousand, million, billion, trillion, gazillion, every minute of every day!

Love, 

Mommy

Phenomenal Woman

   There are times in life when I feel anything but phenomenal.  I feel run-down, exhausted, unattractive, and frumpy.  I feel frazzled, over-whelmed, and inundated.  This is one of those times.
   As a reminder to myself and my female readers, for this week's blog, I offer you the words of Maya Angelou.


      Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
      I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
      But when I start to tell them, They think I'm telling lies.
      I say, It's in the reach of my arms, The span of my hips,
      The stride of my step, The curl of my lips.
      I'm a woman
      Phenomenally.
      Phenomenal woman, That's me.
      I walk into a room
      Just as cool as you please,
      And to a man,
      The fellows stand or fall down on their knees.
      Then they swarm around me,
      A hive of honey bees.
      I say, It's the fire in my eyes,
      And the flash of my teeth,
      The swing in my waist,
      And the joy in my feet.
      I'm a woman
      Phenomenally.
      Phenomenal woman, That's me.
      Men themselves have wondered what they see in me.
      They try so much but they can't touch
      My inner mystery.
      When I try to show them,
      They say they still can't see.
      I say, It's in the arch of my back, The sun of my smile,
      The ride of my breasts,
      The grace of my style.
      I'm a woman
      Phenomenally.
      Phenomenal woman, That's me.
      Now you understand just why my head's not bowed.
      I don't shout or jump about
      Or have to talk read loud.
      When you see me passing,
      It ought to make you proud.
      I say, It's in the click of my heels,
      The bend of my hair,
      The palm of my hand, the need for my care.
      'Cause I'm a woman
      Phenomenally.
      Phenomenal woman, That's me.

Giving Thanks

Since becoming a mom, I’ve learned that inspiration, sleep, and alone time are all things that you take when you can get them.  And you don’t always find them where you’d expect to.

This week’s blog was inspired by something written on the back of our “Pepperidge Farm Goldfish Color Cracker” package.  

“Sometimes it’s the little things that make life more fun like blowing bubbles or playing ball.  If you stop and appreciate the little things you’ll probably find yourself smiling a little bigger.”

           In honor of those words of wisdom, I have created an acrostic poem celebrating all the little things I am thankful for.  

Turkey handprints.  My son’s hands take on a whole new level of cuteness when his fingers  represent turkey feathers.

Hug-a-bugs.  A full-body hug, with my son’s arms wrapped around me, his head resting against my shoulder, and I’m happily floating in our little hug-bubble.  Our own cheek-to-cheek dance.  

ABC’s.  One of the sweetest sounds I know is my two and a half year old son “spelling.”  Whether we’re shopping at the market, taking a walk in the neighborhood, or reading a book at the library, letters are becoming a part of my son’s world.  As a mom, a writer, and a teacher, I’m ecstatic that my son finds joy in words.

Night.  The house is quiet and still.  I have a few hours to grade papers, clean the house, and do some reading and writing before Mr. Sandman beckons me and it’s time to start a new day and a new to-do list.

        

Kisses.  On my lips or on Ryan’s feet.  A kiss is an intimate connection to another.  

Flowers, specifically sunflowers.  They are an eternally happy flower.  They are bright and sunshiney in summer, autumnish in fall.

Upside down cuddles.  When my son is in my arms, arching his back, looking at the world upside down, giggles are sure to follow as I kiss under his chin and along his neck.  Life is good, and the world is funnier when it’s upside down. 

Leaves that crunch under-foot.  Star-shaped, crimson leaves.  Heart-shaped, butter-colored leaves.  

What If?

My life isn’t playing out the way I thought it would.  My life isn’t bad in any way; it’s just different than I imagined it would be.  I’m different than I thought I would be.  I haven’t studied in France, eaten gelato in Italy, or visited my pen pal in Japan.  I haven’t witnessed a space shuttle launch, driven a convertible, or lived alone. 

And in all fairness, I have accomplished things I had never imagined.  Riding six buses a day as I put myself through college.  Reading a personal essay on NPR.  Navigating the road to Hana in Maui.  Becoming married at 22.  

Generally, I am happy and content with my life’s choices.  But, there are lingering doubts, nagging questions of “What if?”.  What if I had made different choices along the way?  Attended a different college?  Traveled internationally?  Dated a different guy?  

I think of Robert Frost’s poem, “The Road Not Taken,” and I know exactly where the fork in the road occurred in my life.  It was during middle school and the year I didn’t attend Space Camp.  United States Space Camp in Huntsville, Alabama - the place future astronauts go for a preview of life as an astronaut.  

When I was in fourth grade, the space shuttle Challenger exploded, killing the entire crew.  One member, Christa McAuliffe, would have been the first teacher in space.  Although it wasn’t the way she had intended, she did teach and inspire me.  I decided I wanted to be an astronaut.  Space had intrigued Christa, but she wasn’t a military officer or a pilot.  She was a regular person.  She did it.  I could too.  I was going to be the first woman to walk on the moon; it hadn’t been done before, why not me?  I studied mission dates and statistics.  I knew the names of the seven Mercury astronauts.  I learned acronyms that astronauts use on a daily basis - EVM was an extra-vehicular maneuver and SRBs were the Solid Rocket Boosters.

I needed to go to Space Camp.  I needed to begin my training.  My parents told me if I wanted to attend Space Camp, I would have to pay for it myself.  For years, I saved my money until finally I mailed away my registration paperwork and a cashier’s check.  I bought a duffle bag and engraved luggage tags.  

I had months to wait.  And get anxious.  And get scared.  

My mom didn’t want me to go.  She was nervous and afraid.  Except for a few times at Grandma’s house, I had never slept away from home.  Traveling across the country by myself was a big step for me, and our family.  

I allowed the scary “what if’s” to get the best of me.  “What if my luggage got lost?”  “What if I didn’t make any friends during my week at Space Camp?”  “What if the week’s activities were so difficult and challenging, I didn’t enjoy myself?”  “What if I wasn’t smart enough or clever enough?”  “What if I didn’t have what it takes to be an astronaut?”  

So I canceled.  I got back most of my money, and to save face, I concocted a story that Space Camp had made an error in my reservation.  Better to blame them than myself.  Or my mom.

I cancelled my dream.  And I became someone I wasn’t proud of - a coward and a liar.  And to this day, I’m not convinced I made the right decision.  

What if I had gone to Space Camp?  Would it have propelled me to keep working toward my astronaut goal?  Would I now be actively involved in astronaut training in Houston, Texas instead of teaching fourth grade in Los Angeles, California?  Maybe I would have spent the week there and realized I didn’t want to risk my life by going into outer space.  Maybe I would have become a teacher anyway.  But at least I wouldn’t have this irritating, fly-buzzing-around-my-head feeling of, “What if?” 

I tried to console myself.  I didn’t need to go to Space Camp.  People became astronauts before a place like Space Camp even existed.  I would prepare myself for my future career by reading, learning, and studying.  

Then, during my junior year of high school, I volunteered in a fifth grade classroom.  I met a boy named Silas.  We sat together in the back of the room, working side-by-side on multiplication facts and writing complete sentences.  My work with Silas was monumental.  He became more respectful in class.  His spelling test grades improved.  His handwriting became neater.  And I remembered Christa McAuliffe’s words:  “I touch the future.  I teach.”  Maybe I didn’t need to go to space to make a difference.  

Once again I picked the safer alternative.  I am an elementary school teacher.  

  

Do Your Best

“Do your best.”  That’s what the sign says that hangs above my classroom door.  

I am a teacher who hugs, plays multiplication volleyball, uses tortillas to teach fractions, and reads aloud to my students each day after lunch.

I am a Los Angeles Unified school teacher with ten years experience.  I’ve been fortunate to spend my entire career at one school.  I’ve made close relationships with students and their families.  And I go home each day knowing I gave my kids my all.  I admit that I’m a better teacher now than when I started.  I admit I still have plenty to learn (why is it so hard to have children walk in two straight, quiet lines up and down the stairs?).

Teaching has never been just a job for me.  It’s been a passion.  Now, though, I’m tempted to call it quits. It’s not the money; it’s the blatant disrespect.  

The Los Angeles Times decided that the fault of public schools rests on the teachers.  We are the reasons our test scores don’t go up.  I’m here to tell you, no we’re not.  As I tell my students, those state tests are important, but they are not the most important thing.  When all is said and done, those tests measure a student’s performance during one week in May.  

This year, I have a class of inquisitive, spunky children.  Two speak very little English.  One has a terminal illness.  One has autism.  One lives with a parent who has a second grade education.  Many do not live with their fathers.  Five of them are pulled out for resource.  Five more are pulled out for reading intervention.  Ask me if they’re smart.  And I’ll say, “Hell yes.”  These children have challenging lives.  And yet, every night, they go home and complete their homework.  It’s not always right, but the effort is made each night, by each child.

I don’t post grades where my students can see them.  Work hung on bulletin boards is representative of each child’s best work.  They are competing with themselves, not each other.

They are trying to do better than they did before.  They are doing their best.

So am I.

The Los Angeles Times disagrees.  The Times decided to publish an online database listing teachers and their perceived effectiveness.  And The Times said I was a “least effective teacher.”  I read those words and the computer screen blurred and my stomach hurt.

How could anyone say that about me?  When my grade level’s test scores have been going up.  When my kids are making progress in all areas of their school life - grades, effort, attitude, and work habits. 

I firmly believe you cannot measure a teacher’s effectiveness based on students’ test scores.  There are too many variables over which I have no control.  I’m with my children from 8:11-2:35.  What is happening to them when I’m not around? 

Not every student is going to score “Advanced” on a multiple-choice language arts and math test.  It’s not how we’re designed.  

My job is to help each child succeed.  My job is to help each child believe in themselves.