Mrs. Kennar's Kinara

   At the front of the classroom, I do my best to pay homage to the December holidays.  There is a small, artificial Christmas tree - a souvenir from my childhood, as well as an over-sized candy cane hanging from the bulletin board.  My menorah is on display as well as a kinara for Kwanzaa.

   That’s when the giggles start.  Mrs. Kennar’s kinara.  I explain to my students that the kinara is not named after me.  And in fact, our family doesn’t celebrate Kwanzaa.  Yet, I look at my classroom display and see my family represented.  My African-American husband, my Jewish mother, my Baptist father.  

   This year, as my son and I lit the menorah on the first night of Chanukah, Ryan practiced singing “Feliz Navidad,” a song he is learning at preschool.  On our table, were a Santa toy and a stuffed animal version of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

   As a child, I grew up with the holidays all mushed-together.  A Christmas ham and potato latkes for Christmas Eve dinner.  One present for the first night of Chanukah, a surprise in our stocking, and several presents under the tree on Christmas morning.

   It’s not as important to me that my students be able to spell Kwanzaa or menorah, but that they understand that different people celebrate, or don’t celebrate, differently.  And whatever each family does, or doesn’t do, is okay.  More than okay.  However each family acknowledges the December holidays deserves to be respected.  One way isn’t more right than another.  One way isn’t better than another.

   This year, I am also trying very hard to impress upon my students that this is the season of giving and sharing.  We are having a cookie decorating party on our last day of school, with the stipulation that for every cookie each student decorates, he/she must give one to a member of our school staff as a way of saying thank you for their contribution to our school community.

   At home, Ryan knows Santa will bring him presents if he behaves well.  However, I have not, and will not, ask him what he wants.  I have a fleeting window of opportunity to keep my son innocent about this time of year, and use it to teach him the joy that comes from giving to others instead of using this time as an “I want-I want” time.  So, we sit on the floor, use more wrapping paper and tape than are actually required, and wrap presents for Grandma and Grandpa.  We’re talking about the cool surprises we’ll have for Daddy.  

   We light the candles on the menorah that sits on the table, across the room from our Christmas tree.  Those are our holidays.  

Publication News

Dear Readers, 
One of my essays has been posted at familius.com.  Here's the link:

 http://www.familius.com/celebrating-the-times-the-good-the-big-the-small. 

Miracles

“It is a miracle if you can find true friends, and it is a miracle if you have enough food to eat, and it is a miracle if you get to spend your days and evenings doing whatever it is you like to do, and the holiday season - like all the other seasons - is a good time not only to tell stories of miracles, but to think about the miracles in your own life, and to be grateful for them.”

- Lemony Snicket, The Lump of Coal

We’re surrounded by miracles.  My son is a miracle.  Being able to walk is a miracle I no longer take for granted, not since days and weeks spent in a wheelchair and reliant on a walker.  

The human body is indeed a miracle.  The way it works or doesn’t work.  The way it can repair itself.  The way it grows and evolves.  The way it can fail and break down.

Thanks to technological advances, medical miracles are a fact.  And recently, I am full of gratitude for a medical miracle.  One of my former students (I taught her two years ago) was diagnosed with a heart condition this past summer.  She was tall and athletic.  Boisterous and loud.  Messy and disruptive.  Difficult and defiant.  Personable and friendly.  She and I always hugged when we saw each other in the hall.  And then one day, she and her family learned her heart was no longer doing its job and her life was in peril.

For approximately five months, M. has awaited a heart transplant at Children’s Hospital in Los Angeles.  Life goes on for us.  Monday through Friday, my students take attendance, learn new vocabulary words, learn the states and capitals.  But we also made time to remember M.  My students have written letters, drawn pictures, and sent notes to M. to let her know she isn’t forgotten.  I have sent her a novel and Mad Libs and notes telling her I love her.

Miracles happen.  Monday morning, I learned that M. received a new heart on Sunday.  And as I write this, the surgery is being deemed successful.  My class is busy preparing a new batch of cards and notes to send her during her recovery.  And on my whiteboard at the front of the classroom, is a heart with M.’s name inside.  She is one of the many miracles in my life that I am grateful for.

Confessions

   I lie to children.  Monday through Friday, September to June, at some point during the school day, I lie to children just entering their double-digit years.

   Maybe “lie” is too harsh a word.  I fool, I act, I entertain.  I persuade, I cajole, I influence.  

   I read with an excitement I don’t feel about Father Serra and the establishment of the California Missions.  I pretend to listen with interest as a student recounts a video game experience.  I bite my tongue and don’t tell a child I’m glad I only have to be her teacher until June.

   I “create” an honest statement of praise to begin each parent/teacher conference.  I diplomatically tell a parent that their child has leadership qualities, meaning they’ve become the “mean, popular kid.”  I tell a parent their child has artistic tendencies, meaning your child is drawing “Angry Birds” during lessons.

   Upon returning from a one week Thanksgiving break, I’m met with hugs and echoes of “I missed you.”  When asked, I tell students I missed them too.  But I lie.  It’s not that I didn’t miss a particular student, it’s that I didn’t miss my job - teaching this group of students.  Because I’m not just teaching.  I’m mothering.  I’m counseling.  I’m feeding.  I’m 

reminding about untied shoelaces, encouraging a child to take a jacket outside to ward against the chill in the air.  I’m teaching the importance of “please” and “thank you,” and I’m teaching how to win and lose graciously.  

   And, I confess, I do things and say things that no teaching-credential program would approve of.  I am sarcastic - “Thank you for waiting so quietly.”  I use guilt - “Go apologize to the office staff for being noisy as we walked by.”  I try to shame my students with, “I’m so disappointed in you.”  And I hope flattery will bring more of the desired behavior - “You’re too smart to need reminders about how to walk in a line.”

   I am the hugging teacher.  The one that greets her class each morning with, “Good morning, loves.”  I am the nurturing teacher, the one who draws hearts on the board, to send my students love while they’re taking a test.  I do it because it’s the only way I know how to teach.  

   And I confess, some children are harder to love than others.  Some children are much more difficult to appreciate than others.  Some children scare me; my future is, to a certain extent, in their hands.

   I confess that some days I count down the hours until the final bell.  I confess that by the time March rolls around, I’m counting down the days to spring break.  And upon returning from spring break, I’m counting down the days to summer vacation.

   I confess that teaching is harder than I ever thought it would be.  I confess that, after twelve years, I fantasize about quitting my job.  

Publication News!

I am pleased to share that one of my personal essays "13 Lessons About Marriage" has recently been published at www.divinecaroline.com.  Here's the link:

http://www.divinecaroline.com/22071/133773-13-lessons-marriage

I hope my readers know how very thankful I am for you!!!

Memories

       Memory works in funny ways.  I can recite the Preamble to the Constitution but not always recall what I ate for dinner the evening before.  I can recite phone numbers and license plate numbers but not remember where I last put down my pen.

Thirty-six years on this planet and here are some of my random memories:

My first memory dates back to when I was almost three.  I wore a nightgown, and my brown hair hung down.  I was leaning on the wall behind me as I talked on the phone that hung in the doorway between the dining room and the kitchen.  My Grandma sat on the couch, facing the fireplace.  I know I was speaking to one of my parents.  And I know they were at the hospital, and when they came home, I’d have a baby sister.

I remember attending kindergarten orientation, wearing sandals, and worrying when the teachers announced that students would not be permitted to wear anything but closed-toe shoes to school.  Had I already broken a rule?  (My mom assured me it was okay for that one day).  

I remember a birthday party at Burger King, leaning forward to blow out the candles, and my long hair almost getting singed by the flames.

I remember I wore a skirt the night I first was kissed.

Those are just random snapshots - a few culled from the millions of momentous moments scattered throughout my life.

And now I wonder - what will my son remember?

I am trying to raise my four-year-old son with endless amounts of love along with a sense of fun and responsibility and security.  I am trying to raise my son in a home that is happy.  I am trying to give my son confidence to be who he is.  I am trying to provide my son with a childhood full of memorable moments.

    What will stand out from the millions of moments we share?  I can only hope the good moments will be those he holds on to and carries with him throughout his life.

There is  his first visit to Disneyland.  His Halloween performance at preschool.  A pony ride at Griffith Park, a tricycle ride around the block, picking out the Christmas tree with Daddy, or visiting Grandpa at the golf course.

Or will it be a Sunday outing to Ralphs, an afternoon spent outside watering the plants, or shredding lettuce for our dinner salads?

I don’t know yet, but I’m anxious to find out.  

Readers, I must ask, what is your first memory?  I’d love to have you share in the comments section!

Books, please

   I am a book person.  Each summer, my mother would take my sister and I to the library at least once a week.  We each borrowed ten books (the maximum), and as my mom drove us home, I began reading in the car.

   My shyness and unease during high school would propel me to search for a place where I felt accepted.  I found refuge in the school library, volunteering at lunch and after-school.  

   During college, I worked part-time in a public library.  And as an undergraduate student, I gained classroom experience by volunteering to read aloud in an elementary school classroom.

   Suffice it to say, I am reluctant to embrace a hand-held tablet device.  For those who travel, I think the tablet certainly does solve the problems of space and added weight that a pile of books can create in crammed luggage.

   

          However, in my mind there are so many benefits, so many reasons why we can’t stop publishing physical books.  Here is my list of the five reasons why I prefer a book to a digital version.

1. Books are unique.  The font, picture, and design of each book is distinct.  The covers are designed to stand out.  They are a way of glimpsing the content inside as well as differentiating one book from another.
2. Books are substantial.  Meaning, they fill up my bookcase.  Physical books are a way of documenting my life, my interests.  There is the shelf of books about parenthood.  The shelf of books about living in France (a fantasy of mine).  The shelf of books about teaching.
3. Books can be easily shared.  I can read a novel that I enjoyed and pass it along to my mom, knowing she’ll be entertained.  
4. Books can be personalized.  I highlight while I read, tag pages with post-its, and mark thoughtful passages.  My reading thus becomes my reading, different from someone else’s final take on the story.
5. Books are cheaper.  A book is much easier and cheaper to replace than a tablet.  Accidents happen, and I admit I once dozed off in the bathtub and dropped the biography I was reading into the lukewarm water.  The book was ruined, but I was able to easily buy myself a replacement copy.