…(which has gotta be one of the sweetest things about the NYC school system), “Now We Are 6″ is going on vacation, too.
I’ll probably feel a little more inclined to write about the six-year-olds once I’ve had a week away from them. 
*But here’s a little sneak preview of what will probably be the theme of the upcoming blog entry:
“Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens
Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens
Brown paper packages tied up with strings
These are a few of my favorite things!”
~from Sound of Music
*
Huh. Some days the inspiration just doesn’t come. I am trying to reason with the creative genie who’s refusing to descend upon me, reminding him (or her) that it is Sunday today–the first Sunday of the month–which means a blog entry about the six-year-olds is due. But the genie isn’t listening, and I’ve been staring at this computer screen for half an hour. The fact that the glorious, spring-like day is beckoning me to go on a bike ride doesn’t help, either.
Here’s what I’ll do, then. I am committed to scribbling down something about these kids every other week…but maybe it’s okay if, every once in a while, what I record is informational rather than anecdotal. The thing is, I have no doubt that I will forever remember the joy and madness these first graders brought to my life…but it’s likely that I’ll forget much of the texture of the joy and madness. Also, I feel that every time I engage in this process of reflecting and writing about the students, I come to understand and appreciate them just a little more.
So, I’m going to share a few of their favorite things. I attempted to write a Room 309 version of the Sound of Music classic, but, as we’ve established, my creative genie is probably out bike-riding this afternoon, and I couldn’t find enough suitable words that rhymed with “things” (Fraulein Maria already took the best ones). Instead, here is our song in bullet-point form (I’ve limited each category to the top 5)
A List of Room 309′s Collective Favorites
Activities:
Words:
Things to Draw:
Books:
Animals:
Songs:
Treats:
Antics:
Spiritual Qualities:
In the (slow but steady) process of learning to read, the six-year-olds have begun memorizing the hundred “highest-frequency words”–words such as “the”, “and”, “you”–which make up about half of all written material. We’ve broken up these hundred words into four lists of 25, and as a little incentive, the students receive a prize after mastering each list. The first prize was a set of red plastic chopsticks (we’d been learning about China), which generated a great deal of excitement, especially when Marcus–the first winner–announed to the class that he’d learned to eat gummy bears with them.
Then came Word List #2. Though the prize (fuzzy Sponge Bob stickers) was rather less interesting than the chopsticks, this second word list turned out to be the bearer of an even greater joy, for it contained a word that is beloved by the students of Room 309: “look.”
Spanish is the first language for all ten of the six-year-olds, and though they are quickly becoming bilingual, many of them still pronounce English words with Spanish vowel sounds. The closest Spanish equivalent to the “oŏ” of “look” is the “u” sound; thus, when the kids read aloud the word “look,” it sounds exactly like “Luke.”
Luke!
According to Wikipedia, the name Luke is derived from ancient Greek meaning “light,” or “bearer of light.” And such is the six-year-olds’ love for my husband Luke, that simply reading the word “look” is enough to make them glow. Imagine then, how they light up when Luke walks into the classroom.
In the months of awaiting his work permit, Luke was able to visit us many times. He attended our Halloween party, and painted the kids’ faces as Pikachus and princesses; he played soccer with them on Fridays; he accompanied us on our trip to the Intrepid Museum. He read to them, and helped them with their writing, and listened to them. But last Friday, Luke came to say farewell. He gathered the six-year-olds together on the rug, and explained to them that he would be getting on an airplane, and moving across the country to Washington State, where he had found a job. He asked them to take good care of their teacher for him, and he thanked them–with a sincerity that children’s pure hearts can immediately perceive–for their friendship.
Every morning since then, Carlos has asked, “Miss Mee-mah-mah, where Luke?”
We put a sticker on our classroom map, marking Washington State with the word “Luke” and a heart. Often, during “choice time,” the children stand in front of the map, and gaze at that sticker.
Throughout the day, when she’s at her desk writing or coloring, Genesis softly murmurs “Luke….Luke.”
While making drawings of what they saw at our Wednesday field trip to the NYC Fire Museum, both Ryan and Randall drew a Luke stick-figure among the firetrucks and ladders. They thought he ought to have come with us…or maybe they felt his presence there, as I have been trying to do, everywhere.
At the end of the week (oh, what a long week it was without my beloved!), Jasmine gave me a present, shown in the photograph below. “Who is it?” I asked, even though I already knew.
She hugged me, and replied, “It’s you and Luke.”
When you part from your friend, you grieve not; for that which you love most in him may be clearer in his absence,
as the mountain to the climber is clearer from the plain.
~Kahlil Gibran
Children are a handful sometimes. A heart-full all the time.
Unknown
*
The six-year olds were totally a heart-full this week. I guess I missed them more than I realized. Having made the effort to enter the new semester with a posture of appreciation helped, too, I think. Here are some of the things that filled up my heart the past few days.
The language of six-year-olds
There’s a poem I love called “Shake the Dust” by Anis Mojgani, which refers to two-year-olds “who cannot be understood because they speak half English and half God”. The language of six-year-olds–my particular batch of six-year-olds, at least–is composed of a similar ratio, though the English is mixed with Spanish. I think that last semester, when my focus was mainly on just staying afloat, there was a lot of really good stuff that went un-noticed…such as the beauty of child-speak.The God-ness of their language, I feel, lies mostly in their freedom from prejudice, the unfettered nature of their thinking, and the sincerity and love that characterize their expression. But, man, all of this is also mixed in with straight-up cuteness. I hope that word isn’t condescending, but I don’t really know how else to describe it. A few examples:
“My brother is happy.”
This week, Arturo’s brother died of cancer. When I first learned about it, Arturo had not yet been informed, since the brother had been hospitalized for many month prior to his passing. So I waited to say anything to Arturo, but watched him closely, and tried to approach him with extra tenderness. Two days later, while I was showing him a phonics game on the classroom computer, Arturo said–while clicking on words that contain the short “a” sound–”My brother has a computer. But he doesn’t use it anymore. He died.”
“You see,” the child continued. “He’s with Papa Dios now. He lives en el cielo. Yup. My dad had to take some medicine because no podía auguantar (he couldn’t bear it), but my brother is happy.”
La Rosca de los Reyes
On Friday, January 6th, many families in East Harlem (and around the world) celebrated Three King’s Day, or Dia de los Reyes. It was a big deal for the six-year-olds, several of whom had been “visited by the three wise men” the night before, and awoke to gifts of new dolls and building blocks. In honor of the occasion, Ryan’s mom sent her son to school with a sizable Rosca de los Reyes cake (see photo above) to share with the class. Somewhere inside the cake, a tiny plastic figurine of baby Jesus was hidden–and tradition has it that whoever happens to end up with the figurine gets to make a special wish. So, after lunch on Friday, Ms. Mendez read the children a story about Los Reyes Magos, and shared with them her childhood memories of celebrating Three Kings Day in Puerto Rico, leaving fresh herbs under the bed as a treat for the Wise Men. We then cut into the cake, and Julio flushed with happiness when he discovered the little plastic baby in his slice of Rosca.
Over half the cake was left over when we were done, and–ever mindful of how they might bring joy to another’s heart (or belly)–the six-year-olds enthusiastically suggested that we deliver the remaining slices of the Rosca to the school principal, vice principal, and therapists. We put the slices in little bowls, and practiced reciting, “Feliz Dia de los Reyes!” several times, until everyone felt ready to head out into the hallway. The first school administrator we encountered was the assistant principal, and as we approached her, several of the kiddos began to jump up and down in anticipation. Something that often occurs with these dear little ones is that when they get flustered with excitement, they lose all sense of who-what-when-where-why, and just sort of wiggle and giggle. After repeated nudging from his teacher, the designated cake-giver finally presented the slice of Rosca to the A.P., but didn’t say a word.
“Class,” I prompted them. “Why are we giving out this cake?” Silence, save for a few little giggles.
I tried again. “What day is it today?”
Lexie raised her hand. “Monday?”
“Uh…sweetie, today is Friday. But what special occasion are we celebrating? What have you been talking about all week?”
“Oh!” Ryan’s face lit up. “JANNY-BERRY!!!”
There are only five days left of until winter vacation, which means we are approaching the midpoint of the school year.
The second semester is significantly longer than the first, I know, and this long-awaited winter break is a mere week in length…yet it still feels like a tremendous milestone. One semester down, three more to go.
How I wish I weren’t living for vacations. How I yearn to be a person who appreciates the beauty and possibility of every moment, rather than counting down the minutes ’til Friday, or checking off the boxes on the calendar ’til the next national holiday. But the truth is that my prayer, every morning, is “Please God, help me just get through this day.”
I continue to be amazed at how difficult this adjustment has been for me. I guess I’d gotten a little too confident in my ability to adapt to new situations and challenges. I thought I thrived on them, in fact. But this experience has been a test of entirely different proportions for me….and I’ve come to realize that it isn’t because of the work itself. It’s because of the time.
Sure, the six-year-olds’ incessant questions, and overwhelming neediness, and episodes of pants-wetting try my patience…but they also endear the kids to me. And whether or not I’m cut out to teach first-grade special education, those children have, without a doubt, increased my capacity to love. So, despite all my grumblings, I am thankful for this opportunity, and I really do enjoy this work. What I’m struggling with, in reality, is the feeling that my time is no longer my own.
Okay, I know we could argue that our time is never our own–it belongs to God, and every day we are given is a gift. Yet, somehow, in previous chapters of my life, I felt able to maintain more of a balance with my time. I could work, I could study, I could engage in artistic pursuits, I could nurture friendships, and–most importantly–I could (try to) be of service to the Faith and humanity. But now, my time belongs to the kids of Room 309. And not only my time, but also all of my energy. Which means that when I come home to my husband (and we are still in our early months of marriage) the best of me is already depleted. He’s endowed with an empathy and patience that are not of this world, and knows we will get through this, but I so wish I could give him more than my tiredest moments.
In those previous chapters of life, nothing brought me greater joy than assisting with the neighborhood community-building efforts, such as children’s classes, devotional gatherings, junior youth groups…and now, when I do have a free afternoon (usually a Saturday), the last thing I want to do is interact with society. Often, I refuse to even get out of my pajamas.
And the hardest part is this: though the six-year-olds have become the fulcrum of my existence (or so it would seem), I don’t feel that I am actually being of service to them. I still have no idea how to “scaffold a mini-lesson” and “differentiate instruction” and create “standards-based unit plans that are at once rigorous and aligned with the specific learning needs” of my students. All I really want to do is take them on field trips, and sing “We are Drops” and listen to them, each one of them, with the fullness of my heart and attention without rushing through their questions to get to the day’s math lesson.
Now I’m just ranting…and am usurping this space–the purpose of which is to share humorous and uplifting anecdotes about six-year-olds–to unload all my grievances. Please forgive me, dear reader. I will try not to make a habit of this.
I don’t really celebrate Christmas, and the Bahá’í New Year is not until March, but since for so much of humanity, this season is a time of hope, I am going to make a wish. I don’t wish for a change of profession, a change of location (as much as I might yearn, every day, to be back in Dominica), or a change of teaching assignment (I may even elect to stay in first-grade next year, if the school’ll keep me). My wish is for a change of perspective. To see this experience as a God-given bounty, laden with potential growth and learning…if I can only get my ego and expectations out of the way.
My wish is to be more like the melon-taster in the story below, who partakes of bitterness, and considers it sweet.
*
Luqmán, often identified with Aesop (the Ethiopian) and for whom the thirty-first chapter of the Qur’án is named, one day received from his master a slice of melon. He ate it as if it were honey, and his master, always anxious to please him, gave him another slice. This too he ate with pleasure. The master then gave him slice after slice.
“I’ll eat this last one myself,” the master said, to share Luqmán’s delight.
The melon was so bitter it blistered his tongue. “Why did you not decline this?” he asked.
“How could I refuse from thee one thing that is bitter,” Luqmán answered, “when I have received from thy hand so much that is sweet?”
~From Rumi’s “Mathnaví,” retold by Marzieh Gail in Arches of the Years
Sticky fingers tangled hair,
scattered crayons, everywhere.
Fancy artwork on the wall
drawn by midgets three feet tall.
Dirty faces, grass-stained knees,
learning words ‘ like pretty please.
[Photograph: The six-year-olds all scrubbed and combed for School Picture Day. The Poem below it: an excerpt from "Messy Fingers" by Debra S. Higginbotham, who must surely have been describing a typical snapshot of Room 309]
*
Why it’s messy. Okay, so I know they look like angels in the picture above (every time I look at it, my heart spills over with love for these ten beaming munchkins). But even though I (try to) cling to the belief that every child’s true reality is angelic, the six-year-olds of Room 3o9 have, of late, been acting like little hooligans. There haven’t been any bathroom related episodes in the past two weeks (knock on wood), but there’s been outburst after outburst of physical aggression. This has tended to take the form of pushing and shoving, since the kids in my class–several of whom receive occupational and physical therapy–haven’t quite developed the coordination to land a kick or punch on target. Many of them have also been diagnosed with speech and language disabilities, which makes communication extra difficult. So when they feel an injustice has been committed against them, and can’t find the words to express it, the six-year-olds’ default response has been to push and shove. The recipient of the shoving will either:
a) start to howl
b) push back, usually knocking over the nearest desk/chair/box of crayons in the process
You would think that, with a masters degree in Peace Education, I would be better equipped to handle these classroom scuffles. Yet, in Room 309 I feel like a blank slate. Yes, I love the six-year-olds mightily, and that counts for something. But I still feel utterly clueless as to how to effectively teach them. When a fight breaks out, I race over to the battlefield, pry the kiddos apart from each other, listen to each breathless and indignant side of the story, and make them reflect on what they could do differently next time instead of pushing. I naively convince myself that this tactic has worked, and that the kids will now use their words instead of their bodies…but then the following afternoon: BAM! Enrique has knocked Marcus into a wobbly wooden shelf, and the linoleum floor is now strewn with picture books and dry-erase markers.
If we make it to the winter break (fifteen more school days left, fifteen more school days left) without a major injury, or without the principal walking into Room 309 and promptly firing the floundering teacher, it will be a true Christmas miracle.
Why it’s beautiful. It’s beautiful, mercifully beautiful, because I am not the six-year-olds’ only teacher. Awareness of one’s own limited abilities (or glaring inadequacy) = the need to rely on others for assistance. I’ve gotten a lot of back-up this year: classroom visits from my beloved husband, who always brings out the best in the children; the continual support of the first grade team and service providers; the tireless efforts of Ms. Mendez, who is really more of a co-teacher than a paraprofessional; and, every afternoon for the past two weeks, the music of Red Grammer. Each of his songs has a powerful, child-and-soul-affirming quality about it, but none more so than “See Me Beautiful” . When Ms. Mendez brilliantly suggested an after-lunch meditation time for the kiddos, during which they’d listen to soothing music, close their eyes, and keep their bodies still, I immediately thought of this song, and how it had affected me as a child…how it made me feel at peace. I hope the link works, so you can listen to it after you read this. 
The six-year-olds have become enamored of this song. They call it “See Me Shiny” (having fixated on the line “see me shining through in everything I do”), and in what has now become a daily ritual for us, never have I seen them so still and calm as when we take a deep breath, turn off the overhead lights, put our heads down on our desk, and listen to “See Me Beautiful.” It is, without a doubt, the most effective two minutes and twenty seconds of the day.
*
The instruction of these children is even as the work of a loving gardener who tendeth
his young plants in the flowering fields of the All-Glorious.
~’Abdu’l-Bahá
Train your children from their earliest days to be infinitely tender and loving to animals. If an animal be sick, let the children try to heal it, if it be hungry, let them feed it, if thirsty, let them quench its thirst, if weary, let them see that it rests.
~’Abdu’l-Bahá
*
There is a new addition to Room 309. His name is Baby Jaguar Kalli, and he is a betta fish.
Ever since the first day of school, it’s been evident that the six-year-olds have a great love for animals. When making their “All About Me” drawings, for example, both Arturo and Randall drew pictures of zoos (I’ve mentioned, I think ,that the kiddos ask on a daily basis if we can go to the zoo). We’re learning about different countries in Social Studies class, and every time we mention China, Ryan gleefully hollers: “Panda Bears!” At the students’ encouraging, the three classroom desks (large enough to seat four) are called the “Turtle Table,” the “Frog Table,” and the “Monkey Table.” During every morning’s “sharing circle,” Marcus talks about his black and white kitten, and its latest antics. And though afternoon “story time” is always a favorite, never does it evoke such excitment as when the storybook is about an animal.
Clearly, we needed to get a class pet.
My first choice, of course, was a puppy….but every so often I manage to exercise sensibility, so I settled for a betta fish. Plus, another of the first grade teachers already had a tank and a supply of fish food she no longer needed. Luke and I picked him out together at the Flushing “Discount Pet Store” last Sunday (we brought one home for ourselves too–we couldn’t resist), and on Monday morning….well, let’s just say we didn’t get to our reading that day. Or our writing. Or our math. That morning, it was all about the betta fish.
At first, the children just wanted to gaze at him, emitting squeals of delight every time time he swished his billowy fins. When their little necks began to cramp from leaning over the tank so intently, the six-year-olds decided they wanted to know everything there is to know about betta fish. I’d done a bit of research, thankfully, but wasn’t quite prepared to answer such questions as “Does he like to listen to music?” and “Ms. Miedema, are you his mom?”
Then it came time to name him. I thought this would be an opportune moment to introduce the kids to the concept of democracy (well, a fist-grade version of democracy), and suggested that everyone think of a name, after which we’d put all the ideas into the coffee can we use as a selector, and randomly pick out three to vote on. Here’s how it went:
Arturo offered the name “Elmo.”
Jasmine suggested “Nemo.”
Genesis chose the name “Princess” (princess-ness is her whole world right now. She was a princess for Halloween. She draws pictures of princesses during writing time. And every once in a while, when I find her sobbing in a corner and ask her what’s wrong, she wails “Lexie say I not a princess!” To which I reply, “Dear one, Lexie has no say as to whether you are or are not a princess. You are a princess because of the beautiful qualities in your heart.” I dunno how well that goes over). Anyhow, the fact that she wanted to call the betta fish princess caused an uproar amongst the young men. “The fish is a boy!” they bellowed. “We can’t name him Princess!” But Genesis was resolute. “Princess,” she repeated, with a furrowed brow.
Ryan thought the fish ought to be called “Lashi.”
Julio was absent that day.
Carlos hemmed and hawed for a while, and finally settled on “Ricardo.”
Marcus insisted that the only possible name for the fish was “Kalli” (and he instructed us exactly how to spell it), because that was the name of his black and white kitten.
Enrique, without a moment’s hesitation, chose “Jeremías.” “It’s a good Biblical name,” he explained.
Lexie picked “Dora,” which caused some commotion–Dora also being a girl’s name–but less so than Princess, because Dora is the protagonist of the six-year-olds’ most favorite TV program “Dora the Explorer.”
This gave Randall an idea. “We can call the fish ‘Baby Jaguar!’” he exclaimed. Baby Jaguar, it turns out, is the name of Dora’s brother Diego’s pet jaguar. This suggestion was met with much enthusiasm…but Enrique was still really holding out for Jeremías, so–to be fair–we still put it to a vote. The three names we picked from the coffee can were “Elmo,” “Kalli,” and “Baby Jaguar,” and the latter two tied with four votes each. After some discussion, the class decided that the fish could have two names, just as many of them do. Thus, our betta fish would henceforth be known as “Baby Jaguar Kalli.”
It was then time to nurture him. The students–ever concerned about the state of the heart–were worried that Baby Jaguar Kalli might be feeling lonely, so they placed a stuffed frog beside his tank. They vowed to be quiet for the whole day, so as to let the fish get some rest (and, by golly, those six-year-olds were quieter that day than I ever thought possible. I love how often they prove me wrong). Randall found a picture of some fish in his Marine Animals book, and rested it on top of Baby Jaguar’s cage “so he can look at his family if he misses them.” Marcus asked if he could please do the honor of cleaning the ka-ka out of the fish tank every week. And at Tuesday evening’s parent-teacher conferences, the first thing each of the six-year-old’s did when they entered the classroom with their mothers or fathers was to introduce them to Baby Jaguar Kalli.
______
*Confession: the betta fish featured in the picture above is not actually Baby Jaguar Kalli—in all the excitement, I forgot to take a picture of him. But the one here looks like a close cousin.
I initiated “Now We Are Six” with the intention of writing a new entry every Sunday, as I felt that a weekly reflection on the beauty and learnings of the work of teaching first grade special education would help me, well, focus on the beauty and the learnings rather than the headaches. And the process has, indeed, helped me a great deal.
But (maybe I should knock on wood while I type this), it is starting to get ever so slightly easier. I still have no idea what I’m doing, of course. Still have to pray my head off every morning and throughout the day. The kiddos and I still have regular emotional meltdowns. But, as my love for them increases, along with my understanding of their needs, the work not only becomes more interesting, but a little bit lighter…and certainly more humorous.
So I’m feeling less of a desperate need to write every week. That being said, the six-year-olds still produce a wealth of blog-material, and the process of putting it into writing brings me a lot of joy. So the new plan is to write a new entry not every Sunday, but the first and third Sunday of every month. As Luke and I have set aside Sunday mornings for “creative time”–engaging in some artistic endeavor or another–I am going to try to use the time on the other two Sundays for making new quote art for
http://bahaiquotesincolor.com/artwork/
This website is up and running as of yesterday–featuring greeting cards and frameable watercolor/calligraphy/collages inspired by passages from the Bahá’í Writings (see photo above).
I look forward to sharing another “Now We Are Six” story next Sunday–the third Sunday of November, and want to once again extend my heartfelt thanks to everyone who has been reading these entries, and offered your encouragement.
Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once we grow up.
~Pablo Picasso
Last Friday, Room 309 took its first field trip of the school year. Despite the students’ pleading, we did not go to the Bronx Zoo to say hello to the “very big animals” (the school tells us we can go in the spring), or to an upstate New York pumpkin patch (I really should have been more on top of my game and arranged this trip. We all know how these kiddos feel about pumpkins). For Friday’s trip, we didn’t even have to take a bus or pack a lunch. Instead, we put on our jackets and mittens, and walked six blocks south to one of East Harlem’s Farmers Markets.
Three moms came along with us, so the student-grown-up ratio was 2:1 (thank goodness! Because, along the way, Marcus attempted to scale a fence outside an abandoned building, Carlos tried to abscond into a corner store, and Arturo wanted to touch every single thing we passed). We managed, though, to get there and back with minimal scrapes and bruises (phew!)…and, overall, even though we didn’t get to say hello to a hippopotamus, or frolic through a pumpkin patch, the experience seemed to be a positive one.
In efforts to educate children in low-income areas about healthy eating, an organization with the word “Sprouts” in the title donated a stack of two-dollar Farmers Market vouchers to our classroom. This, in itself, was thrilling for the kids, because it was like having their own money. And the cool thing is, not a single one of them complained about having to use their own money to purchase fruit and vegetables. In fact, they were delighted by the idea. The buzz in the classroom all morning on the day of the trip was who was going to buy what, to the tune of
“I will buy a big carrot.”
“I’m gonna get a bag of apples!”
“I wanna buy broccoli, and then cook it for dinner with my abuela.“
“I’m gonna get a jack-o-lantern” (sigh).
At the Market, after we oohed and ahhed at the beautiful, brightly colored produce for a while, the six-year-olds got right down to business. “Excuse me,” Enrique addressed the vendor in Spanish. “Could you please tell me how these potatoes grow?”
Ryan tried his hand at haggling, insisting that the vendor really ought to give him another apple.
Carlos, of course, immediately started licking the pears, so we had to purchase one quickly.
And everyone, including the mommies and the teachers, was enthralled by scent of the fresh dill (Even though I didn’t have a voucher, I couldn’t resist buying a bundle of it, for cucumber-yogurt salad).
When we returned back to school, there were only about fifteen minutes left before dismissal, so we sat in a circle on the playground, and showed each other our wares, half of which had been eaten on the way back. The students’ faces were flushed, and happy. “Vegetables are our friends, right Ms. Miedema?” Enrique asked, gazing admiringly at his potato.
*
Here are a few pictures of the six-year-olds, and their vegetable friends.
Snow fell in New York City yesterday morning, the first snowfall of the season. And it happened on a Saturday.
In Room 309, we’ve been anticipating the first snow of the year almost as much as we’ve been anticipating Halloween. Every morning, we velcro a picture of the day’s weather to our class calendar, and every day the designated “meteoroligist” (one of our rotating class jobs) pretends to put up the picture of the snowman, giggles, and says, “Soon. Right, Ms. Miedema? Soon it will be snowy? But not today.”
When yesterday morning’s icy rain turned–magically and suddenly–to soft, white snowflakes, my first thought was not
“Snow in October?“
“Ohhhh man, this means it’s almost eggnog-latte season!”
or
“Eeeesh…Luke and I have no snow boots.”
Instead, my first thought was of the six-year-olds (I usually try very hard not to think of them on Saturdays). I imagined how they must be rushing to their apartment windows, wonder shining from their eyes. They would be shrieking with delight, begging their mommies to let them go outside and play in the beautiful snow, to catch snowflakes on their tongues, to try to make snowmen just like the ones in our calendar picture (disregarding, of course, the fact that the snow was melting as soon as it hit the pavement–because six-year-olds refuse to be fettered by practicalities).
I wish I could have been with them yesterday.
*
In honor of this year’s first snowfall, and the enchantment I know it brought to my students, I would like to share a poem, written by a former NYC schoolteacher, Taylor Mali. It’s called “Undivided Attention.”
A grand piano wrapped in quilted pads by movers,
tied up with canvas straps – like classical music’s
birthday gift to the insane -
is gently nudged without its legs
out an eighth-floor window on 62nd street.It dangles in April air from the neck of the movers’ crane,
Chopin-shiny black lacquer squares
and dirty white crisscross patterns hanging like the second-to-last
note of a concerto played on the edge of the seat,
the edge of tears, the edge of eight stories up going over, and
I’m trying to teach math in the building across the street.Who can teach when there are such lessons to be learned?
All the greatest common factors are delivered by
long-necked cranes and flatbed trucks
or come through everything, even air.
Like snow.See, snow falls for the first time every year, and every year
my students rush to the window
as if snow were more interesting than math,
which, of course, it is.So please.
Let me teach like a Steinway,
spinning slowly in April air,
so almost-falling, so hinderingly
dangling from the neck of the movers’ crane.
So on the edge of losing everything.Let me teach like the first snow, falling.
