The First Day of School

Tomorrow will be the beginning of my 20th year of teaching at Crestwood Elementary. I started to count how many total first days I've experienced but decided that would only make me feel even older than I already do.

I can say that teaching has changed since I entered my first classroom in 1985. 

Ronald Reagan was president, and public schools, along with the rest of the country had swung into the Back-to-Basics mode.

In the school where my career began,we shared an art and music teacher with the district. No one blinked an eye at the 29 students in my first grade classroom, and my important teaching supplies included a box of chalk , a few blank mimeograph papers and an attendance book that only an accountant could understand. (Thank God for Infinite Campus who makes attendance keeping a piece of cake!)

Our Professional Developments consisted of "Make-It, Take It "workshops, which were kind of a cross between a project from Michael's craft store and the School Supply store.

Everything in the classroom was made of wood and I'm not sure the word "differentiation" had even been invented. And moving from individual desks to tables was considered radical for all you "flexible seating" gurus.

There was not one single computer in the entire school, and the principal used a paddle on even our school's tiniest offenders.

And yet in many ways, school hasn't changed at all.

Back-to-school nightmares for teachers still exist. First day haircuts, new shoes and a planned outfit are still around. Bullies still show up and we still have hard conversations about scary things, whether it's a Space Shuttle falling from the sky carrying a teacher or (fast-forward 30 years), mass school shootings.
Head lice, lost teeth and strep throat are as common in classrooms today as in 1985

School hasn't changed much for parents either. They still worry if their kid will have a friend, will someone help them navigate the lunchroom, is a red folder going to work even though you asked for orange.

In fact, when you think of the heart of teaching, what really matters hasn't changed at all.

Every year since school immemorial, parents bring their most precious offerings to the altar of the school, with their hearts full of fear and excitement and sadness and wonder. And with only a few tears from the kindergartners' parents, they leave those precious gifts with a group of people they barely know, trusting that we will care for them and teach them and honor them and, especially, love them.


Since time began good teachers have been meeting kids where they are and helping them to move forward even before differentiation was the catch-phrase of the day. And teaching kids to read and write has always been about making sure they have access to political, social and economic power. We have always wanted our students to use math to seek out patterns and solutions to help with world problems.

The core of teaching -- relationships, trust, supporting each other, looking for solutions instead of pointing out problems, being with children and their families when the sh-- hits the fan-- will always remain.

Sometimes we forget though. And, God forgive us when we do.

Sometimes we forget that every kid in our class, even the one that kind of rubs us the wrong way-- their parents think they hung the moon.

We get so involved with standards and bulletin boards and PowerPoints, we forget to listen to them, to sing Happy Birthday, to ask if Grandma came home from the hospital. We forget that they need to move and to laugh and to talk and then move some more. We forget that remembering bus numbers and lunch numbers and homework can be hard. We forget that mistakes are how they learn.

We forget that in every single set of eyes in our classroom reflects the image of the Divine, no matter your faith tradition. We are so focused on new trends and strategies that we forget the work we do is time-less and for all-time. It is sacred and holy.

This year my beloved grandson begins his formal years of school as he begins kindergarten in a couple of weeks. My prayer is that every adult in Painted Stone Elementary will recognize him as the gift he is. That they will forgive his mistakes and failures. That they will encourage his curiosity and creativity. That patience and grace will be everywhere.

After all, he hung the moon, just like every other child in my classroom did.

Trivia and The Squad

For the last several summers, a group of us have gotten together to play Trivia each week. It's kind of a different, eclectic group. We range in age from 30 to 60 -- 3 men, 6 women, when we are all there, which is rare.

We surfed around enough to find the most conveniently located place and where we are at least somewhat competitive, and for the last 2 summers, we've landed at Drake's on Monday evenings. We're usually pretty strong until the last question, which is kind of a 'winner takes all' deal. Even with that albatross, we've managed a couple of 2nd and 3rd places over the seasons.

This last Monday the traditional group text let us know early in the day that Robert and Cheryl were not going to be there (we all knew that was a hit for any geography or medicine categories, but we could muscle through this dilemma). About 45 minutes from the start, Will, our sports aficionado, sent his regrets., which served as another big hit.

By this time, some of our team was already assembled at Drake's and we were starting to look a little shaky. The final nail in the coffin came 15 minutes before playtime when Walter texted he would not be there either.

If you remember details and are paying close attention, that meant that no men would be playing on our team. This was the very first time our team had taken this particular form.

Now for the bad ass women that sat at the table you wouldn't think that would even be a problem, but , I'm sorry to say, it actually caught us a little off guard.

Very quickly, we all decided we would enjoy dinner with one another, if nothing else. We decided we would at least start out the night and play at least until we were finished eating. Not so secretly, we had zero confidence and Bonnie dubbed our teams name "OMG Where's the Rest of Our Team!"

First question, usually the easiest, was a Muppet question. Walter is our muppet expert. Walter wasn't there. I was ready to stop playing, but Kelly responded, I think a chicken. Ding. Ding. Ding.

We quickly took a selfie to post on Facebook so we could honestly say we were in first place. We were elated with our one correct answer.

In the next few rounds, we came up with answers like Parris Island, Sony, Caribbean Sea, Kilimanjaro and British Columbia. Ding. Ding. Ding. End of first half. We were in first place by five points and were seemingly drunk with victory although Diet Cokes and water were the drinks for the evening.

At half-time we knew 4 of the 5 colleges with the most number one seeds in NCAA history. (Bye-Bye, Will.) The second half was a blur but out of 27 teams we were in second place before the final and ended with a solid 3rd place - thank you for the 2 free appetizers! We high-fived and yelled and delighted in ourselves.

As I continued to revel in the glory, long after the sweet victory, I couldn't help but remember how doubtful we had been at the start. Honestly, we were giving answers to questions that we would not have even listened to carefully had the men in our group been there. And there was no natural inclination to acquiesce to another team member even when we weren't 100% sure. We took chances and cheered each other through some tough decisions. We were wrong occasionally, but mostly, on this night, we were right.

Now the part of the story you need to know and I need to remind myself is that the 3 men we play with are the most kind, Hillary-voting, non-misogynistic men you will ever meet.  Robert and Walter read more novels than watch sports games, and Will retweets more from the Dali Lama than even his beloved U of L Cardinals. These are not masculine men, and I say that with the greatest love in my heart.

These men don't overpower the conversation or take the charge of the game -- except for the mishap between Cheryl and Robert and the difference between Viagra and Cialis which we will never let Robert live down.

In truth, the 6 fierce women who round out our team usually (quietly) assume that the men have a better shot at the right because of the way our society has taught us to think and behave. We don't even do it on purpose. Our voices come forward only when there are no male voices present.

In a room full of women, I assume I'm as smart as anybody else, but there's something almost primal that causes me to unknowingly doubt myself when there are men at the table, even these 3 compassionate, giving guys.

Anyway, my newfound awareness of my own female hang ups make me love the Congressional "Squad" even more. I don't necessarily care that they are showing divisiveness in the party or spending time verbally sparring with the president. I don't even care that I don't agree with every idea they propose.

What I do celebrate is they are young American women from a variety of ethnic groups and they are speaking. Out loud. In front of powerful people. They are not shaking their heads in agreement as they stand near their fathers or brothers or husbands. They are giving voice to their ideas and thoughts and feelings, and they are doing it with a belief in their hearts that they have the right to not only speak, but be heard as well.

This is the world I want for my daughter and granddaughter. I want the same chances for them to be heard and respected, to make and learn from their mistakes without shame, to take their seat at the table where my sons and grandson have a guaranteed seat just by having simply been born white and male.

A simple game made me realize that many of us are waiting for an invitation or until we have everything figured out. "The Squad" is pulling up their own seat, with an ante of their own. I want that for Lula.

I haven't published anything in this blog in the last several months because my last post was a little controversial and I balked. I decided to keep my writing, my voice to myself because not everyone would agree or I might be making a mistake.

But since "The Squad" and my granddaughter, Lula, have entered the world, I'm grabbing my own tired chair and elbowing my way to the table, hoping that for Lula, the chair will already be there.

Was America Ever Great?

Disclaimer: I'm sure that there are some CovCath alum who have used their privilege to bring justice to the world. I'm thankful to you.

Like the rest of the country, I've spent too much of the last week watching clips from the now infamous incident between a boy from Covington Catholic and a Native American.

I've tried to let it go, but when Bishops start apologizing to the offender it's either write or risk biting my tongue off.

 I spent my entire childhood living in Covington - the first 13 years were downtown on West 8th Street. So, I speak with authority when I say Covington Catholic school is NOT in Covington, and I'm sure the students there would not argue with that statement.

Even 50 years ago, the school sat on the outside edge of the diversity, the working class-ness and inner-city-ness of Covington. It was a picture of white privilege.

As a bleeding heart liberal, I viewed the first clip of the incident with righteous indignation as the "Make America Great Again" hat and shirt wearers were being thrown under the social media bus. Throughout the day, however, I started watching different videos from different angles, that were longer in time, that showed more of the story.

First, the story (like most stories) is complex and sometimes convoluted and long. In fact, the story at its core is older than any of its characters.

When I looked at the groups in this story, the high school boys, the Black Hebrew Israelites and the Native Americans, collectively and individually, I was no longer filled with anger but a deep, deep sadness.

The Hebrew Israelites seemed militant and were throwing all kinds of racial, misogynistic, homophobic slurs, including calling members of their own race, "Uncle Toms" when they disagreed. While their voices were loud and offensive, they did not physically approach any of the groups.

Occasionally, one or two Native Americans ventured over to engage with the Hebrew Israelites but usually returned to their own demonstration within a few minutes.

The Covington Catholic boys were watching the "show," meaning the five or six Hebrew Israelites.

They had probably never seen that many Black men speaking with such defiance and anger, and when the boys became a target of their ridicule and name-calling, the boys weren't sure what to do.

This would have been a really good place for the chaperones to step up and help the boys go find their bus.

But they didn't.

While most rational people would have simply walked away, the very fact of their white privilege (and perhaps their youth) would not allow them to back down. In fact, many of their supporters say they shouldn't have to. The irony is that, historically, a black man who refused to step off the curb was often lynched. Today they are imprisoned or shot.

But since they chose to "stand their ground" the CovCath boys did what white American teenage boys have been doing for centuries when they are unsure and afraid. They started acting a fool. They behaved as a pack and started chanting school cheers towards the Hebrew Israelites, in much the same manner you would at a high school ballgame towards the school's main rival. In other words, they put a little gas on the flame.

When the Native Americans walked into the scene, in my opinion, the boys found a group to confront that did not produce the same fear in them as the Hebrew Israelites. They then proceeded to Step 2 in white teenage manuals everywhere which takes place right after acting like a fool.  In the vernacular of the day, they kicked the dog. These white boys found a group they thought of not only as inferior but physically weaker.

That boy stood in the face on the American Indian with his shit-eating grin because he knew that he could.

I'm not a proponent of the "boys will be boys" theory, but I also know that teenagers make lots of mistakes as they grow. The adults that surround them, their parents, teachers, clergy, coaches, are still responsible for teaching them. This whole fiasco could have been over days ago if those adults had stepped up.

Encouragement from adults who love these boys could have led to apologies, culturally sensitive classes, using their privilege to bring justice to the marginalized. All of those actions could have brought just a little bit of healing to our so fractured country.

Those actions could have caused this left-leaning woman to think maybe those red MAGA hats weren't synonymous with Rebel flags and white hoods.

But they didn't.

Christ have mercy.