Month: March 2024

In my foundational reading class today, I had a small group of students I was working with on building discussion skills. They are not accustomed to having academic discussions, and I was pretty sure we were starting from scratch. I showed them how good discussion questions allow for different answers and different opinions and that it’s okay to disagree as long as we do so disrespectfully. We talked about how boring life would be if we always agreed with each other and said the same things. This discussion was punctuated with “I’m hungry” and “Bruh, let me use your eraser,” and me reminding them to sit up and make eye contact. It was slow going.

Deep breaths. I pushed them to the next phase and posed a discussion question from the book we have been reading. After a few beats, one student shared a thought.

“Great! Can someone use one of the sentence starters to build onto what he just said?”

A few more beats, a scuffle over a pencil, reminders to sit up straight…

“I want to add onto what he said. I kind of disagree because…”

Yes! This is the stuff!

“Who else has an opinion to share?” I asked the group. We were on a roll.

Giggles, slouching, distracted. Finally, another student shared.

“I think you’re both kind of wrong because…” and he proceeded to use the same evidence from the book they had used but for the opposite stance.

It was messy and frustrating, but we have to start somewhere.

My daughter is going on a Model General Assembly trip to Richmond in April with her school team. When I told her brother, he laughed out loud. He was the president of Model UN in high school and took it very seriously. I can’t really blame him for being amused; he tried several times to get her involved in Model UN, but she would just look at him like he suggested she eat bugs.

This fall, we were on her case to get involved in an extracurricular activity, and she settled on Model General Assembly. Some of her friends joined, so she figured it wouldn’t be so bad.

“What will you be doing?” we asked her in November.

“Um, I don’t really know,” she shrugged. “But we’re going to Richmond in April.”

Oh, cool. Here’s some money.

She texted me the other afternoon and told me she needed business attire for the trip.

“Do you know what business attire is?” I asked her. Her wardrobe consists entirely of jeans, oversized t-shirts, and hoodies.

“Like, pants and skirts.” I suggested a blazer. She was down with that.

This evening, I asked her what they would be doing on the trip. She says she’s a delegate and that she’ll vote for stuff. I asked her if she needs to prepare for it. According to her, not really.

When spring comes, the quality of my sleep plummets. The house gets warmer, so I’m inclined to open the windows to let in some fresh, cool air. However, the robins start chirring and chucking around 4:00 AM, so then I get out of bed and shut out the cool air.

As I’ve gotten older, my sleep routine has gotten more elaborate. It starts with sleep tea (or Nighty Night or Sleepytime, etc.) with steamed milk, then magnesium pills and either a hot bath with epsom salts or a soak in the hot tub if it’s below 40 degrees outside. Then it’s to bed, eye mask handy to shield against the street lights glowing behind the shades. I can go on, but I don’t want to put anyone to sleep.

The truth is, I’ve never been a great sleeper. We had a ticking battery-powered alarm clock in the room I shared with one of my sisters when I was a kid. I would be dropping off to sleep, and the ticking would seem to get louder. More than a few nights would end with the clock wrapped in a towel and stowed in the bathroom cabinet.

Group homes in college and after college brought their own set of challenges to my sleep, and then motherhood found me, which taught me that I previously had no real understanding of sleep depravation.

What I’ve always needed is my own personal sleep cave. I want it set at 65 degrees, dark, and silent. There’s a market for that, I’m sure of it.

My co-teacher and I have pretty much eliminated whole-group instruction in our foundational reading class. Even though we have only nine students, holding their attention and managing behavior is a daily challenge.

I always begin class with a read-aloud. This is my chance to teach them a little something about the world, model good reading, and…I just love reading to them (I am reading A Night Divided, and they are finally invested in the story). After the read-aloud, we divide them into two groups and each teach a lesson, and then trade groups. Then they might have a third rotation that involves independent work at their desks.

Today, one student was doing a particularly good job in both groups, not something he manages to pull off every day. He was focused, contributing meaningfully to the discussion, and willing to put in the work. Both of us made sure to praise him, and right before the bell rang, he asked me if he could come back at lunch so we could call his mom and tell her what a great job he did.

“Of course!” I said.

Sure enough, he showed up at my door about five seconds after the dismissal bell for lunch rang.

“I’m back!” he exclaimed.

I punched in her number and waited five rings before hearing a hesitant “…hello?” on the other end of the line. I know she’s received her share of calls from middle and elementary schools with reports of how her son had made a poor choice.

Not today! I told her about how focused and hard-working he was in reading class this morning. It took her a moment to realize there was no “but” coming next. I added, “He is very proud and wanted you to know.”

She exhaled and said, “Thank you so much. Thank you for calling. Have a wonderful day!”

When I hung up the phone, the student gave a smile and short nod and said, “Thank you! I’m going to lunch now. Bye bye!”

No, thank YOU.

I rode my bike to the Tidal Basin with a few friends this morning to see the cherry blossoms. Since they were coming from Falls Church, they opted to drive to my house and then ride bikes downtown together. This being my neck of the woods, they looked to me to lead the way.

I have loved biking for as along as I can remember. I learned on a blue and white bike with a banana seat in the late 70’s, my dad holding onto the back to steady me, running behind as I pedaled around the island of shrubbery planted in the center of our townhouse court. When he eventually let go and I discovered I was riding on my own, I felt a new kind of freedom.

When mountain bikes hit the scene at the end of the 80’s, we all began riding around our town and through the power line meadows (not mountains). I was getting to know my hometown all over again from an entirely new perspective.

Portland, Oregon is where I really learned how to bike on the streets and to claim part of the road for myself. Back in the mid-90’s, Portland was a rare gem of a city with dedicated bikes lanes running north and south on main roads and across several of the many bridges that connected the west and east sides of the city over the Willamette River.

Back home in the DC area, I have watched in delight as the region has become more and more bike-friendly. I maintain my vigilance and use my arms to signal turns, braking, and stops, but it’s nice to know drivers are more used to sharing the road with cyclists these days.

The route I chose to the Tidal Basin took us through the streets of Crystal City and onto the Mount Vernon Trail, over the 14th Street Bridge, and down to the Jefferson Memorial. We locked up our bikes and walked around the Tidal Basin. The crowds weren’t too thick, so we had plenty of space to enjoy the blossoms and memorials along the way (we made sure to find “Stumpy,” the folk-hero cherry tree that continues to produce blooms every year, despite its nearly hollowed-out trunk from relentless flooding over the years).

Once we completed the loop and got back on our bikes, I resumed my role as bike tour guide. I thought I’d show them something new. I led them back over the bridge but then turned north along the river to then take the wide graceful arc back under the parkway and over to the Columbia Island Marina. Then it was a wooded stretch through Ladybird Johnson Park, a short bridge over the Boundary Channel, and then a ride alongside the Pentagon. We emerged by the Long Bridge Aquatic Center, and then made our way to the bright green, protected bike lane on Eads St. that took us all the way back to my street.

Maybe I really should consider biking to work.

Stumpy

I went to see the comedian Gary Gulman at the Warner Theater this evening. I hadn’t heard of him until a few days ago when a friend invited me to go in place of her husband, who had to be somewhere else. This really is no reflection on his talent or his fame. I know the names of maybe two professional comedians who are not ridiculously famous (or infamous).

I’m so glad I went. Gulman recounted his experience growing up Jewish in the 70’s and 80’s in Massachusetts with a clever wit, keen self-awareness, and numerous literature references (much appreciated by we English majors in the audience) that keep me giggling and laughing aloud nearly the entire hour and a half.

He shared an anecdote about how his father insisted he repeat the first grade – much to his his horror. He took deep offense to this. He was way smarter than his peers who would progress unobstructed to second grade. One major element of proof: he was in the reading group The Sun Ups, an intellectually superior reading group to all the knuckle-draggers in the classroom.

This immediately brought me back to my second grade reading group. I was in Tapestries, which had a dark blue cover with multicolored tapestries in the center. This was a respectable group and considered a higher level. However, Tracy Z was in a group by herself. She was deemed so advanced that she was the lone member of Windchimes. I still remember stealing glances at the teal cover as Tracey bent her blond Dorothy Hamill-coiffed noggin earnestly over the text.

I wonder what became of Tracy Z. Is she master of all she surveys? Did she ever achieve Windchime-like status again after second grade? Is she doing standup somewhere? I guess I could look her up but I am content to wonder.

We had our first fire ring of the season this evening. The warm weather came in so strong this week that I wasn’t sure we’d be able to pull it off. I should’ve known it would happen; Chris loves a fire, and not much will get in his way.

The wind blew embers haphazardly around our circle, so much so that I brought the charcuterie board inside so we just had to focus on protecting our eyes and beverages.

Not long after the wind died down, the rain started in. As soon as we remarked on how gentle a sprinkling it was, the larger drops began to fall, and we moved the party inside.

We’ve welcomed in a new season. I love the smell of woodsmoke that envelops my clothes and hair and am thankful that I can still burrow under a comforter without sweating (too much). I anticipate long weekend mornings and evenings spent outside without having to douse ourselves in mosquito repellant. I hope we get an actual spring filled with fires rings and sweatshirts.

I’ve been listening to the book Better Living Through Birding: Notes from a Black Man in the Natural World by Christian Cooper. He weaves together his passion for and incredible depth of knowledge about birds with his experiences growing up Black, gay, and nerdy in the 70’s and 80’s.

He shares stories of running through the suburban landscape of Long Island with his fellow comic book and Star Trek enthusiast buddies, coming out to his best friend his senior year in high school, and his very touching account of when he can’t bear hiding who he is a second longer and comes out to his friends at Harvard.

He always manages to gracefully bring the narrative back to his birding adventures and the lessons he has learned over the years from a passion that runs deep. I have some experience with birds, but he has made me realize just how little I know and how rewarding birding can be, especially when you get good enough to recognize migrating birds by sound. I am developing a better understanding of why my friend across the street will rush out with binoculars in hand in the spring and fall, peering up into the tall trees to spot the source of the song she heard from inside.

Maybe a new hobby beckons?

I walked out of the back of the school this afternoon and into the balmy spring weather. Private soccer lessons were in progress on the upper field, flocks of kids clustered for track practice, and others chatted in the playground house, played basketball, and chased each other around.

I can’t help but associate weather like this with that time four years ago when we were sent home for an early spring break to let the Coronavirus (remember when we called it that?) run its course. What first brought my conscious attention to it on my walk to the parking lot was seeing a student I had two years ago. There she was, in shorts and a t-shirt, her unmasked face open to the world. She wore that mask every day of the school year two years ago, so whenever I see her now, I sense a mismatch between the bottom half of her face that my brain improvised and what it actually looks like.

When I got into the truck with Chris, he remarked, “You know today is the four-year anniversary, right?” Of course I did, except that was a Friday, not a Wednesday. A series of images flashed through my mind of those early days of the pandemic: sourdough starter, puzzles, homemade kombucha, washing and wiping down groceries, running through the near-deserted streets of Crystal City, sadness when Ralph Northam declared we wouldn’t be returning to the schools for the remainder of the school year.

We are still digging out of the havoc wreaked on our young people by being cut off from school, friends, activities, and the watchful eye of adults who have dedicated their lives to educating and protecting children. I have a shovel and will keep digging.

Chris forwarded a Washington Post article to the family text string this evening titled, “Cats aren’t jerks. They’re just misunderstood.”

I was excited to read it because I have lamented the limited research on cats and their behavior. They are a bigger mystery than dogs, at least in my experience. It’s my cat family members who give me pause when I stare into their eyes and ask, “Do you love me? How long would it take for you to eat my face if I died?” They just blink serenely at me. Are they telling me, “You’re alright. About a day, but it’s nothing personal”?

This article explains that we have limited information on cats because their ancestors lived in solitude, while humans and dogs have had an interactive relationship and have relied on companionship for quite some time.

Contrary to widespread belief, the author claims, cats are neither aloof nor asocial. It’s just that some cats are more social than others, just like humans. Some will seek out more alone time and be more choosy about with whom they will want to spend their time regarding humans or other felines.

So, I guess chances are higher that we’ll have to work a little harder to win a cat’s favor. They’re more likely to give that, “I’m just not that into you” vibe, but there’s a heart of gold beating just underneath that meticulously groomed coat of fur.