A Halloween Rant

Terrebonne Parish and Lafourche Parish are voting to move this year’s trick or treating to October 30 instead of October 31, as it has been celebrated for two thousand years since the Celts.

Why? Because the Saints have a scheduled football game that night.

Am I the only person who thinks that this is ludicrous?

Why don’t we reschedule our other holidays around football season as well. Let’s move Christmas, Thanksgiving, and New Year’s because we want to spend time at a game instead of with family. Who cares how long these holidays have been celebrated on these special days?

Since when did our lives need to be scheduled around a game, which the name in itself implies recreation? It’s called priorities. People should decide what is more important: taking their children trick or treating or watching a football game. There shouldn’t be an option of changing a two thousand year old holiday because people don’t want to put their children before a past time.

One of the arguments used to support this change was that children would have to return to school the next day after a night of trick or treating. And what about all the previous years that children returned to school the day after Halloween night? I can remember as a child having to return to school the next day with my pockets full of candy and stories of what I’d seen for my friends. There was no suggestion of changing it then because there was no football game. It’s not as if Halloween falls on a weekend every year, and there were no complaints until a football game fell on the occasion.

Halloween should be left as is. It’s always been on October 31. Let it remain where it belongs.

Sorry for the rant, but sometimes I can’t help myself. (And contrary to popular belief, I do try. Well, sometimes.)

Smarter than a Kindergartener

My daughter began Kindergarten this past week. She attended preschool at the same school last year, so it wasn’t the big deal of a child's first day of school. There were no tears involved (I mean by me, of course).

She loves school and always has. At two years old, she sat down next to her brother and wanted to do his homework with him. Weeks before Kindergarten began, she bounced around for weeks asking when would she get to go to school.

On Friday, only a few days after starting, she returned home with an interesting take on learning.

As I was getting ready to go out, she came find me to tell me she wanted to beat a little boy in her class. I had to pause a moment. Though she’s a rough little girl and has been known to chase her brother down with boxing gloves, she doesn’t like to get into trouble at school. I questioned her, and she rushed into a story about this boy thinking he’s smarter than her, so she’s going to beat him.

I sighed with relief. I wouldn’t be summoned to the principal’s office, chastised for poor parenting, but then she explained that I was going to help her. She’s going to do first grade work in Andrew’s old books so she can get smart.

Wanting to reassure her confidence, I told her that she was already smart.

She laughed and said, “I know that already, Mommy. I want to be smarter.”

Did I have that confidence at five? I think I may remember it. There was a kindergarten incident where I built a tower of blocks and knocked it over onto another little girl, on purpose.

On second thought, I think I’ll just let her carry on without interference. She’s doing a wonderful job all on her own.

First Fans

In the midst of my first week of the school year, my son reminded me that I have another job that he’s a bit more interested in me completing.

This summer I began writing a middle grade fantasy novel. I was feeling a little less than creative with the stories I was working on, and I thought it would be a way to loosen my imagination and my anxiety over not writing anything worth reading. Basically, I was looking for something to relieve the pressure that I was putting myself through.

But at some point in the summer, Andrew began wondering what I was spending hours each day working on. (He had a fascination with computers this summer that had him questioning how long it took UPS to deliver my new computer, so he could get my old one. It amounted to the same feeling that “Are we there yet?” amounts to on an eleven hour drive to Disney World.) I explained to him that I was writing a children’s story that we could read together when I finished.

Daily, I caught him glancing over my shoulder. He began asking questions about the story and the characters. I shared a bit with him, and his questions grew. I’d feel his presence behind me and turn to see him peering over my shoulder trying to get a glimpse at what I was working on. He wanted to know when it would be finished.

When I finished the rough draft, I told him that it would be awhile before I finished working on the revisions. Then school started, and I had to put it aside to get myself organized.

While checking some student work this week, Andrew and his cousin burst into the house excitedly discussing something. Apparently, Andrew had been filling him in on the adventure story he’s waiting to read, and now they both want to know when it will be done. They bombarded me with questions like what’s the title, what happens, is it a series, etc.

The ten seconds of excitement at having my first fans soon gave way to the pressure of an uncompleted manuscript. I’ve taught children for twelve years, and they certainly won’t hesitate to tell you that something is horrible. I think I’m going to get back to that second job. I certainly don’t want to disappoint these two eight year olds.

Thirty Eight Seconds

On May 18, 2009, a student walked into my classroom brandishing a gun and spouting profanity at a classroom full of seventh graders. The clock on my podium blinked 8:52, and it was the middle of my first period class. Until that moment, I’d been thrilled how the end of school was going, and that the students loved their end of year projects.

Thirty-eight seconds can feel like a lifetime, and even after when I was asked how long he remained in my room, I said a few minutes, for we’d like to believe that the events that alter the course of our lives at least amount to minutes, if not hours or days. How could it only be seconds?

In the seconds he remained in my room, not a single student moved. Their innocent and fearful eyes remained on me, waiting for me to show them what to do. I stared at this pale teenage boy in camouflage shorts, and thought that this had to be some security drill, for how could it possibly be real? My mind formed a loop of It can’t be real…Is this real? It can’t be real…

He yelled and cursed and told us to get down, but his words were background noise. I stared at that gun and thought it had to be a toy. Didn’t it look fake? Wasn’t it something to be bought in the toy department? When he attempted to shoot at the dry erase board and the gun didn’t fire, my brain offered it up as proof that it wasn’t real. When he played with the gun’s safety feature, I actually shifted from behind the podium considering a motion to move forward, but then he turned the gun on me.

I gave him one of my looks. My students called it “you’ve really said something stupid” look. I taught seventh graders and used the look often. They’d always back track and correct themselves. I waited for him to laugh, to say that it was a hoax. For how could this be real? He told me to pray to Marilynn Manson which made it even more unbelievable, since I had long stopped praying to anybody. Why would I need to pray for a hoax?

It wasn’t until the gun fired and plaster splattered through the air onto me and the students near me, that my brain wavered in its conviction that it was some elaborate safety drill or prank.

I whipped around to see the gaping chunk of plaster missing, and my brain stopped all thoughts, everything became sharper. The disgusted sound he’d muttered after, the stroll to the back of the class, his attempt to take another student from the room with him. Though I couldn’t speak through the paralysis that had overtaken me, I maintained eye contact with my student, pleading with my eyes for him not to go. My students looked to me, and I was powerless to stop whatever might happen at that moment, in what felt like eternity, but was only seconds.

In the thirty-eight seconds he remained in my room, fear never overcame me. Fear required time to think, and it was during the walk to the door he’d left open behind him as he ran out where fear coursed through me. I needed to lock that door, but what if he returned before I made it to the door? What if he waited for me on the other side?

The hours that followed in that darkened classroom were what I thought were the longest of my life. I was wrong.

Inside those four walls each person in that room had seen the same incident. We were relieved to be unharmed, and we didn’t judge how anyone reacted in the aftermath. We could laugh and not worry what the outside world would say upon our exit.

There was a brief moment during those hours, that the fear nearly gripped me. The bullet had ricocheted off the wall and landed near the feet of a student. When he handed me the bullet with shaking fingers and fear clouding his brown eyes, I held it in the palm of my hand and shook with the realization that it had been meant for me. But even then, I didn’t have time to give into fear because my students called to me, needing reassurance that it was over, that he wasn’t coming back. They needed me to be strong. I would not give into fear. Though I have qualms about what I could have done differently, I’ll always know that I showed them how to exhibit strength and calmness during a crisis.

Fear did not come until I was separated from my students. When I was removed from everyone and had to watch children being evacuated with their hands in the air with SWAT looking down from the school’s roof. When I had to watch his sister being told about her brother. When others gave me looks of sympathy. That’s when I took deep breaths and told myself that I wasn’t going to cry. It had happened to me at my school, but I sat there unharmed and my students were okay. After my interview with the detectives and the Sheriff, I was given the choice to remain alone or return to my students. I returned to my students. Calmness could return when I could look in their faces and see that they were still okay. It meant that I could be okay, too.

During the interview, one of the detectives told me that I could go home and curl up in a ball and cry. I didn’t. I generally only spark with anger when upset, refusing to give into tears. It wasn’t until the Saturday morning six days later, when I received a call that the student had died from his self-inflicted gunshot wound, that I cried.

I didn’t understand my tears that day, because the only emotion I’d allowed into my self-imposed numbness was anger. Anger that it had happened to me. I felt raw and vulnerable. Two emotions that I never allowed myself.

It wasn’t until months later, when no one asked how I was doing anymore, that I understood the tears. He’d died, and I’d never know why. If he’d believed I was a bad teacher, had treated him unfairly, had spoken unkind words then I could find a reason in the randomness. A reason that I’d done something that I should have been punished for. But I didn’t know him or ever teach him. I didn’t even know if he was a student at our school the day he walked into my classroom. I’ll never know why he chose me except for my proximity to the restroom, which seems insignificant for the life changing effects of how that incident has affected me.

Most people thought I wouldn’t return to teaching. Most people who know me know that I never planned on being a life-long teacher. Sheer will and a need to be there for any student who returned to my class propelled me to school the next day. Eleven of the twenty-three returned to my class the next day. Sheer determination kept me returning for the remaining two weeks of school as one by one they returned to me searching for assurances. I believed I’d be okay.

Then a new school year dawned, and I had to begin anew with a group of students that I didn’t know, all strangers like the shooter had been. That first day felt like my first year of teaching even after eleven years. I searched their faces, wondering about the thoughts behind those faces. Could I trust them? What pain did they hide from the world?

Luckily, I had a wonderful group of students who taught me just as much as I taught them. Most days I could enter my classroom and focus on what mattered, and that was being the person who listened when they needed me to, and taught them to open their eyes to the world through literature and writing. Most importantly, they taught me that I still wanted to be a teacher .

Most days I can pretend I’m safe, as long as I avoid the stairs, as long as my door is locked, as long as the lights don’t go off, and the list goes on. It’s a delicate balance that I hope one day to forget that I’m walking.

At the beginning of a new school year, I was always thrilled for the chance to start fresh. Now I can’t wait until I know my students, and my fears can rest as I walk into my classroom.

A student will always ask. Some brave soul who’s heard rumors about the shooting and has courage enough to want to know the truth. I’ll always be honest, but I’m also the teacher. If we don’t open the eyes of the people who can change things, we may not prevent it from happening again.

Because as my son said, “If he didn’t hurt anyone, then he didn’t deserve to die.” Maybe next time that someone will know to ask for help if he/she knows someone is listening, and that’s all we can ask for.

Ode to Summer

As I was swimming laps in my pool yesterday evening, I had to sigh at my two days left of summer vacation. I can’t help but wonder where the lazy days of summer have gone.

As a child, summer lasted forever. The only worry I had was how much Sun In I could put on my hair in a day or how tan could I get without looking as if I needed to change my race status. With nothing but a good book to worry about, I didn’t notice time marching onward.

Fast forward to as an adult where I have to cram everything I don’t get done during the school year into a dwindling summer, and it’s no wonder I like to reminisce about those summers where my to-do list had items like midnight hide-n-seek.

What I really miss about summer is writing time. It’s the only time of the year where I don’t feel guilty not grading papers or writing lesson plans. I can spend whole days writing and reading and not balance the two- one job that pays and the other that doesn’t.

Sigh again. One day left of my summer and counting. Oh, how I’ll miss summer.