To the Finish Line

Here are the end-of-the-year letters that I composed for Max and Sarah’s teachers.  I wish that every parent would reflect on the specific strengths of their children’s teachers and then take the time to write to them. It took me about an hour (with Max and Sarah’s help) on this rainy Memorial Day morning, a worthwhile investment in time.

Dear Mrs. Willhoft,

I wanted to take the time to thank you for all that you have done for Sarah this year.  I have watched her blossom in countless ways since last August when she first stepped into your classroom.  I know how hard you have worked.  When she crawls into bed, so excited to read her newest chapter book, or when she sits down to write a letter, I feel like I owe you a huge thank you, as we both know that this love of literacy does not magically happen for all kids.

Thank you for providing extra reading opportunities for her during Word Works, as those activities always seemed to stimulate her and to make her feel special.

Thank you for reading aloud the piece that she wrote about the Northwest Americans, as she came home bubbling with excitement over the fact that you recognized her hard work.

Thank you for your little notes/stickers on her behavior sheets, as well as for those times that you indicated that there was an issue in the classroom.  These notes allowed me to open up communication with Sarah about her day and to help her work through any conflicts.

Thank you for responding so quickly and empathetically to my emails.  The most recent example of that was when Sarah woke up so nervous about her computer lab test.  I did not tell you at the time, but I deeply appreciated your reply.

Thank you for being flexible with me during my busy life as a working parent.  I appreciated the fact that you rearranged snack time so that I could be there for Sarah’s birthday and that you accommodated my request to attend the symphony field trip.  Those were moments that I will remember forever.

Thank you for always reassuring me that, despite some bumps, Sarah would, ultimately, emerge okay.  You have no idea how much I appreciate that honesty and that reassurance.  Thank you, too, for reminding me, without saying it outright, that my two children are different and the importance of remembering that.

Thank you for teaching Sarah the power of advocating for herself, for standing up for herself, and for resolving conflicts in a peaceful manner.  I have definitely seen her grow in those areas, and I appreciate the fact that you have helped me raise a strong daughter. We may have to institute a “peace table” at home between she and Max. ☺

Thank you for all of those quiet things that you did for each one of the children, the extra steps that you took to assure that they each had a positive experience, the things that no parent ever even realizes.  I am sure that there were millions.

Enjoy your summer.  I hope it is peaceful and happy, and that you have some nice quality time with Sophia.

Love,
Debra Solomon Baker

(Here is the letter that Sarah wrote to Mrs. Willhoft)

Dear Mrs. Wilhoft,

Thanks for the wonderful year! There are sooooo many special memories I’ll never forget.  I loved learning about people that lived long ago.  Here are some smarties becase your so smart and some popcorn thats sweet just like you! Your a grate teacer I bet your new kids in third grade will love you!

Sincerely,

Sarah

—————–

Dear Mr. Heyman,

Wow.  Congratulations on surviving your first year of teaching.  Now you can take a deep breath.

I sometimes think that I would like to find my first group of students and apologize to them for being so clueless.  I can tell you with utter sincerity that you would never have to apologize to Max Baker.  He has admired you since that first day that he stepped into that jungle-themed classroom.

I know that you did not have an easy group this year, but I wanted to thank you for everything that you have done for Max.  I have seen him grow in positive ways this year, and I know that that does not just magically happen.

Thank you for reminding Max, in quiet ways, about the importance of compassion.  One example of how you did this was by partnering him with the new boy, Nuvonte.  While that was difficult at times for Max, I think having that responsibility really helped him learn important lessons that cannot be taught through textbooks.

Thank you for all of your creative projects, including Cookie Continent and, of course the mealworms (Max just corrected me and told me that “mealworm” is one word ☺) Max also loves the reader’s theatre “As the Crow Flies” project, which the class is engaged in right now.

Thank you for insisting that Max work hard and produce high quality work. One example is how often you reminded him of the importance of legibility in his handwriting and for not allowing him to coast by with scribbles.

Thanks for nurturing Max’s creativity through projects like Harris Burdick, where he wrote a story based on the “Missing in Venice” photograph.  Also, the book that he produced about Desmond (RIP), dedicated to his little sister, Sarah, is a treasure.  We expect that he will show his grandchildren that one day.

Thank you for helping Max realize his leadership potential.  You may not know this, but being chosen to represent Abraham Lincoln in that school-wide play was one of the highlights in Max’s school year, so I appreciate whatever you did to make this happen.

Thanks for never sending Max to “Antarctica,” even though I am sure that there were moments where you wanted to send all the “monkeys” there and just take a long nap.

Thanks, too, for your prompt and compassionate replies to my emails and for reassuring me, at conference time, that Max was producing exceptional work (and not to compare him to eighth graders).

Thank you for all of the things, of which I am sure there are thousands (Max said to write “millions or billions”), that you did for each of the students in your classroom every day.  Most of what we do in this “business” goes unrecognized, but I, more than most, perhaps, realize that there is much “behind the scenes” work that you did to make this a smooth and successful year for Max and for the others under your watch.  Thank you for nurturing them, for teaching them, and, most of all, for being a positive role model to them.

I know that Max will miss you over the summer.  I hope you have a peaceful and happy summer and that you get to spend some quality time with your friends and family, as you gear up for year #2.   Believe me when I tell you, by comparison, the second year will seem like a breeze.

Love,
Debra Solomon Baker

I have been overwhelmed by the many responses to my blog post, “This Is What I Learned Today,” a description of this sweet kid, my student, who viewed life as little more than a mountain of disappointment.

Thank you for the comments and the emails, for the kind words and the insights, and, most of all, for the empathy.

In the film, Antwone Fisher, a story of resilience, and, ultimately, of hope, Antwone asks his dear friend, Who Will Cry for the Little Boy?

Great question.

Who will “cry” for this boy, my student?  The answer is that his principal will.  His school counselor will.  You will.  I will.  And, because of that, though there might not be a Happily Ever After end to this tale, right now, at least, the kid is getting what he needs.  A visit to the doctor.  New glasses.  Unbroken promises.  Attention.  Hope.

And just yesterday afternoon, he presented a copy of Antwone Fisher’s poem to me, with the words, “I Love You, Ms. Baker” scribbled at the bottom.  I will keep this tucked inside a folder, in the front of a file cabinet filled with fifteen years of paper that, mostly, I don’t care much about.  And maybe one day, my own children will discover the poem, and then they will better understand this person they call Mom.

But none of this is about me.  And while I am glad that my actions seem to have inspired others, I certainly am not heroic.

As Helen Keller, a true hero, reminds us, “I am only one, but still I am one. I cannot do everything, but still I can do something; and because I cannot do everything, I will not refuse to do something that I can do.”

Waltz into PetsMart on any Saturday or Sunday afternoon and there stands Amanda, scrappy dog in arms, persuading some passerby to love the abandoned animals from the Saint Francois shelter, to take them home.  She is fourteen.  She is one.

And then there is Jillian, a high school track star, who has collected 2,000 pairs of shoes to donate to those forced to go barefoot. She is sixteen.  She is one.

And then there is Sarah, who, every night, battles the tangles in her hair, crying, sometimes, as she brushes, because, gosh darn it, she is determined to let it grow longer.  Why? She wants to present her beautiful locks to another little girl who has no hair, to another little girl who is not quite as lucky.  She is six.  She is one.

Every day, I am inspired by those in my small world who refuse to be gobbled up by the enormity of the world’s problems, by those who not only cry for the little boy, but who will not allow inequity and injustice to go unnoticed.  Every day, I see those who find ways to mend the brokenness.

I hope that you, too, are this lucky.

I would love to hear your stories.

It’s Monday.

I am fairly certain that I did not teach anyone anything today.  But I learned.

I learned that if you want to take a fourteen-year-old to get a physical, so that he can look forward to something in his life, like playing high school football, so that he can get some years-ago needed glasses, so that he can quit squinting when he needs to copy numbers from the whiteboard in his algebra class, so that he can find out why his leg throbs all the time, so that maybe, just maybe, he can get a referral to a dentist because he has never been to one in his life and his left molar is killing him, yes, I learned that if you want to take this fourteen-year-old to get a physical, you had better make sure that his Medicaid card has not suddenly become inactive.  Because I never knew that Medicaid could just quit working, like a beat up old washing machine.  And I learned that if that card is suddenly inactive, there ain’t no way that you’re gonna get someone from that darn 800 number printed on the back to answer the friggin’ phone to tell you why this kid with no parents has a bum Medicaid card.  And I learned that even if, after calling sixteen times and giving up, you are willing to shell out the 75 bucks for the physical because, gosh darnit, this kid who has already missed the whole basketball season because he had no physical, this kid is, for once, gonna get exactly what he needs, well, I learned that even that ain’t as easy it sounds.

And when I yank out my credit card and he mutters, “Thanks, Ms. Baker” and looks up at me with these grateful eyes, I think, jeez, please, please don’t say thank you because you kid, no kid, should have to say thank you for getting to see a doctor at some clinic so that he can play high school football.

So we sit down and pretend to be amused by all of the little kids running all over the place, waiting for their appointments. But then they call me up to the counter and they see me, a white woman, with this black-skinned teenager and they ask, “is he a ward of the state?’ and my answer is “no” and they ask “are you are the guardian?” and my answer is “no” and they ask, “are you the case worker?” and my answer is “no”, and then they ask again if he is a ward of the state.  And now they want to know who the heck this white woman is, and I whisper, “I am his teacher,” that’s who I am.  I am someone who gives a damn about him, who wants him to get his glasses and wants his knee to quit hurting.  I am someone who knows that he is bright and inquisitive, well-mannered and lonely, and that he is three feet away from getting lost, Miss, just three feet, and I am someone who knows that that just cannot be okay.  And that maybe I am deranged for even considering this, but I think that this physical may be this doctor’s bright and shining moment, because this physical may just help save this kid’s life.

And so then they ask if I have a note from the guardian and I want to scream in jubilation,  “YES!”  because yes I do, I have this scribbled note from his guardian, this guardian who happens to be the 20ish-year-old brother of this boy, this boy without the working Medicaid card, this boy whose mom died a year ago this Friday, this boy whose dad has long ago disappeared.  And I feel this sudden rush, because, holy cow, I have this letter, I have the $75, we passed the test, and we are almost at the end of this journey.  But then she says, “No ma’am.  The letter, it needs to be notarized.”

No.

I retrieve the 75 dollar refund and I whisper, I’m sorry, to him, which, to my own ears sounds pathetic, and he says, “It’s not your fault, Ms. Baker,” and, of course, I know that.  I think.  But maybe it is my fault.  Maybe it is our fault.  Our collective fault. Because it can’t be nobody’s fault, and I just don’t know who to blame.

Then he asks me what a notary is and how a person becomes one, because this kid asks and asks and asks, this kid is hungry to know everything about how this complicated world really works.

After bumbling through an explanation, I smile a weak smile and say, “You know, after my kids go to the doctor, we always head out for ice cream.”  So we drive to Ben and Jerry’s and he orders a chocolate-peanut butter milkshake with whipped cream and I order nothing because I feel just too darn disgusted to eat ice cream.  And then he tells me that he just knew he was not going to get that physical today, and when, dumbfounded, I ask him why not– we had the appointment and the Medicaid and the note and the money– he says, because, Ms. Baker, I just don’t ever expect things are gonna work out for me.

This is what I learned today.

“I don’t get something, Mommy.  Why did Drew have one mommy at the chess tournament this week and a different mommy last week?”

“Duh, Sarah, he’s got two mommies, ” Max interrupts, in his I-am-oh-so-much-more-brilliant-than-my-dumb-first-grade-sister tone.

Though I have a slice of pizza in one hand, I grasp a pencil and pull an envelope from the pile of bills stacked next to me.  I am prepared.  This banter is about to get interesting.  Very interesting.  And the reporter in me is desperate to capture every word.

I wait.  Not for long.

“Was there a divorce?” asks the six year old.

Divorce?  When did she learn about divorce?

“No, Sarah,” answers Wise Eight Year Old, exasperated.  “There never was a dad.”

When did he become an expert on this kid’s family? He barely knows him.  But this boy has inherited his father’s shmoozing genes, so, somehow, I trust his assessment of the family background.

“But there’s one thing I don’t get, Mommy,” he says.

One thing?  Yeah, right.  Here comes the blizzard.  Hold on, buddy.  Hold the floodgates.  Let me  Google, “How To Talk to Your Children about Homosexuality” or, at least, let me  Phone-a-Friend.  Give me some time.  Where the heck is that parenting manual that I have not opened in three years?  You know, the one with all of the answers?

“Which mom’s belly did Drew pop out of?”

Which belly?  Belly! I love that.  Okay, I have an answer for that one.

“Honey, I don’t really know.  It’s not our business.  And babies don’t pop out of bellies.”

Oh man.  Did I really need to add that last part?  Did I really want to have The Sex Talk right now, over a pizza dinner, with my husband stuck in traffic on Highway 40?  What was I thinking?

“Wait.  I don’t get it,” Sarah pipes in.  “Are the two moms married?”

I don’t know.  Maybe.  Probably not.  You see, Honey, Harvey Milk tried…he really tried but people they just don’t like…they just don’t…and now in California, it’s all a mess because…

“Probably not, but I don’t really know.  They love each other, so they decided that they wanted to live with each other and have a life together.  Every family is different.”

When did I become an expert on this kid’s family?  I don’t even know these people.  But, I guess that’s a decent answer.  I’ll give it a seven.  Not quite Mother of the Year, but not terrible.

“But if they just love each other and they’re not married, then how can they have a baby?”

Had I instructed her on The Order — marriage first, babies second?  I didn’t remember.  I start to perspire and wonder if my husband is ever going to get home from work.  This is getting complicated.

“Wait…can boys marry boys?”

Well, you see, Son, voters have approved constitutional amendments codifying marriage as an exclusively heterosexual institution.

“Wait.”  Max suddenly remembers the importance of the woman’s belly. “But if they did, they couldn’t have any kids.”

“Well, I think it would be great to have two mommies,” Sarah announces.  “Because Dads aren’t that great at cooking.  And then one mommy could play with the kids while the other mommy cooks dinner.”

Down with Daddies.

“I think it would be bad because you wouldn’t have a dad.”

Up with Daddies.

****

It is a Thursday, which means that, earlier today, twelve boys had congregated in my room, as they do every Thursday, for The Baker Boys-Only After School Book Club.  Today, we talked about Indian culture, about anger, and about forgiveness, but mostly we just listened.  We listened to Sherman Alexie reading his powerful narrative, The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian, to this description of the narrator’s grandmother, who had just been killed by a drunk driver:

And, yeah, my grandmother was smart and kind and had traveled to about 100 different Indian reservations, but that had nothing to do with her greatness.

My grandmother’s greatest gift was tolerance...

My grandmother had no use for all the gay bashing in the world, especially among other Indians.

“Jeez,” she said. “Who cares if a man wants to marry another man?  All I want to know is who’s going to pick up all the dirty socks?”

****

And as I sit at our dinner table talking about Drew’s two moms, I think about this grandmother and I wonder how she became the person that she did.  And I think about being a mom and trying to teach my children that answers are not always simple and that laws are not always fair and that love does not always look the way that it does in those silly Princess stories.  And I want to utter profound truths, but, instead, I feel like I have barely said anything.

“Mom, I think I get it now.”

You do, Sarah?  Really?  I smile.

“And I don’t really think we should ask Drew which belly he popped out of. I don’t think that’s a nice question.”

Yeah.  Probably not, Sweetie.

Tolerance.

“But, Mom, I have another question and it’s important, so make sure you keep writing stuff down.”

Here we go.  I’m ready.

“Who exactly invented pizza?”

Several times in To Kill a Mockingbird, Atticus Finch advises his children that, “it’s not time to worry yet.”  There is darkness looming, yet, he says, it’s not time, not yet.  Go play.

And the children are able to hear their father’s words and, yup, to go play.  That is the magical part.  They just, snap, snap, cease their fretting, confident that Atticus will let them know when to fire up those worry engines again.

If only life were that simple.

If only when you were so busy picking those cuticles or biting those nails or waking up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat, or spending three hours, head on pillowcase, desperately trying to shut down, you actually had someone who could convince silly you that, “it’s not time to worry yet.” And off to sleep you would go.  Peace would grab hold of you and shake you until everything else dissipated.

The problem is that there is such a darn long list of things to worry about, with this recession and this crummy environment and this new year of bloodshed for Israel.  And I worry about what  I should say to parents whose children failed my class first semester, to those parents whose children still cannot write a cohesive paragraph.  Are they ready for high school?  Should we send them to high school?  Is it better or worse to leave them behind? And I worry whether I even have enough patience for my student teacher.  And am I being a positive role model for her?  And I  worry about the fact that my own third grader may have scored six points in the championship game this morning but he hasn’t picked up a book to read on his own in, hmmmm, has it been months already?

Oh, this is just the beginning; there’s no shortage on my list.  And there’s no Atticus, calming my fears.

It’s not like I think about this all the time though, but the topic of The Fine Art of Worrying grabbed me, yet again, when I ran out for a  gallon of skim milk this past Thursday afternoon and quickly called Dad, down in Florida, who sounded overwhelmed and defeated.  He heads in for a spinal tap on Monday to determine whether we are entering Round #3:  Gene Solomon vs. Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma.

I wanted, so desperately, to be Scout, to hear my father’s calming voice, “No, Deb, it’s not time to worry yet,”  but, instead, I heard a voice that was disgusted, a voice that was frightened, a voice that knows, full well, that if that spinal fluid looks the wrong color, or the wrong consistency, or the wrong whatever the heck way it should look, then things are going to get ugly and ugly fast.

I don’t care that I’m 40 now, not six, hearing Dad’s frightened voice scares me and makes me cry.

So I grab the milk off the shelf, wipe my face, and quickly switch to the topic of books. He tells me he has finished Indignation (Philip Roth), which I think he had just started the day before, and he has finished Epilogue (Anne Roiphe) and now is diving into his, oh, let’s just say, his sixth book of the new year, give or take a book or two.

And I tell Dad about my eleven male students who willingly stay after school with me on Thursdays for skim milk and cookies and to listen with me to the beautiful audio rendering of The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian.  And I hope that Dad is proud of me.

He asks how to spell the author’s name.

A-l-e-x-i-e, I say.

“What do you think of Louise Erdrich?” he asks.

So we schmooze about books, but as I pull back up into the parking lot and head back inside school armed with the gallon of milk for my Book Club Boys, I know that we’ve got to return to reality.

I hear myself trying desperately to be Atticus for my frightened father.  Try not to worry, Dad, I hear myself saying to him. Remember there are lots of possibilities here, and this is just one that the doctors want to rule out.  Dad, it’s not time to worry yet.

And I stand outside my classroom door, trying to breathe, preparing to enter, and I wonder whether Atticus believed his own words.

“A good book is never finished—it goes on whispering to you from the wall.”
–Virginia Wolff (YA author)

“Buildings are designed to hold us and protect us and shelter us. To me, a good book is the same way.” –Madeleine George (author of Looks)

They are sweater-wearing human beings with fear of isolation, with bitterness toward alcoholic parents, with anger at the middle school ghosts that still remind them years, even decades, later of that popularity that never emerged, of those boys who never behaved like the princes they had been promised. They have hopes and visions of a world where the virtuous triumph, where loyalty to a cause is not met with bitterness or sarcasm. They are not Wonder Women. Or Supermen. And certainly they are not Incredible Hulks.

They are authors.

Yes, authors have always been heroic to me. Whenever life has become too complicated, too overwhelming, too filled with hurt or confusion, I have cracked open the pages and flown away. After all, who does not seek comfort from the harshness? Books are a relief. And the just-right book at the just-right time? Perfect.

So, as I sat for days, listening to those mere mortals, speak at the Young Adult Literature conference (ALAN) in San Antonio last week, they impressed me, inspired me and made me want to jump out of my seat, get The Wave going, scream words of gratitude toward them.

But, not having done The Wave with any enthusiasm since my days huddled beneath sweaters and face masks in the University of Michigan football stadium, and certainly never having been the kind of person who would ever actually initiate The Wave, I sat silently, listened wave-less, and scribbled pages upon pages of notes, mostly on hotel stationery.

Here is a snapshot of what I heard.

These mortals write to make sense of their fears.

“I learned that I would need to fight my fear in life and that I would do that through my writing.”
–Nancy Werlin
Thus, Werlin gave birth to her novel, Rules of Survival, about the fear facing three children whose mother has angry outbursts that leave them insecure and panicked.

They write from their dreams.

“I had a dream that wound up becoming Speak. The book was really me finding my own voice. It was my way to work on my own frustration at seeing things clearly but getting shut down when I tried to talk about them.”
–Laurie Halse Anderson (Speak)

They write from their anger.
“I participated in many science fairs and I really hated them, so I wrote a comedy about a science fair.”
–Greg Leitich Smith

“Feed [resulted from my own] deep anger—anger about the way we live our lives… [There were always these images of] teen “cool”—images of the gorgeous, and I felt ugly. I tried to buy the clothes I was supposed to want.”
–M.T. Anderson (Feed)

And they write to express their deep sense of how the world should be.
“[Books] provide us with a lens through which we can look at justice, opportunity, liberty, and a lens by which to understand and maybe even modify our human behavior.”
–Ellen Hopkins (author of Crank)

Ellen Hopkins has 13,000 friends-fans on Facebook.

——–

“…We aren’t North American, South American, Asian…we are human beings. No matter our races, our genders, our nationalities, we share the same human heart. The surface details may be different, but what is real is the guts of it, the heart of it. This emotional truth is what I try to communicate in all my books.
“…Math and sciences are prized for being knowledge-based. But literature is the most necessary study of all—it asks us to engage human emotions, to develop empathy. It is a bridge across divides. It asks us to see the other in ourselves and ourselves in the other.”
Allan Stratton (author of Chanda’s Secret)
* * * *

Listening to these human beings speak of their craft, of their inspiration, and of their fulfillment inspired me, yet again, to draft the first few paragraphs of a story that will, who knows, maybe even transform magically into an entire novel. Perhaps this time, I will actually move beyond a beginning, into a middle and, dare I say, even to an end.

I cannot believe that I just wrote that. How I have just cursed myself, a curse equivalent to muttering aloud, “I am lucky that I have such healthy kids.”

There are mounds of other opening scenes in my pile marked “To Finish When I Have Time.” There is a whole city of skyscrapers with just one floor.

Will this one materialize?

Or will this one, too, be pushed aside, as unread student work and I-can’t-believe-you’re-an-English-teacher-and-haven’t-read-that-novel demand my attention? Will it be pushed aside because there is a flabby stomach to tone, children to wrestle with, and a whole panoply of daydreams that require constant nurturing and attention?  Will it be pushed aside because there are noodle kugels, beds, apologies, and excuses all waiting to be made?

I hear my stories screaming, “Write me already. What the heck are you waiting for? Aren’t you always urging those students to focus? Focus yourself, Woman. No, don’t click. Don’t click! Resist the pull to pay attention to something else. Be brave. Be brave, oh wimpy one.”

Off I go…

I was deeply honored to be asked to speak about the impact and relevance of To Kill A Mockingbird at yesterday’s Big Read Festival in St. Louis.  A nervous presenter, I initially declined, wondering, what can I possibly say that people will want to hear?  Then, because of a former colleague, who has contagious enthusiasm, who believes in me, and who would simply not allow me to say no, I changed my mind.  Here is the text of what I delivered.  For a myriad of reasons, stepping outside of my comfort zone and giving this talk was one of the best decisions that I have made since the beginning of the school year.

*                              *                                 *                                     *

I have been teaching in public schools for 16 years (currently at Wydown Middle School in Clayton)  and, with the exception of a semester where I was home caring for my newborn son, I have taught To Kill a Mockingbird for every one of those years.  Wow.  That means that I have studied Mockingbird with more than 1,000 young people throughout the years. And it has been an amazing ride.

A lot of my students, before they open the book, think this is going to be a really cool look into how to kill a bird, a hunting manual, if you will.  They cannot believe their good fortune at being assigned a book that seems so cool.  Lest, you too, are as confused as they are, let me recap for you some of the key details of Mockingbird.

You probably remember that Mockingbird is narrated by the brainy Scout Finch, who is looking back on her childhood as a six year old tomboy in small-town Maycomb Alabama during the 1930s.

Scout Finch questions traditions.  She breaks rules, including gender role expectations, much to her Aunt Alexandra’s dismay.   She accepts little on face value.  When forced by her ever-so-proper Aunt Alexandra to, oh my gosh, wear a dress, she makes sure to wear her overalls (proudly) (and rebelliously) underneath.

Scout Finch is no shrinking violet.  She is a bold, strong young woman, a role model to many of my students.

When bullied by her boy cousin, what does she do?  She, of course, socks him, bloodying his lip.  When her father is threatened by an angry mob, what does Scout do?  She intends  to kick the mobster’s shin, reached too high, and, instead,  kicks the head of the mob right where it counts, sending him writhing in pain.   She clearly has not yet learned her father’s lessons on non-violence.  However, through this act, and, more than that, through an appeal to the mobster’s humanity, Scout, with a little bit of help from her brother,  disbands the mob.

The mob is there, the lynch mob, to kill Tom Robinson, an African-American charged with raping a white woman.  This is the 1930s, after all.  This was “justice” in the 1930s.  Between 1882 and 1968, an estimated 4,742 blacks met their deaths at the hands of lynch mobs.  During the 1930s, there was the we-must-protect-the-flower-of-Southern-womanhood charade that often brought on lynchings. Many victims did nothing.  Well, maybe they failed to step aside on a sidewalk or disagreed with a white businessman.  That’s all. The assumption was that the guilt was there—forget the courtroom.

But Atticus will not forget the courtroom.  Atticus is a quiet, unassuming lawyer in this small town, a widower, and, therefore,  a single parent to his two young children.  When assigned to defend Tom Robinson, the African-American who has been charged with raping a young, white woman, Mayella Ewell,  he does the unthinkable.

What does he do?  He actually defends him.

Not a meek defense, but a full-blown, I-am-going-to-work- my-tail-off-to-win-this-case defense. He defends him despite attacks on his own reputation, despite the How Dare You attitude that accompanies his choice to defend an African-American over a white woman.

And, speaking of modeling righteous behavior, we must not forget the parallel plotline of Mockingbird, which involves the neighborhood recluse, Boo Radley.  Boo Radley who is deeply misunderstood by many of his neighbors, who peg him as a weirdo, as a “madman.”  Ultimately, we see Boo Radley for who he is, a timid, yet brave man.  He is a man who, like Atticus, is willing to sacrifice his own safety for the protection other human beings, in this case, for the Finch children, whose lives he ultimately saves through a stunning act of courage at the end of the novel.

When I first learned that I would be giving this talk, I did do what every good fifteen year old would do—I jumped on Facebook and began contacting my “friends” – most of whom are former students.  I asked what they still remember about Mockingbird and I asked them how the novel had impacted their thinking.

Amanda responded first:  Here is an excerpt of what she said:

Atticus inspired me to be a better person but he also taught me to see everyone as a person….no matter how hard it may be.  No matter how different I am from someone, I can appreciate that they are still human and are affected by things. This  is an amazing book and I am definitely going read over again and again and again…….it will never get old.

So why is it that Mockingbird does not get old?  There are many reasons.

First off, because, unfortunately, racism never gets old.

Racism has changed, but it has never just, poof,  disappeared, and we need to remember that, we need to understand that, and we need to not shield that fact from our children, who may be inclined to believe otherwise.

The Southern Poverty Law Center, in a recent report titled “The Year in Hate,” said it counted 888 hate groups in America last year, up from 844 in 2006 and 602 in 2000.

According to studies conducted by Amnesty International, black defendants are far more likely to be sentenced to death if their victim was white.

But what about right here? Racism as blatant as that found in Maycomb, Alabama may be far from the reality of what my students see (thank goodness).  They have never seen a lynch mob.  They are in integrated schools. But  looking at the racism in the book can be a stepping stone to talk about modern racism, or what Charles Blow, in a recent NY times article called, “a shadowy bias that is difficult to measure.”  As Barack Obama gently put it in his speech about race, today’s racial “resentments aren’t always expressed in polite company.”  However, Blow reminds us, they can be — and possibly will be — expressed in the privacy of the voting booth.

Last week, in a New York Times column titled “Racism Without Racists,” Nicholas Kristof said that a recent survey suggested that Barack Obama’s support would be about six percentage points higher if he were white.  The survey contends that most of these votes belong not to “dyed in the wool racists” , but, rather to well-meaning whites who “discriminate unconsciously.” A huge array of research suggests that 50 percent or more of whites have unconscious biases that sometimes lead to racial discrimination.

So, yes, we still need to have conversations about race, about discrimination, about bias.  I have African-American students nearly every year who write papers about subtle racism—about teachers who call on them less frequently or who seem to have lower expectations for them, or about other African-American students who complain that they are “too smart” or “too white.”

So, 48 years after it was published,  the racial issues in Mockingbird continues to resonate.  The book, foolishly banned in some places mostly because of its use of the “n word”, helps us enter into important conversations about the nature of racism and its evolution throughout history.

The book invites us to discuss the nature of racism, but also that of tolerance in general.  It asks us to consider big, philosophical questions– What is our responsibility for other human beings?  What does it mean to treat others with dignity, with kindness?  Am I, in fact, my brother’s keeper?

It invites us to consider the stereotypes that WE form of people and to consider the conclusions that we too often reach without knowing all, or even any, of the facts.  My students have vibrant discussions about the destructive power of idle gossip (such as that which is spread about Boo Radley) , and about the nature of stereotypes.  They recall times when they were pre-judged because they are teenagers, because they are from Clayton, because of the clothes that they wear, or because of the group that they sit with in the cafeteria, because they are Asian or Irish, Jewish or African-American.

And through the reenactment of the courtroom scenes, I ask students to step inside the shoes of characters in this book and to think about their perspective, as, after all, this is a book all about perspective.   I ask my students to think about and write from the point of view of  Mayella Ewell.  Mayella Ewell, who is so terrified of her racist father that she cannot admit to him that, in fact, no rape occurred, that she, a white woman, was attracted to a black man and, in fact, wanted to kiss him.  I ask students to write from the perspective of Boo Radley, so isolated, so misunderstood.  I ask them to “become” jury members and to try to understand why they have allowed prejudice to be their masters.

Why ELSE does Mockingbird never get old?   As Amanda told us, it is difficult to NOT be inspired by Atticus Finch.   Ralph Waldo Emerson said, “Do not go where the path may lead.  Go instead where there is no path and leave a trail.”   Atticus walks on his own path.  It is a scary place.  A dangerous place.  At times, an usafe place.  Yet, for him, the choice is clear.  After all, how can he teach his children to be upright, righteous human beings, if he does not model that himself? As the parent of two young children and as a teacher of middle school students, this question resonates deeply for me.  I consider my job to be far more than to teach teenagers the power of reading and wrting.  Part of my job is to help them consider what it means to step outside of our comfort zone and to be a citizen of the world.

Atticus Finch, challenges the status quo and fights a battle that seems overwhelming, that seems insurmountable, a battle that, oftentimes, leaves him standing all alone, fighting all alone.

The book provokes discussion of leadership, of moral courage, of civil disobedience, of righteousness.  I ask students to define courage and to consider what makes Atticus different from the others.  We consider what it means to “unleash your inner Atticus.”  We discuss people we know who have engaged in acts of moral courage.  We consider what the world would be like if there were no Atticus’s, if noone fought to end oppression, if noone fought for the underdog, and what the world would be like if everyone stood up, fought non-violently and passionately against injustice.

What To Kill a Mockingbird teaches us is that when a single individual cares enough to protest injustice, to fight against oppression, that the world does, in fact, undergo a change.   For when Atticus battles to save Tom Robinson, even though he loses the case, even though people do not start marching in the streets in protest, readers recognize that there have been small, yet significant changes in that town.  If nothing else, the children, who have witnessed the injustice, will never be the same.

As one of my students from last year said, in an online discussion forum about the book,  “Making a difference is changing one person’s mind because they can change two minds in the future, and that person can change two, and so on.  Atticus Finch MAKES a difference.”  It is all of these differences that lead to systemic change in our society.

What To Kill a Mockingbird teaches us is that apathy is never the answer, that we must not get so comfortable in our own lives that we are blind to the injustice that surrounds us.  As we stand here in 2008, in a world that is still plagued with oppression and brokenness, I cannot think of a better lesson.

In a world that, some say, is devoid of heroes, for our young people, Atticus Finch, though fictional, is a hero.  He teaches us to be bold, to be strong, to fight against that which we know, deep in our hearts is wrong—you pick the issue—it does not really matter.  My students discuss issues that are important to them:  the elimination of MAP testing, of poverty, and of animal abuse.

Atticus teaches us, teaches ME to be the kind of parent who models fortitude for his children, who does not sit around and bemoan the fate of the world, but rather who stands up, who protests, who heals, who changes.

I heard from Sara, who read the book with me an eighth grader and is now in her 20s.  She wrote,

When Scout speaks, she speaks directly to her reader and invites us into her world.  Like her own journey to understand the world through walking in another’s shoes, Harper Lee steps us into Scout’s, takes us on her own journey of self-discovery and reminds us what it is to be human.

The last I heard, Sara was working as an organic farmer, living out her own ideals.  Who really knows the power of To Kill a Mockingbird?

Many people think that teenagers are miscreants. Hormonal lunatics.  Unfocused blobs.  Overall pains in the tuchus.

And many people question the sanity of middle school teachers, for we actually choose to spend our days with these unfocused blobs. How can you possibly stand it, they ask?  How can you stand them?  I have been posed this question, or some variation of it, at least four trillion times in my fifteen years of teaching, mostly by the small talkers seated next to me on airplanes.

This is how I stand it.

Eighty-four teenagers passed over the threshold of room 309 for the first time twelve days ago, and since that morning, I have been feeling inspired and utterly hopeful.

What are you, crazy?

Maybe so.

But…

I have witnessed students crouching down to help each other with jammed lockers, volunteering to organize my already disorganized bookshelves, assisting classmates who are new or who have severe disabilities.

I have seen a young man return a $25 gift card that he found tucked inside of Shadow Divers, a book that he had borrowed from my classroom library.  This is not mine, he uttered.

I have watched students work through their lunch period, day after day, fiercely determined to stay ahead, to have a successful year.

I have read comments, one writer encouraging another writer, in our online discussion forums.

I have listened to their passion for the Beatles, for Batman, for the Twilight series, for swinging from the trapeze (yes, two of them are “swingers”).  I have listened to stories of Sundays spent volunteering to help abandoned animals.

I have learned of their battles against attention deficit disorder, of their mourning the loss of their far-too-young-to-die parents or siblings, their struggles to cope with acrimonious divorces, and their own physical trials against low birth weight, and diabetes.

I have read of their hopes to become stronger writers and more adept readers, and of their dreams to become veterinarians, first grade teachers, architects, lawyers, and professional sports players.

I have learned of their talents for horseback riding, for hockey, for violin, for sketching.

I have witnessed other “talents” too, for burping, for farting (bring on the Febreze), and for producing such explosive sneezes that they send an entire class erupting into laughter.  They are teenagers, after all.

I have laughed aloud, as they have shared stories of brothers keeping dead eels in the freezer, of stuffed animals (one named Mr. Woofums) protecting them in the darkness, and of cooking skills so unrefined that even the toast gets burnt.

And, speaking of cooking…

This is the five-star story.

“Ms. Baker, you should have seen the pot roast that I made last night.  It was fifteen pounds, and, Ms. Baker, it was amazing.  If I had a camera, I would have taken a picture of it to show it to you.  My daddy said that I should have invited you over to eat with us…”

This fourteen-year-old cooks daily feasts for her two older brothers and her diabetic father.  She plans the menus.  She heads to the supermarket.  She serves them. Oh, and whenever possible, she also accompanies Dad to dialysis treatments.

And yesterday she woke up at 4 a.m. to get started on that day’s homework.

“I don’t have a lot of free time,” she explains.

I do not know where her mother is, only that she is not around.

“You know, Ms. Baker, that’s really okay.  A lot of people I know don’t have  fathers in their lives, and I feel lucky that I have such an amazing one.”

If there is an ounce of self-pity in this fourteen-year-old’s heart, I have yet to see its face.

Last year, she read and read her way out of Reading Support class and, one day, she plans to attend Spelman College.

“Do you know where that is, Ms. Baker?”

Oh, yes, sweetie, I know exactly where that is.

And I will help you get there.

*****

Meanwhile, at home tonight, I whip out the frozen pizza, transfer it to the preheated oven, and announce to my own children that their feast will be ready in thirteen minutes.  Maybe tomorrow, kids, Mommy will make pot roast.  Huh, they say, what’s pot roast?

Never mind, I laugh.

And, once hands are washed and we’re all settled around the dinner table, I shower my kids with stories of these darn teenagers, of these middle school miscreants that I am sentenced to teach.

I am a teacher of writing; I am a writer too.

I have strongly held beliefs about teaching, about learning, and about the way the world should work.

I delivered this letter to my 84 students on Monday, our very first day together in room 309.  My hope is that, through this piece, my new students begin to see exactly who I am and, more importantly, that they accept my invitation to learn, to teach, to grow, to give.

August 18, 2008

To My New Eighth Grade Students,

I like to begin the year by sharing a favorite story, and I particularly enjoyed this one, which I read about in The New York Times earlier this summer.  This true story reminded me of the power of individuals to make a difference in the world.

You see, there was this young woman, Beatrice, who graduated from Connecticut College this year.  You might be thinking, “Big deal.  People graduate from college all the time.”  Yes, but not women like Beatrice.   Why?  When Beatrice was a young girl living in Uganda, she desperately wanted to go to school, but she was destined to become illiterate because her parents were peasants and could not afford to send her to school.  She stayed home.

Meanwhile, across the world, a group of young children living in Connecticut were looking for a good cause.  They decided to pool together their money and buy goats for African villagers through Heifer International.  One of the goats, which cost just $120, went to Beatrice’s parents.  That goat mated with another and soon had twins.  Well, before they knew it, Beatrice and her siblings had plenty of goat’s milk to drink, which gave them a nutritional boost AND they were able to sell the extra milk for…money!

What do you think happened next?  Yes.  Beatrice’s parents decided that they could now afford to send their daughter to school.  She enrolled and was far older than the other students in her grade.  She studied hard and became the best student in the school.

But the story does not end there.  An American visiting the school was so impressed by Beatrice that she decided to write a book called Beatrice’s Goat, which became a bestseller.  Beatrice was such a phenomenal student that she won a scholarship not only to Uganda’a best girls’ high school, but then to Connecticut College.  Then, a group of donors to Heifer International, so taken by her story, which had been made famous by the American writer, paid for her living expenses.

Beatrice graduated from college this summer, becoming the first person from her village to ever earn a college degree from America.  She plans to pursue a master’s degree from Clinton School of Public Service in Arkansas and then to return to Africa to work for an aid group.   Wow.  All of this resulted from a few little kids who hoped to make a difference in the life of another.

*            *            *            *

We all have hundreds of chances each day to make a positive difference in someone else’s life. I hope that you will think about that as you work your way through the year on this team, in this classroom.  Think about what you can do to help breed an atmosphere of kindness around here. Think about what you can do to help make this team feel like a community.  The 8-South teachers will also be asking you to think about what we can do to help heal the world.

Think, too, about what IS, and what should be, our responsibility to those around us.  We will explore this idea through the core texts that we will read this year:  The Miracle Worker, To Kill a Mockingbird, and Of Mice and Men.  Each of these books has a character that reaches out to another human being, one who, like Beatrice, is in desperate need of help.

*            *            *            *

I hope that our classroom is a place where you seize the chance to be kind, to explore fresh ideas, to take risks.  You must be patient with yourself and have faith in your ability.

Everyone in this classroom has stories to share.  Since there is only one YOU in this world, you bring a unique perspective to share.  Nobody else in this class has shared your exact challenges, been where you’ve been, grown up with your family.  When you share these experiences, both in discussion and in your writing, the whole class will be enriched.  I know forward to getting to know each one of you.  One of my goals is that each one of you will feel comfortable voicing your opinions and sharing your ideas.  We need to learn from each other’s experiences.

Too many people have a distorted notion of what it means to be a great teacher.  We sometimes think of someone who has all of the answers, all of the knowledge, but, really, I believe that a great teacher is someone who asks questions, who seeks answers, and who is not afraid to admit that oftentimes, her own students are the greatest teachers.  I look forward to being your teacher this year; I look forward, too, to all that I know you will teach me this year.  We all have a lot to learn.

Love,

Ms. Baker

*****
Write me back, in letter format, on looseleaf paper or typed.  In your letter, please do the following:
1.    Respond to the story that I have told you here and/or to something else that I have said in this letter.
2.    Share the important details of a story that you really like, real or fictional.  Think about stories that you have read, heard, and seen (i.e. movie plots).
3.    What are your strengths/interests/talents?
4.    What are your hopes for Literacy class this year?
5.    Share anything else that would help me get a better sense of the person you are.

My eight-year-old son, nicknamed “Mighty” from birth, is intuitive beyond his years and, with that, he tends to over think and, yes, to worry and worry. And, right now, he and I are in a tight race as to who is struggling more with the impending back-to-school transition. He is being combative. So is Mom. He is short on patience. So is Mom. He is having a difficult time choosing an activity that will sustain his interest. Ditto. I wish that I could claim to be acting more mature than he is, but even that is not a foregone conclusion.

Anyway, after an exhausting day where not even Dairy Queen chocolate dipped cones eased anyone’s tension, well, he and I finally found some moments of closeness at bedtime. This is the easiest time in our household to have quiet conversations about life.

You see, Mighty received his third grade class roster today and that brought with it new butterflies for the young guy. He’s worried because he’s got Mr. Heyman, who is brand-new to the school. The Unknown. And he is worried because, I swear to you, the boy has tallied up the number of “wild” kids in his class. There are eight, according to my young son, a figure that does not, in his estimation, bode well for Mr. Newbie. Or for him. Mighty cannot understand why class size increased from last year or why they would not have spread the “wealth” of wildness around a bit more. He cannot understand why third graders have to take MAP tests or how he will navigate his way through recess, where, once again, the boys will cheat at soccer. Back in the classroom, he wonders whether he will be able to focus at his table if other kids are talking, flinging boogers or doing whatever else “wild” third graders do. Mighty, who prides himself on impeccable behavior at school, worries that he might get caught up in the brushfire and somehow land in the principal’s office. Oh, and he worries that he will be burdened by piles of homework. It IS third grade, after all, he utters, all knowingly.

Amazing.

He is my son.

And I share his burden.

I, too, worry about too many bodies stuffed into my classroom. And about whether I will engage each of my eighth graders enough to make them not want to have farting contests or text message each other under their desks. I worry about whether the environment will feel unsafe due to bullying that I do not see and about whether I will be complicit in allowing a certain few to distract and impede the learning of others. I worry, even after all these years, about knowing how much homework, if any, is the right amount. Oh, yeah, and I guess I worry a little bit about MAP tests too.

And when my eighth graders pile in next week, looking all “too cool for school” in their sassy outfits, tonight will remind me that they are, in so many ways, still little kids dressed in big-kid costumes. They may be flirting in the hallways and gossiping in the bathrooms, but some, or maybe even many, are just masking anxiety about the upcoming school year. What is down this path known as eighth grade? Who are these strangers who will be my teachers? Will they notice when I am sad? Will they give me challenging work so that I am not sitting here, bored? Will that annoying boy be allowed to whistle during class like he was last year? Will my teacher require me to peer edit even though I cannot stand to share my writing? Will she make me read aloud in class?

They are my awesome responsibility, each one of them.

And as Kylene Beers writes in her book, When Kids Can’t Read: What Teachers Can Do for those students who are coming to us after failure upon failure, “Their willingness to try, even halfheartedly, one more time is a fragile gift they hand to us.”

Oh, yes.

****

It is past midnight and I am still awake, revising this post, wondering what Mr. Heyman might be worrying about right now, and wondering whether Mighty is right, that the poor guy is about to step into the biggest dance party of his lifetime. Let’s hope not, for his sake, for Mighty’s sake.

Meanwhile, my boy is finally peaceful in his bed, dreaming, I imagine, about his beloved Cardinals maybe shutting out the Cubbies in Game #2 of this weekend’s series.

I hope, more than anything, that Mr. Heyman will cherish this little guy, this gift, that I will soon be sending to him.