Jay Cee

I know it. I know that going through magazines, business mailings, and junk mail as soon as they arrive is the best way to manage it. Yet. I still let it pile up until I have weeks (or sometimes months) worth of papers to sort and then my hand starts to hurt from ripping up everything I don’t want and then I start to feel guilty for helping waste so many trees. Nonetheless, snow days are good days to go through said piles of paper, and sometimes said piles of paper render a few things to think about.

Yesterday, as I was reading the summer newsletter (yes, summer) from Manna House, Inc., a homeless shelter in Baltimore where I volunteered for a week in college, I came across a poem that made an impression on me. I want to share it here, in hopes that it will make an impression on you, too—especially this Lenten season.

Jay Cee (J.C.)

J.C.’s mother was pregnant out of wedlock
He was born in an animal shelter
He had no formal education
He was homeless

The governor tried to murder him when he was a baby
His parents had to migrate to save his life
He had very few friends
He was homeless

He slept in boats
He spent his quiet time in parks
He rode on a borrowed donkey
J.C. was homeless

His friends were mostly illiterate fishermen
He owned no property
His father was a simple tradesman
He was homeless

One of his trusted friends betrayed him
He lived on the kindness of strangers
He was falsely accused and arrested
J.C. was homeless

He did not get a fair trial
His best friends denied knowing him
He was assaulted by Soldiers to near death
He was homeless

His sermons were free
The religious leaders of his time hated him
He was brutally murdered for a crime he did not commit
J.C. was homeless

His mother was a witness to his murder
He changed the course of history
He changed the fate of mankind
He was homeless

Today many call themselves his followers
People are persecuted because of him
Millions know his name.
J.C. was homeless

--Samuel Enos, M.D., M.P.H

Kindness Is Okay

I wish I weren’t surprised by this, but a couple of weeks ago a group of 4th grade boys surprised me when they wrote KINDNESS acrostics for the school’s character education challenge of the week. What surprised me most is that this particular group of boys doesn’t usually show interest in anything I teach or say, yet they wrote their thoughts about kindness—which felt to me as if they were sharing little pieces of their hearts. I spent a few minutes typing up their thoughts this afternoon, and I want to share them with you all here. I will bold the lines that I think are particularly profound, cute, or inspiring:

Kids should be nice to others.
I can show kindness to kids that have trouble understanding.
Not everybody knows what kindness is so people can teach them what it is.
Don’t be mad at people. Show kindness so you can be their friend.
Make new friends and show kindness.
Everyone should be kind.
See people helping others and give them a treat.
See someone getting bullied and you can show kindness to the kid who got bullied to make them feel better.
--Co.

Kids should help out.
I must help people always.
Never waste trees.
Don’t hurt anyone.
Never steal from someone.
Einspire everyone.
Share with others.
Show respect.
--H.

Keep each other safe
Interest in other’s feelings
Nothing about us is different
Don’t bully anyone
Nobody fights alone
Encourage others
See others problems and fix them
See if you can make stuff better
--Ca.

Kids should be friendly.
I like to help people.
Never push people. Help them.
Don’t be a bully. Be a buddy.
Never take stuff. Give stuff.
Everyone should help.
Share your stuff.
Share your kindness.
--K.

And then there’s my 5th grade nephew Henry. Henry’s kindness has never surprised me. He’s like me and wears his heart on his sleeve. So it’s no wonder that in between basketball games and a family birthday party on Saturday, he set up a cookie stand so that he could raise money to give to a ministry that he heard about at church. The church wasn’t doing a major push to raise funds. No one had been pushing him to do a service project. There was no badge or award to be received. Henry simply heard one presentation by the Zoe Ministry at church (http://www.zoehelps.org/) and decided that he wanted to help. Months later, he used his resources—the main one being his mom who once owned a cookie business—to set up a cookie stand and raised well over $100 for the ministry. Henry put kindness into action.

Here’s the thing, folks. The poems and story above were all brought to you by boys who listened and who haven’t become too stereotypically masculine to share or act upon feelings of kindness. I don’t know about you, but I want to do everything I can to help these boys know that while society will inevitably discourage it, kindness is almost always okay.

Give Me An F

Hi. My name is Ms. Deaton. I work at a failing school.
Officially. My school was given its grade last week.
We were given an F. For failure.
We didn’t meet someone’s expectations for us.

They saw our data.
They analyzed our test scores.
They locked in our before, middle, and after.
They looked at papers and numbers and statistics black and white,
And they definitively decided that we weren’t good enough.
They gave us an F. For failure.

But here’s what they don’t know:
We’re not failing.
We may not be thriving.
But we’re not failing.
We’re figuring it out.

We’re figuring out how to
Feed students who do not eat unless they are at school;
Find shoes for students walking on holes or hanging onto soles with duct tape;
Fit shirts, pants, coats, and underwear to students who are in need;
Finance the treasure box;
Fix discipline issues with limited options for consequences in a society centered around the rights of “me”;
Finagle the daily schedule to include childhood;
Fabricate lessons with no textbooks;
Free generations from bonds of illiteracy;
Fell the fences that separate rich from poor, haves from have-nots;
Fill classrooms of twenty-eight students with positive energy and love when the deficits of some are so great that they fight to get their fill.

Learning doesn’t happen in a bubble.
Intelligence is not all test scores and black and white.
Knowledge is not all facts and figures and strategies and tools and rules and data and samples and bubbles and statistics and interventions and
Students are not robots who objectively regurgitate information during pencil-and-paper-sit-absolutely-still-in-the-absolute-quiet-that-absolutely-never-happens-in-this-absolutely-overstimulated-world tests.

My name is Ms. Deaton. I work at a school that they say is a failure. An F.
Well let them give me their F.
I’ll give them mine.
And I’ll stand with some of the most courageous heroes that I know and boldly proclaim that our school is figuring things out by
Failing to believe that we can be reduced to or diminished by an F.

World Peas

Yesterday was Amelia's 7th birthday.
Each year for her family party she chooses the menu and dinner attire.
I don't remember the menu from last year, but I remember that we were all charged to wear pajamas. I like pajama parties.
This year, she chose for each of us to wear a sweatshirt and sweatpants, and for her "comfort party" menu she chose:
Soup, potatoes, and peas.
Yes. Peas.
She's seven.
So at the party on Tuesday night, we had chicken noodle soup, tomato bisque soup, potatoes, and peas.
Now, I don't really like peas, but I love Amelia, so I dutifully put a spoonful of peas on my plate. Everyone else did, too.
Yet at the end of the party, there were still a lot of remaining peas in the pea bowl.
We are a one bag of peas family. Not two.
Not knowing about the remaining peas but living in a general state of excitement, Amelia said, "Hey daddy. If there are any peas left, maybe you could put some in my thermos for lunch tomorrow."
Finley told her that were peas leftover and that that could probably be arranged.
Amelia was thrilled.
At the thought of peas. In her thermos. For lunch.
If only there were more people in the world like Amelia--
excited by possibility,
creative in thought,
appreciative of friends and family,
eyes aglow from the happiness of life--
Then maybe we would have world peace...
One pea at a time.

Shameful Failure, Beautiful Success

Have you ever had one of those moments when you knew that you should stop talking, yet you kept speaking anyway?

That is exactly what happened to me during one of my fourth grade classes two weeks ago. Partly due the class itself, partly due to it being on a Friday afternoon, I have struggled with this class since the beginning of the year.

I’m not sure why, but one particular student in the class has made it her goal to be as mean as possible in my classroom. I don’t know if I offended her, made her mad, bored her, or what, but she has had a terrible attitude in music class since day one, and it has made teaching the rest of the class very difficult. The eye rolls, the neck slides, the malicious smirks, the mean comments, the obvious desire to stir up trouble—all of it together equals a disrespectful attitude that gets under my skin and irritates me by its very existence. What’s worse? This student knows exactly what she’s doing and thinks it funny. Give me genuine learning or behavior difficulties all day long. I can be patient with those. But intentional disrespect and hurtful choices? That is my limit.

And so…the class walks in and her eyes start rolling and her grins start forming and her comments start flying and seven or eight students start arguing because of the trouble she is stirring up and…well…I lose it.

I look at her, open my mouth, start speaking, and all of my raw emotions toward the disrespect come flying out. In short, I remind her that she hasn’t been in my classroom for the past few weeks and tell her that the class has behaved better without her; therefore, their poor behavior must have something to do with her. While speaking, I’m thinking, “You don’t need to be saying this in front of the whole class. This could make her feel that the class is better off without her. And that’s a bad feeling. Each person is important. Even the difficult ones—even her. Each person needs to be here. Talk to her privately. Stop talking now.” And yet. Everything I had been holding in continued to come out.

The sad thing? She just looked at me, smirked, and agreed with what I was saying as if she were proud to be the source of trouble; meanwhile, the rest of the class was so loud that they didn’t even hear me.

While I knew that what I’d said wasn’t the worst thing I could have said, I felt horrible for saying it. I also felt horrible that I lost my patience so publically. All weekend, I thought about my poor behavior and wanted nothing more than to apologize to this student.

Monday was such a busy day that I didn’t think about anything but morning announcements, teaching, and Harnett Off-Broadway. But on Tuesday, after morning announcements, I saw this student in the hallway and decided that that moment was the moment. I walked up to her while she waited on her class to finish its bathroom break and calmly and repentantly said:

“Hey…Look at me, okay?”
She looked at me with her disrespectful smirk, defensive, as if she were expecting me to fuss at her.
Gently placing my hand on her shoulder and looking her in the eyes, I said, “I was really mean to you on Friday, and I’m sorry.”
Still smirking, but not as much as before, clearly not remembering the moment of my transgression, she responded, “What did you say to me on Friday?”
Not wanting to rehash the moment of shame, I ignored the question and said, “You have a really bad attitude when you come into my classroom. You know that, right?”
She said, “Yes.”
I said, “Do you think you can stop?”
A little shocked, she quietly said, “Yes.”
I said, “Good. I’m glad. But I was really mean to you on Friday, and I want you to know that I’m really sorry. Okay?”
Stunned silent and deeply confused, smirk completely faded away, she said, “Okay.”
I said, “Okay,” patted her on the shoulder, wished her a good day, and walked away.

Guess who had a slightly different attitude in music class this past Friday.
Guess who didn’t smirk at me or intentionally try to aggravate me.
Guess who didn’t cause as much trouble with her classmates.
Guess how long it will last.

Your guess is as good as mine on the latter. It may not last for more than last Friday for all I know. But for one moment, of one week, of one fairly tough year, something went right. And though the entire rest of the class period was a failure, I count that something with her a success.

I could be wrong, but I have a feeling that the student about whom I’ve been speaking had never had an adult directly and sincerely apologize to her until that moment in the hallway last week. I’m sure she’s had adults yell at her time and time again—tell her she could do better—tell her what she’s done wrong—tell her how she could improve. But I’m not sure she’d ever had an adult show genuine vulnerability after making a mistake…and sometimes vulnerability changes things. So while it was difficult—apologizing is often difficult because it means admitting some type of failure—I know that it was right. And I know, now, that sometimes shameful failure can be turned to beautiful success.

A Humorous Moment

Two weeks ago, I was teaching my Monday 2nd graders about the African American spiritual. We talked about the form and meaning of “Free At Last,” and then we wrote a class ‘song’ about our dreams—in spiritual form.

Somewhere along the way, one of my students associated “Free At Last” to Harriet Tubman. He asked something about Tubman and the underground railroad and I told him that if he reminded me when he came to music today then I would play his class a recording of a poem about Harriet Tubman.

Sure enough, shortly after my 2nd grade class came into my room this afternoon, I found myself being reminded that I was supposed to play them a poem about Harriet Tubman. Had I remembered anything about the conversation that had promised a poem presentation? Nope. But did I play his class the poem anyway? Yep. I figured that if a second grader reminded me of something two weeks later, then it must be important to him. So we listened to the poem. And the class liked it. And then we moved on. Away from the spiritual. To Africa. Because 2nd grade has been in Africa in art class for the past couple of weeks, and I wanted to take them there, too.

So we went to South Africa. We watched an elephant drink from a watering hole via live camera feed from South Africa and we found South Africa on the map. We followed the music for the Bantu lullaby “Abiyoyo.” We listened to a folk tale about Abiyoyo. We discussed the characters and plot and setting of the story, and the kids sang the words of the song in their Harnett County Bantu dialects, and we had a really good class.

“Wait. So Harriet Tubman was from Africa?” I heard the above-mentioned student ask as we were preparing to leave class.

“No, sweetheart,” I chuckled, shaking my head, and thinking, ‘Oops. This is what happens when I try to throw something into the lesson really quick.’ “Harriet Tubman was from America. We finished in America and moved to South Africa.”

“Oh,” he said, smiling. “We were just moving so fast!”

I smiled back at him and deep within my heart, and I said a silent prayer of thanksgiving for simple, humorous moments like this that add light to my days.

Wicked To The Fifth

I saw Wicked for the first time in New York City. Ten years ago this summer, a couple of friends and I took a road trip up north and made Broadway one of our stops. We sat in the balcony for the show. My two friends sat together a couple of rows in front of me, and I sat, stage center, beside a large, square pole. At first, I was a bit lonely beside the pole, but as the show progressed, I became glad for the privacy—because I wore my emotions on my sleeve—and my sleeve stayed wet from wiping away the tears that flowed as I watched.

After another friend had introduced me to Wicked the summer before, I’d made it my goal to see what was becoming one of the most popular shows on Broadway. I bought the soundtrack and did my best to piece together the story-line, but the soundtrack producers did a wonderful job leaving out key pieces of information that are crucial for fully understanding the story. Armed with a familiarity of the music and a deep curiosity about the plot-line, I greeted the show with an open-ignorance that can only be experienced once. With no preconceived notion as to how things “should be” or “should have been,” I watched in amazement as the lights, orchestra, voices, costumes, choreography, and visual effects melded together seamlessly in an extraordinarily powerful performance.

I suppose that seeing a show for the first time becomes the standard by which every other viewing is measured. If the first show was great, then all other shows will pale in comparison. If the first show was awful, then all other shows will be valued for their improvements. My first time seeing Wicked was great. I guess it’s no wonder, then, that I don’t remember much about the 2nd, 3rd, and 4th times that I saw the show—just who I was with (three friends; mom and sister; one friend), where we were (Greenville; Durham; Charlotte), and the circumstances surrounding our attending the show (a birthday; Mother’s Day; a needed break from the grief of care-giving).

Tuesday night’s performance was different. First of all, my seeing Wicked that night was a gift. B sacrificed her opportunity to see the show because she knew how much I’d enjoy it. Second of all, I was sitting on the 5th row! And when you sit on the fifth row, you can observe facial expressions and notice other details not seen further back. And third of all, the entire cast of the show was solid—especially the leads. No over-singing. No over-acting. And. The girl playing Elphaba is a friend of a friend—which I think is really cool.

So I’ll remember Tuesday night’s performance not only because of who I was with, where we were, and the circumstances surrounding the show, but also because of the show itself…which was excellent.

Just one thing, though—

Ten years ago, when I saw the show, Elphaba walked into a party only to be greeted by stares. Everyone stopped dancing and started snickering until Elphaba garnered enough courage and strength to dance her own dance in her own unique way. Eventually, the entire cast began dancing her dance with her. It was so beautiful.

Over the past decade, the scene has changed. Possibly through natural evolution or possibly from a director’s command, the scene has become somewhat more comical and more heavily focused on the interaction between Elphaba and Galinda…and…well…I just don’t think it as poignant as when Elphaba created her own world in a world that did not want her and danced anyway.

I want to have the courage to dance anyway—to be myself—to stand upright when I know the world is judgmentally staring.

Words Are Powerful

Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., ends his iconic “I Have A Dream” speech with the following words:

“When we let freedom ring…from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual, ‘Free at last! free at last! Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!"

I like to play this clip for my students each year so that they can hear Dr. King’s voice and see part of an historic American speech…and because “Free At Last” is one of the songs that my textbook writers included for study.

While I’ve always thought it neat that we could listen to Dr. King’s words and then immediately sing the song that he was referencing, I didn’t fully grasp the profundity of it until this year.

Sometime during my second day of teaching the lesson, while looking around the room at my students, I realized that we were doing exactly what Dr. King had dreamed. No. We weren’t literally holding hands and singing in a large human chain, but our hands were joined in following music from the same textbooks, under the same roof, at the same school, and our hands were all different shades of human.

One of my students asked me what Martin Luther King, Jr., did to earn a holiday if he wasn’t a president and how he changed the world if he didn’t use guns or violence. I said, “He used his words.”

Words are powerful.

While recovering from a recent bout with a stomach virus, I stumbled upon a somewhat dramatic episode of “Touched By An Angel.” In the episode, Gus, a down-on-his-luck insurance salesman, sold his soul to the devil in exchange for the commission on an insurance policy that would provide enough money for him to care for his ailing wife. Monica, an angel, was very concerned about Gus’s actions and consulted Tess, the head angel, about what to do—because she felt that all she had to offer was words. Tess responded, “That’s what it’s all about, baby. Words. And we’ve got to shine the light on them so Gus can see what they really are. What they can do. Before it’s too late.”

When Monica went to talk to Gus and Gus confessed his belief that the contract for his soul was just words, Monica pleaded: “Don’t you understand? In the beginning was the Word. Words started everything. You know, it doesn’t matter if you speak your words to [your wife] or the devil or the child on the street. Words have meaning. You say them and you give them life. And whether you speak them into the air or write them down on a piece of paper your words mean as much as the oath you took on your wedding day, binding your soul to [your wife] forever. With God as your witness.” Eventually, Gus chose to sing the words to “This Little Light of Mine” and the devil and her contract faded away and all was well.

Words.
Fact or fiction.
Written or spoken.
Past or present.
Words hold power.
Words change lives.
And love does, too.

Hatred paralyzes life; love releases it. Hatred confuses life; love harmonizes it. Hatred darkens life; love illuminates it. –Martin Luther King, Jr.

May we use our words to
change lives in love
today and all the days to come.
Amen.

And This Is My Kindness

Each week, B gives an art challenge of the week. On Friday mornings, we announce the winners and they come to the office to get a small prize. She’s been doing this since last year.

Sometime earlier this school-year, I decided that I’d present students with a character education challenge of the week. (Yes, I chose character education rather than music. What does that say about my passion as a teacher?) On Friday mornings, I announce the winners and they, too, come to the office to get a small prize.

Friday morning announcements have actually become one of the favorite times of the week—students crammed into the office, full of excitement from their wins, pushing through nerves to say their names on the intercom, joining voices in both the pledge of allegiance and the Johnsonville song. It’s really a neat experience. (It’s also a neat experience to learn that classroom teachers have turned the character education challenge into a classroom writing activity.)

The character education trait of both December and January has been kindness. I’ve had students define kindness, describe how they have recently shown kindness, draw and explain a holiday kindness scene, and write a poem about kindness.

This week’s assignment is similar to the latter yet somewhat specific: write a kindness acrostic. I explained what an acrostic was this morning and I’ll remind everyone again in the next few days. We’ll see if I get any kindness acrostics by Friday morning or if the character education box will be full of trash and overflow art challenge answers (which is the sometimes the case). Either way, I’m going to do my own character education challenge this week. So here it is—a kindness acrostic—in very typical Deanna style:

And This Is My…

Keep going, my friend.
It may seem that all is lost, but things are
Never beyond redemption.
Don’t give up. You can do it. And you
Never need do it alone.
Every moment, every minute, every
Second. You have my love and
Support. I believe in you.

What’s your kindness acrostic?

Or, if you want to participate in this week’s art challenge, here’s what you need to do: Draw the silhouette of an animal. Drawings or writings can be posted here or sent my way via county mail :-).

Color Blind

Call me old-fashioned and crazy, but I enjoy using my music textbooks. I like the bound pages—the table of contents and indexes—the songs that have been sung throughout the years—the fashion of the decade when the books were produced. And here’s the thing: my students like using their music textbooks, too. They like looking at the pictures—and trying to find the right page numbers—and attempting to follow the music—and reading the information found in the book’s pages.

One of the units that is in every grade level of my textbooks is a unit on holidays and celebrations, and within that unit is a lesson on Martin Luther King, Jr. Naturally, different grade levels focus on different songs and musical concepts, but the underlying message in every grade is one of fairness and equality. I love the MLK, Jr. lessons.

I decided to do a little activity with my Kindergarten students on Monday to show them what segregation meant and why it made young MLK, Jr. sad to be told he could not play with some of his friends. My idea was to have all of my “white” students stand on one carpet and all of my “black” students stand on the other, but when it came time to actually do the activity I found myself thinking, “Wait a minute. Kids don’t always see color like adults do. Some of these babies may not realize that their skin is different than their classmates.’” But I still wanted to do the activity and it didn’t occur to me that I could “segregate” by boys and girls (brilliant, I know), so this is what I said:

“Look at your arm. If you think that your skin color matches or is the same as my skin color, then I want you to stand on the green carpet. If you think that your skin color is different than my skin color, then I want you to stand on the red carpet.”

Oh, kindergarteners, I love you. I love that you have no concept of skin color and that you ended up totally not segregated but that you still understood that it wasn’t cool for people on the red carpet to not be able to be friends with people on the green carpet—for whatever reason. I also love that you think I can’t see you peaking through the fingers covering your “closed” eyes.

If I didn’t think so before, then I definitely know it now: Kids are not born racist or prejudiced; kids are born color-blind.

Jesus tells us to come to him as little children.
And then he sends us into a world that he didn’t create in black and white but in vivid color.
…Living color-blind in a world of beautiful color…
Somehow, knowing the same Jesus as MLK, Jr.--
An impossibly complex, paradoxical,
rule and status quo defying, friend of sinners and lover of peace,
I think that sounds about right.