Saying Farewell, and Saying Hello.

I am the literal worst at saying goodbyes.
As in.
The worst.

Avoid it at all costs.
If I could go quietly into the setting afternoon sun.
And leave no footprint,
I would.

As a child of trauma, it's safer.
Goodbyes are scary.
Unknowns are scary.
As an adoptee, I spent my entire childhood trying to be "enough" so I'd never have to say goodbye again.

Saying goodbye is scary.
What will it mean?

Will there be a hello?

The last six years as a teacher at my little Disney World of Elementary Schools, Newton School, in Greenfield, MA, have truly been some of the greatest years of teaching - ever.

The.
Best.

When I interviewed with Ms. Goodwin - there was a feeling in the air.
Something Electric.

These were my kind of kids.
This was where I was meant to be.
And that feeling was how on October 28th, 2013, I started in a tiny room at the end of the hall.
Two classrooms later.
And so many life changes later.
I find I need to be closer to home.

I grew up in Westfield, and for the first few years, the hour commute was not a problem.

This past May, one of my crazy incredible Mamas was diagnosed with Breast Cancer.
A few days later my Matriarch Nana Ruth, celebrated her 97th birthday - still living on her own.

And the days of traveling over an hour to get there seemed to be leaving less and less time.
Of which there was less and less.

It became imperative to work and live closer to home.
And be available for dinner nights with Nan and appointments with Mama Lin.

When a position in my dream grade opened in West Springfield, I was reticent.
I wasn't sure it was for me.
Sure, the school building was familiar; my Mama Lin had been the secretary when the building held West Springfield's Middle School,
But.
To leave Newton.
I'd have to find something.
That gave me that Electric Feeling.

As I sat in the hallway before my interview.
A tardy Dad and kindergartener looking son took the corner.
He smiled wide, "Hola! Tu hablas espanol!?"
I smiled and explained, in my best broken Spanish, that I had been adopted, from Chile.
And my Spanish was Spanglish at best.

He was, in short, so excited.
"Please, stay here, I will be right back."

Of course, I couldn't, I hustled into the interview room packed with incredible women.
And had an Electric interview.
As I sat in my car later I thought back to the Dad, and his son.
These are my people...too.
I thought.
These are my people, too.

When the offer came through, I gave it a lot of thought.
My dear friend Ms. Warren told me to make a pros and cons list.

Family, I told her, will always trump the cons side.
And so, I accepted a position.
In fifth grade.
At the Coburn School.
In West Springfield.

I'm nervous.
And excited.
SO very excited.
And heartsick to say goodbye.
And grateful to say hello.

This sixth year at Newton has been THE ABSOLUTE BEST.
2nd grade is my jam.
These 19 kiddos have been the greatest.
We had SO MUCH FUN.
Learned a ton.
And they are SO READY to go hang with Mrs. Lagoy and Mr. Stone.
And I will miss them TERRIBLY.
But.
As I preach, so I practice:
Dream big.
Follow those dreams.
Look over the precipice.
Leap.
Make the jump.
Trust.
It's going to be great.

Back when I was in 2nd grade, Mrs. Jean Carrigan, may she be resting in peace, read aloud Miss Rumphius and I remember so deeply the words that were shared in the message of the book:

Now, I know I'm no Lupine Lady.
But.
I like to think the little pieces of me I'm leaving behind continue to make the world of Newton a little more beautiful:
A little lending library on the playground.
A blow-up movie screen for movie nights.
12 Chromebooks and a Chromebook cart.
A whiteboard.
A bulletin board.
Tables.
Stools.
Benches.
A day with Jaime from Cosmic Kids.
Sweatshirts.
T-shirts.
Books.
And so much love are all being left behind to be shared.
And used by my forever school family.

When I became a teacher, a school as incredible as Newton, was just a dream.
Six years later, I'm glad it continues to be a place of magic and a real hidden gem in the gorgeous town of Greenfield.

I'm thrilled to be returning to the Westfield Area, though not as a Bomber, but a Terrier. :) <3

#ISeeMe.

I posted this in September of 2018:

You'd think it's just a picture using the markers we received from Donorschoose.org for our thank you package.

You'd think that.
It's cute, right?
But.

It wrecked me today.
In the best way, a teacher can be wrecked.

Zoey is 7.
And drew this beautiful picture during free draw.

It's me.
It's her.
It's us.

And we're clearly LOVE-ing life.

It's her beautiful hair, and my straight, short new hairdo.

And it's two people of color.
One 7.
One 35.

I had to wait until I was 18.
I had to wait until I was 18.
I had to wait until I was 18.
I had to wait until I was 18.
I had to wait until I was 18.
I had to wait until I was 18.
I had to wait until I was 18.
I had to wait until I was 18.
I had to wait until I was 18.
I had to wait until I was 18.
I had to wait until I was 18.
I had to wait until I was 18.
I had to wait until I was 18.
I had to wait until I was 18.
I had to wait until I was 18.
I had to wait until I was 18.
I had to wait until I was 18.
I had to wait until I was 18.
I had to wait until I was 18.
I had to wait until I was 18.
I had to wait until I was 18.

To have a teacher, who looked like me, stand at the front of a lecture hall.

In third grade, I scrubbed my skin every night hoping I'd be just a little lighter.

I chopped off all my kinky hair hoping I'd somehow fit more.

I yearned to be seen.
By someone.
As worthy.
And yet no teacher could see through their whiteness and privilege long enough to see...

Me.

I often talk about that first day of Women's Studies 187, the day Alex Deschamps took to the stage, in her high heels, and beautiful hair, and Dominica accent, and I realized, for the first time, that I wanted to do THAT.

Because I saw myself for the first time that day.

I am honored to be a teacher of color for the Greenfield Public Schools.

#wecandobetter

#wehavetodobetter
#latinaandproud
#brownandproud
#thisskinIwear

And to think, you thought it was just a thank you for a box of thin line markers. <3

*Edited to add: Contrary to what is pictured, in no way, was I wearing a see-through dress...to school. I mean, yes, it was over 100 degrees, but, my skirt was appropriately covered in flowers. 

---

Today, Google, Some AMAZING INFLUENCERS, and Donorschoose.org launched the #ISeeMe Initiative.

And I don't really know what else to say.

I know Michael Jackson's YOU ARE NOT ALONE is blaring in my mind, with mind movies of Lavar Burton bursting into our room, lol.

I know my kids are proud to be a part of an incredible movement.

And I know 2nd grade me.

The one desperate to be enough, heard, in the timbre of Stephen's incredible film: You. Are.

#ISeeMe

To:)

Teacher Appreciation.

I am so sorry this post is landing so close to actual Teacher Appreciation Week.
We've been busy.
I've been busy.

But I want to stop here to tell you that all I ever wanted for Teacher Appreciation Week was given to me during our last day with Miss Hendershott, our amazing student teacher.

It didn't come in a gift bag.
Or in a gift card for all the energy drinks I could ever want, lol.

Or even in the beautiful crayon gift, Miss Hendershott made me.

It came.
Out of the mouth of one of the members of our 2nd-grade family.

Let me set the scene.

We were filling out Miss Hendershott's eval, known as a 3-2-1. Three things she did amazing, two things she should take from our room and use in her own, and one area she could improve on.

We were brainstorming all the possibilities and were working on things she could take from our room to hers.

Our fam suggested yoga, and mindfulness, and zearn, and flexible seating. Gosh I love them.

But it was Julian.
Who gave me the gift.

"Maybe," he said, "She could take all the love we have here in our classhome, and bring it with her to her own room."

And I thought, as I wrote his idea on the board, that will do.

If my class fam notices the love.
Feels the comfort.
And ease of learning together.

Then.
I am appreciated beyond measure.

#bestgiftever
#loved
#seen
#blessed

Vacation.

Rarely am I able to stay away from my classroom over a vacation.

I know.

I hear all the teachers like, "STOP. GO HOME NOW."

And there are a million reasons I can't.

Or don't want to...like...where else can I blast broadway show tunes and scream-sing along to Anastasia? Nowhere, but an empty school with two incredible custodians wearing noise-canceling headphones.

But.
There is another reason.

Sure, I am also currently embracing the Marie Kondo life and purging things I've held onto because I MIGHT use them. And it's a big draw to come in and cleanse this room of clutter.

It's a thing of beauty. I also had a dear teacher friend who said I'm #teachergoals...and I was like, "y'all know I just found a Red Bull, beside a rotten apple, underneath a pile of tshirts in my room, right?" #realteacherlife

I mean, if that's your goal?  <3 #winning.

But.
There is another reason.

And it's two-fold.

I am a worrier.
Always have been, always will be.
And vacations induce worry.

Are they sleeping?
Are they eating?
Are they happy?
Has anyone taken their sweet cheeks in their hands today and said, "I LOVE YOU!"
Did they have breakfast?
A snack?
Have they sat in front of their computer, tablet, or TV for hours on end?
Are they safe?
Are they safe?

Are.
THEY.
SAFE?

And that worry, that larger than life worry sits in the pit of my stomach.
Even when I'm not in my classhome.

I made it home to NYC for a few days.
Washed the kitchen floor.
Made some kosher food shtuffs.
Saw KING KONG - 10 out of 10 recommendation for a puppet that will bring you to tears.
Spent some time with my favorite people outside of school.
Fell in love with Adam Pascal's eyelashes all over again, hey Pretty Woman!
Went to rehearsal for Avenue Q, my name Christmas Eve.

And all the while, I worried.
There is one place that quells that worry.


Room 125.
My classhome.

Getting it ready for my family to come back means we're almost back.
Getting it cleaned is getting ready to share my excitement with them.
It takes some of the worries and turns it into a fervor.

Joy rumbles inside me when I think about how they'll love this one part I cleaned.
Or one part I've changed.

Or they won't believe the closet is this clean - hahahaha - okay, I can't believe it.

This isn't just a room.
It's a safe space.
It's home.
It's happy.
It's my familyroom.

They aren't just 2nd graders, they are world changers, future leaders, comedians, joy makers, and part of my crew.

So.

Judge me if you must.
But I'll be home working in this little room for the next few days.

Chances are, I won't hear you judging anyway, I'll be scream-singing, "In My Dreams" from Anastasia.

Who's That Baby? And Why it's NOT a Game.

You know when you can see a picture and suddenly you are so clearly transported back to the last time you saw something like that? There's a picture of my first class beside my desk and I often think back to who they are. And can remember their small voices and how lucky I was to know them.

And then, there are pictures like this.

And suddenly.

I'm eight.

In third grade.

At Southampton Road School.

In Westfield, MA.

Staring at a very similar display on the back of Mrs. M's door.

Several boys are chuckling.

My face is hot.

I'm horrified.

Desperate to not start crying.

"I guess we don't really have to guess who that one is?"

"Don't you have any real baby pictures?"

The burning hot tears are poking the back of my eyeballs.

But I turn to laugh with them, "Nope. Guess I'll be the easiest one of all."

"Wait, you really don't have any baby pictures?"

"She's adopted," my sweet friend responded.

I was doing my best to disappear at the moment.

So I returned to the yellow sheet of paper where we were all guessing who was who.

"I'm number 12. In case anyone didn't know," I said writing my own name down.

That night, I'd go home, as so many nights before, and scrub my skin.

Until it was red, and the bath water dark.

I'd brush my hair until it was matted and stuck down.

And I'd wish more than anything in the entire world that I could just disappear.

Into some void.

And never be known again.

I know you, yes, you, sweet teacher, did not intend to make me feel this way.

I doubt you considered that among my 24 white peers, this wasn't much of a game for me.

Or that not having any baby photos - not existing in anyone's memory before 2 and 1/2 was, until meeting my birth mother in my 30's, one of my single greatest triggers and deepest sadnesses I'd ever know.

The earliest photos of my brown earthy skin and curly locks has me in blue overalls and almost three.

We do, as students, spend far too much time trying to fit in.

Long hair.

Straight hair.

The perfect bun.

The right clothes.

Most of it out of our control. 

When I began teaching in my own classroom, I knew I'd never put ANY of my students in this situation - simply - by not creating it.

My goal in my classroom is to create a family.

A beautiful, colorful, unique family.

Valuing each piece of all us.

Not pointing out differences.

Not highlighting it.

Embracing it.

Celebrating it.

Loving it.

Skip the Who's that Baby?

I don't know that you need a substitute. Something else to do.

Choose to see your students for who they are now.

Not what baby photo they can find.

I have a dear colleague who asked a very honest, and serious question, "Genuinely, if all my students are of the same ethnicity, does this still apply?" 

"If you have to ask," I offered, "that's your gut answering YES."

When I was 30, I traveled to Santiago, Chile, my birth country and met my mother and sister. In the depths of healing for both of us, she offered this photo. And I thought then, as I do now, I wouldn't have wanted to share this with my class either. This is Macarena Del Pilar, before she was adopted - before she was Jami Lyn. 

This is me.

Who's that baby?

A teacher.

A partner.

A friend.

A learner.

A leader.

Loved.