Learn.

I don't always get a chance to simmer in my own learning as a teacher.
Perhaps because the majority of our learning as adults is done OTF.

We learn about the human experience as we are experiencing it.
The best part of being a teacher is learning.

The best thing we can do as humans is to be open to new adventures.

---

I started this post around this time last year.
I don't know where I was going with it, exactly
What I thought about learning.
And wanted to share with you?

But it seemed to fit right here in April 2020.
The post right below this - is about taking a new job.
Leaving Newton.

It shouldn't shock ANYone from that post, that after a few months, it was time to come home to Newton School.

I learned A LOT while I was away and was BEYOND thrilled to return to my 2nd - now 3rd graders in January.

We learned a lot together for three months.
And then, on Friday, March 13th.
We said, "Goodbye," for the very last time.

I learned that learning online is a lot of work.
And it pulls at my heartstrings.
But I'm so grateful they are mine for the next few weeks.

---

I came home -to Newton - to be safe.
It's challenging to talk about learning about safety as an adult.
But in the setting of a school - I learned that safety - is something to regard highly.
I learned that sitting idly by watching prejudice, injustice, and inhumane treatment of students of color - is just - not my thing.

I remember one of the last "conversations" I had with an adult at my former school, "Let me say what you just said to me, back to you, you want these all to be different? But not MY kind of different."

"Yes," she nodded, "exactly."
I knew then, as she left my room, it was time to go.

Because I knew a place where MY kind of different WAS valued.
Accepted.
No - embraced.
It was night and day packing up my 5th-grade classroom and leaving.
And returning, in the dark to Newton.
Ms. Goodwin in comfy clothes, awaiting my arrival.
Welcoming me home.
Showing little concern for the amount of stuff being unloaded.

I learned in that moment - that my safety as an educator of color, and that of my students - is more important than a paycheck.

---

Virtually learning continues to broaden my horizons as an educator.
It is challenging in new ways.
Rewarding in new ways.
Painful in new ways.
There are parts of this time in our world that the inequity it stifling.
STIFLING.
In a way that I can't really articulate.
Inequity - not of technology - but of a poverty level most in our world can not comprehend.

I learned that we can ALL do hard things. We must continue to put our minds to work - together. We must continue to see our students, even if we can't see our students.

I also learned, something I already knew, is more true than every before.
Love.
Love is the answer.
I love my students more than I can articulate right now.
Old and New.
And I will be here - no matter what.

#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:)

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.

Overload.

I start this post in the

Middle of day one of Get Your Teach On,

In New Orleans

And y’all.

It’s a lot.

A lot of goodness

And gracious.

And a lot of loud.

And fun.

But, most of all, it’s just a lot.

To back it up a little bit, I should say,

I’m here with the help of DonorsChoose.org,

The Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation,

And a lot of big dreams.

And like all dreams one can have,

Sometimes,

They are not what you expect.

Sometimes they are horrible.

Sometimes,

As is the case with GYTO,

They are better than anything you might have imagined.

This morning,

I texted my co-worker back in Massachusetts:

#overwhelmed.

And I’d only been here for about 30 seconds.

I wasn’t sure I’d make it past the morning breakout.

And I do so love a good breakout.

And meeting teachers from all over the US.

There are over 900 of us.

Most in groups.

So perhaps part of my overwhelmed status,

Comes from flying solo.

Which I do so love doing, but at the same time:

I miss my #brosquad.

My dudes.

My Mr. S. and Mr. P.

Boy howdy am I ever thankful for my co-teachers.

Lunch time has been exceptionally:

Helpful.

Not just sitting and eating, but,

If I may be so brazen,

In relative silence.

Love me sweet silence.

Now that it’s later in the day,

I am digesting a little more on WHY I loved lunch.

I teach 30 minutes of yoga each day.

We meditate.

We make time for trauma.

And calm.

And while it means something different to their

Little 4th grade bodies,

It also means something to my adult body and brain,

And today, my adult body and brain,

Were taxed to the ultimate max.

Up,

Down,

All,

Around,

A TON of

Call and Response.

And I needed some reset time.

To calm my body and my spirit.

And we got it.

And it made my afternoon,

Fun

Fun

Fun!

I got to chat with grades 2-3 about DonorsChoose.org,

Build burgers with Hope,

And be inspired by Wade.

The most important piece of this post?

Should you got to Get Your Teach On?

In the lyrics of Oleta Adams,

“I don’t care how you get here,

Just get here if you can.”

Because,

Y’all.

It’s better than your wildest imaginations.

Like:

Overwhelming

in the best kinda way.

That being said.

I’m exhausted.

Like little tiny baby tired.

And I’m really unclear on how all those presenters,

are going out tonight to run a book launch.

#energyforDAYS!

#jelly

#GYTO

#DAYONE

#Done

My Matilda Moment

Honestly.
Writing this post.
Is something I never thought,
I'd get the opportunity to do.

Because, as a general rule,
5th grade teachers are under no
obligations to visit their former students 24 years after having them in class.

And yet,
here we are.

24 years after I first entered Karen Willard's 5th grade, light blue classroom at Moseley School in Westfield, MA, she entered mine.

Last night.
During Community Reader Night.
We both,
as one might have expected,
shed a few tears.

I happened to be in the middle of a read aloud.
And honestly, I've never read Tony DiTerilizzi's Jimmy Zangwow's out-of-this-world, moon pie adventure, so speedily in my life, which felt so weird as he is truly one of our most favorite authors (and who just two years ago, made his own unannounced and totally by surprise visit into the same room - goosebumps still recalling that day!)

When I finished, I closed my book and ushered in Ms. Adrianne, who is an exceptionally talented illustrator herself and left my little group in her capable hands as I ran to hug My Mrs. Willard.

Hugs. 
In general, are not my thing.
I don't give out very many as a teacher.
Or receive many from students for that matter.
I'm a face shmoosher.
Daily taking the beautiful faces of my littles between my two hands to remind them how LOVED they are.
How SMART they are.
And how blessed I am to be their teacher.

But hugging Mrs. Willard.
Was, of course, spellbinding.
Whisking me back to my 10 year old self, getting ready for the last day of school.
Wondering how I'd ever survive the rest of my life without her.
And feeling as loved today as I did back then.

The rest of my night remained this delicate balance of hosting community reader night and waiting for everyone to leave.  Karen read two books and brought stones for each of my littles, hand painted by her.  By 6:30 the event had ended, Karen and her daughter Harley (Harley - I hope I spelled that right!), helped me pick up a few things and then we just sat.

On yoga ball chairs.
For hours.
If there had been tea - we would have been stand ins for Miss Honey and Matilda.

My Mrs. Willard left teaching shortly after I was her student.  
She began a family.
And made a choice to homeschool her two brilliant children.
She has, over the years, stayed present in my life.

Attending my sweet 16,
Every poorly acted HS production,
And eventually my HS graduation, bestowing upon me a scrapbook of all the letters we shared in the intervening years.

I remember taking that scrapbook to college and digging for it on the nights when papers were due and it was 2am and I was sure I was going to fail - because the little quote page in the back was FILLED with advice. "Be true to yourself, and the rest will fall into place," being a particular fave.

My first classroom, 11 years ago in 2006 seems a lifetime ago.
I've been the Assistant Director of Admissions, a Residence Director, worked retail, spent a year on a reality show (and no - most of reality tv is not, in fact, real) and even returned to school to start, stop, start, stop, and hopefully start again PhD work, before returning several years ago to the classroom.

All of this to say, when I wrote her a few weeks ago, to send a copy of an essay I'd composed, it never really occurred to me that: 
FIRST the letter would reach her, 
SECOND that she'd really remember, and 
THIRD that she'd ever make it down to my school.

I'd spent a good amount of time searching her address through deed records for her last known address, unfortunately the only information I could find was a purchase of land - not home address.  So I sent a letter to the land.

Sending it really into the proverbial wind.
And for whatever power you believe in...
It made its way to her.

She sat, she shared, with her two children and shared the letter and essay with them, and promptly decided that she and Harley would attend Pajama Night - in their PJs. :)

So much of teaching has changed, but the things I learned from her in our room, about compassion, and care, about sticktoitness and reading, music, and poetry, well those have remained salient to me in my own room.

We had a long conversation about my classroom and how my mission to create a classhome for children of trauma, has really been met, turned, of course, to standardized testing and how I feel about the pressure of it all.

I returned once again to that real sentiment that no test score will ever quantify a student's worth - the good they put in the world - and therefore, it can never be my main focus.  If I teach you well, and give you opportunities to learn to be a citizen of the world - I hope you will do well - not just on a ridiculous test - but do actual good in the world.

Minutes and seconds seemed to slip by almost unnoticed until my entire building was dark, save for my classroom lights.  I knew the time would come where we both said goodbye and there was just something about those last few moments in room 115, that seemed so similar to those spent in room 9 or was it 12, all those years ago.

The security 10 year old me felt, about that room, about this woman.
Seemed to linger in the air.

As we readied to leave, she shared one final thought, "When you left the room earlier tonight, (I was bringing Ms. Adrianne to her next room,) I of course shared what a wonderful student you were with all your families.  It took but only a second for the two boys down front to start in, with calls of YOU being the best teacher they ever had.  I think that's important for you to understand."

That sentiment is a big think.
I do not set out each morning to be the best teacher anyone has ever had.
Or to be a Mrs. Willard. (Because seriously - those shoes are HULK sized that no one could ever fill.)

Just to be the best person I can be in this crazy big world.
And hopefully inspire my little people to do the same.

Of course, I'm fairly certain, I learned that, from Mrs. Willard, too. ;)

Raffi and DonorsChoose.org

(In case you don't know Raffi - not possible, or need some listening tunes while you read)

My sincerest apologies for the length of this post.
It's longer than most.
If you're not a fellow teacher, donor, or Raffi - you probably want to go visit some other site now.
Heck, if you are a teacher, you probably have your own "why".

I've had this post rattling around in my brain for some time now.
I've put off writing for several reasons.
Mostly, because, it's summer.
And I'm trying desperately to have a teacher summer.

One where I actually stop working on school stuff for a while and use summer as a verb.
I'm playing Matron Mama Morton in Chicago.
And traveling.
And moving.
And applying for doctoral work.

So you know, I'm keeping busy. ;)

But my gratitude for DonorsChoose.org runs deep - and with a special passion project being fully funded recently, I felt like sharing why:

To start, I'll have to take you back.
Way back.
WAY, way back,
All the way back.
To 5th grade.
I was 10.
Changing schools for the third time.
Not to mention being the only student of color in my entire k-6 school.
With two moms.
Being adopted.
Let's just say - 10 was a lot.

So when my letter arrived from my new teacher - I was surer than sure that she was old.
With a name like Mrs. Willard, she had to be right?
Imagine my surprise, when a young first year teacher picked us up outside.
And of course, as most teacher stories go - changed my life.

Karen, was, and remains to this day, the greatest teacher I will ever know.
How she wrangled 32 fifth graders,
From a variety of backgrounds and managed to make us all feel important, and smart, is beyond me.
#goals

I digress.
I have been, and continue to be, an avid book nerd.
It was my sanctuary from a very terrible third grade teacher.
My connection to an incredible fourth grade teacher.
And, with Mrs. Willard, of course, reading continued to be wonderful.
I met Matilda.
And was gripped to my seat during Wait 'Til Helen Comes.

However, it was in the back of our little blue room, on some built in book shelves tucked away enough that no one but me noticed, a little black cassette player lived.

Shh! I'm not that old!
It wasn't a Victrola!

This was 1995.

There was a white tape, well loved, filled with Raffi songs.
I know 10 is probably a little old for Raffi.

But, I was a hot mess that year, remember?
I needed the calm and the songs.
And I lived for that cassette player.
I remember asking, no, begging Mrs. Willard if I could have some time on the cassette, to which she'd lend me some foam covered head phones and let me listen, instead of going out to recess or after school.

Music and literature were my salvation even as the red pick up truck rolled out of my driveway in the spring of 5th grade carrying my mother and all of her belongings.

Really, my salvation included that cassette player, Raffi, and Mrs. Willard, of course.
Okay - keep that cassette player, Raffi, and Mrs. Willard in the back of your mind.
Because we're jumping.
Jumping forward 12 years later, I sat in my first classroom.

I had to buy tables and chairs, paper, pencils, easels, desks, YOU name it, we needed it. 
The kids needed it.  After two years, I left teaching and about $5000 worth of materials in that inner city school.

10 years after that, I'd make my triumphant return to teaching after a few years in higher education, a year on a reality weight loss show, and generally figuring out what I wanted to be when I grew up.

As I headed back into a new district with a tremendously high homeless population, I started thinking about how we'd get the things they need to learn.  
It was then someone recommended looking into DonorsChoose.org

It's a site where educators at public schools can create projects for resources, supplies, books, and technology for their classrooms and "donors" from around the world can choose projects to fund. 
I saw infographics like the one below and thought...worth a try.  

My music teacher friend had written one for more saxophones (I know, you and I both wish it was more cowbell) and a former colleague of mine, in Barcelona, Spain saw it, was inspired as her children grew up in our district and played instruments and donated.

That kind of ripple in the water still blows my mind!

In my "inside my head" thoughts, I thought, "Cassette players and Raffi tapes for EVERYONE!"
Because, dream big, right?  LOL.

Our actual first project had to do with art materials for my class and our buddies in 2nd grade to collab on a printing project for Dia De Los Muertos.

When the materials arrived, I'm not going to lie, it was a little like Raffi walking in in his red shirt and guitar playing Baby Beluga.  Excitement was at an all time HIGH.

Our next project stretched the limits of what I thought possible - a yoga mat and water bottle for everyone.  
Yes, EVERYONE.

We do yoga every day after lunch and the kids relish their own spaces and having water throughout the day.  What I relish, more than the books or the mats, or even the socks - dream projects - is what I quantify as being seen.

You see, back up there, at the top of this post, 10 year old me, felt alone and unseen - a lot.

A brown little kid in a world that I just couldn't seem to fit into.

Where no one looked like me.

It's what was so special about that cassette player, Raffi, and Mrs. Willard - they stopped to see me.
I could press rewind and be seen over and over if I wanted.

Mrs. Willard saw to me, well beyond her class, attending every musical performance I was in through HS and even attending my Sweet 16 and HS graduation.

She saw me through some of the most difficult bits of being a little kid.
She saw me when I knew no one else could.

I do not take being seen for granted.
I do not take seeing my students for granted either.

They are dreamers.
Doers.
Joke makers.
Epic gas passers.
Writers.
Jumpers.
Story tellers.
TALL tale spinners.
Huggers.
Mathematicians.
Readers.
Like READER readers.
And Thinkers.

To REALLY KNOW them, one can not help but dream for them, too.
Always has been and will be, what makes DonorsChoose.org, so amazing.


Because you see, dear donors, if you've made it this far, when you pick a project for our class - you see them.  
Their needs.
Their gifts.
Their quirks.

In that moment, YOU decide:
They are SEEN.

You glimpse them for a moment.
NOTICE them.
Which is kind of like being IMPORTANT.
And worthy.

And I can assure you, without hesitation and with much conviction that being seen as important and worthy is quite simply: priceless.

When they say things like, "I love this yoga mat!"
They mean YOU.
When they say things like, "I don't know why they choose us?"
They really mean, why are we worthy?
When they ask what makes someone pick us?

I can often be found taking their cheeks in my hands and pressing my face close to answer,
"Because you are seen, little bit, you are important and you matter, and you are seen." They'll turn their cheek away and blush.

But it's in those moments, that I know what DonorsChoose.org truly is:

A little black cassette player and Raffi Cassette, "donated" to our class by the best teacher I will ever know, Mrs. Willard.

It is with deepest gratitude that I thank all our summer donors who have brought six projects to life for the start of our 4th grade year!  You see us.  And for that, I can only swallow back tears, and whisper a thank you.

And to Raffi for the music, Mrs. Willard for the love, and that little black cassette player for being so 90's it hurts, thanks for seeing me.

*DonorsChoose.org will take you right to a page to search for thousands of projects helping teachers across the US!