Dear Mama and Daddy,
I talked with the birthday girl earlier this evening - what a pretty picture of her and Daddy and Jimmy and Nancy out to dinner with candles in their desert bowls. She reported that she thinks she'll only feel older when she sees a change in the mirror, and that she feels a lot wiser than she did on her ninth birthday, citing the fact that she knew the names and capitols of 36 states, as well as their nicknames, year of induction and abbreviation. Maybe before her 11th birthday she'll learn the other 14.
Today was the Christmas program at school - my second grade chess player performed "Jingle Bell Rock" with his class. In one section all the kids had to dance. He was very enthusiastic, jiving well until he tripped off the step. His lip trembled for a second, his enthusiasm dimmed, but he finished the song with a big grin. I told him he was the best one up there, and he was.
The fourth grade was positively angelic, I credit it this to the fact that some of them brought down books to read. Subversive, yet highly effective.
Folks, I'm ready to be home, ready to see something besides endless concrete and boarded up houses. And yet, there's something to be said for knowing that I'm making a difference here.
I particulaly looking forward to New Year's Eve. I've told people several times over the years that I would hate to spend that night a way from you. There's something powerful about our long tradtion of banging tin pie pans to beat in the year, and I wouldn't feel right if I didn't start the year by saying a prayer with my family. It sets the tone. I knew 2007 was going to be tough, and it has been, but there's been a lot of goodness too.
I feel good about 2008 though, Baltimore is more behind me than in front and I'm on to the next adventure.
I'll see you tomorrow, folks. Not the best writing I've ever done here, but it fit my 15 minute deadline. As of now I am G.T.T.
Love,
Elizabeth

A Developing story:

It's the morning here, clear and crisp and full of hope.

"A salesman is got to dream, boy. It comes with the territory." ~ Arthur Miller, Death of a Salesman

All territories require dreams of some sort, and today starts the finding out of what does happen to a dream deferred. I've got my own suspicions friends, but we'll not delineate them now.

For now it is enough to know that I go with hope, it's all any one can do.

From the mouths of real, live fourth graders:
"Can we through Juan out the window?"

While working on a capitalization worksheet:
Student: I don't know if it should be capitalized or not...
Ms. Alsup: Well, what do you think?
Student: I'm just so torn, it could be.

Student, very excited: Ms. Alsup, I'm having an abolitionist day.
Ms. Alsup: Do you mean abyssmal?
Student: Oh yeah, abyssmal.

"Ms. Alsup, why do you have such high expectations?"

"Ms. Alsup, what is an expectation?"

Student, while reading: "What's goat droppings?"
Ms. Alsup: Show me the context - ah, droppings in the goat shed. Do goats live in the shed?
Student: Yes.
Ms. Alsup: What would goats drop in a shed?
Student: Oh

Student: Can we go to the bathroom?
Ms. Alsup: No
Student: Oh, that cruddy.
Ms. Alsup: Cruddy? What's cruddy is not getting smart.

And my favorite, an explanation of synonyms and antonyms:

" 'synonym' and 'opposite' are antonyms, but 'antonyms' and 'opposites' are synonyms."

What can I say, I work with some smart cookies.

Dear Mama and Daddy,
Supposed to snow tomorrow. Much as I hate the cold, there's still enough Texas kid in me to get excited for it.
The first time I saw snow was in Houston, it was the lightest dusting but still enough to cover the old Weber charcoal grill. I think we had an old black charcoal grill. Did I just make this memory up? It doesn't seem like it.
Then I wanted to play in it, and in a moment that is perhaps more indicative of my life's attitude than previously realized, we booked a plane ticket to Grandma's hill. Sledding, angels and snow cream. Sheer delight. If you want something bad enough, you find a way to make it happen. What an audacious thing for a Texas girl to say- "I want to play in the snow," but I don't think it occured to me that it wasn't a possibility.
One of my last days in Columbia, there was a terrific snow. I had to be on campus early and it was snow quiet. I met up with a friend and we had a tremendous snow fight, darting between the columns, leaving tracks through the snow pelting each other and yelling like banshees.
It's been some time since I've had a moment like that. I read a book one time where the character said he had "heavy boots," to mean he was weary.
Baltimore gives me heavy boots, makes it hard to remember playing in the snow. I've started untying these boots, and I'm getting ready to leave them behind for some sneakers.
I don't know where I'll land. I hope in D.C., I'm growing to love that city like I loved London, and that's saying something. Like to see the chess players in DuPont circle, like the folks riding the subway - teenagers, and college kids and people from the work-a-day world. Like the folks dressed to the nines going to a gala, like the guy in the Chinatown window making noodles. Like the Presbyterian church my friends attend - they even have a book club that reads Flannery O'Connor, clearly a place I could enjoy.
I guess that's what I'd like in the next place I land. I remember Dad, you wrote me a letter in London and said that I got my wanderlust from you, but someday I'd learn that you don't have to go far from home to have an adventure. I'll be honest and say that Baltimore was more of an adventure than I bargained for, and much more than I wanted. It'll take more than a minute to take these Baltimore boots off.
But snow's on the way, and the outlook surely can't be as grim as it seems. I'd better get on and fix dinner.
Love,
Elizabeth

Well friends, it's another week in Baltimore with the Light Brigade (see Crimean War, see Tennyson.) However, the balance of time has tipped and I'm looking toward the light at the end of the tunnel. And that feels awfully damn good.

A couple educational thoughts:
If we want to change schools for the better we've got to ensure that school principals are qualified and effective administrators and managers. Too often the emphasis is on them being superior teachers, but that doesn't transalate to being able to, in effect, run a small business. One of the downfalls of the industry is that there is little room for promotion, seeking an administrative role is one of the few ways to achieve a higher status and pay rate in education. Why on earth, though, would you want master teachers removed from the classroom in order to go to a job they may not have the skills for? It doesn't make sense - a recurring theme in education.

Furthermore, parents have got to realize that as consumers of the public school system they have power at the ballot box, among other places. Parents can be easily cowed by educational blowhards spouting off about all sorts of pedagological mumbo-jumbo. Parents are afraid to trust their common sense. At the end of the day, the parents need to ask "Is my child receiving an adequate education? Can they read intelligently? Can they perform basic math skills? Are they learning to think critically? Does their classroom sound well run?" Parents have the greatest power to hold teachers and school systems accountable, and yet they don't, fearing that their lack of an education degree makes them unqualified to question. Too often, schoolto parent relationships are disastrous and antagonistic, this is of no use to anyone.

And in another blow to teaching children not to fight, a parent walloped and bloodied a staff member at my school last week. The staff member by all accounts taunted the parent, and got in the parent's personal space and the parent wasn't having it. So now two adults whom children regularly see, a staff member and a parent, have shown these children that physical violence is an appropriate way to deal with problems. See above entry about effective principals and empowered parents: as a manager seeking to deliver a service to customers why would you cotton to an employee whose actions were in direct opposition to your mission, as a group of parents seeking a service why would you allow a principal to think that employing such a staff member would be appropriate? As we say at the Radiant, "It don't make no sense, no sense 't'all"

Today, I watched a kid walk away from a fight. He might fight tomorrow, or the day after, but today he walked away. That counts.

There's street and school, I say. What works out there won't work in here. So show me the people you want to be. You can leave the fourth grade ignorant or you can leave smart. Your choice. It works, the kids sit up straight. Even my little boys who fancy themselves gangbangers.

They don't think I know - about street, or gangs. And what they don't realize is that they know much more than I. When I asked C why he was talking 'bout bloods, he asked how I knew. "What, one of your family in a gang?" he said.

Every once in a while, much more often this year - things click in the classroom. And I catch a glimpse of why dedicated teachers choose this career. When I see my kids choose school over street, I know why teachers stay.

Poking my eyes out with the 2nd Ammendment:
I'm just watching a little bit of the Republican Youtube debate - it would be great if they debated, but it's like a competition where the winner is the man who can stay on message and mention multiple platforms - i.e. I believe in guns and having a mom and dad, while maintaing a fiscally responsibility government. Moms, dads and guns keep our borders secure - okay that might be a hyperbole, but it's not far from truth.

An Open Letter Home:

Dear Mama and Daddy,

“The North wind doth blow, and we shall have snow,” soon enough. The winter is bearing down, and as the city hunches its shoulders against the chill the recesses of my soul turn to a house opened to summer, ice tea on the table and that Alsup laughter which buoys up so much. How I wish to be telling stories with you all.

I went to church this week, and had the same thought I have nearly every week – “Train up a child in the way [they] should go…” and I haven’t departed from it. There was a family in front of me, and both the kids had a dollar to put in the basket, and I remembered when I would get a dollar to put in the basket. A whole month of Sundays have I sat between you, and it leaves a lasting impression upon me.

I was very cynical last week about my time here and my place here. I left college very much believing that the good you put into the world makes it just a bit better, any small act of kindness tips the balance towards a better place, so I thought. It’s easy to be disabused of that thought here in Baltimore. Some days it doesn’t seem like there’s enough good in anyone to change this city. Most days it doesn’t seem like there’s enough kindness to even start. There’s just too much brokenness and hurt; it’s hard to even begin to know where to fix that.

But the world doesn’t need another cynic. As a friend told me last year, cynicism is unbecoming. I return to what I know to be true – that I don’t know what difference I’m making, but if at the end of the day I can say that one kid in Baltimore left my classroom smarter, kinder, and more ready to use their brain then their fists, then I believe I can call that a good day. Maybe they’ll remember what I’ve tried to teach them longer than I expect.

I was thinking about all the towns in Texas that we’ve been through: Abilene, Amarillo, Parker, Austin, West, Lubbock, Houston, Corpus. Especially about driving out to Abilene for music auditions – whatever I expected for my life then is certainly not what the reality became. I couldn’t have imagined Baltimore, or this great compassion that my better angels encourage. If you had told me then all that would happen, I would have called you crazy.

But here I am down the road. Your wandering child with perpetually itchy feet – there only seem to be roads that lead me far away from those I love. I hope the road will circle back someday and soon.

A lot of my kids don’t have much of a recognizable concept of family, nor that they are representatives of their name. I don’t think there was ever a time that I didn’t know my name, or what you and Mamma stood for, what I was expected to uphold. Even now, I carry it with me. Hard work, concern for others, care for you family, sticking always to the right thing, deep integrity. Train up a child, and they’ll walk that good path.

It was a long day, as are all a teacher’s days. Up on your feet, no break, and it isn’t as though the children ever let up. They’re kids, they need a lot. We had chess, and then I tried to teach music at the rec. Three kids left me today knowing where middle C was on a piano, and who doesn’t know but that the knowledge might spur them to greatness. I sure hope it does – Baltimore’s got enough people to stand uneducated on corners, we could use some musicians. It was a full day of work.

I wonder at times what it would be like to commit myself to this city, to building a life here, working to beautify this ancient, fading belle. I admire the people who do, but I’ll be shaking the dust off my feet in 211 days. Whatever of Eliot’s mermaids are singing in Baltimore, they are certainly not singing for me.

I’ll move on what is sure to seem like greener pastures, and I will relish it. I’m hungry to beat the pavement again with a memo pad in hand, telling the stories of a community. I might not be able to change much inside a city school system, but I’m sure I can make people care about it, and maybe that’s the beginning of change.

Time’s drawing nigh here, a sliver of moon in the sky and all too soon I’ll be in my classroom waiting for the kids. And it’ll be another day where I start from scratch trying to make sure that each student leaves me a little different than when they came – Truly a work that’s never done.

Miss you as always, but know that I carry you close in my heart. Glad you’re my folks. Christmas is coming soon, and I’ll be beating a path home.

Love,

Elizabeth

I'm going to go on the record and say that today was a less than radiant day in the fourth grade.

I lost my voice in the middle of the day, a hoarse whisper was all I could do. Not surprisingly, it was difficult to control the 10 year-olds with the power of my mind.

But as a comrade of mine would say, "Ain't nobody die."

There's also a very annoying child in one of my classes. He's often absent, for example the last two weeks, and these leads to us forming a comfortable routine without him. He enjoys attention and drama. All this to say he was there today in all his, "come say it to my face, I didn't do nothing, at least I got a good body not like a hippo," and of course he cries at the drop of a hat, at everything

No less than three other children asked if they could hit him. One little boy tried to bargain it down to a pinch. Another little girl said she would just feel so much better. What was my brilliant, compassionate response?

"I totally understand, but all your life you'll have people you don't like, and you can't go around hitting them. The bottom line: We've got to make through the next hour and 20 minutes without violence."

Some kids are just annoying. And yes, I have tried to encourage this boy to be less so.

C'est la vie.

In other news Baltimore City Schools have abandoned their efforts at getting lead out of the water pipes, and is simply providing bottled water for staff and students. This after high lead levels were found at at least four schools.

Just another week in Charm City.

Board of Dreams:

Nine students today, and my co-worker. We are a team. We are commanders of armies on a field of 64 squares, from the oldest to our second grader, who moved the toughest, roughest middle school boy to laughter today.

We groan when it is time to go. We are learning to play strong chess, to castle early, to think before we move, to keep the hands back from the board, to control the center.

I set the boards up, and the students come, and our team starts asking to meet two days a week. And roughest, toughest asks about going to tournaments, and I am already planning who I will take to the first one.

I walk my team to the door, knowing from their talk that they are thinking about chess outside of club. Double T makes me promise that no matter what I will play him next week. And our second grader promises to take down my co-worker. We are chess players all.

Still here

There were eight students at Chess club this week, and more are on the way.

Five middle school boys.

Two fourth grade girls.

One co-worker, one grandmother of a middle schooler.

And one round and eager gentleman from the second grade.

They groaned when it was time to go home. And for a second we felt like a team, united in a purpose - to play a game of war on a board of 64 checkered squares, manipulating armies across of the field of play.

There's a lot of noise in a school, particularly in an urban school. A lot of frustration and grief. It's hard to hold on to a center of quiet, but you dig down and you find something to get you through.

It's raining here in Baltimore. I was on my way to bed and I got caught up in the lightning. Watching it crack against the sky over Baltimore, where the air has been full for days of storms waiting to burst.
Some jazz crackling through the stereo, and storms rolling in. And maybe things will:
cool off.
slow down.
mellow out.

Maybe I'll
worry less.
rest more.

My days at school are mostly good. Hectic, yes. But mostly good. It can be a wearing place to be, but that's not the kids fault. I understand why teachers go back every year. There's such great need.

Chess club met for the first time today. Three kids came. That is a start. It went well - two had never played before, and one had just learned how. we introduced the pieces - it is a game of kings and nobility I told them and we will conduct ourselves as such. We talked about the lowly pawn, brave footsoldier he, the bishop sneaky and mean, the knight, gallant and quick, the rook, solid and protective, the queen all powerful and the stately, treasured king.

The school needs security cameras for two blind spots on our grounds - I'm in the process of looking for grants and funding for this- if any of you have any suggestions, I welcome them.

The community rec center attached to our school is finally getting up and running. I hope our chess club will be meeting there soon. There is a non-profit organization running it, and I think good, good things will come of it. I've already shown my face round there, and said I'm available to teach music lessons to kids - apparently there's a lot of interest in that.

And so hope starts to grow. The kids have a place to hang out after school, a place that will only get better, things seem to be going well at school. This is how communities turn around - hope begins to grow.

Go well, stay well.

No matter how hard I try to remind myself that I will not have to teach forever, or how much I try to remember all I have to be thankful for, somedays just feel like Tennyson's "The Charge of the Light Brigade."

Half a league, half a league
Half a league onward
All in the Valley of Death
Rode the six hundred...

'Forward the Light Brigade!
Was there a man dismayed?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Someone had blunder'd:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why
Theirs but to do and die.

Then there are other days when I take a line from Bob Dylan and say to Baltimore:
If I'd known had bad you'd treat me
Honey, I never would have come.

Some days are all King Henry V and once more into the breach, and we few, we happy few, we band of brothers we and these things shall the good man teach his son.

Other days still, are just standing on Boo Radley's front porch and walking around in his shoes for a while and trying to understand.

And so it's another Monday here in the East - the same East that James Gatsby and Quentin Compson did so well in. Monday here in Baltimore where the fog hangs low with heat and heaviness in the second week of October, in the second year of my being here.

Half a league, half a league, half a league onward.

Washington Morning

Saturday morning, October sun falling on the rough pavement twinkling, blinking up at passersby.
Old songs on the stereo, nearly empty coffee cup, the remains of an apple pie on the kitchen table and a comfortable trio of friends reading the paper making lazy plans in lazy ways.
Existing where one's feet are, sheltering in Sabbath rest, laughing and jiving and singing and playing.
Coming round a table, walking on the street, shoes off on the National Mall tossing a white frisbee in the shadow of Smithsonian structures.
Metro rumbling, sidewalk shuffling, Saturday morning in an old pair of shoes, with an old pair of friends in an October sun.

It may surprise you, gentle reader, but I was a precocious child of eccentric tastes. Raffi’s Baby Beluga was fine, but for my money I dug the Broadway Cast Recording of Evita starring Patti LuPone in the title role. I am not making this up. By the time I was 5, I had the entire piece memorized.

When my niece was about 3 she had a real thing for the Beatles and Eleanor Rigby was her favorite song. I always found it disconcerting to hear those lyrics coming out of her 3 year old mouth (all the lonely people, where do they all come from?). I can only imagine that the lyrics of Don’t Cry for me Argentina (So I chose freedom, running around trying everything new, but nothing impressed me at all) emanating from me were equally disturbing to my family.

We owned this recording because my Dad saw the play, with Ms. LuPone, in New York. In a theatre so small he could smell the smoke from Mandy Patinkin’s cigar. He has always said that the show “was great.”

She won a Tony for that show, she originated the role of Fantine in the London production of Les Miserables. Most recently she was in the outstanding 2005 revival of Sweeney Todd, in New York. When she is on a stage she commands it, her voice able to navigate deep gravity of emotion as well as delicate comic turns.

I heard the orchestra director at Mizzou say that as musicians, we must absolutely walk the very edge of disaster, must be willing to walk to the very edge and then that tiny bit more – if we don’t walk that line then we are serving neither our art or our audience. It stirs no great response to give a perfectly safe performance. And this is the kind of performer LuPone is – you can hear it in every recording she has ever made.

In her turn as Mrs. Lovett in Sweeney Todd, LuPone at once inspires revulsion and sympathy for a character who by all rights is disgusting. The audience, despite Mrs. Lovett’s obvious flaws, does want her on some level to get a house by the sea with Mr. T.

Tomorrow night I will hear LuPone in person. She will sing and I will bask in the presence of one of the all time great performers. And it will be a wonderful evening.

Woolgathering:
When the little girl, who often struggles with classwork, saw her paper on the board with a sticker and a one hundred on the board - that was a good moment.

When my student stood in the line to go to lunch with a book in his hand I asked him what he was doing with the book. "I want to read at lunch," he said. That was a really good moment, and read he did - I saw him.

Other thoughts:
Good weekend - books and card games and songs and lots of food and sweet company. I heard Ken Burns speak at the National Book Festival and it was really eloquent and inspiring.

Further thoughts:
Patti LuPone on Friday - get excited!

Misguided, but funny
This week the children and I read part of Sarah, Plain and Tall. This is what one of my students put in answer to the question:
How do the chilren first recognize Sarah? (the correct answer is that she is wearing a yellow bonnet)
The children first recognize Sarah because the see her on page 51 and that's when she was introduced.

A bit more literal than was needed.

Lift up your heads, O ye gates.
I wasn’t going to go to prayer on the lawn this morning at my school. Every Monday morning there is a small prayer group that comes for Morning Glory and I have the same internal dialogue each Monday.

“You best get yourself to prayer.”
“I’ve prayed already this morning and I could really use this time in my classroom.”
“You best get yourself to prayer and start this week off right, don’t matter if you already prayed, pray again.”
“But I need to prepare.”

And then sometimes, the voice of one my co-workers comes through the ceiling intercom, not unlike one might imagine, the voice of the Lord from the heavens, and says “Ms. Alsup, you coming round to Morning Glory, it’s starting.” Translation: “You best get yourself to prayer.”

“Be right there,” I answer.

This morning was Prayer on the Lawn, inviting the members of the community, parents and children to pray with us.

It was a small gathering, and the Eastern sun rose over our backs and lit the faces of the ministers and the pray-ers and the Amens rose up to the sky. Hallelujah, yes Lord Jesus.

We prayed over the students. We prayed over the parents. We even lifted up a prayer for the facilities and for the cafeteria. Hallelujah, yes Lord Jesus.

A minister in a snappy brown suit and fedora led the service, introducing community members. Another minister, so frail he looked as though he might blow away and with a voice like a wispy breeze, prayed in fervent tones. The Amens rose to the sky. Hallelujah, yes Lord.

The congregation swayed to each prayer, hallelujah yes.
And then the bishop of a local church came to give the benediction. “I have a two minute thought for you from Psalm 24 this morning.” And those familiar with a Baptist church know that it is never just a two minute thought, and the congregation dug in its heels for the haul and began to warm up to the subject.

“Lift up your heads O ye gates; and be ye lift up, ye everlasting doors; and the King of glory shall come in.”
“Yes Lord.”
“Who is this King of glory? The Lord strong and mighty, the Lord mighty in battle.”
“Hallelujah, yes.”
“Lift up your heads, O ye gates,” the minister implored us. “Even lift them up, ye everlasting doors; and the King of glory shall come in. Who is this King of glory? The LORD of hosts, he is the King of glory.”
“Amen”

The sun lit his face and his smile, and he leaned forward to give his message to us.

“We’re going to do something different now, brothers and sisters, we been bowing our heads all morning, but this time we are going to lift them up, lift up our eyes to the heavens.”

He went on to say that life can bow your head, that life will bow your head. Troubles come and we bow our heads and we get so low we forget to lift our eyes up to the hills. And his voice started a long crescendo and the congregation began to sway a little.

Lift up your eyes he said. Life will bow our heads, and our students’ heads. And it ain’t always the devil, friends, it’s just life and its trials and troubles. So teachers: we must help our students lift their heads, and parents: we must help our students lift their heads. And teachers you got to keep your heads so up so that you can lead your students.

The crescendo rose, and the congregation swayed one foot to the other; the Amens rose to the heavens. Hallelujah, Lord Jesus. A woman in a gray hat clapped her hands together, and said “Come on, Holy Ghost,” as though exhorting an athlete to get warmed up and really let us have it.

And community, he shouted through the speaker over our small number to the sleeping houses beyond, We gotta Lift. Up. Our. Heads. Amen. Amen and amen. Praise Jesus. If you get up every morning, and you take time to talk to Lord, He will lift up your head If you get up, even while the dew is still on the roses, He will lift up your head. Mmm, yes Lord.

And the swaying slowed, Amens fell to murmurs and in we went to welcome the students, heads up and eyes on the hills. Morning and afternoon, a whole school day; I believe the Lord saw it, and I believe He declared it was good.

And all God’s people said: Amen.

14 Days till Ms. LuPone:
Ever since I was a wee musician, I have known that there are just some performers one should go see. Musicians who are such consumate talents that they define genres - my list is relatively short, though I add to it occasionally.
Wynton Marsalis - saw him at Jesse Hall.
The Count Basie Big Band - done in Dallas.
Sonny Rollins - still trying to get myself to New York.
Patti LuPone - 14 days and counting.

I am way pumped.

And now for something completely different:
In a departure from its usually meaningful content, Bears and Penguins brings you things that make Sara laugh out loud. (Admittedly it helps to be familiar with Wuthering Heights)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o0vgZ2UNS54

Rather Endearing:

I turned on the local news this morning to see the results of the mayoral primary here in Charm City. While I was waiting for that story, the weather came on, and something I've never seen before happened:
As the weather woman was describing yesterday and today's cooler temperature, the word "PLEASANT" showed up on the weather map right over Maryland in large red letters. On the competing channel, the words "PLEASANT" and "QUITE COOL" showed up over the state.
Maybe in winter, they'll put up "Really effing cold." That would make me laugh.

Democracy Disappointment:
I was definitely disappointed by the results of the mayoral primary - my guy got knocked completely out of the race. I'm not sure quite how Baltimore's electoral system works, but the winner of the primary is definitely going to be the mayor. I guess it says a lot about the Union vote.

Third Week of School:
Teaching is an exhausting job. It just is, no matter how wonderful the students. But so far the students are doing well in spelling, though less well in reading comprehension.

One more election thought:
It's no secret that I'm not having a huge love affair with Baltimore, but...There is a certain way that Baltimore people sound that is unlike any place else I've been, and you could definitely hear it in the acceptance speeches of the mayor and the city council president. And somehow it's endearing to me - it just sounds like Baltimore.

Best get on with my day then. But there are things to look forward too, and that is not a bad thing.

I remember very clearly in one of the English Royal Palaces I toured that there were two little girls, probably 7 or 8, who were staring at the queen’s throne. They had long hair and were dressed in t-shirts and shorts, and were the closest of friends.

“Ooo, that’s where She sits.”
“Ooo.”

And it was the epitome of all little girls who know that truly it is good to be the princess, but also a unique view into my American country. An American child learns that the White House is a house of the people.

One of my students wrote in his journal that he knew he could be anything, even the President, if he worked hard at reading. This is our American right: that any of us may seek to lead our nation, that we all in fact bear the responsibility to do so. When I watched those two little girls I realized that no American child was ever meant to think that they could not sit in the seat of government. That an American child may look at the tallest chair in the cabinet room and say, “Someday, it will be me.”

So much of the White House and the presidency seems inaccessible: a person not of us, a house unknown by its meanest citizens. It stands austerely cool cloaked in white, set well back from the masses teeming, its surrounding grounds sylvan in aspect as though to say, “I am well above, as needs must be, to protect the fragile system cherished.”

Still the White House seemed just a bit smaller, a bit more approachable, a bit more warmly American and welcoming when I left it this afternoon. When I left having seen Teddy Roosevelt’s Medal of Honor, having seen lithograph prints of Lincoln and his cabinet, having seen Norman Rockwell’s take on the West Wing tour, having touched the chair in which the Wall Street Journal sits in the press room and breathed deep the smell of richly turned earth in the rose garden. The White House seemed a bit more mine after all that, and certainly a bit more the house of the children which I teach. It is a place embodying both the greatest triumphs and most heartbreaking failures of the American people and it is humbling in both respects.

I couldn’t help but think that if we could just get everyone in America on a bus with a brown bag lunch and let them see these things too, that finally we would start to get it together as a people. We’ve grown too far removed from the people’s house these days.

In Jefferson’s administration, great Western Native American chiefs camped on the White House lawn, having come at the president’s invitation.

In the Lincoln years, when enemy campfires could be seen from the grand old see, the people of the city would come to celebrate and mourn and serenade the President and his lady. Remember he was the man who famously declared our nation a “government of the people, for the people and by the people.”

And at no time is that feeling more clearly crystallized than in stepping from the halls of history and power and decision into crisp sunlight, knowing that any of us may lead, in fact all of us must.

I imagine the British girls, as young Americans, heads bent together in conference at the richness of furnishings before them, and saying not “that is his seat,” but rather “that is our seat.”

A charge and house to keep have we the people, a gift of wise, if fallible, men. May we keep our house, as well as they intended us too.

I think this is maybe the fourth incarnation of Bears and Penguins, the title I chose as a nod to my favorite writer, favorite book and favorite animals - efficiency is key.

Clean slate. Back in Baltimore - a city who's NPR station declared it difficult to love to day on air. This is not untrue, nor is it untrue that some people love it. I feel neither love nor hate. The feeling that comes most strongly is gratitude for what I see. Though it is hard, it has changed me, and I think time will bear this out, for the better.

It is a strange experience here, like the haze that cloaks the harbor bridge keeping hidden all perspective. And it is gratitude I feel when I hear Miss Y. playing gospel music in her room and singing, oh she sings, and how she loves those children she teaches. The children who are often very damaged and needing her careful, gracious patience. Gratitude I feel when Miss C advises me to get my room annointed. Gratitude and admiration for the teachers who have been at the Radiant for 22 and more years. That's something, that's a real thing, a deep committment.

I am a short timer here. But when I leave, those teachers will still be working, striving to be everything for children who have nothing. I do think there is too great a tendency to canonize teachers as though they were holy, sanctified and infallible beings. And yet, I know some very fine teachers at the Radiant and they are greater because of their love.

Love bears up, and is not always softly gentle. Love bears all things. The gangs, and the drugs, the dangers and disappointments. Love bears up, and the teachers come back to the Radiant, to hang paper over gray walls, to set up aquariums for hermit crabs and snakes, to calculate how many books may be purchased - secondhand - for the children. Love bears up.

So I feel gratitude to have been taken in, to have observed and taken part. Gratitude for the year ahead, however fraught it may be with all the inner-city trauma that is par for the course. Gratitude because in Baltimore, these things remain: faith, hope and love, and the greatest of these is love.

Sara and Lynn are G.T.T.

Letting you know so you can cross your fingers...

We might get a half day today because of heat (all the Texans roll your eyes now). If the mercury tips 90 by 11, it's a holiday in the city.

Out of context at the Radiant:
*Yes, these things have all been said this week, and only one of them was said by a student. I laugh occassionally at work.

"Guerilla warfare is a bitch."

"I wasn't a drug man, I was an alcohol man."

"Are the eighth graders wearing clothes at their graduation?"

"Will we go swimming in the gym today?"

"Who is that over there - oh it's Godzilla."

"When she said, 'Call the po-po, I called the po-po."

"If he be stinking like that, than she must be stinking too."

While Blythe was here in Baltimore she told me that she had read something about, and I paraphrase, putting your credo into 6 words. 6 words to describe the way you wish to live, how you define it. 6 words is not a lot.
This was (is) mine:
"Hand to the plow, forward ho."
I don't think I could have come up with anything better than that.

There are four weeks left in the school year; between field trips and school assemblies it promises to be a busy time. Texas is so close that I can taste it. Some of my friends are traveling the world this summer, but I'm more than content to turn my feet toward Texas.

I grow weary in the work, and it's hard not to give up sometimes. But hand to the plow, you know.

I read through the book of Jonah yesterday. Of course all Bible characters are human, but some seem much more human than others, and I always seem to identify with the worst of them - Thomas "I'll believe it when I see it."
Peter "I talk a good game, but lose it when it counts."
Moses "I'm a stubborn fool."
and Jonah "I'll go my own way, thank you very much."

Anyway, I don't like Jonah much, but I know him. After he goes to Nineveh, he gets angry because (long story short) the Lord shows compassion on the people. God asks Jonah what right he has to be angry, and of course, the answer is none.

This hit me hard this week, because it's ever so easy to throw myself a pity party here. And the question that comes to me when I want to call a friend and whine and ask sympathy, the answer that comes (as I know it should) is "So what?"

I'm fed, clothed and sheltered. I've friends and family who pray for me. I've hobbies and enjoyments and experiences to fall back on. Whereas the kids I teach have not. So what does it matter when I have a tough day, a lot of the students I teach have tough lives.

What right have I to a pity party? None.

So humbled, I reach my hand once more the plow, placing the traces about my shoulder. Forward ho.

News Flash:
For the first time ever, Bears and Penguins comes to you from an airport. Normally I never use airport internet, but then I realized my atm card had fallen out of my pocket somewhere between downtown Baltimore and the airport. Thus I had to find the number of my bank for to cancel the card, order a new one, and determine how I was going to access my hard earned money for this weeks travels. No ATMs for me this week, I must organize myself as I have to walk into the bank and interact with actual people to get the green.

April Fools:
Parked my car. Got my stuff out. Snow started falling from the sky. True story.

Northeast:
While checking in for my flight, I ran into a fellow TFAer who teaches middle school at Northesast, which has been getting a lot of press lately because teachers are being attacked. One teacher, my colleague told me, was beaten with her own cane. My friend said other teachers had been asking when that teacher was going to come back. My friend said, "Never. No one would go back. If you got beat with your own cane you would not go back." I agreed. The violence is part of gang initiations. Laine said that students are always flashing gang signs in the halls. She said she flashes her Language Arts sign (form L with both hands, turn left hand upside down so thumbs form arm of L and crossbar of the A) I just laughed.

If you're not in the middle of it everyday, it might seem scary of dangerous or horrible or any other number of things, and it is all those things, but I guess we learn to be in it and not get torn apart by it. If I thought n depth about all the terrible things, the violence and poverety and everything else, I'd never set foot in my classroom again.

Always Teaching:
Yesterday, the third and foruth grades went bowling (except there were little balls and pins) and because only one of the third grade teachers and no third grade parents went, I got to watch over some of the babies. Anyway, this one little girl LaShawna, had clearly never been bowling, this was true of a lot of the kids, but she would just kind of walk up to the line and heft the ball by flicking her wrist like you would a frisbee, she would turn so that she threw from the hip sideways. So the next time her turn came up, I said, "What's your name?" "LaShawna"
"Okay, LaShawna, let me show you."
So we got her ball, and I put her hand underneath it, not on the side, and we practiced taking two big steps, and then a little one while bending our knees and laying the ball right between the arrows. We practicecd a couple of times before letting it go. When her turn came up, her concentration was visible "Big step, big step, bend and go."
We watched how Mr. Samuels took his steps and released the ball. By the end of the day she got a couple of strikes. And I was right behind her when she came back with her hands up for a high five.

***
Spring break, y'all.
I got my boots on.
I'll be under a Texas sky.
I'll be west.
I'll be home.
As of now, I am G.T.T.

Go well, stay well.

Putting it in Perspective:

The toughest kid in the whole fourth grade is frequently described as "street" meaning basically that he has to fend for himself cause ain't no one else looking out for him.

He is angry. Disruptive. Manipulative. And many times, mean. He is often completely anti-social.

I kept him in the class today from his music class because of his behavior, and after the requisite "Man, I didn't do nothing," we settled into a tense, but peaceful silence, punctuated by his occasional soliloquies. Once he startled himself and jerked. "You okay?" I asked.

"I was daydreaming" he said.

"Good dream or bad?" I asked.

"Bad." he said. "About the devil."

The following has to do with something he hears frequently from another teacher.

"Talk. Talk. Talk. I'm going to jail for talking. Going to jail for talking. Well there are worse things than going to jail."

"Like what?" I asked.

"Going to hell."

"Well, I guess that's true," I said.

And though he is street, he posesses a child's earnestness.

Bad daydreams. A devil on his way to snatch, and a stop in jail on the way. Pants that don't fit, clothes that aren't clean. Bouts of ringworm and an aching hunger. Is it any wonder that he's mad at the world?

I would be too.

Stream of Consciousness Continues:
Completed the A section of my iTunes and am now in the middle of B. Sometimes it is painful to not skip a song, either cause I'm not in the mood to hear or because it's something weird, but soldier on I do. (Caleb, Simon and Garfunkel's America came before Bernstein's, becase the artists were listed as Various, and obviously S comes before V.)

And now friends, the answer is blowing in the wind. After that I embark on the 14 songs in my library whose titles start with the word "blue" or "blues".

Thoughts thus far: Pat Metheny seems to have gotten a lot of play in the A section. Also some things are difficult to listen to out of context of their larger work, so that by itself, one little Allegro from Handle is a little bizarrish when it comes between two pop songs. Copland's Applachin Spring got listened to out of movement order because of the alphbetation, but this presented a fresh listen to the music I'm very familiar with. Because I also have many instances of the same song by different, and sometimes the same, artists it's been interesting to compare interpretations. For example the difference between the An American in Paris conducted by Gershwin, versus a version conducted by Bernstein.

Biggest surprise: Since the first time I heard An American in Paris in roughly middle school, I've thought I hated that piece. But it turns out I don't. Go out and listen to it.

Glory Hallelujah
Totally forgot it was Palm Sunday weekend, until I ventured to the grocery store Saturday evening and saw people lined up with Palm Fronds outside the Cathedral, it still took me a minute to put it all together. "What are all these people doing, and why do they have palm fronds?...."

Church! Faith! Thoughts!
Thought this was going to be a long section, huh? Nope. A friend of mine did ask me this weekend what I believe and why. This is always a challenging question. Not the what so much as the why. I'm still not thoroughly satisified with the answer I gave - I believe I probably could have expressed things more clearly. But it's always an interesting question to ask yourself - Can you give a good answer?

Also, I went to St. Paul's Episcopal on Sunday. I really appreciate the Easter season, for me it's where the heart of Christianity is wrapped up. And so there's no better time to ask the what and why then right now.

You know you teach in the inner city when:
A good portion of your faculty meeting is spent discussing the rise of gangs in the community and what colors to monitor and ask students to remove - this is a bigger issue in the middle school, but more prevalent in the elementary than you would think. We were also reminded that gangs recruit via MySpace - clearly technology makes everything better.

Recommended Reading:
If you're looking to be completely freaked out by the reality of drug culture in the inner city, the effects of poverty and lack of structure, then rush right out and get The Corner by David Simon and Edward Burns. It follows some Baltimore residents through a year of life. I won't say it completely changed my perspective, but it did give me a few missing puzzle pieces to understanding this city and culture.

If you're looking for lighter fare: Well, I probably can't help you, it's not my thing. I'm currently reading Watership Down on Melissa's recommendation - initial thoughts: This book is weird, why are rabbits talking (Hlao-roo, and flay-rah). But it has since hooked me.

I finished Lonesome Dove last month, but I can't talk about it yet, I'm still a little emotional over it.. You should read it though. Thanks to Blythe for bringing it my way.

And the whole comments thing:
Four comments on the last post is good, more is better. Come on folks, give me a shout out here. I recognize the writing is not up to Bears and Penguins usual standard, but gimme a break, gimme something. Consider the comments like instant validation for me - yes, I know it's selfish to ask, but there it is. It is to be hoped that Bears and Penguins returns to a higher standard in the near future...

Ahoy:
My brother has said that since I got to Baltimore my blog has become depressing, and I would have to agree with him. Really, who wants to read about the fact that two middle school teachers got punched by students this week - one in the face, and that a couple of fifth graders drew blood in a fight in the cafeteria. Right, no one wants to read that. So I won't write about it.

Musicality:
There are 2192 songs on my iTunes. I'm currently listening to them in alphabetical order, skipping over the audiobook genre. My songs are currently being brought to me by the letter A. Right now I'm on Bernstein's America from West Side Story. Just switched over to American Idiot by Green Day. The alphabetical order provides organized randomness that I appreciate.

Shakira, Shakira:
According to my small girl group who fancy themselves the up and coming Dreamgirls - I look like Shakira. Who knew? This girl group also tried to guess my age - with guesses ranging as high as 40 and low as 14.

Puppies!
I saw an Irish Wolfhound in person the other day. Now I'm a loyal schnauzer fan, but those wolfhounds are beautfiul and I want one, because they are bigger than a Shetland pony. But since I don't have room, or money, don't expect an animal acquisition anytime soon. However, I would like to write a children's book featuring an Irish Wolfhound and a schnauzer - their names are Seamus and Schnitzel.

Speaking of Germany:
The Lives of Others, the little German film that took home an Oscar is amazing and you should stop reading this mindless blog entry and go see it now! Seriously, now! Why are you still here?

Lunch Bunch:
On Thursdays and Fridays, students that have been well behaved the entire week get to come eat lunch with me in the classroom. It seems a small thing, but it's a big deal for them as more often then not the lunch room is a riot waiting to happen, and many days they must have silent lunch - as in no talking, at all. And it's become my favorite time of the week. In the small conversations I get to know the kids a little better. We also read aloud during these times. I'm reading Charlie and the Chocolate Factory to one, and Sideways Stories from Wayside School to another. The kids get really into it, and I think they're starting to see why reading can be fun.

I think I'm going to bake some cookies today. And I'm also going to be checking my blog for comments, because gentle reader, they have been sorely lacking of late. I attribute this to the depressing nature of the blog lately, though I don't think this stream of consciousness business is much better. Still, post a comment or else! I mean that, or I'll bank yo' face. I ain't playing, either.

You tell me:

There are a lot of fights in my school. The spark can be something as little as bumping into someone accidentally, or staring at someone to the bigger ones of calling someone's mother a bitch.

I've said it all year, but my kids came to me with zero coping skills. There was no stopping point between, "I'm mildly annoyed,"and "I'm going to rip your face off." And I can't claim to have made great progress in this area.

Because here's the deal: when you have parents - who present or not, competent or not - remain their kids' greatest influencers telling their children to hit back when someone hits them, and to hit harder, then it's an uphill battle for a teacher.

Everytime I hear a parent tell a child this, or tell me that they have told their child this, it makes me viscerally angry. As I explained to one parent today, after I asked her to recondsider her position (this conference was after her son's suspension for fighting - what else), saying that not only did that place her son in danger, but it placed other children in danger as well and made the school an unsafe place. Furthermore it doesn't give the child skills to fix things with words or compromise. Which is why two of my brightest girls and sweetest girls felt it neccesary after tiffing today to say "Well I'm going have on the ground, you better watch it."

I believe these parents set this kids up for failure, and though I have heard the argument that sometimes in Baltimore the children need to know how to protect themselves, I still think it undermines the student for the parent to instruct the child this way.

The parents of course want it both ways - for the child to "protect" (more often prove) his or herself, but also for the child not to face the consequence. The above mentioned parent told her son to "hit back and [she] would take the consequences". I also encouraged her to reconsider this, reminding her that it was her son who would serve the suspension, and upon whose record the suspension would go, not hers. How much more assine could you possibly be than to say you were going to take the consequences for someone else's actions.

It just depresses me. If you want to know whether we're still going to be fighting wars 20 years from now, all you need to do is ask these parents if they're going to tell the children to hit 'em back and hit 'em harder.

If it's not one thing, it's another - and in the end it's the kids with the swollen eyes, and the missed school, and the daily fear of being hurt, who suffer the disruption of violence and who have to spend more time worrying about who put their hands on whom who suffer. Not the parents, not even the weariest, most discouraged teachers. The kids who are grabbing with hands, unclenched for the briefest of moments the world we are handing them.

Live Wire:

It's been another week in Baltimore. The first week of our standardized testing and yet another week that was hardly quiet. The most notably dramatic thing was a parent assaulting a child (not hers, but someone else's) by repeatedly slamming the girl's face into the side of a car.
After this incident my principal asked if the show "The Wire," would send her money for story ideas, or would want to come film at our school.

The latest season of "The Wire" focuses on Baltimore's school system, and most people that work agree that it's an accurate representation. Even though my school is not the worst in Baltimore, there's still a lot of violence, anger and strife. But in the fourth grade there are moments of grace.

On Thursdays and Fridays, the children who have been well behaved all week come and eat lunch with me in the classroom. We eat and typically read aloud, or sometimes play a game. I'm reading Charlie and the Chocolate Factory to one class, and Sideways Stories from Wayside School. These kids, some of whom were not at all sold on the idea of reading, are slowing hearing the stories come alive and are beginning to comprehend them on their own without a lot of prodding from me. This is very much true from the Sideways group, who pointed out that when the book said a dozen apples it meant 12 and that in order to reverse a magic spell the teacher said it backwards. Well done kiddos.

This week we continue on with the testing, finishing the math portion this week. The fourth graders are making progress, and as the year draws to a close I am beginning to really see that the work is making a difference.

And as though keeping my promise weren't enough to keep me in Baltimore...

The Baltimore Symphony Orchestra will be performing, not just one, but all nine of Beethoven's symphonies during the next season. This is important for two reasons:

1. Beethoven is hardcore, like Led Zepplin, and other rock bands.

2. Every day for months until just recently I listened to the last movement of the Beethoven's ninth. The Freedom Concert recording, Bernstein directing the Berlin Orchestra when the wall came down. It reminds me of what I am doing here, working so that we can all be free here in America. I like to play it really loud. Incidentally, loud German singing induces weird stares from children and co-workers alike. That music has pulled me through much of my time here, so I intend to be there to hear the BSO play it.

It snowed most of the day today, then it switched to drizzle. It might turn to freezing rain.
My brain feels snowy tonight too. I'm waiting for fish to thaw to cook a dinner I'm not particularly hungry for, but which I feel compelled to consume.
I'm going home to Texas this summer. I thought about sticking around Baltimore, but like I told a friend of mine today: if I am to make it through a second year teaching in this city, I feel going back to Texas is a must.
I've been casually perusing the summer job market back in Dallas. I found a rather perfect internship organizing an international mission trip as well as collecting, writing and editing the devotional guide to be given to participants. Alas, the job requires that I be in college. There's so much opportunity just in general, particularly in non-profit communications.
Occasionally here in Baltimore, I've glanced at other jobs, and I guess that's where my brain feels fuzzy tonight.
At the end of the day, I'm a short timer here in this city. I won't always be in a classroom with a broken window, no books and a sink labled "for handwashing only." Yet, I work everyday next to people who are anything but shortimers. People with 15, 25, 30 years in the system. It's a hard line to walk, as it's bad form to mention that teaching is not what I consider my career.
I can't imagine looking down 30 years in this system, or in this city.
It's hard to know how to reconcile that - about a year and a half left. And then on to what I'm sure many of my colleagues would consider "bigger and better" things.
I don't know if they'll be bigger and better. Different. And not here. For now I'll take both.
Teaching's a tougher gig than people realize, it ain't rocket science, but it ain't a cakewalk either.

Dinner time.

In which serendipity takes a hand

I got an e-mail Thursday night from a friend of mine:
"Sara, do you want to go the Vagina Monolouges"

Egdy, political and empowering - yeah, I'm there. Went all through college, haven't been since Columbia. Also enjoy having a social life that doesn't involve immediately closing the achievement gap.

"I'm so there."

An Ethiopian dinner and running a few minutes late later, we realize that while we know it's on Johns Hopkins' campus, we actually have no idea where. So we start asking strangers, who don't know, tell us it's on the medical campus and direct us to the nearest theater.

For some reason we stop into a building where there are two white haired ladies. They look like they are waiting. I go to examine a bulletin board while Kyle determines if they are also looking for the theater. They are. Neither Kyle or I mention the Vagina Monolouges, figuring that we're all on the same page or that there's another production going on. After a discussion of whether it - either the monologues or the unknown production - is taking place, Kyle volunteers to brave the cold. He looks back as if expecting me to follow him into the icy wilderness, and I say to the old ladies that while he can venture out in the cold I'm more than happy to wait indoors.

We chat amiably. I complement the lady who I come to know as Rose's hat. She says that she got in Scotland and does not intend to give it up to me. It comes out that Rose and Elizabeth worked in Baltimore County schools as a nurse and secretary respectively. They are small and whitehaired, they are anxious to find the theater. "It's that, or just sit at home and rot," says Rose.

Kyle returns, bearing brochures. He has found the theater, Rose and Elizabeth are excited. A glance at the program bids me know he has not found the monolouges, but rather the two person play, Talley's Folly that Rose and Elizabeth were headed to. We walk out in the cold together. I offer my arm to steady Elizabeth across the dark, somewhat icy pavement, and Kyle promptly presents his to Rose. And arm in arm we go, steadying one another in the dark.

We come to the theater, Kyle and I have exchanged a few glances as if to say, "This is not quite what we planned." But we go in nonetheless, delivering our charges, and then buying tickets to the show, because what else would we do? We are easily among the youngest people there. Rose and Elizabeth are senior ushers, and tear our tickets before we are even in line.

So we watch the play, two people set down in 1944 Lebanon, Missouri. It is a little cheesy, slightly dated and completely delightful, particulary for the unexpectedness of it all.

After the show, Kyle and I go to bid goodnight to Rose and Elizabeth, names are finally exchanged. Elizabeth pulls me forward after I grasp her hand and kisses me on the cheek. Kyle and I have made her night she says. What a blessing to hear, I say, she has certainly made mine, I say. Rose gives me her last name if I ever wish to look it up. She lives in the county.

We walk out. Having met two more parts of this puzzling city. Having come upon something unexpected, yet very pleasant, having shared warmth with other folks on such a terribly cold night.

It could not have been better if we planned it.

So here's to serendipty and school secretaries. Here's to ticket takers, and social planners and listening to stories and offering a steady arm as you ask a question. And here's to letting your feet go where they will. I'll remember it all much longer than I would have the monologues.

So sits the moon over us all. Over Kyle and I in our different city blocks, over Rose and Elizabeth in from the county, over all these people and their stories, so sits the moon over us all.

YES!!!!
Snow Day! Snow Day! Snow Day!

For those of you keeping track at home:
There is a snow advisory in effect till 7 am. Now faithful readers will know that for the past two months most blog posts have dealt with the possibility of a snow day. But if ever there were a day for a snow day, tomorrow would be it. I'm recovering from strep throat, and would like nothing better than an extra day of recovery on the city's payroll.
So put your pajamas on inside out. Dream sweet dreams of snow and hope that there will be a delicious snow day tomorrow.

And my insanity reaches new levels:
Faithful readers will also now that I am the embodiment of the maxim "First year teachers are sick all the time." Since August I've been completely well for approximately 3 weeks. And now I have strep throat. However, prior to this ailment, I enjoyed several days of health. I attribute this to showering twice a day. I've never felt more gross than I do after spending a day with about 40 ten year olds. And as there is no ventilation in my room, because my window is broken, I just end up simmering in germy kid soup.
I also have come to believe that eating at restaurants, sitting in cold rooms, and/ or touching anything makes me sick.

85 Days

I went out with some folks last night, friends from Teach for America. It came out that there are 85 days left in the school year.
The looks on our faces, and spirit of our hearts seemed to say "Thank God there comes an end."

We laughed and sparred and spoke. And with 85 days left in the first year of a most difficult work, inevitably someone asked if there were any regret of the choice. To a person we answered No.

I used to the think that the absence of regret rendered the presence of joy or contentment or mirth. Not so. The absence of regret is simply that lack of sorrow over an event. That I could have been much happier elsewhere I have no doubt, still that does not beget regret of choice.

For that I have no good explanation.

In the mornings, I drive by the St. Alphonus Catholic Church and I hear the bells ringing the people to seven o’clock mass. It is the best sound in the city, the bells. Underneath the steeple in the pale blue gray light, the people cross the street, mount the steps and rush through the doors to morning prayer. Old nuns, and young laborers mounting the steps to prayer beneath the bells.

The bells call my heart to prayer as well, as I drive by the steps on my way to my school.

A couple of weeks ago I was making my daily journey, and I heard the ringing of the bells, bells, bells. Goosebumps came up on my arms and neck as I realized that Edgar Allan Poe walked these Baltimore streets. Never mind the fact that Baltimore is merely the bookends to his life and much of his work was done in Virginia. It is in Baltimore that his roots lie and where he lays now in his grave under the bells of the city.

My heart continues to smile at the tintinnabulations of St. Alphonsus bells, my heart still moves to prayer, but not before my mouth murmurs a few words of Poe’s, “ah the bells, bells, bells.”

And...
No snow day. Not even a delayed opening. Damn.
Oh well, to work as usual. Hopefully, it'll be an alright day.
Chance of snow this Thursday or Friday - keep fingers crossed. And yes. I actually prayed for there to be a snow day today.

Update:
It's still snowing. I'm still lesson planning. But there is a winter weather advisory, and the snow is expected to continue through the night, possibly turning into freezing rain.
Keep fingers crossed.

Snow date:
It is currently snowing in Baltimore - wee, tiny delicate flakes. It will require a lot more for a snow day. But still, it's totally snowing!

I sit here looking out over this city. Over the sports’ stadiums. Past the dark that I know is the harbor. At the familiar face of the Bromo Seltzer Clock Tower. I look out on this dark city that now is only lights twinkling.
It was so quiet this morning. It was snow quiet this morning. There is a particular quiet that surrounds a snow, and it was here this morning. I love that quiet, when everything is still and near and you are afraid to breath to loudly for fear of shattering the quiet.
I imagine the water is cold in the harbor, and I believe it’s cold out on the street corners. Believe it is cold now on the steps of St. Paul’s where the homeless sleep. Seeing homeless people sleep on church steps makes me feel ashamed – if I had my way, all churches would open their doors as true sanctuaries.
Wish you could see this city from my apartment windows. Dark, twinkly and insular. I’ve been here almost five months, nearly half a year and it’s been a more foreign place in many ways than anywhere I’ve traveled. In more ways that I care to enumerate in the snow quiet dark night.
I pick up my words to think, and to bridge the gaps between us. That is the best words can do – bridge gaps, give meaning, connect. I pick up my words as an amulet, a sword and a binding rope.
The job I do isn’t easy. It’s hardly fun, and not intensely rewarding. But seeing my students reap the benefit of their effort and work makes it something. I wish you could have seen the smile on his face today when he got a “Star Student” certificate to take home. He earned every bit of it too. His smile in front of his classmates was beautiful.

Morning Muse

They tell you that first year teachers are sick all the time, but this is ridiculous. I woke up with a lot of congestion and sneezing. I would say the only time I have been completely healthy since starting to teach was the week I was home in Texas.

I can fight illness or I can fight the achievement gap, but I'm pretty sure that I can't do both at the same time.

What's a would be teacher to do?