Recently we had a new teacher start with us two days a week. He is working in a class that has had a lot of change this year. It’s tough for everyone. Half way through his first day, I got a chance to check in with him just before lunch ended. After hearing a little bit about his day and answering some questions, I had basically 2 minutes to offer a little advice.

Quick advice has to be extra meaningful. Sparse words. Limited time. Lots to convey. Must be memorable. What to include and what to leave out would take me hours to decide on if asked to write a post on what advice I would give to someone in two minutes. But on the spot, you have only two minutes to fill exactly two minutes and that’s all delivery time. Don’t waste it thinking!

What did I say?

It went something like this:

1. Think in 7 minute increments. Don’t get anxious about thinking about the whole afternoon. Think about the next seven minutes. 7 minutes at a time. And it all becomes doable.
2. Take full credit for everything that goes well. The stuff that doesn’t? Don’t take it personally and don’t feel wholly responsible. There are a lot of reasons things happen. You are one small piece of it. Unless, it goes really well. Then, clearly, all you.
3. Like the kids. Make it really obvious that you do. Smile at them. Notice interesting things. Give them sincere compliments. Be kind.
4. Give students voice. Find ways for them to feel like they have some ownership, like they are directing a bit of the day, that what they think actually matters. It can be really simple – simply ask if they liked something. Talk about why.
5. Come back.

I am participating in the Slice of Life challenge to write and publish a post every day in March.

Slice of Life is hosted by Two Writing Teachers. I thank them for the community they provide. Read more slices here.

Now that I no longer teach primary, I am not the recipient of daily notes declaring love and proclamations that I am the best teacher ever (since the last one and before the next one at least). Sometimes, I find messages on the whiteboard and I had some lovely holiday and Valentine notes that were incredibly heartfelt and kind. But the little two to five word notes with hearts and flowers and hilarious drawings of me, those don’t happen anymore. It was never the “I love you” or “You are nice” or “You teach good” letters that sustained me. It’s the daily interactions and the relationships that grow over time that mean so much, so I have been okay without my almost daily dose of To Ms. Gelson messages.

Little did I know that when you teach older grades, the letters might not come as often, but when they do, oh my. Prepare to be done in. Prepare to have your heart squeezed and stretched all at once. Prepare to be awed.

These elevated love notes are love notes still, but they hold creative energies and more developed expressions of voice that are wonderfully unexpected. Gifts. Treasures. Everything on a page.

One of my students – the lovely Breaunna gifted me with a piece of writing yesterday that I haven’t recovered from yet. I am so full of gratitude and emotion and so absolutely honoured that I haven’t been sure how to express it all. I will do what I think makes the most sense – try to respond in kind.

Breaunna wrote a letter for me as me. It showed me she has been paying attention. It revealed that she listens to everything. It told me that what has mattered to me, also matters to her. This letter was completely unexpected. It wasn’t an assignment. I didn’t know it was coming. Breaunna went home and wrote it just because. A true gift. I received this yesterday and get teary every time I even glance at it.

I share it here *

Ms. Gelson

Hey, I’m Ms. Gelson. My real name is Carrie but you can call me Ms. Gelson. That’s what my students call me. I’m a teacher at __________ __________Elementary. I have a set of twins – a boy and a girl. F and B – they are my world. I love them so much. I also love my students. I teach a Grade 4/5 class with beautiful and intelligent learners – like I always say a student is a teacher and a teacher is a learner. I love my students. There’s the quiet kids – those kids are (she provides a list of names) Then there’s the loud kids – these are the kind of kids that think it’s funny to say “poop” etc. (another list) There’s the kids that sometimes have bad days (another list). So this is my life. I have some hard times where I need to go up and down the stairs and use colourful language. LOL. Sometimes I have to send some kids outside. But I wouldn’t have another life.

This letter tells me that my love and respect for my students are felt. Just this means everything. It shows me that Breaunna listens for the human vulnerable sides of me. When the counsellor led a session about what we did when we were upset, Breaunna heard my answers. (Don’t worry, my colourful language stays in my head when I am at work!) She recognizes that we are a diverse group and that we all matter in our community.

This wasn’t all. She also shared with me a two page (that grew to four pages over the day) story she started working on and gave me another paper torn from her notebook titled: Why Ms. Gelson is the best teacher.

I love being in Ms. Gelson’s class and I love Ms. Gelson. 1st thing I like about Ms. Gelson is her voice. It’s soft and gentle. 2nd thing I love about Ms. Gelson is how she loves books. She’s a book worm. Last thing I love about Ms. Gelson is her. She’s amazing. I don’t want to leave her class next year.

So yes, this kid absolutely knocked me over yesterday. I am not quite sure how I got so unbelievably lucky.

This Breaunna is for you – to show you that I see you too.

Breaunna

Hey – I’m Breaunna but lots of times people also call me Bre. I am in a Grade 4 and 5 class at ____________ Elementary school. I usually like school but sometimes it’s tiring. I especially love to write and read and do art. I am a writer. There are stories in me. The writer in me is growing as I read and listen to stories. Some days, I don’t want to do anything else but write. There are so many words I need to get on the page. I also love to read. Sometimes there are boring parts in books but I know I have to read those parts to get to the good parts. When my teacher reads to us, I listen so carefully. I often have questions. I am really good at putting things together. I have lots to say in my classroom. My head is full of questions and connections and stories. Sometimes I worry that I do not understand new things. But I am learning to pause and breathe and trust that I just don’t get it yet. Soon, I will. It’s like when I do my art. There is a time where I think it’s terrible and then all of a sudden as I work on it, it becomes something beautiful that I am really proud of. The kids in my classroom are all different. Some of them are annoying sometimes. I notice people. I don’t like to see someone sad. I give lots of compliments when people do things that are great. Being part of a classroom community means something to me. School isn’t always perfect but I am learning more and more all the time. My days are actually pretty great. 

 

*Please note that Breaunna gave me permission to share her letter and her name here. I checked in with her Mom who also gave permission.

I am participating in the Slice of Life challenge to write and publish a post every day in March.

Slice of Life is hosted by Two Writing Teachers. I thank them for the community they provide. Read more slices here.

Student safety, happiness and joy. Relationships. Acceptance. Calm. These things should matter. We all know unless we are pretending or making excuses that are all about us that these things should matter most of all. No learning happens unless we have accounted for these things. No growth. No wonder. No risk taking. None of it.

None. Nothing. Zero.

Without these things, there is damage. Learners that are frozen. Children who are not in their bodies. There is sadness. There is fear. Disengagement. Acting out. Acting up. Turning in. Turning off.

It’s not good enough.

Bearing witness to it makes us feel a lot of things we don’t want to feel. Guilt. Big guilt. Hopeless. Helpless. Spineless. Mostly just less. Sullied shame.

I will never figure out why making sure we all do the right thing by kids is so ridiculously complicated and full of a thousand hoops. The right thing is not complicated. It is beautifully uncomplicated. We know it when we see it. We feel it. We’re sure.

We need to like our students. They need to know it. We need to create spaces for them to feel inspired and challenged. But first, comfortable and safe.

It’s inexcusable to run a room that is built around control and power and compliance. Where rules matter more than feelings. Where quiet is valued over voice. Where lectures have replaced dialogue. Where nobody laughs.

I can’t bear to watch it.

This. These words. This is me climbing out of the standing by sidelines. Cutting through the “It’s awkward,” the “It’s uncomfortable,” the “What can I do?” chains. Readying myself to do something.

Draw attention to the obvious. Ask the hard questions. Not let just a few more months be good enough.

After all, it’s not me  – everyday –  feeling lost. Feeling failed. Feeling abandoned. I am the adult. I work in the realm of adults. It’s the adult world that has all the rules and measures and guidelines and procedures. If we can’t figure out how to do the right thing using our own rule book, nobody can. If we have made it all impossible to navigate, then wow, we really are ridiculous fools.

Today I watched my students closely. I thought carefully about what settled, calm, secure and happy children look like.

What specifically did I see? How did I know? What is the proof?

So much is in the eyes. Open eyes. Smiley eyes. Bright and curious. Alert. Safe. My students can hold my gaze. With no words much is communicated. Trust. Questions. Eyes that look to me for affirmation and confirmation. Eyes that watch me. Did I see? Did I notice? Do I know that they know? Am I smiling too?

Those conversations without any words tell me the most.

The body language is easy. Limbs draped over furniture. There is leaning in. Leaning on. Tucking toes. Wrapping arms. Stretching out. Seeking proximity. Being comfortable with space.

The proud smiles when I say, “Go ahead, I trust you.”

The remembered confidence when they call my name and then reconsider, “No, it’s okay. I can do it.”

The knowing giggles. The nodded heads. The kindness given. The kindness received.

The sweet offerings, “Now that I know I can do it, I’m going to write you a story.” “I think this is my best writing ever.” “I feel really proud of my work today.” “Hey, I loved that story.”

The greetings and the goodbyes. “Good morning Ms. Gelson.” “See you tomorrow.”

Other students hold my gaze. When they don’t have downcast eyes. When they aren’t staring into space. When they aren’t looking through me. These eyes aren’t smiling. They say one thing clearly, “Help.”

I am participating in the Slice of Life challenge to write and publish a post every day in March.

Slice of Life is hosted by Two Writing Teachers. I thank them for the community they provide. Read more slices here.

Most of my day is noisy. Kids make strange sounds I don’t really understand the purpose of. Chatter winds up to a not necessary volume. The class next door thunders down the stairs. Transitions happen where everyone is talking and nobody is moving. There are also the meaningful conversations that are full of passion and questions and gasping and talking over to be heard. Loud.

Or it’s completely quiet. We breathe together as part of our mindfulness practice. There are silent moments during a read aloud where everyone feels everything and nobody breathes at all. Only flipping pages can be heard when we are all lost in our books.  Peace.

There is usually no in between. It’s all about revving up or calming it down. I try to navigate us back to at least a quiet hum. Not always successfully.

Noisy days broken up by quiet moments. This is the rhythm of school.

It’s not often I get to have a tiny conversation with just one child. When I do, it feels like a stolen moment. Extra precious. It’s like the loud and the quiet stop. The noise in the room is irrelevant. It’s all about the one child telling me a little piece of his or her truth.

I listen especially carefully. Things that are shared with me are gifts. I accept each one as such. The words are only a few sentences in total. What I learn goes way beyond.

“You are usually pretty nice to me,” one little guy tells me quite often. I take this to mean that he feels safe in our room. He has a pretty regular litany of complaints about all the people who were mean or who didn’t have manners or might have asked him to do something in the wrong way. If I could, I would wrap him in a box marked “Fragile. Handle with care.” I wear my pretty nice badge with pride.

What is shared is often told with a bent head and a hushed tone. It’s private. Just for me.

“I read my book last night at home. Two chapters.  It was really noisy. But I found a way to do it. I whispered the words to myself and then I could only hear the book.” I know how big this is for this child who so wants to read at home but can never find a quiet space in her noisy house. My suggestions would have been meaningless. She found her own way.

I love when they tell me things in dreamy ways.

“I can’t wait until we read the novel again. How can that Mom even be like that? I wish there was a way to really actually save a book character. I wish we could.” We are reading The War That Saved my Life by Kimberly Brubaker Bradley and my students are so completely appalled by the abusive nature of Ada’s mother. I am not surprised that this book is occupying their thoughts. I am touched that they share it with me. I am thrilled that books are bringing us to places where our empathy for others grows.

I feel blessed that I get to listen. Lucky that they share. I wait for what is told to me in the in-between places.

I am participating in the Slice of Life challenge to write and publish a post every day in March.

Slice of Life is hosted by Two Writing Teachers. I thank them for the community they provide. Read more slices here.

It is always so strange to me that words hold such power. They evoke emotion. Inspire change. Promote questions. Yet they also work in reverse. When we use our words to describe our fears, our worries, our doubts –  we pull out the power.

Fears shrink.

Worries lessen.

Doubts lose momentum.

The big and scary slowly deflates.

Placing it on the page is like challenging all of the negative to a draw. A stand off. Walk away. Turn and face. Big breath.

I begin day one of this month long writing journey by letting the doubts have their space. If I can leave them mostly on the page maybe they’ll stay out of my head. Not interfere. Not make me freeze.

But they are here now. Questioning me. Focusing my gaze on the negatives. They are numerous.

Words have left me.

Images are muddled.

I have no more stories to tell.

Last year words saved me. They held me up. They settled the angst. I told my way out of the hard stuff. The words led me through changes.  A new job. A new place. They helped me find my way. They shone the light where I needed to look. They soothed me.

Now, words seem to be running away. Or running by. I can’t catch them. They race at me and throw themselves all over the floor. When I try to pick them up, they slither away, What’s left holds little meaning. Words right now seem confusing.

Words are too complicated. They tangle around themselves when I am looking for the simple. The one word. The ability to name. Not even the answer but at least the nuance of the question. They won’t come to me. They resist. They make me doubt that I could ever tame them at all.

I remember those feelings of capturing truth. Sticking it on the page syllable by syllable. Holding it there with images that settled into rhythms. It never seemed easy but it seemed possible. I wasn’t scared away moments after beginning.

Words have visited me here and there in this past year. Always they came when I needed them most. Now, perhaps they are so elusive because I don’t need them as desperately. I just want them. They are determined to make me work.

I see the words standing facing me. And if I am honest, I can make out what they are saying. They aren’t really gone. But I have to walk towards them. They reside where it’s hard.

The face off is against vulnerability.

Mine.

So I need to find brave. Hold my stare. Resist avoidance.

Walk towards the complicated stuff.

And then, the words will come.

I am participating in the Slice of Life challenge to write and publish a post every day in March.

Slice of Life is hosted by Two Writing Teachers. I thank them for the community they provide. Read more slices here.