Silent Night

“Silent night, Holy night; all is calm, all is bright …”

The ancient carol floated over the stiff-backed seats of the school’s team bus after the game, and weary players turned to look at two sisters singing quietly together.

“It was beautiful,” the coach told me later. “Their voices were so perfectly clear.” He marveled at other students on the bus who, one by one, joined in the ageless song.

No mocking, he said. No joking, but rather an instinctive knowing that the pure beauty of the simple song far surpassed any social mores and prohibitions.

But not everyone agreed.

The sisters learned two days later that their well-rehearsed number would not be sung the next evening at the elementary school’s holiday program. Though invited to perform, and their song earlier approved, “Silent Night” was suddenly banned as “too religious” for the school’s “Jingle Jam.”

This in a rural, predominantly Catholic community.

I wonder what Father Josef Mohr would have said, he who penned the words nearly two hundred years ago?

My middle school girl’s chorus was also invited to sing in the “Jam,” and we presented “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” Evidently program planners did not know the history of our song.

But they know about Santa Claus. And Rudolph. And Frosty the Snowman. No problem singing about fictional beings. Just no singing about real people.

In a misguided effort to offend no one and avoid touting religion in the public school, too many people have allowed fear to distort history. They have forgotten a key premise upon which this country was founded – freedom of religion – and they have also forgotten a more modern American adage: “Take it or leave it.” Instead, they cry Foul! when anyone stands up to mention his God – especially the Christian God.

In 2004 the principal of a Kirkland, Wash. high school cancelled a theatre group’s production of Charles Dickens’ Christmas Carol on school property. It was against district policy to charge admission, he said. And the play’s religious overtone blurred the line between church and state.

After all, as a leading character, Tiny Tim does say, “God bless us, everyone.”

Atheists are complaining more and more loudly that they are tired of having Christian beliefs and holidays crammed down their throats, and weak-kneed school board members and administrators are bowing to their complaints. But plays and Christmas programs are not the purveyors of propaganda here. Take a look at commercial retailers. (Have you seen the Valentine end-cap display in Target? Yes, I know, it’s still December.)

Christmas is one of the biggest moneymaking opportunities for retailers in our nation. Too bad Mohr and Dickens couldn’t have started a trend of their own.

It takes only one generation for history to be distorted, and from the comments of children in my classroom, I can see they haven’t learned much about the founding of this nation and the rich, multi-cultural history behind the Christmas holiday.

Twenty centuries ago a handful of Palestinian Jews believed a Galilean named Jesus was their promised Messiah or anointed one. As a Jew, he no doubt celebrated Hanukah, Judaism’s winter “Festival of Lights.” Yet he said of himself, “I am the light of the world.”

The Greeks translated Messiah into Christos or Christ, and took up the belief of those early Jews. And as is the way with words, Christ’s Mass from the Greek and Latin of the early church slipped off the tongue as “Christmas” and into the hearts of people around the world.

Yes, it coincides with other ancient cultural observances involving trees and gift-giving, but it is unique in its etymology as pertaining to or observing the birth of the Christ child.

So take your choice this Christmas: an imaginary fat man in a red suit, or a historical figure who gave himself instead of toys.

No preaching here, you really do have a choice. It’s still America.

I already know which one the schools are choosing.

That for which we seek

Last week during a literature lesson on “theme,” my students and I discussed “The Midas Touch,” a short story based on the Greek myth of King Midas.

In the story, one of the Greek gods tells Midas that he may have one wish – anything in the world. Consumed by his greed for gold, the king requests that everything he touches be turned into the glittering prize. Though warned by the god to reconsider, he insists.

As a class we stopped there and I asked my readers what they would choose if they could have anything imaginable. What would they pick?

“More wishes” was of course the first request, and I felt like the Robin-Genie-Williams- in “Aladdin” as I said, “No wishing for more wishes.” Arms popped up across the room and eager voices shouted, “All the money in the world!” “A mansion!” “All the video games in the world!” “I want to own all the stores that sell technological gadgets!”

Maybe it was a loaded question I shot their way, for every wish centered precisely on the wisher.

As we continued with the story of Midas, they learned that the god granted his request. What a gift! Everything the king touched turned to gold! Everything – including his necessary food and beloved daughter. And as with every generation that reads the myth, they recognized the cold and empty life of poor miserable Midas who got exactly what he asked for.

“Now, consider again,” I told them. “Ask for something that would affect others instead of only yourself.”

I expected them to benevolently include siblings in their electronics store ownerships, or to provide matching mansions for all the family, or a wide-screen TV for a sister’s bedroom as well as their own. But they did not.

“Food for the hungry,” said one.

“Cures for diseases in Africa,” another added.

“World peace.”

How quickly they looked beyond themselves, their families and their community when given the opportunity.

Later that day I wrote each student’s name on a slip of paper, folded it twice and dropped it into a basket from which those who wanted could draw a name for our upcoming Christmas gift exchange. Their eyes gleamed with anticipation over whose name they might get and how much money they could spend, and, “Oh, Mrs. Spencer – here, I got my own name. Let me pick again.” It wasn’t the getting that excited them; it was the anticipation, the planning, the giving.

In years past, I told those participating to bring a gift for their gender: boys bring gifts for boys and girls bring gifts for girls, and they were all marked accordingly and numbered for exchange on the day of the party. But this year’s name choosing made it more personal. They giggled and whispered and hinted and guessed what that other specific person might like to receive. It was bigger than just thinking of something they would like while hoping another boy/girl would like it, too.

I noticed more excitement this year, more sparkle in their eyes, more careful consideration. This year, because of the personal touch, there was a little more merriment and a lot less Midas.

As Christmas approaches, I wonder if it’s that personal touch that makes the season so exciting, and if maybe that’s why the messengers of millennia past told those who wondered then that the thing they sought was not golden treasure, but a very personal, specific little Child.

(This column first appeared in the Porterville Recorder in December 2007. It is reprinted here with permission from the author - me.)

What's it all about?

I don’t hear much about Pilgrims and the first Thanksgiving from my sixth-grade ancient history and language arts students these days. Nor do they mention Abraham Lincoln’s 1863 declaration setting aside a day for giving thanks.

They’re “big” kids now, so they focus more on what goes on at their house – their family traditions, favorite foods, and even a few things they hope won’t happen again. And they had no problem sharing what they’re thankful for:

“What I am most thankful for is that my family is not mad at anybody and has not gotten sick this whole year.”

“… mushy potatoes with hot gravy, warm turkey with chewy stuffing …”

“We do everything a loving family would. That’s all I ask for.”

“I want this Thanksgiving holiday to be the best one because all the other ones all the men were drinking beer and half of them were totally drunk, so that killed the fun of those Thanksgiving holidays.”

“I have one of those aunts that probably every family has. She likes to pinch my cheeks, so I always hide from her.”

“Not only am I grateful for all the yummy food, but my eight dogs are equally grateful.”

“On Thanksgiving my family and I are going to eat turkey, smashed potatoes, apple pie and tamales.”

“I am most thankful for being alive and for being here to give thanks to God.”

“The thing I’m thankful for is to have friends, go to a good school and to have an awesome history and language arts teacher.”

Smart kids, don’t you think?

The Note

I could tell by the way Sarah read the creased sheet of binder paper, that she hadn’t written the bold, curly cursive. But I wondered if it had been written to her. Part of me said, take it from her, and part of me said, let her finish.

She handed it to me later on our way to the library.

“I found this folded up in my desk,” she said, “but I can’t figure out who wrote it. They’re 16.”

Eighty-five sixth-graders rotate through my class each day, and the oldest student is 12 at this time of year. Maybe one of them was the recipient of the missive that opened with,

“Sup dude,

Sorry about not going to the movies with you or calling you to tell you. Me and my parents were yelling and arguing about it for like an hour and like in the end I got grounded – poo! I’m gonna like get a divorce from my parents and move in with a friend, well, when I’m 16, which is in a few weeks - - yippee! I can’t find anybody who will let me live with them. I haven’t told my parents about it yet tho. I won’t ‘till I figure it all out. Hopefully it’s soon ‘cause I can’t stand my parents. All’s they do is yell at me and say how “lazy” and stupid I am …”

The last part bothered me more than the misspelled words and run-on sentences. Yes, kids rant against authority, especially during their teen years, but did the parents of this girl really tell her how lazy and stupid she was? Did they think they were motivating her to do better? Or were they repeating what they heard when they were 16-in-a-few-weeks?

A news report late last month from Medford, Oregon compared a local increase in young runaways with that of the nation. It told of six teenage boys who live together on the Medford streets; they care for and train other runaways to dodge both the police and predators without starving or freezing to death.

The leader said he always tries to turn them toward home, but most refuse to go. Some are as young as 12.

The article continued, blaming foreclosures and other financial woes as the cause of increased family pressures affecting younger and younger children, many of whom are forced out by stressed-out, spent-out parents.

The news wasn’t pretty, and I thought of the note writer. I hoped she wouldn’t run. I hoped I could find out who she was. And I hoped I could do more to ensure that her parents would see her value, her promise, her potential before it was too late.

Regardless of their age, or yours, tell you children today that you love them. And if you can reach them, put your arms around them and say it again.

Lost and found

Some kids stick in your heart. They follow you around over the weekend, rising up like the ghost of Christmas Past when you’re doing the laundry or making the beds. They remind you that you may be the only person in their lives to show them a little hope.

Julie was one of those students (not her real name). The few off-handed remarks she’d made about conversations with her mother let me know that Julie might be the grownup in the family. It happens. I determined that I would give a little extra the next week, pay a little closer attention and not let her melt into the mix of 30 other sixth-grade faces in my class.

On Monday she broke the rules. It involved personal property of another student and class disruption and sneaking around doing something she knew not to. What timing!

She stood near my desk as I wrote out the required disciplinary paper that would send her to The Office and The Higher Ups.

“I’m disappointed that I have to do this,” I said.

She smiled, an oft-used survival technique employed in the face of pain, I could tell.

“You know better, don’t you?”

She nodded her head, the grin spread. Chin up, with a jaunty step, she headed out the door.

The next morning on my way through the administration office, I saw her sitting at one of the In-House Suspension tables, hunched over, unsmiling and bored.

“I miss you, Julie,” I said and turned over the book that lay face down on the table before her.

“I miss being in class for the next three days with nothing to do,” she offered with no grin and no gleam.

“Just think, you can finish this book, and maybe another one. You’ll have all day to read.”

This was not the way I wanted to reach her.

I don’t know which will do Julie more good – knowing she can’t break the rules and get away with it, or knowing that she still has a place among us and is wanted there?

Maybe both. We’ll see.

Hand to hand combat

Howard Hughes is back; he showed up the night of parent-teacher conferences.

I thought I was prepared with grade book, sign-in sheet, student progress reports and a 12-oz bottle of hand sanitizer. But I wasn’t ready for the parent who wiped her nose on the back of her right hand at the same exact moment I reached out with mine to thank her for coming.

I knew what was about to happen, but I couldn’t retract my offer of good will. I couldn’t withdraw my hand and risk offending one who entrusted her child to my tutelage.

As my fingers closed around hers, I felt the cooled moisture and imagined it seeping into my pores and racing toward my bloodstream.

And when the classroom door closed behind the exiting mother and offspring, I ran to the sink and turned on the water that sprayed from the faucet around which students often wrap their little lips to get a drink. Then I squirted foamy soap into my hands. Over and over and over.

Was I fast enough? Was I killing the germs? Would I live?

OK, maybe I over-reacted. But I know that teachers everywhere are dodging the sneezes and coughs of children who should be home getting well. It just doesn’t help when parents inadvertently share the love by spreading the germs.

With continuing cases of H1N1, health officials have not let up in their urgent warnings: wash your hands, cover your coughs. Keep your germs (and viruses) to yourself.

And keep your hands off your face, they say.

How many times during the day do we touch our faces to rub our brow, massage a temple or scratch an itch? Eyes are particularly susceptible to infectious transfers.

No one wants to be sick this time of year, so maybe it would help to follow a common behavioral rule for the sake of good health:

Keep your hands to yourself!

A smile and friendly verbal greeting may serve to get us safely through the season.

Out of the Mouths of Babes

I learned something about my students’ writing last week. It’s better when they read it to me.

We had just finished reading the biography of Mark Twain written by one of his daughters who was 13 at the time. For homework I told my sixth-graders to write a biography of someone in their family.

On Friday afternoon, while a third of my students were gone to intramural football and volleyball games, I asked for volunteers from the remaining 19 to read their biographies. Five students raised a hand.

“I want to tell you about my grandpa,” read one boy. “I want to be just like him.”

A girl told about her 4-year-old brother who, “gets mostly everything he wants. I don’t get the fact that he chooses a toy over clothes. I think he should go for the clothes.”

Another girl read about her sister who has a different father, “but she treats me as though I am her full sister.”

Sharing his mother’s story, a boy read, “When she was 16 she became pregnant … She had to make some very hard choices, but she finally finished school.”

As I listened to each reader, the cadence of his or her voice, the added emphasis on specific words, and the accompanying smile or grimace told me so much more than I would have seen in their written words alone.

Normally, I read my students’ work with a critical eye – it’s my job. I see things like “grampa” and strike it out with a red pen to rewrite “grandpa.” I see the run-on sentences stringing out for lack of periods, and proper nouns that need capital letters. I am supposed to find these errors, and teach children not to make them. But in my typical, critical perusal, I sometimes miss their stories.

I’m glad I asked them to read them aloud this time. I needed to hear what they were trying to say.

Sometimes it’s just best to let them do the talking.

Howard and I

Lately I feel like a female version of Howard Hughes. Not in the realms of inventiveness or liquid assets, but regarding his famous fear of dirt and germs - mysophobia.

I am constantly washing my hands, or using hand sanitizer. Not just before I eat or after I use the restroom, but after grading papers, using the phone, opening doors, you name it.

Hopefully, I’m not the only publicly employed person who is doing this. It is basic hygiene. It’s what your mother told you to do, and she was right.

Today hand washing is touted as the number one weapon in the fight against the H1N1 virus, or swine flu – especially at schools. A recent article in the New York Times reported that several studies show a significant drop in the spread of swine flu among those who frequently wash their hands.

But for me, preventive sanitizing is not altogether pathological. It’s a face-to-face occupational necessity everyday.

“A-choo!” This girl in my first period history class had not assumed the recommended “Dracula” pose for sneezing into one’s elbow. She had instead blasted an open history book and the desk where she sat. That open history book and desk would be used by two other students later that day.

Should I scrub down every page? Do I pull that desk away from the others so no one sits in it? Was the girl contagious or just allergic to something?

During language arts a student came up to me with a question, but not before running the palm of her left hand up the front of her runny nose.

“Do we have to write in cursive?”

“Yes. And go get some hand sanitizer.”

Like most classrooms today, mine is equipped with a push-button sanitizer dispenser mounted on the wall by the door. I also have my own personal bottle at my desk.

Like I said, Howard and I have something in common.

Inferring my way into fall

Some people dream of vacationing in the Bahamas. Others save up for Hawaii or Cancun. Not me. I want to go to the Sleepytime Herbal Tea box lid. The one with the smiling bear resting comfortably before a golden fire with a chubby teapot, muffins and a jar of honey nearby.

Ah … I can feel the snuggly comfort already: feet up on a footstool, and a steaming cup of tea warming my hands while the winter wind blusters around my snug little house.

But wait, you say. It’s a hundred degrees outside. School just started and it’s only September. And the “ber” of the month isn’t even here yet.

True, but I’ve been teaching my sixth-grade literature class that one must infer to get the whole picture – to read between the lines, if you will. And when I reached for the Sleepytime Herbal Tea box in the pantry last night, I realized that I could infer several things in its design.

The New Scholastic Dictionary of American English defines infer as, “to understand or conclude on the basis of various facts, impressions, judgments, etc; deduce from evidence and experience …”

When we open a book, we bring past experiences with us. They help us understand, predict or empathize. They help us to infer. For example, the sleepy little bear on the tea box lid has no mice in his home. See the rotund orange tabby curled on the embroidered rug?

The radio on a small table tells me the cottage is blessed with electricity. And this homeowner plans ahead, for a basket of kindling sits by the hearth, right next to a pile of firewood.

Sleepy Bear has a green thumb, albeit hairy, for a lovely philodendron thrives by the window. He is a tidy bear, and cleans up after himself. See the pewter cup and plate near the potted plant? And though I see no books, I’ll bet he likes to read. No television. No telephone! No laptop or desktop computer. I see peace and restfulness and yes, quiet.

What teacher wouldn’t crave such a setting, or parent, for that matter?

So you summer lovers out there, enjoy your final days of triple-digit temperatures. Me, I’m watching the outdoor thermometer and inferring quite a bit from the occasional yellow leaf that settles on the lawn beneath our big mulberry tree.

Give me a hot cup of tea, an over-stuffed chair and a cozy hearth any day.

Key to the City of Success

I love the new-paper feel of the first days of school. Shiny faces, wide-eyed with expectation, sharpened pencil points and unused erasers, brand new notebooks and boxes of fresh crayons. It’s like New Years for kids, complete with resolutions to learn more, do better and not get in trouble even once.

Students are remarkably reluctant to mark up the very first piece of paper. It is so fresh and unspoiled, so free of grass clippings and orange Cheetos dust. But a few hot days into August, a metaphorical January 7 rolls around and kids are quick to rip out a lined sheet, scribble their names across the top and sloppy-copy whatever is on the board. The luster of new is gone, and they’ve given up behavioral perfection. School is old school now and homework has already been dished out in hearty helpings.

This is when failure begins, especially for those in the transition year of leaving behind one room with one teacher for all their classes. Middle graders often rotate from class to class and academic requirements increase in due proportion to the weight of their textbooks.

How many students have I seen stuff an unfinished paper in their back pocket believing they would retrieve it at home and complete the assignment? More than I care to number.

“I forgot,” they say the next morning. Or, “I forgot to take my book.”

Organization is like a key to the city of success, not only for pocket-stuffers, but for every student. Here are three simple but helpful things parents can give their children:

1. A three-ring binder with dividers
2. A planner for keeping track of assignments
3. A backpack for carrying books

A binder with dividers will keep handouts and notes from each class separated neatly from other classes. For example, if a student needs a history assignment, he or she will find it quickly behind the “History” divider without looking through every paper in the binder.

Any size planner will do, and many schools sell them. Each day a student writes down his homework assignments for that evening, and also marks the date the work is due. (Parents can communicate with teachers here by initialing completed assignments or writing notes.)

A backpack with small side compartments works best for keeping pencils handy and maybe even a bottle of water, small hand sanitizer and a personal pack of tissues. And the rolling variety helps take the book weight off young shoulders.

If children learn organization at an early age, the skill can become a life-long habit that will not only serve them through their school years, but also help them later in their careers and homes.

Back to School

Think the swine flu scare is long gone? Think again. H1N1 – which could stand for “Hog Nose” – made the rounds of several summer camps the last couple of months, and health officials fear it will raise its snout again in schools this fall.

Parents can help their children in this latest health battle by arming them with personal hand sanitizer bottles for their desks and backpacks.

Most schools provide wall-mounted hand-sanitizer dispensers. Students pause at the door and push a plop into their hands on the way out as well as on the way in to class.

However, having their own little bottle tucked away is a nice safety precaution. Don’t buy the push-down dispenser; get the smaller bottles with a flip-cap lid to prevent leaking and spills.

Hand washing and proper sneezing and coughing techniques are the best way to prevent spreading the virus, officials say. Teach your child to sneeze into her elbow or sleeve, not into her hands. Of course sneezing or coughing into a tissue that can be thrown away is the best method, but that’s not always possible.

So while you’re shopping this week for school supplies and new clothes, pick up several travel-size hand sanitizer bottles, and even a few small tissue packs. With economic woes pinching public school pockets, who knows if there will be enough tissues in the classroom when flu season rolls around?

Boiled or raw?

“Is this egg cooked?”

My son stood in front of the open refrigerator, holding an egg he found there that was out of the carton.

“I don’t know. Check it,” I said, confident in the fact that he knew how to check to see if an egg is boiled or raw. I knew he knew because I taught him when he was a child, just like my dad taught me.

“OK.”

And he let go.

That wasn’t what I taught him.

“Oh!” he shouted as it splattered on the kitchen floor. He must have thought it incredibly funny, for he continued to cough back laughter as he cleaned up the egg.

Somehow I just didn’t see it quite like he did.

Since that morning, I’ve thought a lot about the egg incident. What did it hurt? Not a thing. What did it cost? Between 15 and 20 cents, depending on what I paid for that carton of eggs. What did it do? It created a moment of fun that my son will remember forever.

Just a silly, impulsive act that brought laughter to the morning.

I’m so glad I didn’t make an issue out of it. I’m so glad I laughed later with him about it. And I’m so glad he knows better than to pull a stunt like that again …

Summer is almost over. Laugh with your kids while you can.

And if you want to know how to tell if an egg is boiled or raw, drop me a line.


P.S. Today is my son’s birthday. If you know him, wish him a happy one.



www.davalynnspencer.com

A favorite quote

I will not be posting this week due to a family member's upcoming surgery. But as a thank-you for stopping by my blog, I'd like to offer you one of my favorite quotes:

"Nothing you do for the children is ever wasted. They seem not to notice us, hovering, averting our eyes, and they seldom offer thanks, but what we do for them is never wasted."

Garrison Keillor

I couldn't agree more.

If only for a moment

One of the great things about kids is their surprise factor: You never know what they’re going to say next. Like Mrs. Potamia. You know Mrs. Potamia, that woman in Iraq who lived between the Tigris and Euphrates rivers. She was one of the ancient aunt-sisters, according to some of my sixth-grade history students, a distant relative of the famous Egyptian lady, Rosetta Stone.

Maybe it’s a language barrier that sends youngsters into rhetorical contortions, or maybe it’s just a delightful little bonus for grownups who need a splash of humor in their lives.

Or maybe I just need to be reminded that I don’t have all the answers.

“If people didn’t exist, where would chickens live?”

I didn’t see that one coming, but the look on the boy’s face said he wasn’t kidding.

“I don’t know,” I offered. “The kitchen?”

Many of the students who pass through my classroom move out of my life altogether as their families follow the ebb and flow of a harvest tide. Parents find jobs elsewhere. Texas and Mexico really aren’t so far away, and so babies are bundled and furniture stored and friendships torn apart. It happens.

“Mrs. Spencer,” I heard one morning, “we’re moving.”

The boy’s dark eyes met mine, void of the usual excitement and anticipation. They merely confirmed an unavoidable fact. And in their old-too-soon gaze I read, “I don’t want to go.”

“Did your father get a new job?” I asked, ignorantly assuming the reason behind the departure of one of my brightest students.

“No.” He glanced away, quickly noting other students nearby. “I’ll tell you later.”

Again I jumped at a possible motive. Perhaps it was an immigration issue.

Later, as promised, I learned the reason. Through the painfully pure sentence structure of one too young to cloak his feelings, I learned.

“My dad left me.”

Not many statements have caught me by greater surprise. In four simple words, this young man revealed all the pain of a broken home, the self-imposed guilt of the guiltless, the bottom line loss of one left behind.

I will never know if he confused his pronouns and really meant to say, “My dad left us,” but somehow I doubt it. I think his heart spoke the words before his mind could interfere.

Teaching is often like parenting and grand-parenting: You want to protect those who suffer from that which causes them pain. If only you could.

If only I could capture the joy of innocent, misspoken discovery and save it for later. If only I could answer the unanswerable questions and dry the eyes that watch a hometown slip past the back window of a car.

If only I could assure them, that in spite of the surprises and the questions and the pain and the struggles, they will make it, the journey is worth it, and I was blessed to have them in my life.

If only for a moment.

Teaching evolution

“Tight!” a student said when he saw the big “A” at the top of his report card.

“What?”

“Tight. You know, like good, bad, cool or hot.”

I remember when those words stood as paired opposites, not as a list of affirmatives. Guess they evolved.

Since I’m not a science teacher, I was fairly confident that I would never have to teach the theory of evolution. Though it’s been a hot topic in the public school system for several years, it only recently made an appearance in my classroom. And I must admit, I believe the problem all along has been one of placement. Evolution does not belong in science classes – it is clearly a topic for language arts.

Language has consistently evolved over the centuries, particularly the English language. Recent mutations have reformed once fossilized terms such as mouse, virus and web. When “log” attached itself to “web” a new subspecies emerged: Blog. Generational usage accelerates the process even more, morphing words like far out, rad or right-on into the bomb, sick or fat. Even tight.

Unfortunately, some words have evolved into totally unacceptable expressions and if they slip from a teacher’s unsuspecting lips, they are likely to inspire complete chaos during an otherwise orderly lesson.

Side-glances shoot across the classroom like heat-seeking missiles, exploding contorted targets with uncontrollable giggling. Children wait attentively for teachers to stumble into some sort of faux pas (though they wouldn’t know that phrase if it fell on their paper). They live to tumble out of their seats with laughter, and the more severe the teacher’s facial expression, the funnier the situation is, of course.

Three such words lie innocently in English explanations of ancient peoples who like their descendants played kick ball, gathered fruit and nuts or used hoes for digging furrows. Our culture, or at least a subculture of our society, has so perverted the language with innuendo and double meaning, that history classes can present minefield-like challenges. (I’ll bet you know exactly which three words I’m talking about.)

Whether teaching language arts or history, I try to avoid those verbal landmines.
“Shut up” is another phrase best left out of the mix. Aside from being unprofessional and discourteous, it is something I suspect most kids hear a lot at home. And it doesn’t make sense, anyway. Shouldn’t we say shut down, not up? You turn the volume down on your iPod when you want less, not up. Maybe if I said, “Shut down,” they would know I mean, “Stop talking.”

But even that is a weak form of communication. Telling kids to stop talking is like telling someone to go on a diet – it’s an inactive command, like, “stop smoking” or “stop laughing.” It’s nearly impossible to accomplish because to do so, one does nothing. It’s much easier to complete a task that involves an action.

“Put your pencil down, and look at me.” Translation: Be quiet.

“Exercise, take a walk, chew gum, crochet, knit, breathe deeply.” Translation: Don’t overeat.

However, justice is not lacking in the clamoring classroom. One of my favorite etymologically evolved terms segues quite nicely between whine and response, and students instinctively know what it means without me explaining after they say, “I forgot my homework.”

And I say, “Bummer.”

Bummer is a wonderfully rubbery word that bounces responsibility right back to the complainer, leaving room for neither sympathy nor blame.

It insinuates, “That’s too bad, but it’s not my responsibility. You will have to accept the consequences of your choice.”

In other words, the buck stops there. Just as it does when one caffeine junkie petitions another with, “Bring me a buck.” We all know that doesn’t mean a male deer, antelope or a dollar.
Language is based on experience.

So evolution has bounced through my classroom door and out again, along with the backpacks and book bags of students set on change. And as surely as language will continue to evolve with the next phonetic fad, so will the next few weeks – from test-filled, pencil packed, schedule-squeezed hours into relaxed, swimming-hole summers of sun.

So much for Homo sapiens.

The last day

On the last day of school my students walked out the door and left me with promises of dropping by next year to say hello.

Some wanted to give me a hug but hesitated because it’s just not done any more. Teachers and kids don’t touch, you know. There are lawsuits to worry about.

Some hugged me anyway.

But all of them left. That’s what they’re supposed to do.

I will see them taller next fall. They’ll come round at first and say, “Hey, Mrs. Spencer,” and then head to their new class with Mr. What’s-His-Name, the teacher who scared them to death this year.

They leave, but I do not.

I come back to the same room, open the same books, and teach the same lessons, counting on the promise of rediscovery that slips in the door with newcomers each year.

New students bring new questions, fresh perspectives. Through their eyes I will see again for the first time the little heir hidden in the word their when I don’t want to write there. I will laughingly discover with them that Rosetta Stone is not really a person.

They will make my teaching new because it will be new to them. It will be fresh and alive and inviting and so worth the light in their eyes when they finally “get it.”

But this year, on the day we all pressed toward the reward of our labors, I couldn’t help but say, Yes! Hurray! Finally! At last! Peace! Quiet!

The room was actually quiet. And neat. Empty desks sat in very straight rows because no children wiggled them out of line. They were gone.

They were gone like the bird in the gym.

It flew in through an open door one morning and flitted from backboard to backboard. It soared toward the lights in the high ceiling, round and round, searching for a way out, resting for brief moments on the nubby plaster walls.

Not until someone turned out the lights did it see the bright doorway and fly out into the freedom of day.

All year my students have flown beneath the high-ceilinged halls of learning, round and round over charts and quizzes and rules and me preaching against the tempting glow of drugs and gangs and life-draining distractions.

And finally, on the last day of school, I turned out the lights and they soared out the door and into their future.

The artist is gone.

The soldier is gone.

The boy who lived in a motel with his dad is gone. The guitar player, fashion diva and soccer goalie are gone.

Gladly they left their books and homework and me behind and rushed toward the freedom of summer.

As I look back on it, there really is nothing quite as exhilarating as the last day of school.

Unless, of course, it is the first.

Brain drain

Summer brain drain: it’s almost as inevitable as death and taxes. Teachers dread it, resent it and preach against it. But like the IRS and the undertaker it pops up just when you thought you had a handle on life.

Researchers today blame the drain in part on electronic technology, i.e., television and video games. Thanks to the availability of hand held and home computer-based games, kids can hook up any time, any place – often to the point of addiction.

I’ve seen withdrawal symptoms in early fall: shaky hands, glazed eyes, cold sweats. It usually happens the first day of school when I say, “Write your name in the upper left-hand corner of your paper.” And then I wait.

I wait because I know their little brains are computing the fact that I am a real live person giving directions that they must follow. Action is required. It takes them a minute to remember that the classroom is not virtual – it’s literal.

OK, it’s not quite that bad, but it’s close. You’d be amazed.

But addiction consultants would not. They – and your great grandmother – have long known that alcohol, drugs, gambling and a few other habits can become addictive. So is it any surprise that computerized gaming has joined the ranks of compulsive behavior disorders?

Social scientists are making some serious discoveries about our technologically-dependent youth. Many game users don’t know how to interact with people face to face because their social networking takes place online, through a computer. They haven’t a clue about how to meet people. Why bother, when there’s Facebook, MySpace and Twitter?

So is technology a bad thing? Absolutely not. And with a little creative thinking, technology can help redeem the summer.

By definition technology is anything invented that makes human life easier.

The Encyclopedia Britannica says technology includes materials, techniques, and sources of power that make life more pleasant and work more productive. It helps make things happen, and has been influencing mankind since people began using tools.

Hmm. Tools. Can we say, “rake, shovel, lawnmower?” How about, “paint brush, garden hose and broom?”

Do your kids have chores? Responsibilities? Activities that require walking, running, pulling, pushing or sweating? How about lifting, climbing, hiking, riding and swimming? None of these can be done from the couch, unless of course, you consider lifting the TV remote a form of exercise.

Television has been around for about 50 years; computer games even less. Families have been here a lot longer. Your children need you more than they need the latest techno gadget.

Get your kids outside this summer. Go with them if you can. Tend a garden, ride bikes, help an elderly neighbor, go for a walk. And when it’s really hot outside, read a book. Read two. Go to the library and check out an adventure series.

This summer try to do at least one thing each week with your child that kids were doing 50 years ago. That excludes television, movies, computers, iPods and video games. Impossible? Not really.

I bet you’ll feel better for it. So will your kids’ brains.