Some people like pictures. I like words.
From the songs that have been soothing my heart, to you, my dear friends.
Wherever you are, whatever you are celebrating, I hope your hearts are full of love and peace and joy and magic.
Peace on earth.
I keep this moment by and by…
Update for 2012: It’s Christmas Concert Day once again, and so I am reposting this, grateful for all the people who have inspired me along the way to this crazy career.
I have a skirt I wear every year, on Christmas Concert Day. Wool, A-line, bias-cut. Simple, almost old fashioned. It hits just below my knee. It’s plaid, mostly dark green and navy blue, with a bright line of red criss-crossing over. With a ruffly white blouse and a red cardigan, it makes me feel festive without descending into the dangerous territory of Christmas sweaters.
But that is not the real reason I wear this skirt.
The plaid happens to be my family’s tartan, and while we don’t identify particularly strongly with my Scottish heritage (the circus folk and Swedish royalty being far more interesting), I do like having a tartan to call my own.
But that is not the reason I wear this skirt, either.
The fabric is the real deal, bought in Scotland by my Auntie Billie, sewn into a skirt for her by my grandma. And THAT is, sort of, the reason I wear this skirt.
My Auntie Billie was my dad’s oldest (but not older) sister, and the mother of my favourite cousin. She was a tiny lady, with a great big laugh. I spent most of my childhood hearing how very much I looked like my Auntie Billie when she was a little girl, and the comparison delighted me. Her first career was as a hairdresser. She gave me my first haircut (and also my first perm, but I have long since forgiven her for that). My favourite photo of her shows her bent over my three-year-old head, creating tiny ringlets for my very important job as a flower girl in my other Auntie’s wedding. I remember that day, sitting on the ottoman in my grandma’s living room, Auntie Billie’s fingers gentle in my hair, the sound of her laughing with her soon-to-be-wed younger sister. Later, at the wedding itself, I was suddenly too shy to walk down that very long aisle under the gaze of all those people. Auntie Billie, the maid of honour, came back down the aisle, and took my hand. We walked together to the front of the church.
Auntie Billie’s second career, and true calling, was as a teacher. At first, she taught high school beauty culture, but it wasn’t long until she found her niche with first and second graders at a high-needs school. Eventually, she became a vice-principal, helping to create an innovative year-round school program, the first of its kind in our city. She was a force to be reckoned with: passionate, articulate, stubborn, and oh-so-very funny. You can see why comparisons to her continue to delight me.
The year I met the first group of kids to call me “teacher,” Auntie Billie lost a seven-year battle with breast cancer.
I cried and grieved for her then. I knew I would miss her gentle smile, her hands reaching to hug me, the thoughtful and “just right” gifts that came at birthdays and Christmas, her genuine interest in all parts of my life, her laugh-till-you-cry stories about her students. I was old enough to know that not everyone grew up with a gaggle of aunties and uncles as loving and close as mine. I grieved for myself, yes, but also for my family as a whole: the loss of a sister, a mother, a daughter. But I didn’t know yet…
I didn’t know, yet, that my own career path would wind its way ever-closer to hers, and that, at every milestone, her absence would sting a little more sharply. As I started grad school, and began thinking and learning about children and families in a whole new way, I wished for her to sit next to me when I came home for holidays, and help me make practical sense of the dense research papers I was reading. When I got my first job teaching in a school (as opposed to a child development centre, rec centre, or community service agency), I wished for her to help me figure out the logistical realities of teaching two grades in one room, and the slippery alchemy of Teaching Children to Read. When I found myself at an unexpected professional crossroads, deciding between a job I didn’t want, in a school community I loved; and a new, scary, dream job at a strange new school, I wished for her counsel (I took the dream job, and I’m sure Auntie Billie would approve.) Now, as I struggle every day to balance my students’ day-to-day needs with the ever-increasing list of exciting-but-demanding additional responsibilities I seem to have taken on, I wish for her more than ever. I wish for her to hold my hand as I dance this dance, and walk this path. At 22, I cried for the loss of my beloved Auntie. A dozen years later, I cry for the mentor and cheerleader I know she would have been. It continues to surprise me, this grief that gets sharper, instead of smoother, over time.
I know she is with me, and I find ways to keep her close. A photo of her with her hands tweaking my tiny ringlets sits on my desk at home. The dedication page of my Master’s thesis lists her name. Nearly every day, I wear a small gold heart on a chain around my neck, a gift from her younger sister, to her, and back to me upon completion of grad school. Occasionally, I run into old friends of hers, or my dad’s, and the first thing they do is gasp at how much I am like my Auntie Billie. I hear her laugh coming out of my mouth when I tell my best teaching stories. I know she is proud, and in case I ever forget it, her siblings — my dad and my godmother — remind me of that on a regular basis. But still, I wish she were here, and I wish that the hardest on the days I am most proud: of myself, and my students.
And so, on concert day, I wear Auntie Billie’s skirt. I am not as tiny as she was, and so it has to sit high on my waist. The blouse and cardigan help cover this adjustment. As I kneel on the gym floor, helping 20 five-year-olds to remember the words and the steps, I’m pretty sure Auntie Billie is kneeling next to me. I wear her skirt, and I laugh her laugh, and I cry her tears of pride, and I hope that just maybe, when my students take my hand, they feel the love of her hands, too.
Peace on Earth.
Sunny days seem to hurt the most
Eleven years ago this day.
A phone call, her mom’s voice as if from the bottom of a well.
Heather is lost.
An adventure, a trip of a lifetime. A raft on a river under South American sun. One big rapid.
She was lost.
Her beautiful, pointed-toe, turned-out-knees, strong-graceful-but-clumsy-all-the-way-to-her-fingertips, ballet-teacher, rock-climber body remained in the river.
And condors carried her spirit to heaven.
My best friend.
My sister-in-a-tutu.
My cupcakes-on-my-birthday, drive-three-hours to see a Broadway musical, Blockbuster-on-Saturday-night, no-such-thing-as-too-much-glitter, someday-we’ll-backpack-Europe, hold-my-hand-in-the-dark-theatre-not-breathing-as-we-watch-Baryshnikov (BARYSHNIKOV!!!) -on-stage LIVE, chocolate-cake-at-midnight, flirting-with-the-waiter , who-needs-boys-we-have-each-other, best friend.
Gone.
It cuts you in half, that kind of pain. Doubles you over and over and over. Makes you afraid to sleep because of the moment of remembering when you wake up.
The people who love you -and her- best gather round, help you remember who you are, love you back together again. They shine light into the darkness that seems bottomless, open up their darkness to include yours. You don’t know it yet, but your gratitude to them will remain knee-weakening forever.
(You know who you are. You saved me. There are no words but thank you.)
The sun comes up and the sun goes down and the pain gets smoother: from jagged stone to round pebble. But still: a rock.
You find the ways to see her in the world:
the face of a gerber daisy;
a Prince song on a country station;
a sparkly purple sweater, on sale just in time for a big date;
a Michael Jackson ride at a theme park;
You wave and smile at her, at these little winks that you know, you KNOW, come from her. You hear her voice in her head cheering you on through every move, every adventure, every change and decision. Sometimes, alone in your car, you talk to her. Because who else would be riding shotgun on all your solo roadtrips?
You start to laugh at the memories, instead of always crying.
Heather was afraid that drinking alone was a sign of alcoholism, so she used to call you if she was home alone with a glass of wine in the bathtub, leave long chatty messages on your answering machine between sips. Come on, that shit’s FUNNY.
After any breakup, she believed the best cure was to find a new boy to kiss. And she did. And you did. This, also: FUNNY.
You learn to look back at the path you have walked in the years since she was lost, and to see all the good things, people, places it has led you to.
And you love those people, those places, those things, those adventures.
But every day, every breath, every heartbeat, you wish she was still here.
My best friend.
My sister-in-a-tutu.
Little boy lost
So, the thing, the amazing thing, about being a kindergarten teacher in the same school for several years is that you get to watch your students grow up, see them continue to learn and grow. You get to see their smiles in the hallways, and if you’re really lucky, they keep hugging you whenever they see you, even when they are too old, and too cool, to hug their own classroom teachers.
And the thing, the really really hard thing, about being a kindergarten teacher in the same school for several years is that you see your students when they struggle, when they fall, when they fall apart and get lost, and there is so little you can do.
You walk into a classroom, and there he is, a child you poured your heart and soul into. His desk apart from everyone else, his head down. You ask him how he is and his eyes slide away from yours.
“I’m okay, Mme.”
“Are you sure, you seem sad…?”
“Yeah, Mme, I’m…. ok.”
And then you see it – the invisible curtain over his eyes, the one you worked so hard to raise, is back down again. And there is a big scratch on his cheek and he doesn’t remember where it came from. And his shirt is stained. And his hands are clenched. And there are toothmarks up and down his pencil.
And it’s not because of his teacher. You know her. She is a good teacher, with a heart as big as the sky.
But you worry. You worry that he has become invisible even to her.
Because you know him. You know how difficult it is to love him, and even more difficult to like him. He is not cuddly. He rarely smiles. He is often grubby. His work is messy. There are no spontaneous hugs or burst of affection. There are no love notes. There is no drive to be your helper or to earn your approval. There is only survival, an instinct to make himself safe, and anger that leaks out in drips and drabs.
And what you really want to do is scoop him up and run him back to your classroom, where the curtain over his eyes came up, and once in a while you saw a glimmer of a smile, and on one, single, miraculous day that you will never forget, he once folded a paper airplane, wrote your name on it, left it on your desk.
So you give his shoulder a squeeze and you leave him. You go back to your desk and you cry hot tears while you google “paper airplanes”. You carefully fold one. You write his name on it.
And in the heart of the deepest crease, you write a single “x.” A single “o.” A single heart.
At lunch time you leave it on his desk.
And you hope that he will know.
The Luckiest People
I had a boss, a long time ago, at Internationally-Known-Non-Profit-Agency-of-Ill-Repute, who was a big proponent of having A Friend at Work, and encouraged us to get to know one another, socialise, connect outside of our workspace. She said everyone needed People. So we did. Socialise, get to know one another, connect outside of work. And from that came P and L, two of my long-time People: friendships that have survived and thrived through weddings and kiddos and grad school and career changes and new homes and big moves. My girls. My People.
When I moved to a new country for grad school, my dad loaded all my earthly belongings into his horse trailer and drove me down there. Once I was all set up in my teeny weeny apartment, he did the long drive home alone, and later told me he found it really hard to drive away and leave me in a town where I had no People. Funny thing is, I remember watching his truck leave my parking spot, and thinking: “Ok, I have a house, furniture, groceries, a sense of where to find things in this town. Next up: I need to find me some People.”
I found me some People, and they remain My People to this day.
A few years ago, my first year at This School, at a time when it was In Transition and longtime staff regarded new staff with the squinty eyes of suspicion. Hard to find People when no one trusts anyone. I found ONE: a grade one teacher, also new, also regarded with suspicion. If you can’t have People, have A Person. That grade one teacher is still My Person, although I have People now, too.
Today, straggling with My People (including my boss, who is totally one of My People) after a meeting… A colleague, relatively new to our school, an amazing teacher. She teaches some of my students from years ago, describes them in the very same words I used when they were kindergarteners. From her today: tears, at feeling alone in her desire to question pedagogy, at being at odds with her team, misunderstood. A realization: she doesn’t need advice. She needs some People. We get her. We love our students the way she does. We ask the same hard questions. We find the same quirky, sometimes dark, humour, in working with young children. She’s us. She’s People.
So, we’ll be her People. We’ll invite her to lunch and share our jokes and make note of her Starbucks order.
We all need People. We need to find our People. We need to be People to others. Your People may be in the classroom next door or across the hall or up the stairs. They may not be. They may not even be in your school (or office or centre, or wherever you earn your paycheque), although just like my long-ago boss, I think we all do better at work if we have at least a Person. Your people may be on The Twitterz (like some of my best People are). They may be commenters on your blog (hello, blog People!). They may be in a course you take or sitting next to you at a meeting.
Find your People. Be People.
This job is too hard to do alone.
People need People.
