Artboard: Allison Aletha Illustrator

 

Snippets From a 2nd Grade Classroom

 

Mom Huang

4/29/22

Today in school: I have one student who was in a state all day, dysregulated, and totally out of sorts. I have different hand signals I taught the students so they can ask for things they need during a lesson without disrupting the lesson (a tissue, to use the bathroom, etc.) I was teaching math, and he came right up to me waving 3 fingers on each of his skinny little hands frantically. 3 calm fingers at your chest means you need water. I looked at him blankly. 'I don't know what 6 fingers mean. Do you want 2 cups of water?' He burst into a huge grin, the first one of the day. 

4/28/22

Working with Ms. Day's class, 22 students were smooshed on the carpet grasping their mini whiteboards and markers as I taught them how to represent place value addends on a place value chart drawing dots, or using the chip model. I gave a quiet signal, and they did not respond appropriately. I walked over to give myself a point on the whiteboard. I came back, and Jonathan's hand was up. 'Yes?' I asked him. 'When you were walking over to the board, Gabriela smelled your foot.' I didn't know how to respond. I have been working on being kinder. I looked at her. 'How did it smell?' She does not speak English. Jonathan translated for her. She told him she was looking at my toenail polish. She liked the flowers. Clearly there are multiple competing lessons happening during my math lessons. I have to have faith that some math will sink in, despite the colorful distractions.

6/30/22

Summer school:  Half the students, but twice the diversity of learners. I am doing my best to introduce a new art lesson every week. Yesterday I cautiously led a lesson in self-portraits with chalk pastels. My students are 7 and 8 years old, and all of this is brand new to most of them. 

I modelled step by step how to draw each facial feature. I had many students stumped on how to begin drawing an eye, even after the demonstration. I modelled on their papers directly, with their permission, in hopes of them using this extra support to draw their second eye. For some, this was all they needed. For others, something was still holding them back from attempting to mimic the eye sketch in front of them. I hadn't anticipated them not being able to do this. I had been dreaming of being my school's art teacher for a while now. This moment made me seriously reconsider the potential for joy in this dream. We had 30 minutes until dismissal time, and we hadn't even gotten to the messy chalk coloring part yet. 'OK, what can we add to our eyes? We need upper eyelids and eyelashes.' As I started demonstrating a method for quickly drawing eyelashes, Alvin said in his brusk monotone voice, 'I'm not a girl. I don't have those.' In actuality, he had long curly eyelashes. 'It's not a boy or a girl thing, Alvin- most people have eyelashes. They protect your eyes from things getting in them.' He looked straight ahead to process what I'd said, and then let me help him draw some inoffensive looking little whisps above the round little globes on his page that were his version of eyes.  

The last 10 minutes of the school day were a countdown in major teacher-pressure. Realizing that I would need to put the room back in order without enlisting help from the  students was helpful. I needed to focus on helping them clean off the chalk from their hands and packing up in an orderly fashion. None of this felt calm. Somehow we pulled it off. With one minute to go, I opted to draw a winner from our weekly raffle ticket can. Isaiah won the tiger keychain. There was an eery quiet in the room. The kids knew I was stressed and barely reacted. Our usual exchange of positive reflections-routine at the end of the day had been replaced with a stressed-out teacher barking orders out. I felt like I'd let them down. 

The next day I reflected. How could this have gone smoother? Breaking the lesson into two parts would help; as would giving the students more opportunities to practice drawing themselves with easier materials first, like pencils and crayons. I also considered my own comfort level with chalk pastels. I really like using them, but it definitely takes a few tries to feel comfortable and confident with them. I sat down today and spent a little time working on a portrait to see what I could learn. I worked off of an image (something I hadn't given my students.) I really like this photograph on the cover of Eddie Huang's 'Fresh Off The Boat' memoir. An awesome candid family photo where everyone looks serious except him and his mom- his mom is smiling like she has a secret joke, and he is making some goofy face while eating a snack. I drew his mom.

What did I learn: Kids (and grown ups) need time to find their groove with new materials, with low pressure (read: the adult is not on a time limit to have everyone create a masterpiece and have their hands immaculately cleaned within 30 minutes.) I need to set more realistic goals, give more time, maybe have a helper during art, and definitely break it down into multiple sessions. I think to be realistic, with messy materials like paint and chalk, I should ideally have a 1:5 ratio of teacher to student. OK, there's a start.

2nd Graders and Spelling Bees

 

When Zaila Avant-garde, 14, won the 2021 Scripps National Spelling Bee on July 8, 2021, she became the first Black American to win in the competition’s history.

Three weeks to prepare 22 2nd graders for a schoolwide spelling bee.

450 words on the Scripps Official 2022 Word List.

Too many words, too little time. I will use my mind-reading skills and pick out the likeliest words to be on the test.

I scanned the 3 page list for curiosities. Vuvuzela. An onomatopoeia? (If anyone’s curious, I would have spelled that word correctly on a spelling bee- except for the fact that I thought the ‘t’ was an ‘n’. My 2nd graders are doomed…)

VUVUZELA! Whatever it was, I needed to find out RIGHT NOW!! I am not sure how the general population would fare on a spelling bee, but I, being not so well-read or news-worldly, would definitely have to do some serious memorizing.  

A vuvuzela, in case you need to know, is a long horn made popular at South African football matches in the 1990s. The sound from youtube videos of hundreds of fans blowing them during a game reminds me of many bees buzzing. 

I played the video for my class to familiarize them with the instrument, in hopes of solidifying their understanding of ‘vuvuzela’ and thus motivating them further to commit the spelling of the word to memory. (If this method succeeded, I would no doubt need to move in with my students to solidify their understanding of the remaining 449 words from the list.)

I played the video. My students made pensive curious expressions, from what I could gather from the exposed parts of their faces (we are still all masked.) Arian raised her hand. ‘It sounds like the sound a parasaurolophus makes when it’s mating.’ Another valuable youtube video I showed them in the past! 

My kids survived the spelling bee. There were tears shed. There were vows ‘to never be in another spelling bee again.’ The bee was held on ZOOM, and we had to stay masked. The sound was not great, and 2nd graders don’t know how to ask to have the word used in a sentence. Not that this would help- the sentences that other participants were treated to had strings of words in them that sounded like passages from 1950s textbooks.

Fast forward two weeks, and I am employing some spelling bee prep tricks for our upcoming weekly spelling test. ‘Who can spell ‘grapple’ like a spelling bee contestant?’ Now that we’ve suffered through the granddaddy of spelling tests, we are actually enjoying our little ten-word challenge. I think I will continue torturing my students with spelling bees in the future, as I’ve noticed my students are much more interested in reading since the experience. 

The event brought some unexpected surprises. I initially thought the non-participants would just want to do their own thing on the computer, and gave them a choice. The class unanimously chose to watch the competition as an audience. None cheered more enthusiastically than Dylan. Initially, I’d prearranged to have her taken out of the classroom for this important event, by her managing special education teacher, as her meltdowns, specifically during spelling tests, were loud and disruptive. It would not have been possible for the spelling bee contestants to be heard over Dylan’s outbursts. But when Ms. H. came to pick Dylan up at 9:00, it was clear that Dylan was committed to giving 100% to her new role of audience participant and cheerleader. Every time a participant spelled a word correctly, Dylan would jump out of her seat, throw her arms up in the air and shout out, ‘Congratulations! Good Job!!’ 

At one point the judge on zoom asked us to hold our applause until the end. I didn’t have the heart to tell Dylan. Truthfully, what is the point of a spelling bee with 7 and 8 years old if you can’t cheer loudly with your friends? It’s not like we were blowing vuvuzelas in anybody’s ears. 

Seriously, congratulations to all of our Terrific Pteranodon spelling bee contestants!

Post Haiku:

Spell ‘vuvuzela.’

Language of origin, please?

Hadrosauridese.

Code Purple

Thursday snuck up on me this morning, and I nearly forgot that I'd planned on having an art lesson first thing today with my 2nd grade students. I arrived at school with 20 minutes to set up our project room for a tempera cake painting class. In case you're not familiar, tempera cakes are not edible- they are tempera paint pucks that are dry and very easy to store. I flew into our suite nearly knocking Ms. Day over, and noticed several tables were missing from the project room. I definitely had more than 20 minutes worth of set up ahead of me, but didn't pause to figure out what shortcuts I could have taken. Looking back, I did not need to have all the paints organized for each student- the project we would be working on was painting portraits of our desk pets. I imagine students would only needed 2 or 3 different colors for this. I pushed on until the room was student-ready. I looked at my watch and was shocked to see that I was now 7 minutes late for picking up my little charges in the cafeteria. I rushed over, and upon seeing me enter the hall, the majority of my students raced to line up. With a poker face, I told them that running is unacceptable, and had them sit down again, and then line up nicely. Seems hypocritical, as I myself wasn't following the rules. But teachers get this- students love structure and expectations. One little friend however, was set off by her routine being broken, possibly. As I was walking the students down the outdoor corridor,  Dylan was screaming at the back of the line, 'I don't want to be last!' Her screams and cries were pervasive throughout the school. A teacher's aide was walking with her and trying to calm her down. The rest of the class was too stunned to respond, and walked into the classroom like cautious deer scanning for predators. Even with my microphone on full volume, Dylan's wails were overriding my directions to bring water bottles to their bins. I tried to have Dylan stay outside with the aide until she was calm, but she wasn't having it. I've lived through a few of Dylan's meltdowns this year, and they all seem to ride out in a predictable pattern: she flips out about not getting her way about something, screams and cries and tantrums for about 5 minutes, then after sitting in her own space away from the class says 'I feel better now' and rejoins the class like nothing had bothered her. Recently, I tried using a simple breathing strategy to help her regulate her emotions. We have an expandable ball that I use with the class when they come in  from lunch recess to help them regroup. We breathe in together as I expand the bright purple sphere, and exhale as I contract it again. It's kind of like magic. They always focus much better during math when I remember to do this transitional activity first. On this day, the ball didn't help Dylan the first time. She really just needs to cry out her frustration. When I heard another lull in the crying, I approached her again with the ball. She accepted the help, and after 4 breaths, she was back with the class, completely engaged in painting the background for Cynthia, her desk pet kitty. Despite the rocky start, the class was so committed to the painting process- doing it, observing their peers in action, and in general, happy to be in a different space. As I escorted them to their morning recess and started preparing for my math lesson with Ms. Day's class, I realized that in my haste I had forgotten to put on my N95 mask. Due to the recent uptick in covid cases, our school district gave staff the new directive of having to wear this more protective face mask. I was having issues with it. On Monday, the nose piece cut into my skin and left a red mark. On Tuesday, I tried a different one, which was slightly too tight and thus pulled my ears down like Dumbo. It's hard to feel competent in front of a class with something pulling your ears out to the sides. I wondered if anyone would even notice if I just kept my soft, comfortable, inoffensive cloth mask on. I was going to test it. I greeted Ms. Day's class with a squirt of hand sanitizer for each student that entered from the playground. As I called tables to the carpet inviting them to sit horse-shoe style, Timmy called out with his strident articulate little voice, 'Hey, I thought no one's allowed to wear those masks anymore!' How did he know?? I don't allow kids to call out so I ignored him. He waited a second, then pointed an accusing finger at me and said louder, 'Hey, we're not supposed to wear cloth masks!' I calmly asked him to sit at a little table in the back, as I didn't appreciate being pointed at, and his calling out without raising his hand. When the class was occupied, I walked over to chat with him. 'You had something very important to say, but I don't like being pointed at.' I explained that he was right, staff is supposed to wear the N95 masks, and the students will be required to wear surgical masks starting next week as well. The whole class and I had a brief discussion about our feelings about these masks. I shared that I liked them because they made me feel safe, but sometimes they're really annoying. They all seemed to have thumbs up in response to their opinion of them, which is kind of surprising, but I noticed students often tend to agree with their teachers. I often remind them when I'm soliciting their opinions on matters, that whatever their answer is is OK- they do not have to agree with me. But I guess when you are being directed day after day on all of your affairs from hygiene to morality to efficient mathematics strategies- you might be inclined to defer to the one who is speaking 90% of the time for opinions. Looking back at all of my teaching experience, I remember now a quote I learned during graduate school by teacher and psychotherapist Haim Ginott that really made me stop and consider the gravity of a teacher's responsibility for her students:

I have come to a frightening conclusion.

I am the decisive element in the classroom.

It is my personal approach that creates the climate.

It is my daily mood that makes the weather.

As a teacher I possess tremendous power to make a child's life miserable or joyous.

I can be a tool of torture or an instrument of inspiration.

I can humiliate or humor, hurt or heal.

In all situations, it is my response that decides whether a crisis

will be escalated or de-escalated, and a child humanized or de-humanized

  

Squiggly Lines- From the Annals of a 2nd Grade Math Lesson

Ms. Day agreed to let me make long paths of masking tape on her carpet before school. In minutes, I had one 3-meter squiggle and one 5-meter zigzag running across the middle of her brightly colored meeting carpet. Her 2nd grade students would no doubt wonder what we were up to. Later that morning, I brought her class in from recess and asked them to sit in a circle around the tape. This may sound like an easy task to accomplish. It was not. Several students froze in a standing position on the carpet, like deer caught in the headlights. I guided the confused to the perimeter of the carpet. Shilo was sitting in between the tape paths staring straight ahead. I asked him to return to his seat. He started screaming repeatedly, ‘I DIDN’T TOUCH THE TAPE!’ Clearly Ms. Day had gone over the ‘don’t touch the tape’ directive I had requested earlier. I didn’t engage. I had bigger fish to fry. The class and I discussed and recorded reasonable estimates for the lengths of the two tape paths. Then I pulled out my red yarn. “How could I use this piece of yarn to measure the squiggly path?’ Many hands flew up in the air. I called Jaylani up and handed her the yarn. She took one end and placed it by the beginning of the squiggly tape path, then carefully stretched the yarn into a straight line until it reached the end of the path. I asked her to sit back down so everyone could observe. I wasn’t sure what to say next. The class I taught this lesson to yesterday just measured it the way I expected them to measure it, by covering the path with the yarn exactly so they could get an exact measurement of the length of the path. I didn’t explain anything. I asked if anyone else wanted to try it a different way. The next student walked over to the beginning of the path and pulled the yarn a centimeter closer to the end of the path and sat back down. The next 3 kids did the exact same thing, but the last one went a step further and rolled the excess yarn that had now developed into a neat little ball. I giggled silently into my mask. ‘Guys, we’re going to need to do something VERY different if we want to measure this path accurately. Does anyone else have any ideas?’ Dallas raised his hand, and had a confident smile on his face. He always does, and his answers never make sense, mathematically. I had a good feeling this time though. He came up, picked up the red yarn, placed the end at a random spot on the squiggly path, and laid the yarn down precisely over the tape. I assisted him. And now Ms. Day’s class knows how to measure squiggly lines. We still had our problem set to complete, but the kids were too antsy to focus any longer. I had several students pull up the tape paths and we scrunched the masking tape into a little ball. I lined the students up and brought them outside. Again we had to form a circle, but this time there was no descent. We took that tape ball and played a raucous game of ‘hot potato.’ The kids loved it. Whenever someone dropped the ball, that person had to sit in the middle. They screamed in glee.

Moral: Masking tape is more fun than we realized.

 

Ima

 

Sari's Wedding

When I was 18 years old, I bought a one-way ticket to Tel Aviv for $800 that I earned working at Fotomat. It was the first major decision I made towards a future after high school and I was numb with my fear of the complete unknown. I learned the Hebrew alphabet, and also one phrase that a woman from Beth Israel synagogue taught me: ‘Al t’gabi’- ‘Don’t touch me.’ This immediately brought to mind a mass of disembodied arms chasing after me down the Ben Gurion airport corridors. Somehow the idea of worrying about not being able to properly chastise them seemed the least of my problems.
I had signed up for a six month program on Kibbutz Sde Eliyahu- a religious agricultural community. The plan included 6 days a week of Hebrew and Israeli culture studies mixed with various work assignments like pomegranate picking and milking cows. My program, called an Ulpan, was for young people around the world between 18-35 years old. In addition to our group, there were also a handful of other young military groups from both France and Israel who worked on the kibbutz. Social opportunities were rich, and my whole world opened up.

I quickly became friends with a woman from Ohio. She was a little older than me, and she would look out for me like a big sister. One weekend she left the kibbutz to spend shabbat with the family of one of the girls serving Sherut Leumi. (This was an alternative military service offered to young people who objected to joining the Israeli Army for religious reasons.)

Shoshana continued to spend weekends at Tsivia’s family's house. It was about this time that I began to feel very disconnected from the people on the kibbutz. The people who lived there full time were both welcoming and distant; they had their own families who lived with them and they ate meals together. On Shabbat especially, when we weren’t working, I felt like an outsider. This feeling stayed with me. When Shoshana invited me one weekend to go to Tsivia’s family’s house, I didn’t think twice.

The 2-½ hours of bus rides to Kiriat Ata on a Friday afternoon were filled with sleeping soldiers with their rifles resting nearby, religious men and women loaded with fresh baked goods for the sabbath, and a wide variety of humanity that represented the country at that time.

When we finally arrived, I was introduced to many daughters- too many for me to keep track of. Each one was dressed in her finest dress, and some had freshly washed hair still wet, while others waited patiently for their turns in the bathroom. Tvisia’s mother was introduced to me as ‘Ima’- Mom. She had the cutest shy little smile when she met me. I remember she was wearing an apron (it’s not that my memory is so great- she was almost always wearing an apron!) and she apologized in Hebrew to me for not knowing any English. I assured her that it was refreshing to meet an Israeli that didn’t speak English, and I was excited that maybe now I would finally learn to speak Hebrew. She handed me a brush and some hair accessories, and asked if I’d be able to help fix the twins’ hair. Rachel and Shulamit were these tiny little muffins of little girls, and within minutes, they each had two little ‘kookiote’- ponytails. That would come to be my job when visiting. I was the kookiote person. This is what it looks like to make someone feel like part of the family.

The Shabbat dinners at the Dan family’s house were pure joy. Delicious food, tons of singing around a very long table, and always a friendly person to talk to. On many occasions Ima and I would get a chance to check in over washing the dishes after everyone had gone to sleep. Her goal was to have all of her daughters married, eventually. When she shared this with me, I realized that she considered me in this esteemed group.

I was to learn that she and her dear husband Shimon had 5 biological daughters, and 5 adopted daughters. How they had the energy and love to share with so many so selflessly was a mystery to me. And yet I knew without a doubt that this family loved me. They provided me with the nurturing care and stability that I was lacking.

And then the time came for me to leave Israel. And I left, and I did not keep in touch. I was no longer religious, and I was once again in a new situation, but this time with no container to hold me. I found my way through odd jobs, and eventually back to college. I had a few rough years where my life was spiraling into a bad direction.

This family was so good to me, I have no idea why I didn’t keep in touch. I guess I just felt like we were in two completely different worlds, and I didn’t know how to make it work, so I did nothing.

I went back to school and got my master’s to become a teacher. I have been working for the past 8 years in mostly high needs schools in the lower elementary grades. Every year I come across a handful of little girls that remind me of myself when I was their age. They have this sadness about them- maybe they are missing their mother, or they are hungry, or they are just not getting enough attention at home. Or maybe worse things are happening. I try to give my students a safe, stable classroom environment. I make sure to offer art and drama so that they have opportunities to express themselves, and to just have those meditative experiences art offers, that they may be craving. I started realizing that I was becoming the safe harbor for children that Ima had been for me. And It made me proud of myself, and also her- and it made me realize that I wanted to contact her.

I searched the internet, and was able to find her old address. I planned on calling her, but I didn't have her phone number. I could have mailed a letter. Why didn’t I do that?

More time passed, and the momentum had faded.

Fast-forward a few months, and I received this email from my sister saying Shoshana had requested I call her as she had urgent news. I knew right away that Ima had passed away.

I did call Shoshana, and Ima did pass away. A beautiful light has been extinguished in the world. Her legacy of kindness and emotional tzedakah (righteousness or tithing) will live on through her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.

I had not made contact in over three decades. Despite religious differences, this family mattered very much to me during a time in my life that I really needed them. I'd like to be there for them this time. Maybe a visit in the future. I'll pack extra hair accessories in case they're needed.

A Quiet Thanksgiving

 

Birds in the Bamboo Watercolor by: Aoki

Sitting in my 150 square foot studio apartment, looking out a window. When the blinds are open, there are reminders of possibilities I hadn't considered. For one, letting the world come in a little. Thanksgiving is a few weeks away, and in normal years, aka before corona virus, a plan would magically formulate for a family gathering with little preparation on my part. Someone else would host, someone else would organize sleeping arrangements and elaborate shopping and cooking agendas. Being a 2nd grade teacher has given me a pass on those staples of the holiday. As my thoughts of a destination with a specific home in which to celebrate the feast dance through my mind, I see a distant flash of iridescent green. A little hummingbird investigates a leaf on a very tall bamboo plant, perhaps hoping for an edible reward. And since I'm lucky enough to have two windows within view, I see the same bird dash over to the bushy tree with sunny-side up looking blossoms. Maybe I can learn from her. Thanksgiving can be many small noshes in many beautiful nooks.   

Cheers!

Well, here I am all dressed up in my sequined sweater, obediently sitting with my cup of hot mead. OK, my family is doing a seder of sorts, and one of my jobs is to say the kiddush- blessing over the first glass of wine. Which traditionally is supposed to be red. But in these times of social distancing, it's wiser to use what is on hand. So an old bottle of chardonnay that's been sitting in my fridge for an unknown length of time will suffice. And since it's a little chilly in my apartment, why not heat it up, add some honey, and create my own mead? All this, with 7 minutes to go for the once a year seder, this time to be conducted over video conferencing. Good to have your priorities in check. The last time I drank a good (actually amazing) mead was when I took my mentee A. and her brother to the Dickens Faire in San Fransisco last winter. I wasn't planning on drinking anything potent, but why should the kids have all the fun? After an hour of watching them play darts in a perfect rendition of a 19th century London pub, I decided to break my fast and indulge. Well, it worked out well for me. As the kids were later playing a raucus game of toss the hammer, apparently I was cheering a little too loudly for A's tastes. "You're making a scene!" she scolded. This coming from a 5th grader, who just last year, as we sat in a Chinese restaurant waiting for our food, braced herself by holding tight to the edge of the table, puffed her cheeks out, and did a countdown.. for what could have been a very ill-mannered act, particularly to the quiet family off to the side trying to enjoy their buffet. Luckily I put the kibosh on the plan before any offensive sprays could disperse. And on this day, as I try to sign in to Zoom.. I realize something:  meetings that take place over multiple time zones are not my thing. I had another hour to go. No sense in wasting a nice warm mug of mead. L'Chaim and Chag Sameach. Wishing the world peace, serenity, hope, health, and your own cup of comfort.

Today's Top 8 List, March 27, 2020

I asked for comments and I got comments! Old school comments in the form of emails, texts, and in person feedback. Thank you dear friends and family members for your follow up! What I learned: lots of you like to dance, some of you wish my design would be more sensitive to the eyes, and one of you (you know who you are!!) is perplexed as to why I used an imposter roach to advertise this post about my own lovely arthropods. Vanity, is the simple answer. As much as I am fond of Little Cookie and Roblox- they really do look very roachy in photographs.

OK, on to today's topic: what I am grateful for today:

1. Ojai pixie tangerines

2. Mo Willems' daily livestream art lesson for children

3. Sunshine

4. Being almost done with report cards

5. Having report cards to do so I can feel useful

6. The big-eyed sloth stuffed animal one of my students gave me for Valentine's day- thank you Kelly.

7. A dry tickly cough due to allergies. That's my story, and I'm sticking with it.

8. Milkyboki youtube videos on how to lovingly play mind games with your pets.

That's it for today! Back to report cards. Love you guys, and feel free to share your own top 8 lists for today in the comments section of my blog (to help promote my rise to fame and fortune.)

New Times Call For New Friends

Note: This is NOT a Madagascar Hissing Cockroach

The view from my desk at home has changed. In addition to piles of papers filled with rosters of my 23 students and their various academic data results, there is now a full sized aquarium resting on the upper deck of my desk. A bright pink index card taped to one side wishes Roblox and Little Cookie a happy Valentine’s day; 17 mini-handmade Valentine’s cards decorate the frame of the enclosure. My new guests are cockroaches. From Madagascar. Yes, that makes a big difference. If you have bad memories of cockroaches from your past, you may be pleased to learn that not all cockroaches are created equal. This type does not scurry when the light comes on, they seem more interested in sleeping than eating, and if I’m being honest- there’s something very beautiful about their shiny earthy toned exoskeletons. Since my school closed six days ago, my six-legged little friends have needed to shelter in place along with me. It’s about all the company I can handle. My niece Hailey inspired me to create a schedule for myself to structure my time. Of the 9 items on the list, I managed to complete 2 of them. Was I being too ambitious? Now wait- I put down ‘~1 hour Spanish Lessons’- the Berkeley Library offers free language lessons via Mango- and I had planned to continue doing some lessons there. But I got caught up in composing an email to my class’ families- soliciting photos of their children (my students) for me to post on my class blog to help us all feel connected during this extremely isolating period in history. I always translate communications into Spanish since I have a large non-English speaking population in my class. Does this count as my Spanish learning time? Yes it does! Woo hoo! Now I have an extra 40 minutes to eat. The thing about a shelter in place- well, the refrigerator keeps calling you to explore. Every 15 minutes it feels like it’s time for a new nosh. I am really thankful I am able physically to run regularly, as I’d surely be unable to wear anything in my current wardrobe. And then the song ‘Brick House’ by the Commodores popped into my head, and it was time for a dance party for 1- the introverts version of a flash mob- I blasted the music and danced like only a middle-aged white woman who’s been sheltered in place for a week can, and I felt the beginnings of a new tradition coming to life. I may even host a Zoom meeting to invite fellow dancers to join in. The roaches continued to hunker down throughout the excitement. As much as I love them (and what’s not to love about these low maintenance hissers?) I think I need to widen my social circle. There’s a difference between social distancing and social anorexia. I put on my wool coat, and headed out for my third walk of the day. I needed to breathe some fresh air and get my human being fix in. Even from a six foot distance, it’s comforting to see others working through the same set of unnatural circumstances.

Zhenya's 80th Thanksgiving Potluck Party

A very young Zhenya, already thinking about gettin' straight and gettin' together...

Come one, come all and celebrate two big events together with us- Zhenya's 80th birthday and Thanksgiving. I know this is an odd place to post a personal family reunion event, but we are a little bit of an odd family. Zhenya's upcoming birthday has been on my mind for a while now. I wanted to recognize it in a way that helped bring the family together in a joyful spirit, and what better way to accomplish this than by pairing it with Thanksgiving? Asheville, NC has a typically mild temperature in November, so don't delay, buy your airline ticket today and mark your calendar for this event that will satisfy your cravings for delicious food, warm, lively company, good live music, and the opportunity to build new family connections with the next generations. I am looking forward to seeing everyone November 24th or sooner! Please leave a comment letting us know if you're planning on coming, or email me directly: tsenyak@gmail.com    With love, Tamar

Building Community with First Graders

I am one week into teaching summer school, and I already feel like this is my best teaching experience ever. Have I finally arrived? Is this that moment when new manual shift drivers know they can let out the clutch without stalling? Wow, it took a lot more effort than I could have imagined. It’s a good thing no one told me how laborious this new career path would be, because I doubt I’d stick around for the fruits. As a grandmother who volunteered in my first grade class once said, ‘It’s like squeezing blood from a turnip.’ Sometimes, it’s just like that. But not this summer. I have 8 precious little lambs that are with me for the next three weeks. Yes, it’s a very small number of students for public school; and the fact that it’s just half a day doesn’t hurt either- but something is different this time. I am getting immediate feedback on how useful the strategies I’m sharing with my charges are in helping their literacy skills. We played ‘The Paper Bag Game,’ in which one student feels an object hidden from the other students, and he describes what it feels like and what it’s used for. I had another student act as scribe and list the descriptions on chart paper. All the kids were really engaged, and when it was time to write their own poems, they incorporated pieces of the lesson into their writing. I also am excited that they are receptive to The B.F.G. as a read aloud experience. I thought they might be more likely to enjoy the story since the new film version just came out. I wondered if the vocabulary and cultural references might go over their heads, and thus make them lose interest. When I first started reading it, I gave Sophie a nice cockney accent, and somehow turned the B.F.G. into a drunken Russian. My kids can handle two chapters at a time, and that’s about the limit of my strained vocal chords, so it works out well. I wanted to highlight some of the creative vocabulary Mr. Dahl used, so I reviewed a few words prior to reading the chapter containing them. I asked my students what they thought ‘scrumplet’ could mean. Lele questioned in the faintest voice in the world, ‘delicious?’ During math, Nester told me he still needs to find his backpack. Just then, Diego, a middle school student who is helping in my classroom, told me he needed to tell me something important. Diego took me aside and confided that Nester told him if he doesn’t find his backpack his mother is going to give him a beating. Nester just started summer school yesterday, and from the first time he came into the class, he just does exactly what he’s supposed to do without effort. I was rattling on about the B.F.G. on the carpet, and I look over at him, and he’s staring at me attentively with these huge sad eyes. The idea of a grown up hitting him is horrifying to me. I also understand that I can’t change someone else’s parenting or culture, and I want to be careful not to pass judgment, but rather try to understand- and more importantly, find that back pack! After asking the class assistant to mind the students, I dart in and out of rooms hunting for this back pack. When I come back empty handed, Nester, with his big sad eyes starts crying silently. Big tears falling out of his eyes onto his desk. I try to comfort him. His poetry partner Michael takes it a step further. ‘Maybe you left it on the bus.’ Nester: ‘No I left it in the classroom, I didn’t bring it on the bus.’ Pretty soon all the grown-ups (there were 5 of us!) were talking about how we would find this back pack. As I brought the kids to the carpet for our final B.F.G. reading, Diego said he would check next door since Nester had after-care there. Nester seemed more relaxed. I’m guessing that, although a potential spanking was still on the table, knowing he had a whole classroom full of peers and teachers that were routing for him must have felt comforting. ‘Where’s Diego?’ Keely asked. ‘He went to look for Nester’s back pack.’ Keely looked pensive and said, ‘We don’t want Nester to cry again.’ Diego walked in with the little black backpack with the green skeleton on it. Everyone was smiling and visibly relieved. When they talk about building community in classrooms to prevent misbehaviors, I feel like we’ve accomplished this on the highest level. I felt so much love for these Lovely Lion Cubs. They fully earned the dried figs and strawbumples I bought for them for our Friday read aloud of the B.F.G.

Nester and Michael's poem: Driftwood It's hard It's wiggley It smells like nothing. When I blow it [it] makes me cough. Drift wood

Whiskey or Rye?

Well, here I am, back in my old stomping grounds. Has anyone missed me? Did anyone notice my extended absence? My world these days and since August 18 has revolved mostly around the education of my new class of first graders at my new school in San Pablo. There are some notable differences in the habits of this group as compared with my last class, which was located in the more affluent El Sobrante. Many of my new kids have a loose definition of attendance. Some are regularly 1 or 2 hours late. A couple of kids haven't showed up for two weeks. Are they following cultural mores? Do they dislike their new teacher? Yesterday Diego casually entered the classroom with the rest of the class at 8:30 when I ushered them in from the playground. He had not been to class in over two weeks. He quietly sat in his seat, a nervous look on his face. He is a larger child, looking more like a 10 year old than a 6 year old. The first day he cried when his mother left him. Despite his nervousness, he seems oblivious to classroom norms, and is often talking to his tablemates when I'm trying to give a lesson. He appears to be devastated when I remind him. So many things happen before 9:00, I wanted to make sure I acknowledged his return. During attendance I asked him where he had been this whole time. He said his grandpa was really sick, and then he died. The class and I took a moment to digest what he'd said. I told him I was really sorry, and asked him if he'd like us to make cards for his family. He did. I asked him what kinds of things his grandpa liked, so we could maybe include them in our cards. He said, 'Well, when we buried him, we put a drink in there.' Me: 'Oh- you put a drink in his coffin? A cup of coffee?' Diego smiled, and said no. 'A glass of wine?' He nodded. Later that day in the lunch room I shared the story with Ms. Pena, another first grade teacher. She said that one year she celebrated the day of the dead with her class, and explained to them that families who are mourning their loved ones will offer their spirits foods, and then enjoy the food themselves. The kids went home and told their parents that they ate the food that dead people didn't want. Ms. Pena had a lot of parents calling in concerned about this, and that was the last time she celebrated the holiday in class. I still wanted to have my class create sympathy cards, but I was cautious in the sentiments being included. When we were all seated on the carpet and brainstorming what to write, I gave a sentence starter: 'I am sorry..' I paused, not sure myself how to complete the thought. One boy called out earnestly, 'I am sorry you died.' Time to take over. 'Let's write, 'I am sorry for your loss.' The kids agreed, and off they went. They created some amazing cards! One little girl made a manga-like rendition of herself crying, holding a card that said 'Love Tina' on it. Diego wrote a card that did make me cry: Mom, I know you loved grandpa. I loved him too. Love Diego'. Today Diego came back again to school. He said his mom thanked the class for the cards. When I dismissed the class at the end of the day, he gave me a big hug. It is a huge challenge as a teacher when kids are persistently tardy or absent. My class this year is particularly distracted and off-task, and it feels disrespectful to have a student knock on the door an hour after class has begun, and go through all the routines of preparing for the day. What if I did that when I took classes over this summer at UC Berkeley? I am pretty sure my professor would have had a big problem with it. And this is part of the reason teaching is so challenging- there exists a mental/moral/philosophical struggle within most every decision a teacher has to make with regards to her students' well-being. At the core of this internal debate is the belief that students are individuals, and as such, need their needs addressed within that framework, and not exclusively through the lense of the class as a whole. So I am glad I took a moment to jump off my high horse of attendance norms, and probe Diego's absence as a caring adult figure in his life. My whole class grew as a result, though they likely would have probed Diego's circumstances without hesitation.

Leann, the hairdresser

I have a few free days before school starts again. I have no idea how to use free time. I have had a groundbreaking year for myself, gainfully employed at a job I adore. This is the first time I really loved my job since scooping Frusen Glädjé ice-cream in Manhattan when I was a kid. Wait- I also loved my waitressing stint two years ago- but both of those jobs were temporary pathways to the Studs Terkel kind of work that defines a modern person. After eight momentous months of being the kindergarten teacher to 26 beautiful children, guiding their emergent reading and math skills, assisting them navigate through the social ineptitudes of their peers, adapting to vastly different child-rearing methods of these students’ families, two whole trimesters of report card entries and accompanying individualized comments that have the power to become a recurring mantra for years to come in the ill-adjusted- all this data available to remind me that I have become a properly functioning adult- and yet- I am clueless, still, as to what to do with my free time. My pre-kindergarten teacher days would find me in search of events that would demand my immediate exit from my apartment, abandoning all quotidian chores in favor of some exotic adventure that would reinforce my goals of living a culturally rich life. These usually take place in the public library. I know, it doesn't sound very glamorous, does it? I have not yet been disappointed or failed to learn something new and useful at these meetings. Today however, my plan was to take a bus to Barnes and Noble to get some math materials for my class. I knew I had a long wait, so I popped into this tiny deli next to the bus stop. The clerk had a funny little voice, and looked Ethiopian. No, he is definitely Somali. It felt improper to ask him so I asked about the coffee instead. 'Do you have coffee?' 'No,' he smiled, without offering a reason to go with the answer. 'Do you ever have coffee?' I asked, quite surprised at his nonchallance at this shocking news. 'No,' he replied, again with a little smile that suggested it was a pretty amusing conundrum I had fallen into. 'OK, thanks,' I said as I walked back to the bus stop, feeling like there was a lot more to say on the topic. As I stood waiting for the bus, the smiling Somali swept some garbage out of his store. He looked at me and (as expected) smiled and apologized shyly. 'Oh, that's fine,' I said, thinking, is he just going to leave that garbage there? A few seconds later he came out and continued sweeping the area in front of his store, and then scooped the collection of goods into a dustpan. Then he came over to where I was standing and continued sweeping (he was being quite thorough, I thought.) He bent down and picked up a black bodied pencil, and as he examined it, asked me if I didn't want it. He spoke quickly and with a heavy accent, so I needed him to repeat the question a few more times before I understood what he was asking. He didn't become impatient as my little sister would have. She hates when people don't hear her. Apparently this didn't bother the sweeping Somali at all. After a few minutes of small talk, I asked him where he was from. 'Eritrea. Do you know where that is?' I did in fact. I was pleased that I hadn't been too far off with my original guess. He didn't seem very impressed that I knew who Meb Keflezhigi was, until I mentioned that he was quite short in stature, and I knew this because when we took a photo together, he only came up to my shoulder. (Specificity leads to believability, as my resume writing coach loved to say.) My new friend was notably excited when I revealed this information about his fellow Eritrean. So I was actually set to write about Leann the lady who cut my hair today at Supercuts. I really liked the way she did exactly what I asked her to do, she didn't berate my hair in order to sell me a product, and she was a really great listener. We had a really nice conversation about the challenges of being a kindergarten teacher, and she shared that people she knew tended to try and get lots of free haircuts out of her. She had really long black hair, and I felt like I could trust that she wouldn’t cut off more than I wanted. Sure enough, when she was done snipping, I had a hard time finding any evidence of a haircut on the floor. Yet I loved my new haircut! Even though hair is essentially dead, I think it's a little like a plant in that it will respond to proper emotional nurturing. Leann put a dab of some beachy smelling leave-in conditioner, and told me it would even-out my hair color. When I pressed her for a translation of what that really meant, she said it would get rid of the brassiness. (It really was quite brassy, and was in dire need of a brass ass-kicking.) So I can't believe this is my first blog entry in eight months! But I guess that's what happens when you are suddenly the caregiver to children- they completely take over, as well they should.

Not as Bad as Woolsack Racing

The last time I participated in any official running group was close to ten years ago. Even though this said group was meeting at the nearly still-slumbering hour of 7:00 a.m. on a frigid upstate New York winter Sunday morning, I distinctly remember feeling very excited to join the ranks of runners in the 'Brian Baker 10 mile run' group. An invisible badge of pride cloaked my tired body as I trotted slightly behind this speedy group of athletes that morning. There were a few rules to contend with: 1)You don't stop running. For any reason. Despite the commonly understood definition of 'group run', connoting a run involving more than one runner, there was an understanding amongst regular participants that basically, every man was for himself on these group runs. A mutual friend relayed the story of a time when he arrived at Brian's house to discover the mercury had not quite reached the 1 degree mark yet. He had to tap on Brian's bedroom window to stir him out of bed. On this occasion, the run (always timed, naturally) started at a tardy 7:32. As the miles ticked on, my friend noticed his shoe became untied, and so he stopped to retie it. When he looked up, Mr. Baker's form could be seen far ahead in the distance. He had to sprint to catch up.(His pride has yet to recover.) Fast forward ten years to Albany, California. I have found an enjoyable group run that meets Sunday mornings at 8:00 a.m. There's a good mix of runners possessing a wide range of paces. This morning I chose to do the 8 mile run. The organizers had mini maps printed for each of the 3 different course distances. Though each group had a designated leader, I grabbed a map. Not that it would do much good, since the font was rather small, thus making the prospect of actually being able to read the street names while trying to hold the little map steady as I ran, a highly unlikely prospect. None of this deterred me from clinging to the little paper square of directives, possibly dreaming of the remote possibility of serving as the hero understudy should our fearless leader Ricardo have any unexpected mishaps along his course of duty. Since he started his tour running up Solano avenue backwards while monitoring his charges, this seemed like a real possibility. What began as a slight incline up Solano turned into a more serious uphill grade ascending Los Angeles Avenue. My breathing quickly became labored while lactic acid flooded my quads. At that precise crossroad of discomfort, a smiling fresh-faced young woman neatly trotted beside me. 'Is this the 5 mile run?' she asked cheerfully. I let her know I was doing the 8 mile run, and wasn't sure about the other courses. I tried to convey this information using as few words as possible, due to my compromised state of oxygen-deprivation. Oblivious to my plight, she instantly abandoned her plan to run the shorter distance in favor of joining me. 'This will be fine', she said with a toothy smile, 'I'm just going to take it easy today.' Hadn't Bill Rodgers used that trick as he passed his foes during the Boston Marathon? She proceeded to pick up the pace. We turned onto Spruce street and the course got steeper. It baffled me that her smile had not faded in the slightest. If anything, it intensified. It seemed to increase in direct proportion to the gradation increase. So did my grimace. Spruce street was an endless road which kept climbing higher. Tiny sprinkles of fog condensation misted my bare shoulders. I failed to appreciate their refreshing qualities. When we turned onto Grizzly Peak Boulevard and the course finally leveled out, I uncrumpled the map to check for our turnaround point. I was very impressed with how well the ink from the map was holding up- so different from my own printer's cheap ink copies. We arrived at our check-in spot, and started heading back down the hill. Life instantly improved. Breezing back down Grizzly Peak, I was able to hold a normal conversation with smiley. I discovered that she's a scientist who recently moved to the Bay Area. She gushed about how young and enthusiastic all the people she worked with were. As opposed to all of us old, resentful job-seekers, I thought. She asked what field I was in. I told her I recently went back to school for Early Childhood Education, and I was exploring classroom teaching and alternative curriculum with the goal of incorporating genuine (as opposed to theoretic) differentiated instruction which seeks to build on students' interests. 'So which end are you working in then, the schools or the design end?' 'I'm in the unemployed end', I replied, with a nervous giggle to break the awkward silence that followed. Just then another runner joined us and I decided to pick up the pace. I like downhills. I think my new running partners did too, as they quickly caught up to me and somehow we were all chatting together like it was second nature. So this story reminds me of an old Jewish folkloric tale. A man lamented to his rabbi one day that his house was too small and he asked for guidance. The rabbi told him to bring all of his farm animals into the house one by one. The man did so. His feelings of being cramped in his modest home increased. He lamented again to his rabbi, and the rabbi had him remove all the animals. The man was then content with his modest house. Sometimes you need a big hill to run up to appreciate how much you love running down hill.

A Poet Grows in Texas

On a cold and windy morning while trying to sell some old books at a group yard sale, my 5th grade student and I started talking about poetry. As an experiment, we composed a poem together based on the events of the otherwise calm day. The poem was recently published in the quarterly poetry and arts magazine, 'Voices de la Luna'.

How to Sell Your Junk

The pink metal glistened from inside the sagging cardboard box
We grabbed the swords and started fighting
My opponent blocked my first jab, grinning shyly
Her expression remained til the end of the war
A small crowd gathered to watch
The fight stopped, the crowd disappeared
‘We should fight,’ said smiley, ‘people come when we fight’
After all, it was a garage sale

I Don't Have a Favorite

This short piece was written in five minutes as an exercise in a poetry workshop. We were asked to respond to a featured poem, with the theme of recognizing a diamond in the rough. "I'm from Gre-nah-da. Do you know where that is?" "Yes. There's a girl in Ms. Rondeau's class from Gre-nay-da." "It's Gre-nah-da! Why did you say 'Gre-nay-da?" "Oh, I don't know. I always say it that way. I'm sorry. Gre-nah-da." Samoa was my favorite second grader. When I asked my reading group, 'Who knows what jazz is?' She pulled out her air-trumpet and started playing. When she was being reminded not to talk during the lesson, she said, 'You're ugly, Samoa!' But she was not. One winter day after school as I walked to the subway I saw her wolf hat ears bobbing up and down. She was holding her mother's hand. "Hi Samoa!" "Hi Ms.S.! This is my mom." We exchanged shy hellos. This was wrong. Samoa took my hand and her mother's hand and made us shake. Maybe it was time to hand over my teacher's hat to this seven year old.

Passover in San Antonio

It was early, definitely not lunchtime yet. I was sitting next to Juana, and then Yolanda’s family was all there too. Her husband was quiet, maybe that’s why he brought the bottled drinks. They were flavored like cocktails. He offered me one, and I politely declined. It was too early in the day for a strawberry daiquiri wine cooler. I remembered that I forgot to hide the afikomen. I thought to explain to everyone what that meant, but then realized it would just be much easier to hide it and tell the children to find it at some point. Passover with Catholics who spoke Spanish could be tricky. In truth, Juana wanted to use up her leftovers from Lucy’s party the night before. She invited me to join them for a brunch the following day. Since Passover was coming, I figured I may as well take advantage of the large group of people gathering. I could have just done a seder at home with Guy, but that did not seem very appealing. You can usually count on children to join in on the enthusiasm of ancient ritualistic dining. Guy could be iffy in that department. When I returned to the table, I saw somebody had placed an open mojito wine cooler by my plate. I smiled and took a sip to avoid offending. It tasted like spearmint soda. I started explaining about the purpose of Passover. It was nice to do it without the little booklet, so I could make up bits as I went. My Spanish is pretty horrible, so it’s very likely no one understood anything I was saying. After my explanation on the significance of eating flat bread on this holiday, I opened the box of Jerusalem matza. We had to go to three different HEBs to find one that carried Passover products. As I broke the square into pieces for everyone to try, Guy told me, “Uh oh Babe- it says here, ‘NOT KOSHER FOR PASSOVER’.” I considered explaining what that meant. Then as I passed the plate around, said: “Just ignore that. It’s fine.” I’ve come a long way from my restaurant heksher hunting days. I remembered my father’s suggestion to sing ‘Deiyeinu’ with them. Without introduction, I started singing it. When it came to the chorus, as I banged on the table in time to the tune, I looked encouragingly at the kids there. Immediately they all chimed in as though they’d been singing this song for generations. Then I opened the little jar of Boarshead horseradish. I shared the story of how my father would make it from scratch, and how its potency increased with each passing day. When guests came, he would innocently offer them a whiff, knowing that the strength of the product could give them a good head rush. I passed the bottle to Yolanda’s husband. He held it reverently, and took a cautious smell. He put a healthy dollop on his plate. Mexicans invented capsaicin. Conversations started splintering around the table. The seder momentum fizzled. Juana brought a jar of caramel spread from the pantry. The kids took turns spreading it on the unkosher matza. They finally understood its inherent beauty.

Excellence in All We Do

Things that make me really happy: running in races, races organized by the US military, and seeing kids feeling proud of their own accomplishments. Yesterday was a very good day.

The 'Other' Inbox

Years ago, when I was the kind of person who would pick up and move to Colorado with my beau of one month- in part, to benefit from altitude training, but mostly to give everyone something vaguely novel to talk about- I started appreciating how quotable kids are. My beau’s five year old was telling me that her birthday was January 6. Of course, I responded, ‘Oh, you’re a Capricorn.’ She said defiantly, ‘No I’m not, I’m a Catholic.’ Not long ago, while wasting time on Facebook I thought of that line, and like a good aunt, wanted to share it with the woman Shay had become. I found her instantly, and sent a message sharing the anecdote. I never heard back, and after several moments of believing everything we do in life is a complete waste of time, I forgot the incident altogether. Fast forward to a few weeks ago: Cupid’s bow found me and directed me to put all of my efforts into arranging a match for my friend Naomi. This task was made infinitely more challenging by the demographic of her pool of potential suitors. Single people from New York City have zero tolerance for – anything, really. So something as innocuous as displaying a vulnerable smile on a first date can be an instant deal-breaker. I felt ready for the challenge. Hadn’t I already conquered more treacherous waters? Had I not soldiered through completing sixty four reading assessments for our entire second grade class at my school the previous month? I can now recite ‘Edwin’s Haircut’ and ‘All About Koalas’ in my sleep; Ms. Jackson named me the ‘Running Records Queen’ after seeing me assessing in the hallway outside her classroom for two weeks straight. ‘A Shidduch for Naomi’; It could end up a new Fountas and Pinnell leveled reading title – help even out the cultural chasm in public school literacy. OK, so I plunge into my new assignment, and start to mine my pool of eligibles. It’s quite small, and sadly includes some men that are not in fact bonafide acquaintances- but no matter- I think intuition plays a big role in this art anyway (I’m hoping for Naomi’s sake that this is true.) So bachelor #1 takes a little convincing that Naomi a) Exists b) Has most of her teeth c)Can navigate the subway system without the assistance of a map. In other words, he wouldn’t agree to consideration of the match until offered the prerequisite Facebook link. So I complied, and didn’t blame him one bit for this seemingly superficial allowance. I think people instinctively feel suspicious of motives and/or quality of subjects in these types of situations. But Bachelor #1 seemed pleased with my offering, and bit the bullet and sent a message via Facebook to Naomi. But she never got it. And Bachelor #1 was very sensitive, and felt Naomi snubbed him since too much time had passed without him receiving a response from her. So he thanked me, and went about his merry way. And Naomi was puzzled, since she never received a message from Bachelor #1. And Naomi is a Virgo, and will toil until her fingers fall off to get to the bottom of an unsolved email mystery. And that is how she discovered the inconspicuous link in her Facebook inbox to a special group of overlooked emails marked ‘other’; which roughly translates to email from people who are not official members of Facebook. And, voilà ! Mystery solved, there was Bachelor #1’s message, right next to Bacheleor #2’s, and fifteen junk email messages that would have little affect on her future happiness. For you eternal romantics out there, stay tuned for the ending of that story- for those still wanting to know what happened with the Capricorn Catholic- I excitedly (after much tutoring from a now savvy Naomi) found my own Facebook ‘other’ box- and found a very odd assortment of 18 potentially life-changing messages, which had been awaiting my reply for up to two years. I will share one: a German foreign-exchange student from my junior year in high school wanted to know if I remembered her. I vaguely remembered a pleasant if fleeting friendship in which two teenage girls shared a common angst during walks by the millstream in Woodstock, trying to work through the bad behavior of the grown-ups associated with them. One day she revealed that her adopted American mother was very critical of her, and made mean personal comments about her. I quietly listened, feeling very empathetic. She then shared that her mother was just crazy, and she had things to say about me as well. Alarmed, I asked cautiously what she had said. My friend told me her mother was driving one day and saw me walking to town talking to myself. In my defense, I performed in a lot of community theatre in those days, so could easily have been rehearsing my lines. But knowing me, I was too self-conscious to risk a passing yenta mistaking me for a person who talked to themselves; so I was more likely singing to myself, but doing it discreetly so that no outsiders would pass judgment. Those critics! Those critics!! May they all be banished to the other box and left unanswered and unheard. I do like the idea of the ‘other’ box though. An alternate destiny in---The Twilight Zone.