Euphemistically

Our sixth grade team is planning a little outdoor team-building get-to-know-you event for the morning of our early-release day next week. We want to get the kids moving in the fresh, October air, so the activities we have in mind are a variety of classic playground and field-day games that groups can cooperate and compete in. 

As we brainstormed the specifics the other day, someone mentioned Red light-Green light, which is enjoying renewed popularity because of its association with Squid Game, the wildly successful Netflix series from Korea. "Except with no guns, of course" the teacher added.

Through conversational free-association the game Red Rover, Red Rover was mentioned. "I wouldn't play that in this day and age," one of the team said. "Can you imagine? The kids would totally clothesline each other and there would be a law suit for sure."

We all sighed and nodded in agreement that time's have certainly changed.

"What about Steal the Bacon?" I suggested. "That's fun." I paused and considered. "But maybe we should call it Borrow the Organic Tofu Without Permission, so we can avoid any controversy!"

Re-entry Pains

There was a soft knock and a little jiggle at the door about 20 minutes before 1st period ended today. I craned my neck to peer out the interior windows and spotted a student who has been out of school for a few weeks. 

Even though she did a good job keeping up with her assignments, she looked more than a little glum when she figured out the door situation and stepped into the room. 

"Look who's back!" I announced heartily, and the other kids looked up from their writing with slight acknowledgement. Did I mention she's been out a while? 

"Welcome back!" I said to her. "I'm really glad to see you!" 

She gave me a nod.

"Seriously!" I told her. "It's been so long you forgot how to use the door!"

And that got a little laugh. I hope tomorrow will be better.

Bravo Pomodoro

A few years ago a friend told me about the Pomodoro Technique of time management. Named after a tomato-shaped kitchen timer, the premise of the method is a 25 minute-on, five-minute off routine, with a longer break after a couple of hours. She was using it to get some research done for her dissertation, and the structure of it helped her be more productive working from home. 

I've thought of that conversation more than a few times since then, but yesterday was the first time I tried the technique out. I had a lot of student assignments to grade, and I was resistant to even starting. But, I was behind on that task, and with conferences coming up next week, I needed to update my grade book. So I set the timer and then set to work. Twenty-five minutes flew by, and although the rules of the method insist on starting and stopping on time, I found myself continuing past the alarm. The five minute break also seemed a little longer than I expected, especially when I was doing kettle-bell swings or punch squats with dumbbells.

In any event, I got a lot done, certainly more than I have the past few weekends, and I would definitely give the pomodoro an encore. 

Lost Song

When I saw this morning that I had missed the news of Gary Paulsen's passing earlier this week, I took some time to mourn him,  listening to some interviews from last spring when he published his memoir, Gone to the Woods. I realized that although I've read at least 20 books by him, I had never heard him speak, and I was surprised by how soft his voice was. Not weak, no, just not as gravelly as I imagined it Having seen his picture, bearded and gruff, on the back of so many books these last 30 years. 

And then I thought how many times I had heard my own voice reading his words out loud, and I searched to see if there were any audiobooks of his that he had narrated himself. There were only three-- Woodsong, Puppies, Dogs, and Blue Northers, and My Life in Dog Years, all of them non-fiction, all of them about time spent outdoors with his dogs. 

I had read them all, but there was an excerpt from Woodsong in one of the sixth grade anthologies that I used with my students for years, and so I downloaded that recording and started to listen. I had forgotten how awful the beginning is, purposefully so, to make a point about what Paulsen thought he knew about nature and how wrong he turned out to be. Somehow, hearing the account of the wolves and the doe they chase down in Paulsen's own voice, was even worse than reading it; his sorrow and trauma come through so clearly.

I listened to a few more chapters and then I paused the recording. I could have lost myself all day in the woods of Northern Minnesota, but I knew I shouldn't. I had papers to grade and chores to do.

Years ago, my mother saw that Gary Paulsen was doing a reading near her home in the Twin Cities. She knew of my fondness and admiration for his work, and so she went to get a couple books signed as a surprise for me. When she and her friend got to the front of the line, Paulsen laughed as he took the books. "You girls seem a little old to be fans," he teased them.

In fact he and my Mom were born less than a month apart, and he was 82 when he died on Wednesday. The two of them lived long, full lives, but the world seems a lot emptier now that they are gone, and I miss them.

The Only Way Out is Through

 "Will you be here after school today?" one of my students asked in class this morning.

"Probably," I shrugged, since it's rare that I leave before 4:30.

"Oh, good!" she clapped. "My brother's home from college and he wants to come visit all his teachers!"

I forgot about our conversation until a little while after the dismissal bell rang, when I heard quiet conversation in the hallway. "There's yours!" my student said.

"Right there at the top!" a deep voice answered her. "That's something."

I knew they were looking at the quilt we had made of all the team t-shirts. Her brother's design had won the contest when he was in sixth grade, and that year we had all proudly worn his drawing of a dolphin.

A minute later my student poked her head in my door. "Here he is!" she announced. 

A more mature version of the intense, pink-cheeked boy I remembered stepped into the room, smiling. 

"How are you?" I greeted him.

"I'm great!" he said. "I'm doing well.

As we caught up he told me that he was an honors chemistry student at William and Mary, pre-med with his eye on cardiac thoracic surgery. 

"That's amazing," I congratulated him.

"Thanks," he answered. "I'm really happy. Things are good."

For me, talking to former students is rewarding, but it can turn awkward quickly. Once I've shared a memory or two of their time in my class, and they've told me what they are doing now, the conversation usually lags. A few months ago after one such encounter I decided that I would ask each of them what advice they might give their sixth grade selves. Today was my first chance to try out the question.

"I would tell myself to ignore all the mean and hateful things the other kids said to me," he answered immediately.

I nodded. "You always were a person who spoke your mind," I said. "I can see where that would make you a target."

"You know the story, right?" he replied.

I frowned, and he continued.

"When I was in seventh grade they made a "We hate you" club, and basically every day told me I should kill myself."

I gasped. "Did you get help? Did you tell someone?"

"Eventually I told my counselor and then my therapist, but not before I tried to commit suicide."

I shook my head sorrowfully. "I'm so sorry that happened to you," I said. 

"I'm fine now," he replied, and put his arm around his sister's shoulder. "Everything is really, really good."

I believed him. There was a lump in my throat when I said, "It's a terrible story, and it makes your accomplishments even more impressive."

"Thank you," he said, "and thanks for asking. I didn't expect to pour my heart today."

New Do

"Does my hair look okay?" Heidi asked this morning before we left for school. She had it in a fun, sloppy ponytail, a look she usually reserves for weekends.

"It's cute!" I told her, "totally fine for school."

I forgot about our conversation until this afternoon when the sound of running feet drew my attention immediately and I looked up from my computer and craned my neck to see if I needed to get out to the hallway. There was no need. Heidi was standing right outside my window, between her new room and mine, and the feet skidded to a halt when their owner noticed her. "That's right," she said sternly, "you better walk in this school." 

I watched the student approaching her, the expression on his face a combination of darn it and damn it, but then his eyes widened and he knit his brow. "You look new!" he said, scanning her suspiciously for a moment. "Don’t tell me— you got a haircut," he concluded and then continued past her into her room.

"At least he didn't say I looked old," Heidi said and followed him inside.

A Bit of a Stretch

"My story is too short!" one of my students announced with anguish today. 

"One strategy you might like to try to add extra detail is to close your eyes, imagine you are watching a movie of your story, and then write down everything you see and hear," I suggested.

"Well, that would be the most boring movie ever," she replied. "Can't I just leave it short?"