Person of influence

For the first years of my childhood, I didn't know we were poor. I thought my mom was very strange and a little mean. Why else could I only have one glass of juice with dinner and wear hand me downs from the neighbors? I really thought that having potatoes as a main dish was some hippie, organic thing my mom was into. It didn't occur to me that we couldn't afford meat -- I always thought my mom was making choices. And then school happened. I thought my mom had grown a larger mean streak because I couldn't have the big box of crayons and I couldn't buy hot lunch. I don't know how children become so cruel so soon, but by first grade I was tormented by students for wearing the same clothes twice in a week and having leftover mac and cheese in my lunch. I wish I could say I stood strong and reveled in my strangeness. But that would be a lie. I hid in the library during lunch and recess and lost myself in the simple lives of ducklings and dogs and children playing outside on snowy days.
By third grade, I knew we were poor. I knew a lot of things an eight year old should never, never know. Home was scary, school was a minefield. I longed for Nike sneakers, color television and a Fluff sandwich on white bread. Instead, I was treated to a stay with my grandparents. They were not my favorite set of grandparents. They ate granola, listened to Peter, Paul and Mary, did not own a television and had little time for a prattling child. However, I was allowed to explore my grandfather's study -- only when he wasn't in there. I still remember pushing on the keys of his ancient typewriter wondering if I could create something wonderful. I can still see the VanGogh prints on the wall and trying to trace the swirls of Starry Night. Looming from ceiling to floor were stacks and stacks of books. From the dusty piles of poetry and plays and resource manuals, I discovered To Kill a Mockingbird -- and I read it. It took me long time, but I didn't care! A lonely eight year old has a lot of time on her hands. Sometimes my mom would a chapter aloud to me. She never asked why I was interested in this big book, she just kept reading with me. Looking back, I wonder if she was searching for the same escape and inspiration. In every inch of myself, I wanted to be Scout. She was so brave, so sure of her strength. I didn't know that the book was about racism or unjust laws and practices. I just wanted to bring Scout to school with me to fight my battles. I wanted her in my corner. So I don't know who this entry is about. My mother, who tried her best? My granparents, who showed me great things? My classmates, who showed me their very worst? Or maybe it is Scout, who created a little, strong piece of me.

Teachers are all about plans. Lesson plans. Sub plans. EMERGENCY sub plans. The change in plans conceived in the shower , scribbled on a post it and stuck to the original plans. Sometimes this plan brain seeps into personal matters and I reminded to not use my teacher voice at home. Or that maybe MY plan isn’t THE plan. [But I have planned for this response, and I an emergency plan B ready to go.]
I haven’t always been this…focused. When I was about four years old, I wandered away from my grandfather in the grocery store. I prowled through produce and bakery aisles in vain. Finally I just stood frozen and alone in front of the courtesy counter. I didn’t move until my grandfather’s tremendous hand engulfed mine. Without looking up, I knew I was safe. His familiar, gentle calluses soothed all fears. More than a memory, that moment is in present tense; and like my grandfather, stepping in when I am most alone.
We are more alike than either one of us had realized. We both craved the average suburban anonymity that eludes children who are marked by the addictions, abuse, absence or other frailties of their parents. To satisfy this, Grandpa built a world of bologna sandwiches, lawn games and color TV. And I basked in it. I leaned into his round belly as he dozed in front of the boob tube, and thought that live couldn’t get much better.
Between our summers together, Grandpa’s visits were erratic. He would jump in the car, drive for twelve hours, pop in and take me for ice cream and then continue on his way. He would repeat this hit on run routine with my father, uncles, cousins and any other family member who happened to be home while Grandpa was on his latest east coast tour. I wonder if this quickie visit habit was a remnant of the escape plan instinct that damaged children harbor. We always identify the exits. We don’t go in unless we know the quickest way out.
That is, until time eliminates the exits. Grandpa couldn’t remember where he parked his car at the mall. He was scared to drive; the family notorious Grandpa visits were retired to lore. However, when my daughter, Lili Jean, was born, my father revived the legend by chauffeuring my grandfather thousands of miles in a few days to bring four generations of our family together.
Lili sat on her great-grandfather’s lap and carefully studied his watch, moving it up and down his freckled arm. It was loose on wrist, just as his clothes hung loose on his shrinking frame. This small, slow man scared me. My father had warned me that Grandpa had changed, but this didn’t seem to be him at all. Once again, it seemed my search for my grandfather was fruitless. My fear was creeping toward tears when my father brought the Scrabble board. I hoped for refuge in this family tradition – the tradition being that we played, and Grandpa won. On my second turn I played a word Grandpa didn’t recognize. He missed the bonus squares on most of his turns. I couldn’t take it. I needed him to win. I made the worst plays possible, holding back my high scoring letters. But his decades long example had taught me too well. My skill and strategy battled my heart and I felt no control as my score continued to grow. I tired adding up my points incorrectly – and got caught. Finally, it was over. I had won and I was miserable. Grandpa peered over at the score sheet. “I won,” I confessed; I couldn’t even look at him. “Good,” he said, satisfied and put his hand over mine as he pushed away from the table. And there was my grandfather, he had found me again. My strength, survival - my family -- is his victory. It was his plan all along.

Did you know that the REAL [fictional] Mary Poppins was mean? She was strict with the Banks children and didn't smile much. She would take the children on magical adventures and then she'd deny they ever happened! Cruel and hysterical. I read the whole series. And the Great Brain books, all the Anastasia books, Judy Blume, Narnia, Roald Dahl. Series after series, shelf after shelf in the library. I discoverd nonfiction and read about Hitler, Groucho Marx, Elvis, Olympic athletes, Vaudville performers -- anyone, anything. All of it nestled somwhere in my brain, my heart, my lungs. Sometimes when I speak It hear Owen or Janie or Ophelia in my words. I use their voices when I am too scared to hear my own. It was the Scout in me that survived the torment of grade school. And she called in Charlie Bucket to navigate us through poverty and indifference. Sometimes I think of myself as a plaid shirt - - all of those characters woven in -- the wide, bold red stripes meeting crossing with a single thread of green -- all of it essential in the fabric. But sadly, I can't name some of those threads. I can recall the strength of the girl caring for her dying mother and then traveling cross country on her own -- but the title and author elude me. The picture book about the house of mud -- I'll never see it again. I'll never meet up with the family that lived in the abandoned house in the grave yard. But no one can deny it happened -- it is woven in me.

To begin...

Where does the story of my love of stories begin? I am really not sure. Recently, I was talking with a friend of mine and told her the two main reasons I read so much when I was a child. One -- I wanted to escape my world and two -- I wanted to find other kids who had not-so-average lives so I felt not so alone. Looking at his statement, I see how much it framed my life; from my choice of career to my choices in snack food. [I always wanted to try Turkish Delight because Edmund ate it in Narnia. A student brought me some and we shared it. It was squishy and strange, but a great experience.] As a teacher, I hope to help students examine the moments in their lives, savor their lives and make considerate, wise choices. If I can help them add depth to just one experience, I am thrilled.
One of the first books I remember loving is Bread and Jam for Frances. The kids [badgers?] in that book had the coolest little lunches to bring to school. Cloth napkins, vases of flowers -- awesome. I stuck a small green vase and some Lilies of the Valley in my school bag and put them on the table at lunch. It was not well received. Had these people never read the series of Frances books? I was embarrassed and sad. I spent much of my childhood striving to be wonderfully average and Frances didn't seem to be helping.