Over the last few months my blog has been “discovered” by the locals. And boy, are they restless. By that I mean that they mention reading my blog when I see them. Some are old friends, acquaintances, co-workers, and parents of my students. Ever since our local newspaper mentioned my writing there are some new readers here. WELCOME. I SEE YOU ON MY SITE METER. But this isn’t about the technology I use to see who reads me and where they are from in the world. That is, I suppose, the funny part to me. I have readers in New Zealand, Australia, England, and even the island of Hawaii (Hi, Kate!) who have been with me for years and watched the process of growing and changing and sometimes being a complete dolt who is hard-headed and can’t learn a lesson the first time it’s presented to me. For those faithful readers I am eternally humbled and grateful. You’re with me and I can’t quite express how much that means.

Since local folks have started reading me, however, I get some questions that I’ve never gotten before. “Don’t you get in trouble for writing a blog?” and “How are you able to write about your work in a public school without getting shut down?” and “How do you get away with that?” Even when a local reporter found me and started reading back through my archives (yeah, I saw you spend an entire weekend checking out my writing and I’m impressed because even I don’t go back and read stuff I’ve written for over 30 hours! But really! I’m honored!) he offered his opinion on my writing. I quote: “She’s also about as honest as one can get about one’s life and job without crossing the line and getting fired.” Sure, I know I’m “edgy” as a new, local reader just pointed out to me in an email. In fact, I’m having this pissing contest going on right now in the comment section of someone else’s blog on an issue and I’m certain the blog writer will ask me to stop commenting because I can’t hide the snark. The comebacks come too easily at times and that is, I have learned, very hard for some people to take. But again, I’m toeing the line and trying to be respectful of his space. 

My students are reading me more frequently, too. They tell me this at school. Some of them wonder why I even like to write. Mostly, I respond to them that they hate writing right now in school because it’s required and getting feedback in the comment section is FAR BETTER THAN THE WRATH OF A TEACHER’S RED PEN. I’ll bet if they got responses to their thoughts the way a blog offers they’d be more likely to open up and find their voice. It took years to find mine. What I learned was that I like the short, choppy sentences. I enjoy leaving a one-sentence paragraph to complete a thought. And I realized that it’s actually OKAY to begin a sentence with the word “and”. It’s also true that I like to use the caps lock when I’m pushing a point heavily across the page. 

What if I stopped writing about the anecdotes on my blog? Would you stop reading? I certainly don’t discuss too much of my personal life online that I can’t put out there for criticism. Does that mean I’ll never discuss my adopted daughter again? I know from hearing from people that it’s healing and refreshing to listen to someone honestly say, hey, this is my life and I’m learning lessons here and I’m screwing it up and making big mistakes but I’M LEARNING. I KEEP LEARNING. To my close friends I say that they know 100% of me and writing about your life and getting to the heart of the matter is sometimes not for public consumption. My guess is that I put about 10% of my life “out there” but that 90% of it is for me and my family and friends. You don’t get to comment on everything. That’s the beauty of this. Lots of blogging friends write far more personal stuff that, yes, I’m grateful for but, no, I wouldn’t share about myself unless it felt right and no one would get hurt in the process. That lesson? Already learned years ago. 

If I stopped sharing about my work in education then you might never know an update to one of the stories I shared about a student that I called “Anna”. In February of this year I wrote about her here. Since that time I haven’t heard anything from her. I ask some of my other students and no one seems to know anything. I checked up on her at the alternative school she ended up attending, but her attendance didn’t last very long. The day before Thanksgiving, Anna showed up in my office. She stopped by on her way out to get a copy of her transcripts so that she could go back and finish her GED. She said, “It’s the best I can do right now.” and I accepted that. She hugged me and said she missed seeing me. We exchanged phone numbers and poof! She was gone again. 

Should I stop writing about that? Those are the experiences that change me as an educator. I am ever a teacher. Most days, however, I am the student. Even you, sometimes, are the student and we learn together through writing. You’re with me and I don’t know if I could stop even if I were forced to do so. This writing? It won’t stop. Not even now that I’m at the end of the month of November and I signed up to do the NaBloPoMo deal of posting every day. No. I won’t stop.

I write to learn.

Posting every day for NaBloPoMo has been tiring toward the end of this month. At the beginning I could hardly decide what to write about and now that we’re coming to a close I have to admit that have needed, desperately needed, the practice. There’s a wee bit of guilt about recycling the stories I once wrote about my friend Allen, but it goes away when I start to look through the archives of the blog that I used to have (now defunct) and get sucked in for hours. I’ve edited some things and left others entirely in tact. I really hope you’ve enjoyed reading about him.

Part 1

For the remainder of that school year Allen wrote to me and my students. We continued to have coffee from his thermos while at my desk and other teachers began to ask me about my new friend. At first, they seemed curious as to why I would bother giving my time to this odd creature and then they began to seem a little jealous of the time we would spend together. It was either that or they wondered how my boards got cleaned every night while theirs was only on an every-other-day basis. 

Sometimes instead of a note to me he left things. Poetry, novels, feathers, flowers, and morel mushrooms. He made me love “In Flanders Fields” by John McCrae, “To A Vulture” by William Cullen Bryant and several old black and white movies that he taped from the AMC channel. He adored Deanna Durbin and confessed to having a strong crush on her. 

He wrote poems and stuck them inside books for me and they were like a treasure to find. I am much more shy about sharing poetry I’ve written because it’s just not very good. Allen encouraged me though and I even brought some paintings and pottery pieces I had done. It wasn’t much, but it was for me and he was always kind in his comments about them.  That school year went by quickly and I dreaded not seeing him on a regular basis. Admittedly, I was a bad friend and didn’t keep in touch as much as I should have. He was, as ever, forgiving towards me. After a summer apart from Allen I returned to my desk to find a note from him stuck under the trivet that read:

Now that I’ve filled out your student’s questionaire, do you accept me as a student again? I only had you as a teacher for one semester last year, but boy howdy! did I learn.

Silly man. He was under the impression that he was the student.

Part Two

Over the months we got to know one another Allen left too many poems to count on my desk. Most were short, but some were longer and typed on his old typewriter. He filed them years prior and began to go through them when we met. He prefaced many of his poems with a word of caution or an explanation. Sometimes the seriousness was evident, but more often than not I would read a poem only because he gave it a weird title like “Tornado Tofu” or “A Circus of Pronouns”. After the events of September 11, 2001 he wrote a poem entitled “Stan” and emphasized the endings of the names of countries: Pakistan, Afganistan, Uzbeckistan. 

He liked to copy the great poets and pay them homage by writing a parody. Bryant’s “To a Waterfowl” turned into Allen’s “To a Vulture” and was equally as powerful. I burst into laughter when the post-it note on a stack of papers he left for me read:  “I sat down to write poem no. 2 and no. 1 came out”. Another time he left a postscript: “No. 2 is my best in a long time, if not ever. It may not be “Emily Dickenson eat your heart out” but I’d show it to her if she were around.”

Book conversations were hard to follow with the two of us. We spoke rapidly and passionately about favorites and tried to get the other to read them. For instance, our conversations of adolescent fiction were lively discussions and he  confessed to never giving adolescent fiction much thought. I had always felt silly for liking it so much, but there’s a lot of phenomenal stuff out there. Finally, he gave in and read Maniac Magee and I was impatient with him as he took his time reading it. 

“Did you finish it yet?” 

“No. Sorry. I will, though. I’ve just not been feeling well lately.” 

Eventually, he did. And he loved it. I wanted him to like it, but when he said he loved it I was all the more pleased. Our next project was reading a book together. Aloud. In one month’s time, we read “Wouldn’t Take Nothing For My Journey Now” by Maya Angelou. Sometimes I followed him around while he cleaned classrooms. He still wasn’t feeling well and told me that he liked the sound of my voice, so I read most of it to him. We talked of the Newbury Awards and I told him a secret that I harbored: I would love to help choose the books that get those awards because I loved the genre so much.

Part Three

Big questions, the ones you talk about when time is of the essence, require big, honest answers. Honest answers aren’t easy to digest, but the conversations Allen and I had during the last month of the school year were tough. Nothing to lose, no boundaries. That was how we talked. This can be quite jarring and I’m no exception to the fragile human being, so I cried often and pondered not seeing this friend and losing him for the summer when he put so much into teaching me about myself.

The end of the school year approached and I finished up with my 7th graders by reading one of the books that I didn’t enjoy as a kid, but it was on the curriculum list, so I taught it. This was my fourth year teaching it and I must admit, I was finally beginning to like The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. Trying to make it interesting, I researched Mark Twain and found his wit and quips about life brilliant. Daily, I put a quote on the board and asked students to consider them in our classroom conversations. Allen left me a note about one of them referring to “truth” and again, we talked about the movie he had me watch The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie because this character held goodness, truth, and beauty above all else. It made me more bold and confident to discover such things and thankfully, I continued to mature as a person. There was no hesitation on my part when I asked him if he trusted God (Alice) with his life. He, at that time, wasn’t able to answer me. 

I had recounted to Allen about a sticky situation I found myself in that week. While having a discussion with a group of people (some were friends, some strangers) someone made a terribly racist remark and I was stunned into silence. Two things irritated me about this: one, everyone acted like it was no big deal and two, I didn’t challenge them on it. I just walked away. The shock from this bothered me and I talked to everyone I could about how awful it was. Allen didn’t give the accused the excuse that many others had given me: It’s not their fault for saying it in front of you, Kelly. They don’t know you’re half-black. This was not a comfort to me. 

He used this to bring up the discussion of censorship in books, particularly the one I was teaching. Someone, prior to my inheriting this classroom set, had crossed out all the bad words, including the “n” word in Tom Sawyer. 

“The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn has plenty of those “n” words, too.” He reminded me. “But, it’s a much better story.”

“How do you figure that?” I asked, really wanting to know.

Before he got a chance to answer, I confessed to Allen that I always thought he was a grown up Huck. Time for honesty, right? I shouldn’t have been afraid of his reaction. He was honored to have been thought of as Huck! He adored him and said that the most selfless act in all of American literature came from Chapter 31 of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn [he knew the chapter number and title by heart]. My homework assignment was to read it and respond in writing to him. 

Allen was right. He didn’t quit teaching. He just quit being paid for it.

Kelly,
Want some blooming beauty to grace your home for Spring? Plant pansies. Directions (1) stop saying you don’t have a green thumb – if it’s true, why do you go on reinforcing the belief for that is all it is? (2) plan them in a pot with premeum (sp) potting soil and put them in full sun. Water, fertilize, and enjoy.
                                                         Allen

Kelly,
I am compiling a list of what I taught and will leave it tonight. I am thinking/writing so many stuffs at the same time–including stuff on why we humans name – what does it mean, this naming? One line that came to me last night as I wrote was : The need to name is just a wish to tame. And then some ( a new favorite phrase-God name- that I just love – I probably will flog it to death). Instead of saying “God” I’ve come up with something else: Alice. It’s much prettier.
                                                             Allen

Kelly,
Some novels and authors and films I like:
The Inheritor
The Little Prince
Elmer Gantry
Shane
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid
Night of the Iguana
Prime of Miss Jean Brodie (I left a copy of this on your desk. Watch it yet?)
poets
Whitman, Walt
Emily Dickinson
e e cummings
Frost
T.S. Eliot
E A Robinson

Kelly,                                         5/16/01
Me: Humor: sense of unfairness, injustice. In the 3rd grade – I was 8, I read Chief Black Hawk. Afterwards, for the first time, I thought of me and my fellow American as “white men” as in (just before I scalped them) “Die White Men.” More to come.
                                                                Allen           p.s. Have you read Fern Hill?

Kelly,                                        Tues 5/22/01
As I watched “Antiques Roadshow” on PBS last night – held in Tulsa, Okla – they switched focus to the Gilcrease (sp?) Museum of American Art and there was the original of the print I loaned you of Black Hawk & Rolling Thunder. Wow. 
                                                                  
                                                               Allen 

Kelly,
Sat night a friend/fellow teacher from Seattle called me – I told him about your [wonderful class of 6th graders]  Sixers and he said that he, as permanent sub, taught a 6th grade class for three months – loved it. “They haven’t lost their innocence yet,” he said.
                                                                Allen

Philosophy in Overalls
Part II : Kurt Vonnegut’s “Kerass”
Over the next several months Allen would try to catch me in my classroom and I stayed later and later to meet with him. We sat at my desk and exchanged poems, stories, and a great friendship. I got around to asking how he went from an English teacher to a janitor and he responded, “I haven’t quit teaching, I just quit being paid money for it.” 

Each morning I would make a mad dash to my desk to see what erudite things he left and I would leave him notes as well. He almost always did this on a 3×5 card which I would put in my pocket and re-read during the day. Always clever, he pushed me to be succinct by responding on the back of the card. We eventually had so much to say that we took to writing on notebook paper from the classroom supply.

Ultimately, we had to hide them in my desk because the head janitor found out about our notes and took Allen aside to ask if he and I were having an affair. We loved that there was such concern for our friendship and laughed at the assumption. He knew the other guys were talking about him behind his back. He also said, “I’m sorry to say this, but it doesn’t look so good for you, Kelly. I mean, I am 60. Twice your age. But it makes ME look like a stud!” 

Once, I commented on the ease of our relationship and he told me that he’d already met me. I was getting ready for a reincarnation discussion with my eye roll and snorted laugh, but he looked at me and said, “It’s true. I’ve already met you. I just can’t place you yet. Someone in this life from my past that I’ve lost touch with.”  Conversation ended there and it was months later that this letter was on my desk:

Kelly,

One day in my Super (read: favorite) class Melodi C. started the curriculum that day by opening the wasted 15 min. part of the split lunch 4th period by asking me “Have you ever met someone new who at once you felt like you always knew?”

And I answered, “Well there are only really 19 people anyway.” Fast forward to Kurt Vonnegut’s writing which contained the word “Kerass.” Stop: to realize I don’t know any longer how much I stole from Vonnegut and how much I twisted/added: Kerass a small group of people/personalities [souls] that one spends his life (lives) with.

More personally. In 1975 in Oregon I realized that wherever I had lived there were a small group of personalities, the same ones wearing different people on the outside. In each place, each personality could manifest itself in different ways (sometimes the same ways) and sometimes the “stock characters” in my “play” would switch from major to minor parts. And I certainly didn’t recognize all or even most usually. But I saw some, enough along with the accompanying feeling of knowing: “they are always there.” 

Kerass: When I knew you in Seattle/Bellevue/Washington you were a junior named Pam Berg who sat right up front. Jon was also in that class. He sat one row over and one seat from the back. He drove me crazy by making comic asides (and I couldn’t hear them) and so it gave me the excuse to move him across from Pam (who was going with a real shallow ass) where I could hear his wit and so could Pam. It worked. Pam dropped “Shallow” and dated Jon for awhile and I got to hear his wit which contained such wisdom. 

Anyway, I didn’t “recognize” you until several months after meeting you. I just knew we spoke/wrote real (as we could) to each other. Wow. Boy Howdy. Whatcha think about all this stuff : Kerass?

Allen

Since I’m unofficially “cheating” I’ll add more than one Allen story:

Philosophy in Overalls
Part III : Getting to Know One of the “Kerass”

Meeting after school in the evenings quickly became a favorite time for me and there were times when I would go home after school to care for my children and make dinner and then come back to my classroom where I would find Allen engrossed in a book (vaccuuming could wait) he borrowed from my shelf. There are many adolescent novels that I believe adults should read and I recommend them to my adult friends. I asked Allen to read The Giver, Maniac Magee, and The Watsons Go to Birmingham because I love them dearly and get very excited while teaching them. He, in turn, asked me to read things that I avoided as an English Literature major while in undergrad. He shed new light on To Kill a Mockingbird, “Fern Hill” by Dylan Thomas and even introduced several short stories by J.D. Salinger that I didn’t even know existed. We both dearly loved Ambrose Bierce and Mark Twain quotes. There was a Twain quote on my board daily while I taught The Adventures of Tom Sawyer to my 7th graders.

When I think about the term “kerass” that Allen introduced to me, I often think of the number 19. He had fun telling me about the other 18 people he’d met over and over in his lifetime. I sat at his feet when he wept about a few of them who didn’t bother getting to know him even though he knew a lesson was to be learned from experiencing them. He would bring his thermos of coffee to share and tell me that he felt like a tutor in Roman times who was commissioned to educate a youth. The age difference was inconsequential, but Allen’s being twice my age amused him (especially since we were having a torrid “affair” – he told me that he mumbled “idiot” everytime he walked past the head janitor who accused us of this) and he, on several occasions, called me ‘precocious’ for developing the ability to be interested in an old man’s stories. 

My husband would tease me when he found the notes from Allen and say, “Oh? Another note from your boyfriend, huh?” but, in all seriousness, he encouraged my friendship with him because he knew I was growing. This was also a time in my life when I was teaching and becoming restless with it. This was my third school and a small Christian one. I kept seeing new opportunities in schools and kept taking them even though I took a $7,000 pay cut to work there. Still, he allowed it and for that I’m grateful to be married to one of the 19 people I’m to experience in this world. One who allows me to get to know myself better. Not at all unlike the survey I use at the beginning of the school year to get to know my students better. 

Here is Allen’s survey that he filled out:

Student Information Sheet

Name: Allen N.

Past reading experience (are you a fast reader, do you like to re-read books, etc…)

Most times the words propel my speedometer according to their meaning, but sometimes I slow to consider, stopping to savor now and then. I often reread the books, stories, poems I love.*

What type of books do you like to read for enjoyment?

History. Biography. Other non-fiction – since 1975 almost exclusively * from 1961-75 mostly literature. 1948 Horatio Alger Jr. Books. 
*exception Kurt Vonnegut – the closest thing to Twain we have.

What are some books you have read this summer (or recently)?

An Hour Before Daylight - Jimmy Carter
Maniac Magee

Do you have a favorite book?

Many. One is * Nine Stories by J.D. Salinger 
especially *“The Laughing Man” and *“For Esme with Love and Squalor” 
*please ask Mallory to read

Tell me about yourself. Include sports, artistic interests, hobbies, music tastes, siblings and parents, personality types (Are you funny? Serious?), anything you would like to share.

In 1949 Springfield got new stop/pedestrian lights downtown. My father and I, on the way to the Orpheum Theatre, encoutered only green circles and little lighted “walk” words until we hit the intersection at 5th and Washington. We were on the SW corner heading North on 5th and a red circle and a little lighted “wait” and a cop on the corner (NW) where we were headed. My father looked west. It was clear for three blocks. With no hesitation he stepped off the curb already in third gear overdrive (his usual pace). As we stepped off the curb the cop said, “The sign said ‘wait’.” With no hesitation, my father said, “It didn’t say how long to wait.” We walked on to the movie.

Do you have a favorite memory verse from the Bible? If yes, which one?
Jesus wept.

How would you characterize yourself as a student?
Terrible mostly. I’m lazy and rarely study. But I read a lot and think (often in flashes). And I’m eagerly easily motivated by a teacher who reads what I write — And writes copious comments back.

at the top he had written in red ink: Thanks for the loan of Maniac. I’m now reading The Color Purple from your shelf.

to be continued

In re-reading this I realize how much my writing has changed and see a number of things I’d change if I were to edit these stories. First of all, I was learning HTML and playing with the colors back then and that’s why it’s like a rainbow exploded onto the page. I even learned how to change fonts and got a little out of control there. Secondly, it’s so bare bones that I laugh all all that’s missing. But I was just practicing writing after years of only doing it for school or teaching and honestly, I should have known better even then. There are lots of facts left out and many details that I failed to fill in this skeleton with, but I won’t edit here on my blog. I’ll save that for the book. 

Someday.

Not that kind of recycling. A different kind. This is a post that I started writing about four years ago. If you’re a reader who has been with me that long then this will be a familiar reading. If you’re new, welcome! So glad you could make it. 

The series of these posts was The Allen Series and this is a true story. 

Part I : Huck Finn All Grown Up

When I first met Allen I was wary of him because of his appearance. Since we became friends I’ve often described him to people who wanted to know who this oddity was. This is what I say: He’s in his 60s, has a full beard, bushy white hair, a few missing teeth, and thick glasses that are probably fifteen years out of fashion. His ensemble is complete by black tennis shoes and overalls. He probably weighs about 130 pounds soaking wet because I’m sure that bushy beard and hair can hold a good 10 pounds. I’d seen him on my way out the door of school several times. Only a “hi” or “goodnight” ever left my lips as I passed him when I walked out to my car. 

Mid school-year I decided it was easier to grade papers late into the evening in my classroom rather than take them home where a toddler and two school age children resided. My husband always supported me in this because if I did work at home other things would distract me and I could never get caught up with grades. It was one such evening that I stayed so late that Allen had made his way down to my classroom to clean the boards, vaccuum, and empty the trash. In my mind I recall thinking about how he looked what Huckleberry Finn would look like all grown up. He looked like a man who had a hard life. Never without his broom or a pack of cigarettes. I glanced up and said a quick hello before concentrating back on the papers on my desk. “Please don’t talk to me. Please leave me alone,” I thought. He came in and worked for a bit before making a motion to have a conversation. I knew it was coming and in my mind was wishing him away. I didn’t feel like small talk tonight. It was already past 7:00 pm and I had too much to do. Plus, look at this guy! He was a janitor and I was a teacher and what could we possibly discuss?

He spoke first. “Do you know which of the teachers is the one who is teaching the Holocaust and Anne Frank?” This was his opener? He wants to know about WWII stuff that’s been up in my classroom? He must have seen my notes on the chalkboard “Yeah. That would be me. My 8th graders are reading it right now. Why do you ask?” He told me that he had always liked history and spent some time visiting the museum dedicated to her in Amsterdam. Immediately I dropped my pen on the desk and looked over at him. Had this man actually been to Europe? This old janitor who emptied my trash daily? I was all at once jealous, intrigued, confused. “When did you go there?” Even as I said it I knew that the emphasis on “you” was too great and I betrayed my thoughts to him. He just sighed a little and answered, “When I was studying at the University of Leeds. I visited most of Europe in the early sixties.” 

Our conversation lasted another 2 hours. Slowly, I began to be drawn in to the tale of his life. His love of crows, his disdain for one of my favorite characters (Atticus Finch – gasp!) and his colorful life that led him to his current position. Our talk was all over the map. We talked about everything and nothing had any particular flow to it, but we kept up together. He wasn’t just smart. He wasn’t just intelligent. He was incredible to a degree that even as I conversed with him I knew he was a once in a lifetime kind of person. I spoke slowly, thought deeply, and tried to make this time last with him. Deliberately, I knew this needed to be impressed on my brain so I played everything in slow motion. But it was time to leave. My whole face smiled as we said goodnight and as I extended my hand to shake his he took it, kissed it and told me it was a pleasure talking to me. The janitor told me it was a pleasure. I was hooked.

The next day this note was on my desk:
I filled out the questionnaire you gave your students. Is that ok? It’s under your copy of To Kill a Mockingbird. Do like that book? You realize that Atticus isn’t the character he purports to be, right?
Allen

to be continued
 

©Mocha Momma