Dear Nana,
Sorry it's been a few weeks since I've written, but with the Thanksgiving holidays and the whole family in town, I have not had a moment to sit down and write. Yet, today, as I was waiting to cross Park Avenue on 60th Street on my way to the 6 train, I overheard something that struck me and I just needed to share it with you.
As I waited for the light to turn red, a small group of teenagers walked up beside me. I caught the tail end of their conversation. One boy says to another, "I can't believe I'm gonna be 18, dude." He paused to contemplate his statement a moment. Then, "We're getting f***ing old, man."
Ha! I thought to myself. 18? Old? The light changed and I left them standing on the corner, smirking as I made my way across the Christmas lit avenue. How juvenile. How ridiculous, I thought. As if at 18, anyone can be considered old. And just as I was about to brush the comment from my mind, dismissing it as having about as much consequence as a single snowflake in an all-out blizzard, I stopped. Hmm. Actually . . . maybe they were right.
I mean, I know that 18 isn't old. And certainly, of all people, you know that 18 is nowhere near aged. But, at one time, for each of us, it was. And as I pondered this, I thought back to the time when I thought that 30 was old. That 25 was old. That how-can-I-possibly-be-18 time in my life. I even thought all the way back to the time when I was in 2nd grade, the age of my students now. I distinctly remember that Graham, who was in 4th grade at the time, seemed to tower over me with his wisdom and experience. He was in 4th grade! To me, at age 8, 4th graders were the pinnacle of coolness. No one could top their supremity in this arena. (Well, 5th graders probably could. And 6th graders. And 7th graders ... but I didn't know any at the time so 4th grade was my fantasy. My Mecca. When I get to 4th grade someday . . .)
But, isn't that what makes life so, well, liveable. Looking forward to that next phase and all that comes along with it? That feeling of "WOW" I can't believe I'm whatever age I am. How did this happen? And now what? Each new era brings with it new challenges, new excitements, new paths to cross and worlds to traverse emotionally, physically, even spiritually. And I think we say to ourselves "How can I possibly be this old?" with each new phase, because it's too hard to really take all that came before it, all the days and nights and hours and minutes of our personal experiences, and believe that all of those experiences have added up to Now. To this moment. To this age. It's just too hard to wrap it up and put a bow on it and think, well that's my life. That's what I've done, and now I'm 20 or 30 or, in your case, 90. It's easier to just say, man, I'm old. And when we say that, we don't really mean that we're old (okay maybe you did when you turned 90, cause, well, that just is) but we're saying instead, Look at me! Look where I've been and look where I am going. Look what I've done, or haven't done, or all the things I still want to do. Look at all of the choices I've made, the good and the bad. Look where all my roads have brought me. I can't believe I'm here!
You must have had the same conversation that the teenagers did countless times in your life. At 50. At 60, 70, 80, 90 and all those years in between. And so have I. I often find myself thinking, How can I possibly be 32 years old? But I'm sure I used to find myself thinking, How can I possibly be 26?
As I made my way to the 6 train tonight I wiped that smirk off my face. Teenagers aren't usually right. But that boy was. He was f***ing old. For him. And think about how many more times he'll get to say that over the years. And lucky for him, it just keeps getting better. Knock on wood.
Love, Katie
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
A Second Chance
Dear Nana,
Just a quick note to let you know, that, while I never did get a chance to touch those chicks, as I wrote in my letter to you last week, I had the opportunity this week to redeem myself with yet another feathered friend.
In the spirit of Thanksgiving, we had an assembly at school. Our very own Pilgrim friend came dressed in buckled hat and white tights. He offered the children a selection of gourds and Indian corn to touch and grind and shake, as well as old-fashioned tools used in Colonial Times to explore. But our Pilgrim did not come alone. No. Our Pilgrim brought a friend that was to be the main attraction. A live turkey.
The turkey was named, unoriginally, Tom. It was a large, awkward animal that was quite unattractive. I suppose most turkeys are. This member of the fowl family is perhaps the least handsome. Poor Tom, with his bright red gobble and taloned toes did not hold a candle to the adorableness of the sweet yellow chicks, but, he would have to do. When it came time to pet the turkey, the kids once again clambered, although not with quite the fervor they had shown with the chicks. And as I stood near our Pilgrim and called students up one by one to pet the turkey, it occurred to me that this was my chance. It wasn't quite the same as the chick encounter since, well, Tom was not only the opposite of puffy and cute, but was, in fact, rather scary looking as he rested in the Pilgrims arms, paralyzed with fear of the small hands that kept touching him. But he was the only fowl with which I'd come in contact since the day I'd neglected to pet the chicks. And because I regretted that day and because I vowed to never let my adult-ness get in the way of my child-inside wonder again, I decided to join my students in line and await my turn to pet Tom.
Tom seemed to be glaring at me as if to say, "You too?" but I reached out anyway and ran my hand across his white head which was surprisingly soft. He was, dare I say it, almost cuddly with his downy feathers. Then I stroked the back of his neck where his pimpled skin was rubbery and smooth, like a hundred tiny pencil erasers. I smiled, thrilled with the strangeness of that sensation on my hand and happy that it felt not at all like I thought it would. And then, it was over. I pumped a bit of hand sanitizer onto my hands, rubbed them together, and headed, with my 2nd graders back to the classroom. I was delighted.
And there you have it. I haven't quite made up for missing the chicks. But I'm on my way. One member of the fowl family at a time. I wonder if I'll feel strange about eating my Thanksgiving turkey this year. . .
Love, Katie
Just a quick note to let you know, that, while I never did get a chance to touch those chicks, as I wrote in my letter to you last week, I had the opportunity this week to redeem myself with yet another feathered friend.
In the spirit of Thanksgiving, we had an assembly at school. Our very own Pilgrim friend came dressed in buckled hat and white tights. He offered the children a selection of gourds and Indian corn to touch and grind and shake, as well as old-fashioned tools used in Colonial Times to explore. But our Pilgrim did not come alone. No. Our Pilgrim brought a friend that was to be the main attraction. A live turkey.
The turkey was named, unoriginally, Tom. It was a large, awkward animal that was quite unattractive. I suppose most turkeys are. This member of the fowl family is perhaps the least handsome. Poor Tom, with his bright red gobble and taloned toes did not hold a candle to the adorableness of the sweet yellow chicks, but, he would have to do. When it came time to pet the turkey, the kids once again clambered, although not with quite the fervor they had shown with the chicks. And as I stood near our Pilgrim and called students up one by one to pet the turkey, it occurred to me that this was my chance. It wasn't quite the same as the chick encounter since, well, Tom was not only the opposite of puffy and cute, but was, in fact, rather scary looking as he rested in the Pilgrims arms, paralyzed with fear of the small hands that kept touching him. But he was the only fowl with which I'd come in contact since the day I'd neglected to pet the chicks. And because I regretted that day and because I vowed to never let my adult-ness get in the way of my child-inside wonder again, I decided to join my students in line and await my turn to pet Tom.
Tom seemed to be glaring at me as if to say, "You too?" but I reached out anyway and ran my hand across his white head which was surprisingly soft. He was, dare I say it, almost cuddly with his downy feathers. Then I stroked the back of his neck where his pimpled skin was rubbery and smooth, like a hundred tiny pencil erasers. I smiled, thrilled with the strangeness of that sensation on my hand and happy that it felt not at all like I thought it would. And then, it was over. I pumped a bit of hand sanitizer onto my hands, rubbed them together, and headed, with my 2nd graders back to the classroom. I was delighted.
And there you have it. I haven't quite made up for missing the chicks. But I'm on my way. One member of the fowl family at a time. I wonder if I'll feel strange about eating my Thanksgiving turkey this year. . .
Love, Katie
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Which Came First? The Chick or the Chicken
Dear Nana,
Did you ever have a class pet? I imagine your answer will be "no" because you taught older children than I. Well, I don't have a class pet either, but last week I took my 2nd graders over to the 1st grade classroom so they could meet the school's newly hatched chicks. My 2nd graders sat in a circle as the 1st grade teacher gently plucked the chicks one by one from the warmth of their glass-enclosed home and placed them in the center of the circle. The chicks wandered around timidly, reluctantly letting my 2nd graders lift them into their hands. As I watched from outside the circle, I remembered that I, too, was the proud mother of a baby chick in my own Kindergarten class so many years ago. The chicks, one for each of us, had began as warm eggs in an incubator. When the eggs hatched, out waddled fluffy yellow chicks, dizzy with the brightness of the world outside their egg and uneasy on their just-grown legs. They were so cute it was hard to believe that these sweet pastel puffs would one day grow up to be chickens. To us, they were cuddly, sunshiney balls of joy. We clambered to get our hands on them, looking forward each day to the time when we'd be allowed to play with them.
This time, my 2nd graders scrambled to find the seats closest to the chicks so that they could be first to hold them, just as I had done so many years before. But not me. This time, I didn't even hold one. In fact, I don't think I even pet one of the chicks. Perhaps it's because, as a grown-up, I worry about things like germs, something a child never worries about. Grown-ups don't dig their hands in the dirt and scoop out worms. We don't look under rocks to see if a caterpillar is hiding. We don't fingerpaint. But why? Why shouldn't we? Why didn't I hold a chick? Granted, the chicks, as cute as they were, were pooping all over the place. But the amazing thing is, the kids didn't care. They just wiped their hands on the newspaper that lay under the chicks placed there for just that reason, and scooped up another chick who would, in turn, do the same thing. Scoop up chick, chick poops, newspaper wipe, and so on. The cycle continued and the joy on their faces grew with each new chick they held.
I'm not even sure it's the getting dirty part that really kept me from picking up a chick. After all, hand sanitzer was at the ready. Instead, I think that, as adults, we sometimes stop doing the things that, as children, so amazed us. That little chick was, to me, just a chicken. It had lost that Easter holiday, stuffed animal sweetness that it had once held for me as a child. This chick would one day grow up to be someone's dinner. And, in that moment, I couldn't see past that. But when we got back to our own classroom, hand's sanitized, spirit's energized, I looked at my 2nd graders faces, still beaming from their chick encounter. And I thought, "to be a child again..." I wanted to race back there and hold a chick in my own two hands just as I'd done in Kindergarten. I wanted to let it poop on me and I wanted not to care that it did. I couldn't go back, of course. I couldn't leave my 2nd graders unattended. After all, we had math and reading and social studies to do. But I thought about those chicks for the rest of the day. I would go back there. I would hold a chick.
And then, it was too late. I had missed my chance. The chicks had been picked up by a farmer. They had gone back to the farm. There, they would become . . . chickens.
Even though I didn't hold a chick last week, and even though I'm mad at myself for not doing it, I'm glad to have had the chick experience. It reminded me again of why I am a teacher. Don't you remember, Nana? It is moments like this that we are allowed back into that magical world of childhood when there is so much of the world to see, so many things to learn, so few stones unturned. To hold a baby chick was, for my 2nd graders, a great highlight of a still short life. For me, it was not all that important. But it once was. Oh, was it ever. And I promise to myself that next year, poop be damned, I will hold a chick. And the small child in me, the child I once was, will thank me for it.
Love, Katie
Did you ever have a class pet? I imagine your answer will be "no" because you taught older children than I. Well, I don't have a class pet either, but last week I took my 2nd graders over to the 1st grade classroom so they could meet the school's newly hatched chicks. My 2nd graders sat in a circle as the 1st grade teacher gently plucked the chicks one by one from the warmth of their glass-enclosed home and placed them in the center of the circle. The chicks wandered around timidly, reluctantly letting my 2nd graders lift them into their hands. As I watched from outside the circle, I remembered that I, too, was the proud mother of a baby chick in my own Kindergarten class so many years ago. The chicks, one for each of us, had began as warm eggs in an incubator. When the eggs hatched, out waddled fluffy yellow chicks, dizzy with the brightness of the world outside their egg and uneasy on their just-grown legs. They were so cute it was hard to believe that these sweet pastel puffs would one day grow up to be chickens. To us, they were cuddly, sunshiney balls of joy. We clambered to get our hands on them, looking forward each day to the time when we'd be allowed to play with them.
This time, my 2nd graders scrambled to find the seats closest to the chicks so that they could be first to hold them, just as I had done so many years before. But not me. This time, I didn't even hold one. In fact, I don't think I even pet one of the chicks. Perhaps it's because, as a grown-up, I worry about things like germs, something a child never worries about. Grown-ups don't dig their hands in the dirt and scoop out worms. We don't look under rocks to see if a caterpillar is hiding. We don't fingerpaint. But why? Why shouldn't we? Why didn't I hold a chick? Granted, the chicks, as cute as they were, were pooping all over the place. But the amazing thing is, the kids didn't care. They just wiped their hands on the newspaper that lay under the chicks placed there for just that reason, and scooped up another chick who would, in turn, do the same thing. Scoop up chick, chick poops, newspaper wipe, and so on. The cycle continued and the joy on their faces grew with each new chick they held.
I'm not even sure it's the getting dirty part that really kept me from picking up a chick. After all, hand sanitzer was at the ready. Instead, I think that, as adults, we sometimes stop doing the things that, as children, so amazed us. That little chick was, to me, just a chicken. It had lost that Easter holiday, stuffed animal sweetness that it had once held for me as a child. This chick would one day grow up to be someone's dinner. And, in that moment, I couldn't see past that. But when we got back to our own classroom, hand's sanitized, spirit's energized, I looked at my 2nd graders faces, still beaming from their chick encounter. And I thought, "to be a child again..." I wanted to race back there and hold a chick in my own two hands just as I'd done in Kindergarten. I wanted to let it poop on me and I wanted not to care that it did. I couldn't go back, of course. I couldn't leave my 2nd graders unattended. After all, we had math and reading and social studies to do. But I thought about those chicks for the rest of the day. I would go back there. I would hold a chick.
And then, it was too late. I had missed my chance. The chicks had been picked up by a farmer. They had gone back to the farm. There, they would become . . . chickens.
Even though I didn't hold a chick last week, and even though I'm mad at myself for not doing it, I'm glad to have had the chick experience. It reminded me again of why I am a teacher. Don't you remember, Nana? It is moments like this that we are allowed back into that magical world of childhood when there is so much of the world to see, so many things to learn, so few stones unturned. To hold a baby chick was, for my 2nd graders, a great highlight of a still short life. For me, it was not all that important. But it once was. Oh, was it ever. And I promise to myself that next year, poop be damned, I will hold a chick. And the small child in me, the child I once was, will thank me for it.
Love, Katie
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