Being a Teacher

“I’ve come to a frightening conclusion that I am the decisive element in the classroom. It’s my personal approach that creates the climate. It’s my daily mood that makes the weather. As a teacher, I possess a 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 heal. In all situations, it is my response that decides whether a crisis will be escalated or de-escalated and a child humanized or dehumanized.”  ~ Haim G. Ginott

Making the decision to be a teacher is one that should not be taken lightly. While on a surface level, it may appear to some people to be a fabulous profession offering summers off; teaching really has to be in your blood.

Think of the challenging stages your own child has gone through.  Of course you worked through these phases with your child. (Think Terrible Twos, puberty, adolescence…) Now imagine that there are teachers who actually choose to work with children during these developmentally challenging times, every day, year in and year out. Teachers choose the level they want to teach: elementary, middle, or high school.  Although they can be moved up or down a little by their administrator, they and their administrator know what age child they work best with.

During my early years growing up, I have memories of playing teacher.  I would line up my many stuffed animals and dolls on my bed.  They would always listen attentively as I played teacher, telling them what to do or teaching them something.  When my younger siblings were old enough to play, I used them instead.  We had little desks that I would have them sit at and they willingly played along with their big sister. 

I loved being a student too.  I remember coming home from school in first grade and sitting at the kitchen table, eager to do my work.  I thought of it as a challenge to see if I knew the answers and I was always pleased that I did.  I loved learning and that did not change throughout my school-age years.

When I was in college and was home for break, I would come home well after my parents went to sleep.  My mother would always leave a note on the kitchen table.  It reminded the last one in to lock up, turn the outside lights off, and things of that nature.  As I read it, I couldn’t help but to make corrections if there were spelling or usage errors.  I know my mom wrote it when she was sleepy and not paying attention to correct grammar, but I couldn’t help myself; it was in my blood. 

When I had children of my own, I loved teaching them things, as all parents do.  They were very eager to learn from me when they were young and I relished every moment of it.  But at some point, they pull away from parental help.  I now know that it is a natural part of the process, but I had a hard time with it back then.  I would hear things like, “Just because you are a teacher, doesn’t mean you know what my teacher wants.”  They were right.

I work with 10-12 year olds.  For seven years I taught fifth grade (10-11) and then I switched to sixth grade (11-12).  I love this age.  I describe it best by saying that they ‘will still do anything for a sticker’.  I would not choose to work with high school students, nor would I choose to work with kindergarteners.  I find my fifth and sixth grade students easy and fun to work with.  Yet, when I talk to early elementary or high school teachers, they comment they don’t know how I can work with that age.  I return the sentiment.  Teachers have to find their niche, whether it is the level or the subject they teach.

The 11-year old mind thinks its own way.  When one of our students was moving to another state mid-year, the other kids wrote goodbye cards.  While most said they would miss him, wished him luck, hoped he would like his new school and make new friends, one student said ‘I hope your things don’t break.’  Although that is not something I would think of to worry about, that was a concern for him.  

Last year I gathered all my classes into one room to announce that I would be out of school for a while because I was having a knee replacement.  I told them my knee was worn out.  When we returned to our smaller classes, one girl asked what my knee looked like.  I looked at her with a puzzled look and told her it looked just like her knee and asked why.  She said she wanted to know what a knee looked like when it was worn out.  I then understood, and told her it was the inside that was worn out and assured her that the outside looked very much like anyone else’s knee.  I imagine she was picturing a disintegrating piece of flesh…  Teachers really need to understand the way the brains of their students work. 

When our sons got older, they and my husband had to endure living with a sixth-grade teacher.  I used to repeat a task multiple times, restating it differently, making sure they understood what I said.  I would break down simple tasks, draw maps or diagrams, correct spelling, and tell corny jokes.  They were all very patient with me, especially my husband.  He used to look at me and smile.  That’s when I realized I couldn’t turn it off.  I didn’t need to repeat and restate for him, but it just came out of my mouth. 

I finally realized I needed to acknowledge that my sons were growing up.  They didn’t want to hear the corny jokes or want me proofreading their papers.  They wanted to be independent in school.  It was very hard for me, but I had no choice.  I raised strong independent boys who were as stubborn as I was in some respects. “The object of teaching a child is to enable him to get along without a teacher.” ~ Elbert Hubbard.

Teaching is also the only profession I know that forces you to have an official photo taken each year.  Looking through the school yearbooks, you can reflect on your better hairstyles and have a good laugh.  You can also notice the subtle changes from year to year of the aging process. I'm not sure if this is good or bad...

Sometimes a profession is in your blood.  For me, I can’t help but being a teacher.  I love to impart knowledge and watch as light bulbs go off, paving the way to enlightenment.  I love making an impact on a child’s life.  I love when students come back to visit and a few of them tell me that they are going to become teachers because of me.  That is what being a teacher is all about.  

Although I miss my stuffed animals, I love having real students who can smile. 

Around the age I knew I wanted to be a teacher...

The Neighborhood Show

Growing up now-a-days is so different from growing up in the 1960s.  During my elementary school years, our entertainment consisted of playing in the neighborhood.  Depending on the time of year, this looked like riding bikes up and down our dead end street, joining in on a game of kickball in the court across the street from our house, swinging on the vines or riding sleds in the woods behind our house, collecting tadpoles from the stream along the side of our house, making snow forts, or playing with dolls or other toys inside someone’s house.  However, one of the greatest memories of all was the neighborhood show. 

During the summertime, I would organize a group of friends from our neighborhood to perform.  We had many acts to delight the younger kids.  I know my friend Robin and I sang.  We even wore matching short sets and white knee high socks.  LuAnne dressed as like a gypsy and did a ventriloquist routine with her ‘friend’.  Several of the girls danced while Dorothy played the accordion.  The accordion was a popular instrument to learn back then.  Not sure why its popularity went away.  Finally, some of my friends exhibited their artwork.

LuAnne, one of my best friends growing up, performing her act.  I notice here my cousin Kevin from Long Island, so I guess our guests came from far and wide to see the show!

No show would be a show without a great venue.  If you are wondering where this wonderful show took place, it was in our family’s ‘little garage’.  This is what we called the second garage that my father added to the back of our house, next to the main garage.  We created our own backdrop for the stage, which was my Twister board hung from rope to cover my father’s tools and lawn mower.  We added posters and artwork to the sides of the Twister board to add a special artistic touch.  More artwork and posters lined the side of the garage doors.  Visitors could look at all these fabulous masterpieces before and after the show.

Our fabulous stage...Also, performers were more interested in their peer's approval.  How cute are the girls clapping for their friend?? 

Part of creating the venue was also to create the seating area.  We lined the audience area with picnic benches, my parents’ folding chairs, and borrowed chairs from some neighbors.  If you rode your bike down the street as Jeff did in the photo below, you sat on your bike to watch.   If seating got tight, which you can see from the photo, little ones sat on laps or kids squished together.  

I love that we did this for the younger kids in the neighborhood. 

Publicity was easy.  We lived on a long dead-end road and we had a neighborhood pool.  When we were putting on a show, everyone knew it and not because of a Facebook event invite.  Back then word of mouth was all you needed, but we made and hung some signs anyway because it was fun making them. Plus besides, what else was there for the kids to do during the day besides going to the pool?  This was a nice event to look forward to.

One thing I remember is that the kids watched the whole show intently and behaved so well. Perhaps it was a combination of instinct and upbringing. This was a special event for the kids in our neighborhood and it was new to many of them.  There was no talking during the show, standing up or shouting out, or leaving after their friend performed.  These are problems that exist today with behavior at performances.

Although my mother was home, no parent chaperones were needed or seen in any of the photos.  Adults were not part of this at all.  They were not adding their professional advice or making sure their kids were the best.  It was not about being the best.  It was about having fun and doing something creative with our time.

In sixth grade, Robin, Mindy, and I performed in the Crompond Elementary School Talent Show.  Our group, the Forget-Me-Nots, played guitar and sang Mr. Tambourine Man by Bob Dylan.  I also loved art classes and took them throughout high school.  But as I got older, I drifted more to sports.  Unfortunately, instead of embracing both I allowed my artistic side to fade to the background. 

It is interesting reflecting back on this memory because in 2007 I founded a non-profit organization called RMAC, Ridgefield Music and Arts Center.  Its mission is to provide performance and exhibition opportunities for students. My sons were interested in music and I guess I sensed that I had the ability to create something like this.  I was not thinking of my ‘experience as a 10 year-old’ at the time, but I think it is kind of interesting now that I dusted off these memories and look back on them.  The shows RMAC puts on are organized by high school students under adult advisors’ supervision.  We have to think about renting venues and providing insurance, which means providing adult chaperones.  The age group is different too; my neighborhood shows were organized and put on by 10-12 year olds, so the concerns were different. 

My neighborhood friends and fellow artists.

Going back to my opening statement, times were different then than they are today.  I sure do miss those simpler times of pure creativity of the kids, by the kids, and for the kids.

A House in the Bronx

On Olinville Avenue in the Bronx, not far from Gun Hill Road, sits a three family house that was once shared and owned by my maternal grandparents and great aunts.  The family immigrated from Campobasso, Italy in the early 1900s.  As was the case for many families at that time, they chose to live together to help each other out and because they were a close-knit family.  Although my family has not owned this house for over 40 years, I have warm memories of it from when I was very young.

I remember the excitement that ran through me as our family drove from Yorktown Heights to visit.  We would have contests to see who could spot and count the most animals driving down the Taconic Parkway.  Sheep, cows, groundhogs, deer; they were all very exciting to see along the road.  As we exited at Gun Hill Road, we saw the familiar landmark of the elevated train.  Needless to say we were not in Kansas, I mean Yorktown anymore.  A few turns around narrow roads lined with cars parked on both sides led us to 'grandma’s house'.  Regardless of who owned it or who paid the bills, it was always about grandma.  My father would religiously point out which house he used to live in as well as other relatives who lived in the neighborhood.  We would hear the same stories each time.  Looking back, I am glad he drilled them into me because now I point them out to our sons.

Another new concept to me was watching my dad parallel park along the street.  Somehow there always seemed to be a little bit of space for him to craftily squeeze into.  As you approached the house from the sidewalk, there were two sets of steps to climb before a majestic wooden wrap-around porch greeted you.  It is here that I sat with my great Aunt Mary learning how to crochet when I was six years old.  It was a skill that she insisted I know and to this day I am happy to carry on some aspect of her creative legacy through the items that I crochet. There were some chairs on the porch looking out to a front lawn of greenery and flowers in the spring.

 

 My dad by the steps leading to the porch; my grandfather sitting on the porch.

As you entered the house you had a choice to ascend to the second floor or turn left.  Turning left took you to the ground floor apartment.  This is where my great Aunt Mary and Aunt Betty lived.  Neither of the sisters married, although Aunt Mary had several suitors. Born in Italy, she was the oldest of six siblings who survived.  She turned down a few proposals when the men wanted her to give up working and become a full time wife. She was an independent woman who would not compromise her career goals if that were what being a wife meant.  She was a seamstress who specialized in embroidery and had her own business in the Bronx.  She embroidered the inaugural gowns of two First Ladies:  Florence Harding and Eleanor Roosevelt.  Both of these gowns are currently on display at the Smithsonian in Washington D.C. 

As you entered the living room, there was a candy jar that was always filled with candy.  It was the first stop we made when entering the house and a welcome one at that.  The upholstered couches were now covered in plastic because there were so many little ones running around.  I remember their stiffness when I attempted to sit on them.  Big Italian family dinners were generally held in their dining room for the adults, while the kids were relegated to gather round the kitchen table in the next room over.  Above that kitchen table hung a beautiful Tiffany lamp that I always admired.  It was decorated with bright colored stained glass fruit. After all the kids cleaned their plates of the first course of homemade melt-in-your-mouth lasagna, we scattered off to play while the adults went on to their second course and did that boring thing called talking.

This was the only photo I could find of the downstairs dining room.  You can see the kids eating in the kitchen off to the left, being fed by Aunt Betty.

Downstairs in the basement was Aunt Mary’s workroom.  We couldn’t wait for Aunt Mary to invite us down, which happened most visits.  As we descended the steep cement steps, we entered a world of treasures.  She would take us to one of her many bead boxes and always gave us some beads or trinkets.  We would use them to make jewelry or for decorations.  Sometimes they just went home into one of our little boxes of gems from Aunt Mary.  We were like kids in a candy store and were in awe of all the amazing sparkly beads and sequins she had.  We had such fun excursions to that room.

Going back to the entry foyer and up the set of carpeted steps led to my grandparents’ apartment.  Since my poppy died when I was six, most of my memories of that apartment were with my gram.  This was my favorite place to have a sleepover.  When I was with one of my siblings or cousins, we slept in the end room.  Other times I got to sleep in one of the twin beds in my gram’s room.  I felt like I won the lottery when I got to be in her room.   I remember hearing the elevated trains running all night long along Gun Hill Road.  Gram said I would get used to it quickly and she was right.  My favorite memory was having breakfast with her in the morning.  It consisted of toast with lots of butter and coffee.  If felt like one of the adults when I got to have coffee.  Of course the ‘coffee’ was made up of mostly milk and sugar, which is why it was so dang delicious.  It is those warm memories that make me smile to this day.

Going up yet one more set of narrow steps brought you to Aunt Helen’s attic apartment.  Smaller than her sisters’ places below her, it was perfect for her now that her family was raised and on their own.  I would venture up there once a day to visit and see what fun things she had for me to do.  Of course I believed that my grandmother and all my great aunts’ number one priority was to keep me entertained.  Aunt Helen would show me her photo albums, books, and other interesting trinkets.  Before long, I was bounding down the steps and off to the backyard.

Although the yard was small, we would entertain ourselves for quite some time.  All it took was a small tennis ball or just running around the nooks and crannies of the property.  I remember the grape vines growing in the back of the house, which were used to make their wine. There was a narrow driveway on the right side of the house.  Although it was part of their property, none of them owned a car or drove, so they didn’t use it. 

From time to time when I am driving home from New York City and am not in a hurry, I pull off at the Gun Hill Road exit and drive past the house.  I point out the houses that my relatives used to the lucky person in the car with me.  The family house looks so small and compact now; not the grand mansion I remember.  I have never rung the bell to ask if I could peek inside or walk around the backyard, nor would I want to.  I need to retain the faint memories I have of how it looked inside without it being taken over by the new owners’ furnishings.  As it is, I am saddened to see that the porch is no longer there.

I feel blessed that I got to know so many of my older relatives well before they passed.  Many of them lived well into their nineties, but Aunt Mary enjoyed 107 ½ years.  Yes, that half-year is important to include.  Perhaps her long life can be partially attributed to the fact that she never did marry and to her nightly shot of vermouth.  Of course I wish our time together was longer, but I am the person I am today because of their influence on me as well as how they brought up my parents.  I miss my gram and my aunts and that big old white house on Olinville Avenue, which hosted many great memories.  I wish I had more photos of the house itself, but my memories will have to continue to serve as the visual.  It is the people and the feelings we have from a house that makes it a home. 

Should the Trees Go?

Last week, Superstorm Sandy wreaked havoc along the east coast with its wind, flooding, and chaos from downed trees and wires.  Lives and homes were lost, schools were closed, and cleanup cost millions of dollars.  Last year there were two other major storms, which also caused grief; Hurricane Irene in August and Snowtober in October, which dumped a boatload of snow on the leaves of trees.  Each of them also caused downed trees and branches, resulting in power outages for over a week in many communities and also a loss of a week of school.  Lots of criticism was made about slow response time, lack of preparedness and resources, and decisions made.    I am not looking to criticize any of those areas; I would like to talk about the trees.

Much of the damage in the storms is caused from the high winds, flooding, and downed trees.  There is nothing we can do to control the wind or the water, but we can do more about the trees.  Whether trees are ripped out by their roots or severed in half, they have landed on cars, buildings, and electrical wires.  They have blocked roads and caused long detoured rides to work.  The electrical outages make life unsafe, close schools and businesses, and cause people to be cranky when they have to live like a pioneer. 

Everyone loves trees.  What’s not to like?  People enjoy their shade, their rainbow of foliage, and their flowers in the spring. Trees provide beauty to our landscape and line our streets with character.   People get upset if their town has plans to take down trees, especially if they are old.  I love trees too, but I think those of us who live in the country need to rethink their boundaries.

I’ll start with our property.  Our house sits on just over an acre of land.  We have some trees on the borders of our property and a few on the lawn.  There are trees that have come down, both by storms and by us, over the last 22 years.  When it was our decision to take down a tree, it was because of its close proximity to the house.  There is only one large tree left that we fear, an old hickory.  It is 12 feet in circumference and towers about 100 feet high.  It is about 20 feet from our road and leans slightly toward our front yard and corner of our house.  We have left it there because of the characteristics mentioned earlier: beauty, shade and character.  But we have decided it needs to come down.  Each time we heard another crack or howl of wind during this last storm, fear ate away at the inside of our stomachs like a hyena cleaning a carcass.  We don’t want to go through that again. 

There are many things I would rather do with $3,000, but I know the responsible thing to do is to take it down.  Maybe it is time for others to take inventory of the trees that remain on their property, assess their potential danger, and create a timeline and budget for the ones that should be taken down.  This action could bring peace of mind and could also eliminate possible future insurance claims.   By no means am I suggesting that we all strip our properties bare, but as I drive around town, there are many trees that are a disaster waiting to happen.

Certainly cost is a factor in taking trees down.  In our town, if a tree is 12 feet from the street, the town is responsible for it.  If the tree is diseased or is at risk of falling, it will be put on a list to be removed if you let the town know.  We had one such large tree what was struck by lightening and was taken down years ago.  We certainly breathed a sigh of relief at not having to foot that bill.

But the decision to take down any other trees on our property is ours, as is the cost.   The hickory is now in our budget.  Perhaps it is time for others to create a budget and timeline for taking down some of the trees that jeopardize their homes and neighborhoods the most too.  Being proactive is generally better than having to be reactive after the tree comes tumbling down and does its damage.  Food for thought.

Hurricane Irene took down several trees on our neighbor's property.  This shows the root system of two trees.

When storms can knock down trees of this size, we need to be vigilant.