Sharing information

After a restful Thanksgiving break, the blocks center was reopened and new friends were eager to visit. Since the children have grown familiar with the routine of making signs in the classroom, I left paper and markers next to the blocks and stood by to watch.

I observed one child who was watching the others creating structures in the center. On one side stood a newly modeled zoo and nearby, a group of boys were creating a building with a railroad track on the top of it. They were experimenting with the speed in which the trains could maneuver on the track without falling off. She processed this information and independently created this informational sign.

(Do not drive here because there are animals)

This child is beginning to understand that signs can represent more than labels and names. They can provide others with important information and instructions.

Creating Community; One Song At A Time

From day one, my first grade students demonstrated a tremendous liking toward music and the free-spirited joy of singing together. On the first day of school, my students arrived to my classroom wearing various emotions; some giddy, some grim, some apprehensive and some just very curious about the in’s and out’s of being a first grader in a whole new wing of the building. Many of my students’ grim faces disappeared after lunch when I aksed them to tell me all about the tasty foods they consumed in the cafeteria. Our meaty discussion prompted me to spontaneously teach them the song, “Peanut Butter & Jelly,” to which many, if not all my students, immediately took a liking to. In that moment, the sense of apprehension about the first day of school lessoned and my students began to relax and feel at home in their new environment. For the first time all day, students seemed to let their guard down and smile.


From that day on, singing has become a significant and much anticipated part of our daily schedule. We quickly dabbled in fun rhymes and well-known children’s songs before delving into folksongs from all over the world. Our latest favorite songs include “Whole World,” and “This Land is Your Land.” New songs on the way include “What a Wonderful World,” and “This Little Light of Mine,” (two songs I am eager to teach to my students.) Our love of songs has lent itself to many other academic endeavors across subject areas. We have used songs to illustrate numerous math number stories (“10 in a bed” was a big hit,) and listened to rhythms and beats to bring patterns to life.

During literacy centers, my students have written the lyrics of many of our songs on paper in tandem with creating beautiful illustrations, which these lyrics bring to mind. We have used our song lyrics to help understand word families and search for sight words of all shapes and sizes. Our exploration of well-known songs has carved a path for students to create their own original songs. Most notably, as a group, students helped to write lyrics and brainstorm a melody for a class song, individual to our class only. This song has become a staple in our repertoire and a reminder about community building and friendship. Recently, during a tiff between two students revolving around who is friends with who (a popular first grade debate in my room), another student interjected that “we are all friends, just like our song says.” That is all the proof in the world I need to know that at least something is going right inside my classroom.

I will not attempt to sugarcoat reality. Building community in my classroom has not been easy. My students come from different homes with an array of weighty individual experiences that they have acquired along the first 6 to 7 years of life. Inappropriate words fall off the tongue of too many of my students and a tendency to hurt one another, physically or emotionally, can often rear its ugly head. Many of my students are quick to lift their fists if they feel that their self-image is being threatened or tampered with. The power of singing together enables my students to channel their all too often, negative views of their peers, into a more positive and rewarding activity. When we are singing, I see my students giggling, beaming and exuding pride at one another. Students showcasing diverse personalities and experiences are suddenly all sharing space with one another singing common lyrics together in a bond of cohesion.


I know I am doing my job when I overhear my students singing verses from our songs throughout our daily activities. It is even more touching when groups of students join together to sing during periods of independent exploration. The power of singing in my classroom has helped to break down the walls between so many of my students and instill a sense of community, one song at a time.

Unemployment Anonymous

You know you are unemployed when:

12. Any day of the week or hour of the day is a stellar time for happy hour

11. A trip to Target to spend the remainder of your holiday gift card is the highlight of your day

10. You see nothing wrong in going to the 3pm movie on a Tuesday afternoon and sitting next to a plethora of senior citizens

9. MTV cribs and Americas Top Model start to feel somewhat educational in nature

8. Eating breakfast at 1pm is the norm

7. You start to take an interest in politics (haha, this one strictly applies to me)

6. Your closet is fully stocked with clothing you hypothetically will need once you get a job (and at the moment, I’m ready to go, ha)

5. You can rattle off the exact times and channels in which to find Oprah, Dr. Phil and Seinfeld multiple times a day and you have probably seen all the repeats by now

4. You see nothing wrong with refreshing your inbox every 10 minutes

3. You have changed your personal voicemail greeting numerous times because of your neuroticism in making sure it sounds 100 % professional

2. You carry your cell phone EVERYWHERE, including the bathroom

***1. You have time to write this blog

wisdom tooth

It’s kind of a big deal.

Change.

It really screws up your perception of what is and what was and makes you incredibly vulnerable to the eerie realization that we are far more fragile than we think. Or, maybe that’s just me. And the gaping hole that for 24 years was home to my upper left wisdom tooth.

Today was the big day. It was the day that the oral surgeon in his pale blue gown came at me with the dreaded needle, knife and blade or whatever unimaginable extracting instruments one uses to yank someone’s tooth out. And to be fair, the whole procedure was far less frightening than I imagined thanks to those three hefty shots of Novocain leaving me good and numb. But what I find more disturbing is what remains: that hollow space in the back of my mouth which my tongue persistently continues to graze itself against almost as an ominous reminder that something that was by nature an integral part of me is now, well, gone.

Ok, sure, I am steering a little bit on the dramatic side. After all, almost everyone I talk to seems to relate their own personal horror stories about parting with not only one, but all four of their precious impacted wisdom teeth at the same time. I, on the other hand, seem to have taken the easy way out. Or, perhaps, the more unpleasant since in due time, the other three will most likely cause me another special trip to the oral surgeon.


It’s not really just about my tooth though, although tell that to my roaming tongue.

Having a wisdom tooth pulled out extends far deeper than the roots (pardon the cliché). There is something so ghastly permanent about it all. So finite. It seems that as we get older, more and more sweeping changes begin to take place. Diplomas acquire dust in their frames, friends pick up and move away, careers get started, relatives get sick and the fleeting fragments of childhood seem to faintly disappear.

Time forges ahead whether we are ready to quicken our pace or not and as hard as I keep fighting against the uncertainty and bewilderment concerning the future, the clock refuses to wait for me to catch up.

The removal of my first wisdom tooth today may have symbolized one traumatic change, but this event surely will be overshadowed by the more pressing changes propping up in the next several months; changes in terms of moving out, finding jobs, navigating my path, my future. During this year alone, I have watched a myriad of friends move in with their significant others, begin their second or third job and even acquire real estate. While they are all off accomplishing these very grown up feats, I am, well, getting my tooth pulled knowing that my parents are loyally sitting in the waiting room.

So, I suppose it’s my turn to hop on the mid-twenties band wagon, take the plunge and while we are on the subject of teeth, open wide.

AHHHHH.

red kite

Everyone wants an upgrade.

Upgrade. It has become the infamous word of my generation casually tossed around from one conversation to another. In today's day and age, if it's not bigger, better, faster or sleeker, it's certainly not performing at its most potent potential. Let "it" stand for all the latest technological gadgets I still struggle to name correctly- the ipod nanos, mini cellphones, digital cameras, laptops, blackberries (i.e- any feasible mode of technology which appears to be complicated yet compact, efficient and ever so upgradable. I often fear jumping on the newest technology bandwagon for the simple reason that by the time I have actually acquired the newest, fastest, trendiest, most enviable object of other's consumer minded fancies, the manufacturer will produce something ten times more powerful and desirable than the original purchase and I will be back at square one, painstalkingly in need of an upgrade.

It's not that I ascribe to the "upgrade it" mentality. I would almost go as far to say I actively attempt to avoid, ignore and retreat at all costs on an almost regular basis. Case in point, I haven't changed or shall I say, upgraded, my dentist in about 15 years and unless the three-year-old patient reading "Highlight" magazine in the office waiting room physically pushes me out the door, I will continue to prop myself up in the plastic covered reclining dental chair of the rainbow striped corner room decorated with a masterful portrait of Ernie and Bert gazing wistfully at my aging teeth.

But I digress.

I am most definitely the last of my friends to identify the latest technological gadgets. The fact that I actually own an ipod (given to me as a gift) is quite frankly a miracle and I still adamantly refuse to believe that my beloved Walkman is forever debunked as an all but extinct memory of the 90's.

There are those moments though; those few and far between glimmering moments where my mind is transported away from the buzzing, ringing, vibrating and clicking of gadgets and replaced with images or ideas revolving around the small yet monumental pieces of life that really matter. Several months ago, I caught a fleeting glimpse of the figure of an elderly man gripping the string of a red kite in the midst of a solitary baseball field. Although my short glimpse from the bus window could have exceeded no more than several seconds, the image of that wistful aged man serenly gazing up at his red kite flying above in the overcast sky was genuinely priceless. As countless blindfolded New Yorkers equipped with the latest technology do their best to constantly block out the trials and tribulations of reality, it was comforting to spot someone in tune with the sights and sounds of everyday life.

One man, one kite, one field. I can't help but imagine he was content.

In a recent conversation with a new friend, I learned that there are those who will heed the extra mile to escape the hustle and bustle of the latest, the fastest, the trendiest technology. A frequent attendee of Buddhist retreats, my friend described to me a memorable weekend away from the city. Armed with just the clothes on his back, my friend alongside a group of strangers spent a quiet weekend deep within the confines of the woods, sans cellphone, ipods, email, even idol chatter. All were instructed not to speak until nightfall each day allowing the mind to roam freely without interruption, reflect intuitively and fully experience the surrounding natural beauty of the woods. At the end of the weekend, my friend learned how to value and appreciate the depth of nature, minimalism and silence.

I am not advocating that we all retreat to the woods and celebrate an end to technology, nor am I officially ready to dramatically part with my ipod/cellphone/email- yet, everyday, I try to envision the face of that man with the red kite blissfully captivated by an inner tranquility.

If we could all worry less about upgrading to the next level, maybe we could find a deeper appreciation for the things in life that should really matter: the stars above us, the people around us and a deep sense of peace within ourselves.

candy hearts and cupid's darts

(I actually wrote this months ago and forgot all about it..however, in lieu of celebrating the holiest of hallmark holidays, I thought it appropriate to give it some loving)

It’s not all busy work. Sometimes homework is well, real.

A couple of weeks ago, my psyc. professor instructed my class to go home and jot down our individual definition of “love” on a piece of paper. I scoffed and snickered over what I orginally deemed a silly and quite trivial exercise. Love is...two people kissing, a father buying his daughter a red balloon, a shakespearian sonnet, a wedding ring, a freshly baked chocolate cake, a promise. And of course, the list could go on and on. But, I crossed all those out. They were all slightly off.

It’s easy in NYC to get sidetracked from finding or feeling love. Maybe it’s just a hallmark card or an assorted collection of pink and red candy hearts that we can mindlessly pick up at the local CVS after a tiresome day of work. Maybe I'm just a cynic but nowadays, it seems to me that real relationships tend to get traded in for cozy paychecks and stepping stones in the job place.

The city is fast. It’s fluid. It’s tempting to trade in our few precious moments in our heroic quest of the “one” for that ever so reliable mochachino expresso or an extra ten more grueling minutes on the stairmaster. We search for a job, an apartment, a roommate, a parking spot ...and where does that leave our love life? Where is that ever so lovable Cupid when you need him? Don't answer. Rhetorical question.

Seriously, get in line. Maybe if you are lucky you can spot your local sweetie at another outrageously crowded bar that is screaming fire hazard or amidst a quiet evening at home alongisde your trusty internet companion shuffeling through countless images of headshots hoping for that special someone to just jump out at you with a gleam in their eye and witty banter in their profile.

I’ve started to think that love is the missing puzzle piece for so many frenzied New Yorkers. It is the thing we take most for granted but the one thing we are so desperate to find, so utterly helpless to control. In the city that never sleeps, we have no patience. We yearn for an instant gratification, a quick fix to fill our hollow string of fleeting relationships. There is no time for patience, let alone, romance.

On my umteenth try to define “love”, I stopped counting. I crumpled up my juvenile doodle of a sunflower and scribbled down these four words.

Love is ..

A work in progress.

It’s a journey, a testament of wills and an ever evolving pact. It has a multitude of faces, of feelings, of fragrance.
It’s an investment that most of us are too scared to make or too busy to bother.

So, waiting for “love”?

Take a number.

on my way home

This is a story with a lesson; a moral; a taut bow-tied ending.
It isn’t a mystery nor is it in any way an action suspenseful thriller.
It’s really just a short story with an extemporaneous ending, since that seems to have been the word of the day.

Today I did what most typical New Yorkers do when they have a short but substantial snap shot of free time amidst the warm and fuzzy holiday season. I went shopping. Armed with a credit card, a pair of good old fashioned walking shoes and two equally eager to consume shopping mates, we trotted carelessly from one fantastically overpriced venue to another, sorting through highly solicited sales racks and piles of disarrayed merchandise left over from the past weekend of holiday frenzy. New purchases. Good company. A pleasant day all in all. And yet, even while coasting within the aura of benign post holiday bargain spirit, there still existed a palpable plethora of snippy complaints and irksome retorts amidst a sea of harried employees and impatient customers. Whether our feet ached or our bellies rumbled,we blatantly announced our present discomfort as we waited on the daunting register lines, checked and rechecked our precious cell phones and scowled at the mass of humanity uncomfortably pressed between ourselves and the distantly fading store entrance. And after one too many experiences of this claustrophobic and tiresome nature, we rewarded ourselves with what typical New Yorkers would agree were perfectly reasonable rewards for our tedious struggles. We each collectively purchased a steaming Chai tea latte at the glorious establishment we commonly call Starbucks, not so surprisingly filled to the brim with other consumers celebrating the acquisition of their respective new purchases as well.

And there you have it.
Typical day in the life of a blissfully bumbling New Yorker.

As I wedged both my weary body and bustling shopping bags onto the cushion-covered seat of the express bus for our journey back home, I commented to my friend about the gnawing pang of guilt-ridden and lackadaisical remorse already bubbling its way through my stale limbs and numb mind. Hours after we had begun our credit card splurging venture in Manhattan, I was left feeling like a fraud having willfully exchanged my fleeting days of freedom with the capitalistic cash registers of countless commercial enterprises. Akin to my now depleted wallet, I too felt just as empty.

And at that very moment, I understood why.

Abruptly jolted from my solitary bubble, I immediately sensed the halted momentum of our bus, the stillness of the motor and the muffled buzz of the surrounding passenger’s voices. Peering through the slight gap adjoining the bus’s cushioned seats, my sterile gaze was met with an unwanted spectacle of piercing and flashing red lights casting a shadow on the plexi-glass windows belonging to the motionless stampede of cars outstretched in a double lane before us. Without uttering or hearing a word concerning our whereabouts, it was all too clear that we were painfully close to what appeared to be a horrific and possibly fatal accident. My inactive mind suddenly kicked into high gear wondering about the details of the accident and worse yet, how many victims might have been injured in the wreck. Sure enough, as our silent bus crept eerily closer to the scene of the accident, we contorted and craned our necks in order to get a better viewing of a battered vehicle exposing the remnants of a crumpled hood, shattered windows and a wildly distorted frame. Although an ambulance appeared adjacent to the wreck, our bus once again regained speed making it impossible to skew the area for survivors or victims near or within the truck. Our grizzly vision was too quickly replaced with the familiar sight of neighboring apartment complexes, dimly lit streetlamps and pedestrian dotted roads as the bus whisked itself onward to our sought-after destinations.

There isn’t much subtlety in the lesson I learned that evening. How petty our daily worries and woes appear in the face of such tragedy. An hour after I first boarded the bus, I staggered off at my stop, shopping bags in hand, trying to fight the grimacing memory of the list of my prior complaints uttered sporadically throughout the day.

I had traded in my cloud of apathy for a renewed sense of self and a deep appreciation for the moments in life that really matter: the ones in which you are fortunate enough to be alive.