Again

The assignment was due March 5. Today is April 2. So far, only six students have received grades. Why? Because only six have fulfilled *all* the requirements, and I’m refusing to mark assignments that aren’t complete.

Before you get worried, I don’t think I’m overly demanding. The basic assignment is to write a 100-word memoir. A complete assignment has a title and a story that is exactly 100 words. Students must use a spelling/grammar-check (I’ve recommended LanguageTool, but some use Grammarly) so that no underlined problems remain, and they must label three “craft moves” – or good things in their writing. For the last part, a poster in the classroom lists things we’ve studied and they’ve seen multiple examples.

Some students have only been through one round, but most are on their third or fourth attempt. In years past, I’ve marked what came in, no matter how incomplete. But this semester, something changed. I decided that every single student was capable of following all four steps:

Title
100 words
Spell check
Label

What is different? I wish I knew. The closest I can come to explaining is that I am taking my role as a “warm demander” increasingly seriously. To the very tips of my toes, I believe that every student in my class is capable of completing the assignment. Even more, I believe that they are capable of completing it well. So I keep returning the assignments with plenty of feedback (“I really appreciate how you’ve opened this fun memoir. Next you need to give it a title and run it through LanguageTool.”) and insisting they do it again. This weekend, one student turned in the identical assignment three times. Last night I finally caved wrote in all caps, “USE THE FEEDBACK.” Today, they finally asked for the explanation they required to finish their work.

I’m not sure that I’m making the right choice, and I need to be clear that I am consistently upbeat and encouraging as I hand back the assignments (again and again with no mark), but I figure if they learn nothing else this semester besides “follow all the steps” that’s probably a reasonable life skill.

Now, off to write, again, “True compliment about the writing. Next, you need to give your good work a title and run it through LanguageTool.” I’m betting I can get 24 completed assignments by the end of next week because I’m pretty sure I’m more stubborn than they are – at least about getting this right.

The Truth About Stories #SOL24 31/31

In grade 9, we’ve moved from our first unit – Stories of Us – into our second – Stories of Others. We’ve written Where I’m From using not only George Ella Lyon’s wonderful poem but also interpretations by Melanie Poonai, a young writer from England, and Danika Smith, an Indigenous author from British Columbia, as models. We’ve worked as a class and in small groups to create Where We’re From poems that help us understand our class as a whole. Students turned these into posters or short videos – and the school board’s print shop has delivered gorgeous prints that now decorate our room. We’ve written our own 100-word memoirs, too. Now, it’s time to look outside our classroom walls.

It’s also March, which means that I am in the middle of writing and publishing stories every day. I tell the students about this, and they are interested, impressed, curious, bored, and not listening. Some of them want to know where I get the stories from. I laugh and say, “from you.”

For a few days, we listen to StoryCorps interviews and look at Instagram posts from Humans of New York. We practice active listening and asking follow-up questions. Then, I put this quote up in the right-hand corner of the blackboard as one of our daily quotes:

The truth about stories is that that’s all we are.
-Thomas King

After reading time, I draw their attention to King’s words. I ask what they think he means. It takes a minute, but when they arrive at an understanding, a few of them marvel. “It’s really true, isn’t it? Our stories are really important,” says one. “It’s like what we think about what happens is as important as what happens,” says another. I just nod.

I think about the quote all the time. I think about how I am made of the stories I’ve heard, the stories I tell myself. I think of how the way I tell the story affects who I am and how the stories themselves change over time. I think about the value of regularly capturing tiny moments, recognizing the story I’m telling myself as I live it. These stories are everything. As Jess writes, “There is gold in every piece of your story.”

Now, the students are out in the world (mostly in the hallways, to be honest), interviewing other people: family or friends, students or staff. They have to choose a tiny powerful moment from their interview – a story – and pair it with a photo. I post these on our Instagram account, and we marvel at the moments that shape our community. The students must think about what part of their interviewee’s story they chose to tell and what parts they left out. How will that change people’s perceptions? What story are they telling? These students learn to lean in to other people’s stories and consider them deeply.

This year, this part of the unit is closing as March comes to an end. Today marks the end of seven years of this challenge for me. I know that, tired as I am, I will miss this – the writing, the reading, the commenting – tomorrow and in the days to come. And I know it’s because of the stories people share, and the stories I choose to share, too. What a privilege it is to be part of so many stories! What a boon to be allowed so many views of the world!

If Thomas King is right, and I think he is, then I am so much better, so much more because of the stories others have shared this month and in all the months and years past. I am better, too, because of the time you’ve taken to read my stories. Thank you.

Late to the Party #SOL24 30/31

My friend’s text makes me laugh: Argument in our car: everyone but Dad, “We are late.” Dad, “the invite was for any time after 3, so we are not late.” Everyone else, “We are so late.”

Follow-up: We arrived 20 min late. And by far the first to arrive.

****

I am 22 or 23, living in Washington, DC. Somehow, I’ve fallen in with a crowd of young French people who are here largely working for the French government. We meet up for drinks, go out dancing, and generally spend a lot of time being young and single with few obligations in a city full of things to do. Eventually, I am invited to a dinner party at the home of the one married couple in our group.

I’m pleased that I am officially part of the crowd (and secretly proud that my French is good enough for this invitation), but I play it cool. I’ve lived in France for a year of study abroad, so I know that French time is different from American time. I plan my arrival carefully, and show up a full half hour after the suggested time.

I am by far the earliest. Seriously by far.

Anne is gracious. She offers me a peeler and asks me to help with the potatoes. We chat as she finishes getting ready for her guests. By the time the others arrive, a slow trickle starting about 45 minutes later, I’m at ease. The rest of the evening goes well.

Over the next few months, I learn to arrive on Paris time (or young-person Paris time): at least an hour after the time of the invitation. It’s hard, but I manage. Then one night, at another dinner, a slightly tipsy conversation partner leans over and says, “Anne dit qu’elle n’a plus besoin de planifier quelquechose pour t’occuper.” (Anne says she doesn’t have to plan something to keep you occupied anymore.) I must have blushed, but he didn’t notice.

Over drinks later that week, Anne ‘fessed up. “Oh yes,” she laughed, “I had heard about Americans arriving extremely early, and how they like to be useful. So I saved a task for you to do when you arrived. And it worked!”

****

Looking back, I marvel at how each of us tried to adapt to the customs of the other. No wonder we remained friends for several more years, even visiting each other when I lived in France again.

If I were to find her now, I suspect Anne would shake her head fondly and say, “Yes, I have heard about how you Americans hop from friendship to friendship. We French, we keep our friends for a long time” and then, she’d probably hand me a peeler and some potatoes, and we could sit down with plenty of time to catch up before the others arrived, both late and perfectly on time.

Puzzling #SOL24 29/31

Someone – I think it was Heidi Allum – recommended Julie Otsuka’s novel The Swimmers early in this challenge. I got it from the library this week, and have found the writing fascinating, though I’m not 100% sure I love the novel itself. Still, when I sat down to write this morning, I could feel the way Otsuka’s style was influencing mine, so I went with it.

***

You see the puzzles in an online ad. You have seen them before, but this time you click because they are, supposedly, on clearance. You tell yourself that you will buy one only because your husband’s birthday is coming up and he likes puzzles. You tell yourself that you will check the prices and the comments to make sure the company is legitimate, but you know the truth: you will buy one, and it will be for you. To hide this, you buy more than one.

The puzzles arrive on your husband’s birthday, and he pretends to be delighted. You show him that they are wooden. You show him the way the pieces are shaped like animals and other objects. You tell him that they are not rectangular but rather come together to create the shape of the thing you are piecing together – a butterfly, a maple leaf, a turtle. He says thank you and gives you a kiss.

That night, when you come downstairs to plug in your phone and start the dishwasher, you decide to start the puzzle that you have decided is “yours.” The butterfly. You tell yourself that you just want to get a few pieces together. You tell yourself that you just want to get a feel for it and that this will help you fall asleep. After all, you know you how bad blue light is for your sleep. You remind yourself that it is a long weekend. You do all of this because you know how you are with puzzles. Obsessive. Before you even open the box, you know that you will not go to sleep anytime soon.

You do not go to sleep anytime soon. The pieces are light but sturdy and you like their smooth feel, so different from the cardboard you are used to. The lack of obvious edge pieces fascinates you, as do the odd shapes and the way the pieces fit together. You realize that you cannot use many of your standby puzzle strategies. Slowly, you discover new ways of finding matches. When you look up, it is well after midnight. You have only managed to put together a tiny portion of the relatively small puzzle. Reluctantly, you go to bed.

Your husband gets up first in the morning and walks the dog. You sleep in because you were up so late, puzzling. When you come downstairs, still in your nightgown, you put water on to boil, then sit at the kitchen island to see if you can find another matching piece. Some time later, you remember to make the tea.

You go through the stages of puzzling. You get into a rhythm of finding matches, and then you get stuck. You worry that perhaps the company has sent a defective box: surely all the pieces cannot be here. There simply are not enough to create the promised outcome. You walk away for a few minutes, then return to see the puzzle anew. Aha! These two entire sections fit together. You go through another productive period and another period of frustration. Your son wakes up and helps for a few minutes, then wanders off. Your husband comes in and works with you, gently teasing you about your obsessive nature. At one point, disgusted, you decide you will never finish and walk away. But of course you return.

You neglect to fold the laundry. You know that you don’t want to fold the laundry anyway and the puzzle is just an excuse. Again, you reach a point where you are certain some pieces are missing. Then you decide that maybe, just maybe, two parts of the butterfly’s wings are reversed. Carefully, you slide them along the surface, keeping all the bits together, hoping that this will set things right.

Success! You are on a roll! Your husband comes in and reminds you told him about several things you wanted to accomplish today. None of them were this puzzle. He reminds you that you have plans this afternoon. There are so few pieces left that you are reluctant to leave, but you do because you know he is right. Then, just as you begin to write, he appears at the living room door.

“Love,” he says, “I think you can finish it in the next five minutes.” He laughs at how you light up. In the kitchen, you see that he has placed just a few more pieces for you. Now you can see how easily the last ten or so pieces will come together. With only the tiniest bit of turning pieces one way, and then the other, you place all the pieces. Your husband threatens to place to the last piece. You glare at him and ask how much he likes being married, which makes him laugh again.

You place the last piece and say, “I love it!” and he smiles at your pleasure.

You take a picture. You know that you will take the puzzle apart almost right away and gift it to someone else. You are simultaneously pleased with this tiny accomplishment and embarrassed by the pleasure it brings you. You know you will write about this. You know that this is love.

Locked Out #SOL24 28/31

As I walked up the sidewalk towards the house, my heart dropped. Two large boxes waited just in front of our door. I glanced inside: the lights were off. I dropped my things on the front porch and, although I was fairly sure I already knew what I would find, dug through all the pockets of my purse: nothing. Just in case, I checked my backpack. Not there either. Finally, I walked back to the driveway, opened the passenger door and checked in the glove compartment. Still nothing. I could hear the dog pawing at the door, but there was nothing I could do about it: I was locked out.

The thing is, that after years of relative stability, lately Mr. 13 has been losing things. Notably, his house key. Because he is often the first one home in the afternoon, I loaned him my key. Then he found his key and gave mine back – but then he lost his again. Then things got complicated. Somehow or another, I realized earlier this week that I no longer had either my key or my back-up key. At the time, I thought, “I should really take care of this now,” but of course I didn’t. And here I was now, keyless.

I left my things on the porch and walked over to Mike’s because he has a spare key. He wasn’t home.

So I walked back to our front porch and texted Mr. 15. “Are you near home? I’m locked out.” Since Mr. 15 pretty much always has his notifications silenced, so I didn’t get my hopes up. I told myself that we were lucky it was such a beautiful day; just a week ago, I would have been freezing while I waited. I tried to be happy that my children were off with their friends rather than inside online.

After a few minutes with no response, I texted Andre to see if maybe – maybe – he was finishing up work early before the long weekend. Nothing.

Finally, I sat down on the front steps and texted my friend. (Yes, a fair number of people have extra keys. Our house is pretty friendly.) We were heading to the gym soon anyway, so I figured maybe she could come a bit early.

She replied immediately and agreed to come by in a few minutes. The dog was pretty unhappy about me sitting on the porch without him, but there was nothing I could do. I checked my email and waited until she arrived, tossed me the keys, and went to park. I gathered my things, moved the boxes to the side of the front door, and put the key in the lock.

Wait. The door wasn’t locked. That was odd. I pushed the door open to discover that BOTH OF MY CHILDREN WERE HOME. Both of them. One was on the computer; the other was in the kitchen *on the phone I had just texted*.

“Did you not see me?” I asked. “Did you not notice the dog at the door?”

They looked at me, perplexed. No and no.

“Did you not notice that I texted? Did you not hear the delivery guy who left the boxes?”

Nope. Not at all.

Mr. 15 said, “I mean, why didn’t you just open the door?”

I looked at the large boxes, the excited dog, the dark house and my two clueless children. “Well,” I said, “I thought I was locked out.”

This afternoon, a partial transcript #SOL24 27/31

PA system: “We are in a secure school. Please clear the hallways and lock your doors. I repeat, we are in a secure school.”

Email: “If you see [student name] please contact me in the main office right away.”

Email: “Photo”

25 minutes pass

PA system: “We are still in a secure school. Please remain in your classrooms when the bell sounds.”

50 minutes pass

PA system: “The secure school has ended.”

Email: “We will be having a stand up meeting at 3:35 in the auditorium.”

Person: “First, I want to say that under a difficult circumstance, we got to the best possible outcome because so many people came together to do the right things. Even the students in question cooperated with the police.”

Person: “Police entered the classroom and made an arrest. Afterward, social workers were available for students in the classroom.”

Person: “The police recovered a replica gun and a knife from the student.”

Person: “The police also recovered a knife and a replica gun from a second student.”

Person: “The students involved will not be returning to school.”

Person: “Ever?”

Person: “Well, I don’t want to tell you something that might not be true, but they will not return any time soon.”

Person: “An email will be sent home to parents.”

Person: “Social workers will be available at the school tomorrow.”

Email: “Thanks again for all that you did today in support of students and colleagues.”

Washroom Woes #SOL24 26/31

“Excuse me,” an unfamiliar adult leaned through the office door, “can you tell me where the staff washroom is?”

One of my colleagues looked down and tried not to snicker.

“Um…” I started, “well, there *is* a washroom on this floor, but the light is out, so you have to use your phone as a flashlight.”

The poor supply teacher looked a little startled. I quickly continued, “Probably the easiest one to find is” and then I gave a set of complicated directions to a washroom some distance away from us. She looked at me, wide-eyed, nodded, and left.

Glenda at Swirl and Swing has written before about trying to find a bathroom in a school. It seems like a small thing, having a restroom available, but apparently, in schools, it is not.

We have one one-seater staff washroom on the second floor that serves about 30 teachers. Also, it has been out of service for literally months of this school year… so far. For at least half of the first semester, the toilet wouldn’t flush. The care staff helpfully put tape over the seat to remind us not to use it.

For the first few days, none of us worried.

After two weeks, someone started a “days without a washroom” count on the whiteboard in the office. It was funny, but by week – what? three maybe? – we started to fret that our lovely care staff (who were in no way responsible for fixing the toilet) might feel bad, so we erased it. Another week passed, and someone started a “guess the date” – when will the toilet be fixed? Weeks later, even that was erased – our most outlandish guesses had been left behind.

“Never,” said one teacher.

“Not until next year,” said another. No one dared ask if they meant 2024 or next school year.

Eventually, the Chief Custodian caved and told us that he hadn’t been able to fix it himself. Given this almost unthinkable turn of events, rumours started to swirl: they had called a Board plumber who was booked for weeks in advance, said one teacher. “I heard the plumber came and declared that they were going to have to turn off the water to a whole section of the building,” said another. Someone else swore it would take an entire weekend to fix.

Every few weeks, someone worked up the nerve to email the principal and point out that we still did not have a working washroom on the second floor. He rarely replied.

“Just use the downstairs toilets,” groused the custodian, tired of us pestering him.

“It’s actually really inconvenient,” grumbled a teacher.

Then, one day, months after the toilet had been taped shut, with no warning whatsoever, the washroom was working again. Everyone was relieved (ha!), and life returned to normal.

Until last week. Then, someone came out of the washroom and said, “Um, did you notice that the light isn’t working?”

We had. Again, we emailed the custodian. This time he told us right away that they had tried changing the light bulb, to no avail. “We’ve put in a work order for an electrician,” he told us. “He should come soon.”

That was early last week. Since then, we take our phones into the washroom, and use them as flashlights. No one dares ask when the electrician might arrive; the custodian has already reminded us that we can use the bathrooms downstairs at the other end of our wing.

Someone suggested another guessing game on the whiteboard, but there were no takers. Some of us are pretending it’s perfectly normal to take a flashlight to the only staff washroom on our floor; some people make sad little jokes about it. Mostly, we try not to think about it – unless an unwitting visitor needs to use the bathroom, which is down one hallway, down the stairs, around a corner and to the left – oh, and unmarked. You just sort of guess which door is which.

I’m thinking of drawing up a map – or stocking up on flashlights.

A good ache #SOL24 35/31

I only joined the gym because she kept badgering me, and I finally realized that she was (probably subconsciously) finding a way to make sure she had friends and plans during what was almost certainly going to be a difficult year. I don’t like gyms. I’m uncoordinated and I hate classes. Still, for her, I joined the damn gym.

I went with her a few times during my two-week free trial, but I didn’t go even once for the first few weeks after I officially joined – mostly because she wasn’t going because her daughter was in hospice. Then, the very evening Eve died, she texted and asked me to go with her to a class the next day. What could I say? This is why I joined. So I said yes.

The gym isn’t fancy or big. They don’t have weight machines or elliptical machines or anything like that; just real weights, some rowing machines, and some bicycles. I find it completely intimidating. The workout is written on a white board, and it’s generally something I have no idea how to do – dead lifts and overhead presses, for example. There’s a lot of AMRAPs and work to 90% capacity. It took me several sessions to figure out that AMRAP means “as many rounds as possible.”

It’s been eight weeks now, and we’ve mostly gone twice every week. No one gets too worried when she cries, and the workouts are *hard*. Hard is good: I have to focus entirely on my body, to be fully present and aware. There’s not much space for thinking about Eve or anything else. And I’m getting stronger. Tonight, I did 25 overhead presses plus way too many wall balls and 50 hanging knee lifts. Eight weeks ago, that would have been impossible for me.

The gym owner told us that “exercise has always been there” for her when life has been tough. I joked that junk food and the television have always been there for me. But eight weeks in, I’m starting to get it. I’m stronger and my muscles are getting (a very little, middle-aged) definition. I know I still talk too much about Eve’s death and it makes people uncomfortable, but I’m getting better. Still, tonight, when someone asked what had motivated me to join the gym, I worried out loud about having started something good for me because of something so sad. “I wouldn’t worry,” she reassured me, “there are worse ways to deal with grief.” I nodded and did another round of overhead presses with more weight than I’ve used before. I’ll ache tomorrow – in a good way.

Sisyphean Laundry Basket #SOL24 24/31

All day, I’ve been meaning to write.
All day, I’ve been meaning to prep for the week.
All day, I’ve been meaning to mark.

But I couldn’t. Because, you see, I need to fold laundry. A LOT of laundry. Maybe five loads? Maybe more? I was going to post a picture, but I can’t – it’s too embarrassing.

I promised myself I would do it before I sat down at the computer.
I did not promise myself I would fold laundry before I went grocery shopping. Done.
I did not promise myself I would fold laundry before I walked the dog. Done.
I did not promise myself I would fold laundry before cooking, cleaning the kitchen, cleaning the bathroom. Done, done and done.

It’s not like I haven’t been productive. I have, more or less. But now it’s almost bedtime, and the laundry is there, staring at me. I’ve had to create a giant pile so that I could reuse some of the baskets for – you guessed it – more laundry.

I usually don’t mind folding laundry – just turn on a TV show and off I go, but today, the knowledge that the minute I am done, the very second I put the laundry away, there will be more… I just couldn’t do it.

There is a reason Sisyphus wasn’t a woman. If he had been, rolling that boulder endlessly up the hill would have just been another thing on his to-do list every day.

The well-loved cat #SOL24 23/31

The text came in just before 10.pm.

Hi neighbours. Sorry for the late evening message. Tippy is at our place and is not willing to leave, maybe because of the cold. We can try to send her out if you are able to let her in.

Tippy is our cat. At least, we are the ones who brought her home from the Humane Society seven years ago. At this point, we are pretty sure she has several others families.

Tippy when we first got her, seven years ago. She has always loved kids.

For instance, she has definitely adopted the family two doors down. They have two girls, each a year younger than one of our boys, and no other pets. To visit them, Tippy climbs one medium-height fence and one tall fence and then paws at the sliding door on their back deck.

Not long after we got her, she began accompanying our kids to the bus stop every morning. After they were gone, she circled back to pick up the girls and accompany them to their bus stop, then she came home just in time to scoot inside as we left for work. Eventually, to her disappointment, the kids all started walking to school, and she was left to find other neighbourhood children to shadow.

The pandemic, awful for so many humans, was Tippy’s heaven. She woke and had breakfast with us, then got everyone settled for school. Mid-morning, she went out our back door, scaled the fences, and hung out with the girls for a few hours. At their house, she developed a routine: explore to make sure everything was still where it was supposed to be, then settle in a sunny corner by the front windows and wait for various people to adore her. After a good nap, she would ask to be let out their back door, then come back to our place.

This is one of Tippy’s napping places in our house.

The neighbours – with our permission – got a cat bed and a scratcher, food and water bowls, and plenty of toys. Tippy makes good use of her time at both houses.

A few months ago, we got a dog. Max is an enthusiastic black three-year-old mix of Lab & “something pretty big.” He likes cats, but the cats are significantly less sure of him. Tippy is, generally, not impressed. The neighbours, too, worry. Last night, after the text about the cold weather (it really wasn’t that cold), Andre went over to pick her up As Tippy was passed from one father to the other, our neighbour asked if she was adjusting well to the dog. “We’ve noticed she seems a little nervous lately,” he apologized, “The girls are concerned.” Andre reassured him that all was well.

Max is pretty convinced that everyone should love him, too – even the cats.

Andre carried Tippy home, we all settled in to bed, and she took up her usual spot, waiting for me to finish reading so she can snuggle with me all night. No doubt, Tippy is a well-loved cat.