Evidence Of Our Passage

Unlike last weeks Woodland Park Pre-3 Parent Orientation meeting where there were mostly new faces, last night’s 3-5 orientation saw only 2 new families, which is two more than most years. As I went around the circle, I counted 3 families who were there representing their third child through Woodland Park and 6 who were on their second child. And there are 9 other families with babies who I hope to see come through the school within the next two years.

In other words, unlike last week I wasn’t worried about first impressions, which is good because we arrived to find a portion of the wall of the gym removed and a dehumidifier running. Apparently, last week’s heavy rain revealed a leak in the roof which had caused water damage to a portion of the walls. This forced us to meet in the classroom, where we sat in the children’s tiny chairs. To make more room for our larger adult bodies we shoved some of our shelves back, revealing some grit and grime we missed during last spring’s year-end cleaning. One of our new mother’s said, “Ew,” but no one else batted an eye.

Between our courtyard camper and this, our little school took a beating over the summer while we were away. I’ll bet it’s glad to have us back, where it will continue to take a beating.

Being an established school community, we cranked through the business portion of the program effortlessly, while I made notes of things that need to happen over the next two days as these same families come in to work together to get the school in shape for our first day next Monday. Scanning the room, I checked the spot on the ceiling where water leaked in a few years back causing a chunk of material to fall to the floor. As I peered across the room to make sure there was no new moisture on the floor beneath that spot, I noticed the permanent paint and glue stains on the cracked and faded linoleum. No amount of scrubbing will ever get those off.

The Woodland Park Cooperative Preschool facility will never be mistaken for state-of-the-art and I like it that way. In fact, as far as I’m concerned the more like a garage it is, the better. I even fought getting a new rug for Circle Time a couple years ago because I didn’t want to feel the pressure to keep it clean. I only relented when parents assured me they wouldn’t complain if we damaged it with paint, mud, or any of the various materials we use for Pre-K science experiments. Our tables, walls and easels all bear the unwashable marks of prior years. We use our art supplies, toys and tools until they fall apart, and then more often than not they find their final resting place as part of some sort of art project. The bright side of our current water damage is that we now have some stains on the new carpeting we installed in the gym last year as a way to correct poor acoustics. Whew! The pressure is off!

Young children spend far too much of their lives in places where they’re told to not make a mess. Preschool shouldn’t be one of those places.

I’m heading into the classroom in a couple hours where I’ll spend the next two days working with parents to scrub and tidy as best we can. But however hard we try, our walls, doors and floors will continue to proudly wear the evidence of the passage of all the children it has helped to teach. And starting Monday, we'll start making more.

From The Archives

I have to hit it early today, so I thought I'd draw your attention to a few posts from the the days when only about a dozen or so people were reading the blog.

"Growing Brave Children"
Both our history and popular culture are full of stories and imagery that suggests that solving problems through violence is an act of bravery. I try to make the case here that it takes far more courage to choose non-violence. This, at least, is what we try to teach children at Woodland Park.

"Up, Up and Away!"
Pretending to be superheroes or princesses are ways our children experiment with being powerful. There are other ways as well.

"People Outside of Time"
Play is why we're here. And that goes for grown-ups too.

"And Get On With Your Life of Doing"
This is the story about how Henry taught me the true meaning of the Tao.

"Compromise: The Other Messy Art Project"
Learning to compromise is the key to creating a vital community.

"And Now The Children Tell Their Stories"
Children tell incredibly imaginative and funny stories. Here are few from last year.

The Struggle To Love

Love isn’t a state of perfect caring. It is an active noun like struggle. To love someone is to strive to accept that person exactly the way he or she is, right here and now. –Mister Rogers

I find it relatively easy to love the children who walk through the doors of our school. I’m with them for a short time. My agenda for them is simply that they each find a way to be constructively engaged. Then they go home.

School is my church. It’s the one place in my life where it’s relatively easy to accept each person exactly the way he or she is, right here and now. I often say that the time I spend in the classroom with the children simultaneously stands still and passes in a flash. It’s because young children are born to live in the moment and if I’m going to be their teacher I either have to rip them out of that, or strive to meet them there. I choose their world in which the past is easily forgotten and the future exists only in theory.

It’s in that ever-present gap between past and future that love exists.

Love is much more of a struggle during the rest of my life. The moment I’m left alone in the classroom at the end of the day, time returns with its regrets and worries. I torture myself with my own failings, and grumble about those of others. As I rush through my afternoon of errands, I interact with cashiers who are slow, drivers who are rude, and baristas who are phony. At home my child should clean up her room and my wife should stop working so hard.

But every now and then, if I really concentrate, I remember to look the other people in the eye, smile, and accept them without any agenda of my own. It may only last for a second, but that’s long enough. Sometimes, that moment fills me to overflowing and I bounce along the sidewalk, making eye contact with every stranger I pass, smiling and saying, “Hi.” Some are startled and suspicious, wondering, I suppose, about my agenda, but that doesn’t change the fact that I love them. Others are too distracted by the past and future to do more than flash me a distracted smile, but that doesn’t change the fact that I love them. And once in awhile, I get full-on eye contact, a real smile, and a return “Hi,” that says I love you, too.

Of course, there are those special times when I dress as my alter-ego, Captain Superhugger, as depicted at the top of this blog. That’s when I get to walk down the street hugging the strangers, looking them in the eye, and actually saying the words, “I love you” -- and mean it. And they almost always say it back to me. I can float on that experience for weeks.

As summer winds down, I’m eager to get back to “church.” I got a taste of it a couple weeks ago, but a lot has happened this summer (e.g., politics, selling a house, car problems) that has forced me into a pattern of regret and worry. I need the kids to pull me into the present, and support me in my ongoing struggle to love.

A Pair Of Schoolhouse Visitors

Here are a couple follow-ups to recent posts.

On Wednesday I published a post entitled "A Grown Man's Blankies" about the homeless person who used our preschool's playground as a campsite for at least part of the summer. It was heartwarming how many of you responded. I was particularly moved by this email from Shelly:

. . . When I first learned about this situation, I thought about it strictly as a problem we had to deal with, but over the last few weeks I've been thinking more about it in terms of the problems the homeless population have to deal with.

When we are out and about, Chris and I have been noticing how few public restrooms there are in this city (especially compared to the number in Europe). We've also paid more attention to a large van with curtained windows parked across from our house - it moves about two houses down the street every other day. We wonder where it's inhabitants eat, use the restroom, and shower. We hope none of our neighbors have called to complain about them. As we drive south on 8th Avenue we see more and more of these vehicle-homes and wonder about the circumstances that led to their owners' misfortunes. When I think about that, I feel silly about some of the things I worry about.

There are a lot of homeless people living in this city, and it shames me to admit that I'd become so accustomed to seeing them from day to day that I stopped really noticing them. I feel somewhat thankful to the man who was living in the courtyard for opening my eyes so that I can see beyond my own life and family - to notice the people who struggle every day with things I completely take for granted.

On Saturday I published a post entitled "It Will Be Our Fault" about the precarious position teachers around the country are being put in over Barack Obama's address to school children that will take place later today.

An interesting thing happened. Apparently, a lot of people either linked to the post or shared the URL with their friends because I saw a significant surge in readership over the next couple days. I was feeling pretty proud of myself until things turned ugly. Yesterday I awoke to a flood of anonymous comments, some respectful, most not, strongly disagreeing with me. I began by diligently reading each of them with the intent of responding until I noticed that they were all kind of sounding alike, often even repeating exact phases. It also became clear that the writers of these anonymous comments either hadn't read the post, or at least hadn't read the full post, because they accused me of writing things or believing things that simply weren't there. And finally, almost all of them devolved into a litany of reasons to fear Obama, Democrats and/or the federal government, which is entirely beside the point.

Clearly, Teacher Tom's Blog had been targeted by some sort of political "rapid response" effort. I'd heard about these types of things, but I figured they didn't have time for little blogs like this one. I was wrong. And, frankly, after awaking to another half dozen anonymous posts this morning, I'd have to say I'm still feeling proud.

I've made the editorial decision to just delete the anonymous comments, unread. Life's too short.

Any Road Will Get You There

There was a time when I wore suits to work. It was the 1980’s and I was the communications manager at the Greater Seattle Chamber of Commerce. I let my freak flag fly by matching my socks to my tie.

One of my colleagues had this slogan on the wall of his office:

If you don’t know where you’re going, any road will get you there.

It’s an epigram about setting and pursuing goals, but every time I read it, I would think, I’d rather take the scenic route. I’d begun to realize that the business world wasn’t for me, and the idea of all those roads, leading lord knows where, had far more appeal than any single goal I could conjure.

Fortunately, I was married to a woman who knew where she was going, which gave me the opportunity to dump the suit, grow a real freak flag, and follow an up and down back road as a freelance hack writer, which landed me a decade later as the stay-at-home father of a perfect baby girl named Josephine. I readily dropped all pretenses of paid work and set out on a detour that, at that time, not many men had taken. I entertained doubts about the wisdom of my decision until my father, who had spent good chunks of my childhood traveling on business, said, “I missed you boys growing up. You’re the luckiest man alive.” (I’m glossing over it here, but that was a huge moment for me.)

I loved her to pieces as a baby, and there were rewards aplenty, but it wasn’t all that much fun until Josephine started talking and walking. That’s when I knew that the road I was on had taken me someplace I really wanted to be.

When Josephine turned 2, all the important women in my life (wife, mother and mother-in-law) were for once unanimous in their opinion that she wasn’t ready for preschool. “She’s too young to be on her own,” was the main argument. The only way I could get around their objections was enrolling in a cooperative preschool.

For the uninitiated, the cooperative model of early childhood education has been around since at least the 1940’s. The basic concept is that the parents own their children’s school and operate it at every level from the executive to the janitorial, with the teacher being the sole paid employee. Typically, every parent also spends one day a week serving as an assistant teacher, bringing the adult to child ratio up to an incredible 1:2 or 1:3, depending on the age of the children. There are obvious benefits of teachers and parents working so closely together, both inside and outside the classroom, not to mention very low tuitions.

From our first day we knew we had found a home. Three years later as Josephine prepared for kindergarten, her teacher asked me, “What are you going to do once she’s in full-day kindergarten?” To be honest, I hadn’t thought about it, but the idea of going back to sitting by myself, at home, in front a computer looked like a grim prospect. “Have you ever considered teaching preschool?”

And so as my girl took the road that headed to grade school and beyond, I diverted once more onto a side street that lead me to becoming Teacher Tom. Children come to me now as 2-year-olds in diapers and leave three years later, “sophisticated” 5-year-olds ready for kindergarten. These are remarkable years of development and I’m honored to be a part of the lives of these kids and their families.

Eight years later, I’m still enjoying the scenery. I continue to write and I’ve added some artistic pursuits to my portfolio, but teaching and parenting are how I fuel my ride.

When I graduated from college I didn’t have a career in mind so much as a strong desire to spend my time around great minds engaged in worthwhile endeavors. That’s what I’ve found in preschool. I’m in awe of these amazing brains. Every day I learn something I didn’t know when I awoke. And every day I hope I'm helping make the world a little bit better.

I’ve edited my chamber of commerce colleague’s quote for my own wall. It now reads:

Any road will get you there.

And here is always great place to be.

Carved Books

If you read the profile attached to this blog, you'll notice that I refer to myself, among other things, as an artist. I shared some of my illustrations here a few days ago, but to be honest it's been a long time since I broke out the paints. More recently my artistic endeavors have been expended in what I call "carving books." And while Teacher Tom's Blog exists primarily to address matters related to my role as a teacher, I'm going to be exerting myself this morning in the garage, scrambling to get ready for my first art installation. I thought I'd share some images of my work by way of inspiring myself to build a dozen black easels for the display.

The show will at the main library of North Seattle Community College. I'm planning to get it installed on Monday, September 14, right after my first day of school. Needless to say I'm excited and grateful, especially to librarian Elinor Appel who has been advocating on my behalf.

The process is to use a small, sharp knife, tweezers, and a headlamp to very carefully carve down one page at a time. I wish my photography was better. I hope you can make out what I'm up to.


Funk & Wagnall Standard Dictionary, A-Lobar















Funk & Wagnall Standard Dictionary, Lobate-Z















Arabian Nights
















Whole Earth Catalog
















Vogue, December, 2008
















The Illustrated Almanac of Historical Facts
















The Iliad and the Odyssey
















The Dark Thirty
















The Believer, Forty-Seventh Issue, Beoufcake, September 07















Synapsida
















Pinocchio
















Now We Are Six (A.A. Milne)
















Madel Waffe
















Harper's Bazaar, December, 2008
















Elle Magazine, May, 2008
















Elsewhere, Perhaps (Amos Oz)
















First Aid, Fourth Edition, American national Red Cross

It Will Be Our Fault

If I were a public school teacher, I think I’d be relieved if my principal forbade me to let my students watch President Obama’s back to school address on September 8. Sure, I’d make a show of outrage, maybe even write a sternly worded letter of protest, but deep down inside I’d feel the same kind of relief I felt when my wife, mother and mother-in-law told me my 2-year-old daughter was too young to be in preschool: It’s the right thing to do, but the higher ups won’t let me.

In 2003, during the run-up to the Iraq War a public school teacher in Indiana was using an officially approved Time Magazine for Kids curriculum to discuss current events. She was required to teach that Iraq possessed weapons of mass destruction along with other historical “facts” about the relationship between our two countries. The curriculum included a short story about anti-war protests. When one of her students asked her if she would ever take part in one of these demonstrations, she answered, “I honk for peace” when I drive by demonstrators with signs reading I Honk For Peace.

A small group of parents raised a ruckus. The teacher lost her job and ultimately her home. She took her case all the way to the Supreme Court, which declined to hear it, thus confirming the lower court decision:

. . . a teacher’s speech is a commodity that she sells to a school in exchange for a salary.

While this technically only applies to teachers in the 7th Circuit (Indiana, Illinois, Wisconsin) it could, and probably would, be used as a precedent in other parts of the country.

Thousands of teachers will air President Obama’s speech in their classrooms, but in our current political environment they will need to walk on eggshells to avoid having their lives destroyed for doing so. An opportunity for meaningful civics education will be missed if teachers are cowed into silence by a few exercised parents.

In 1988, Ronald Reagan spoke directly to students. So did George H.W. Bush in 1991. In both cases, objections were raised, but no one was censored over it, let alone lost their jobs. Gerald Ford, Jimmy Carter, and Bill Clinton all also spoke directly to students without controversy. Heck, George W. Bush was famously sitting in an elementary school classroom when the tragedy of 9/11 happened.

And now there’s a controversy over the president of the United States speaking to students? Really? And it’s such a big deal that teachers' livelihoods will be threatened over it? Really? Really? Already, entire school districts have succumbed to pressure and banned the president’s speech. What the hell is going on here? This is the elected leader of the free world we’re talking about, not some dangerous fringe figure with the magic powers to brainwash children through the television.

The only conclusion I can draw is that a noisy minority of our fellow citizens has suffered a psychotic break with reality. They are calling our president a Nazi, a socialist, a communist, a terrorist, and a race-hater, sometimes all in the same tirade. They are openly and threateningly carrying guns to places where he appears. They are even insisting that he isn’t really the president. As outright crazy as this is, our constitution protects their right to engage in all of this insanity.

But it does not protect their right to censor the president, especially when, by all accounts, the subject of his speech will be the universally accepted values of hard work, setting goals and staying in school. As ludicrous as it sounds, this is the message they want to censor.

Yet in many parts of the country they are successfully doing so. A frothy fringe of parents has been hammering school districts, administrators, and even teachers for weeks now. And frankly, I can’t blame them for giving in. They don’t want to lose their jobs and homes. Our public educators are in a bind. They cannot speak out without great risk.

Thankfully, we as parents are free to speak our minds. And even better, the courts have held that students do not sacrifice their free speech rights once the school bell rings. It’s up to us as parents and students to support our teachers. If you want to make sure your child has the opportunity to hear the president encourage them to work hard and stay in school, then let your school officials know about it. If your school is already planning to broadcast the address, then thank them for doing it. If a teacher makes the mistake of actually voicing an opinion, stand up for her.

As I mentioned in yesterday’s post, it’s clear that there are some very frightened people in this country. Change can be threatening. We have chosen a new political direction. The leader of the free world is now a man who might have been a slave only a few generations ago.

These sad people are so afraid that when they look at the president, they see a boogeyman from whom they must protect their children. They deserve our pity, but that doesn’t mean we have to let their irrational fears win the day.

Now is a time to stand up for our public educators. If a single one of them loses her job, it will be our fault.

This Is How Democracy Works

Last night I took our cool new light rail link to Westlake Center for a health care reform rally. I found out about it via email a couple of days ago. I knew our congressman-for-life Jim McDermott was going to be keynoting, so I figured there would be a decent crowd, but otherwise national press coverage lead me to expect a milquetoast turn-out and some unruly opposition.

But this is Seattle. We’re a kick-ass, professionally run Democratic Party city. Political opposition more often comes from the left than the right. We were not going to let the loyal opposition drown us out. I’m terrible at guessing these things, but the turnout impressed me: at least 2000, and maybe as many as 10,000, but it didn’t really matter.

This is how democracy works. I was not there out of ideological passion, but I wasn’t there cynically either. I go to political rallies because it’s important to sometimes vote with your body. Earlier this summer, the opposition scared me by its ability to turn out bodies at health care town hall meetings, but we are clearly in the majority and the only way we can fail to achieve meaningful health care reform is if we don’t make this fact clear to our political leaders by showing up.

Every political rally to which I’ve ever been, starts out the same way. We kind of mill around while efficient young people representing various unions and other organizations hand out signs, stickers and the opportunity to sign a petition or two. There are a few hippish-types, but mostly it’s a bunch of the middle-aged, middle-class people we see at the grocery store. It’s just us and we’re always a little awkward and self-conscious.

A band called My Parade kicked off the event. Many of the older people felt they were too loud, but no one seemed upset that the very charming lead singer kept saying fuck. A few of us tried to rock out, but you know, we're out of practice. I’m sure my 12-year-old would have been embarrassed.

Nothing unexpected happened. We heard from a father with employer provided health insurance whose son has lymphoma, but has to wait 6 months to start treatment for purely bureaucratic reasons. The owner of Cupcake Royale told us how 25 cents of every cupcake she sells now goes to pay for her employees’ insurance, and that’s for coverage that’s not nearly as good as what she could afford last year. The pastor who emceed the event had us practice 3 simple chants. Dr. Jim McDermott was there to assure us that he is doing the job he was elected to do: represent us in congress.

As each speaker stepped up to the microphone, with each repetition of Hey Hey Ho, with each heartbreaking story, with each repetition of the simple facts, with each reference to the two dozen frightened people “across the street” with their signs that read socialism, or government is evil, with each mention of Teddy Kennedy, we became less awkward, more united. By the time the pastor asked, “Can you feel it? Can you feel that we’ve already won?” our confidence was soaring. This is how you’re supposed to feel at a kick-ass, professionally run political rally.

We will wind up with meaningful healthcare reform. We will wind up with a strong public option that will, over time, evolve into Medicare for all. We will pay for it through the premium payments from those under 65. These premiums will be much lower than private insurance can charge because there is no need to the generate profits, bizarrely high executive salaries, or gigantic marketing/lobbying budgets. Health care costs will be controlled by the bargaining power of an enormous pool of customers, which the public option will inevitably attract. It will kick the butt of the private sector by being more efficient, while producing better results, like what happens in the rest of the industrialized world. Private insurance will have to compete or die.

Ayn Rand (who I was into as a 9th grader until I realized that I didn’t want to live in a world in which selfishness was considered a virtue) will just have to roll over in her grave. Capitalism is cool, but not unregulated capitalism. And sometimes it’s just plain immoral. There is no morality in an industry that is motivated to deny healthcare and/or drive families into bankruptcy.

By now, I don’t think there are many regular citizens who haven’t made up their minds. The lines are drawn and the time for persuasion is over. All that’s left is to make this fact clear to the US Senate, which still seems to think there’s something left to debate. Our own Washington State senators are on our side. Patty Murray has been on the bandwagon from the start. Maria Cantwell has been slower to come to the table, but when I called her office earlier this week to ask about her position, the woman I spoke with assured me the senator is in favor of a “strong public option” and not the watered down “co-op” idea as was rumored.

But we must keep the pressure on. Yesterday, the White House re-floated the idea of giving the private insurers a couple years to meet some sort of benchmarks and only if they don’t, would it “trigger” a public option. This plan would mean the sacrifice of thousands more American lives and thousand more bankruptcies, while executives take home billion dollar paychecks. I simply do not trust them to do anything but make one more last grab for money. This is what’s called a trial balloon. If we don’t shoot it down, our political leaders will run with it. Please call your representatives and the White House and let them know you are against the “trigger” idea. This is how democracy works.

As the rally broke up, the pastor urged us to shake one another’s hands and say, “Thank you.” Loud, motivational baby-boom music like Don’t Stop and Higher Ground filled the void left by the speakers causing middle-aged, middle-class people to unselfconsciously dance in public.

Many of us took a tour of the tiny fenced-off area across the street where, at most, two dozen counter-protesters morosely mingled. They were not the kind of people you see at the grocery store. I thought it was an urban legend, but there really was an elderly man who proudly announced that he was on Medicare, but carried a sign that read, “Keep Your Government Hands Off My Private Insurance.” Shame on those who have lied to him. There were several guys in their late teens wearing baseball caps with images of guns or Confederate flags, and a couple more who were slightly older wearing suits that looked like they might have belonged to their fathers. Most of them covered their faces when someone turned a camera on them. They seemed frightened. They looked like they needed a hug and a whispered assurance that everything was going to be alright.

As I boarded the train to head home, I fell into conversation with an older Mexican-American man. We talked about healthcare reform and art. It turns out he is a Beacon Hill neighborhood activist with whom I have several friends in common. When he got off at Qwest Field to go to the Seahawks game, a young African-American man leaned across the aisle to tell me that he knows my companion and he is, “a great man.”

We talked about the rally and reminded each other that Barack Obama has proven to be a smart politician who plays chess while everyone else is playing checkers. I said, “I hope he takes a strong stance on the public option in his speech next week.”

He answered, “I think he will.”

I said, “He hasn’t so far, but he’s fond of the FDR line about if you want me to support change you’re going to have to . . .”

And he interrupted to finish my sentence, “. . . make me.”

This is a truly historic opportunity. When the G20 meets later this year, the US will be the only nation represented that does not provide universal healthcare. We will be dead last on the list in terms of health care outcomes, and first on the list in terms of cost. There will never be a better time. We’ve been trying to get this done since the other great Teddy – Roosevelt – first proposed it. The mid-term elections will likely see the opposition taking back some seats in congress and that may be enough to doom us if we don't get it done now.

The next couple months are important. We must make them do it.

This is how democracy works.

When Anastasia Became a Monster

(Note: I wrote and illustrated this story several years ago, but never did anything with it. So this is it's publishing debut! I have many more ink and watercolor illustrations, but it was looking too cluttered. I'd love feedback.)

The monsters under Anastasia’s bed had been keeping her awake. Their usual growling, snarling and belching had been bad enough, but lately there had been an increase in howling, moaning and bellyaching. Anastasia had become increasingly indignant at the utter rudeness of her neighbors dwelling down there in their land of dust bunnies.

“Of course they must live,” she said to herself. “And of course they must live in their natural habitat. And they will, after all, make some noise, but I simply must be allowed to sleep!”

Up until then Anastasia had more or less ignored the monsters. They were down there; she was up here. She let them have any toys that rolled under the bed, while they avoided attacking her ankles as she got in and out of bed. Otherwise she rarely thought of them.

But now, in the darkest part of the night, she was thinking about those monsters. She pulled her flashlight from under her pillow and hung over the edge of her bed to shine its beam into the monster’s domain. “Hey, keep it down!”

The monsters fell silent.

Satisfied, Anastasia pulled her self back into bed, but minutes later the monsters were back at it.

“Hey, monsters! I’m trying to sleep up here!” she shouted.

They again fell silent before a single monster voice cried out, “Just who do you think you are?!”

“I’m Anastasia, that’s who -- the girl who sleeps in this bed. The one who keeps a roof over your head.”

Anastasia heard some scrambling, then felt something moving on her bed. She turned her flashlight in that direction and sure enough it was a very angry monster.

“Ho-ho,” said the monster. “So it’s you who keep a roof over our heads, is it? How about it’s us who keep a floor under you!”

This was outrageous. “For your information, monster, you’ve been making entirely too much noise under there. If this keeps up I’ll be forced to ask you to leave.”

The monster sputtered and putrid yellow bile flew from his lips. “Perhaps it will be us who ask you to leave!”

“Why would I leave my own bed?” Anastasia demanded.

The monster answered, “Because of that racket you’ve been making on our roof every morning, just as the babies are getting sleep. They keep the rest of us up half the day with their crying. And now listen to them. It’s the middle of the night – normally the most cheerful part of the day – and they’re howling, moaning and bellyaching.”

Anastasia reflected that she had lately developed the habit of jumping on her bed each morning before getting dressed for school. It was her workout. Who were these creatures to tell her not to jump on her bed when even her own parents allowed it?

Just then a heart-piercing wail came from below.

“This is your fault,” said the monster who stomped off in a fury.

For the rest of the night the monsters’ hideous sounds were louder and more varied.

The following morning, exhausted and bitter, Anastasia jumped so furiously on her bed that even her mother asked her to stop.

Her day was monstrous. She growled at her father. She snarled at the bus driver. She belched during a spelling test and was laughed at by the whole class. She dozed through lunch and was sent home with a note from her teacher insisting that she get more sleep.

She didn’t put up a fight when she was sent to bed early. When the monsters began their cacophony she leapt to the floor with her flashlight and presented the note.

“Do you see this?” she asked. “My teacher commands you to let me sleep.”


“Do you see this?” answered the monster, wielding a paper of its own, “This is a cease and desist order from the high court. If you jump on that bed again, we’ll call the cops!”

“You’ll hear from my lawyer!” shouted Anastasia, who bounded onto the bed and gave it a thorough jumping.

The monsters responded with yowls, caterwauls and shrieks.

The following morning came far too soon for Anastasia who was barely able to drag herself from bed. She dozed and crabbed the entire day.

That night as she lay there grinding her teeth at the monsters’ ruckus she formulated a plan. Anastasia slipped quietly into the hallway where she retrieved the vacuum cleaner from the closet. Then she directed the nozzle under her bed. With a sudden whine the machine came to life, sucking up everything in sight. “That should take care of them,” she muttered with an evil chuckle.


When she returned from restoring the vacuum to its spot in the hallway closet, she found her bed striped down to the bare mattress – her sheets, pillow and stuffed animals were gone. Then with horror she remembered, “Blankie!” Her beloved Blankie was gone!

Blind with despair and rage, Anastasia snatched up a baseball bat, fell to her stomach, and began swinging it wildly under the bed. Moments later she screamed in pain as the monsters sank their fangs into her flesh. An enormous battle ensued. Blood and bruises proliferated. Nasty things were said. Viciousness ruled the field.


After a very long battle, Anastasia lost consciousness.

When she awoke she lay amidst the ruin of her room, surrounded by the nearly lifeless bodies of the monsters. Everything had been decimated. She barely had the energy to raise her throbbing head. That’s when she noticed small bits of Blankie scattered about. She looked at the monsters with cold hatred.

It was that hatred that allowed her to finally move her hand. She picked up a chunk of ceiling tile with which to clobber her nearest enemy. As she raised her weapon over her head she took aim, then hesitated. It was a monster baby, sleeping peacefully.

She couldn’t hit a baby, could she? Even a monster baby?

The monster baby growled gently, snarled with satisfaction, and belched in contentment.


Anastasia dropped her arm. Her hatred wasn’t strong enough. In fact it was no longer even strong enough to keep her awake. She drifted sweetly asleep to the familiar sounds of the monster baby.

After a long rest, Anastasia and the monsters awoke together. As they were barely able to move from their wounds, a truce was called.

Anastasia agreed that the monsters had every right to live under the bed, but only under the condition that they avoided excessive growling, snarling and belching, while foregoing howling, moaning, bellyaching, yowling, caterwauling and shrieking altogether. For their part the monsters conceded Anastasia’s claim to sleep on their roof, but only if she agreed to relocate her morning jump to her parents’ bed.

Then a very important thing happened. Anastasia said, “I’m sorry.”

The monster smiled. “We’re sorry, too. How could we have let things get so out of hand?”

“All of this and we’re right back where we started,” sighed Anastasia.

Her room was a shambles, her body injured, and her reputation besmirched. She no longer had Blankie. And even worse, her heart felt wounded from all the rage, despair and hatred.

The monster replied, pointing to the destruction, “All of this and we’re even worse off than we started.”

They tried to laugh, but it hurt too much.

Over the next few days Anastasia’s body began to heal. The abrasions clotted and the bruises faded.

One night she pulled out her flashlight and peered under the bed. “Is everything all right down there?” she asked.

“I hurt right here,” the monster said, pointing to his heart.

“Me too,” she answered. Then without thinking she said, “I became a monster.”

“And I,” said the monster, “became a human.”

It hurt them to laugh, but a little less than before.

A Grown Man’s Blankies

Woodland Park’s Pre-3 class had its Fall Orientation parent meeting on Monday night. It was my first time back in the school for 3 months and I’d forgotten how much in disarray we’d left the classroom last spring. All 42 families, from both the Pre-3’s and 3-5’s had pitched in to give the place a year-end scrubbing, but since our rooms weren’t going to be used for awhile, there was no real effort made to put things back into place. That will be the job of our set-up crew next week, but in the meantime, the gym had become a sort of catch-all temporary storage place, and our courtyard/playground had collected more than its share of the urban debris that comes with the territory, not to mention the unpleasant reminders of the vagrant who had taken refuge there during part of the summer.

If this had been a mid-year meeting, I would have just waited for the first parents to arrive and in true co-op fashion ask them to help me tidy up, but since the Pre-3 class is mostly populated by families new to our community, I was concerned with first impressions, so rolled up my sleeves, put on some gloves, and got to work.

The first order of business was hauling the pile of left-behind street person bedding down to the dumpster. It took three trips to get it all cleared away and as I worked I noticed our garden hose had been uncoiled from its usual spot. Beside the spigot was a blue sponge, like the kind we’d used to scrub small toys during the year-end cleaning. Our anonymous “house guest” had apparently been taking sponge baths in the courtyard.

I avoided looking into the secluded corner that will be receiving the attentions of hazardous waste removal professionals this week, new ground cover, and additional pressure washing for good measure.

Amanda and Jaimee, a pair of parents who live near the school, and who both have kids in this year’s Pre-K class, took the lead in working with the police, our landlord, and the church-run soup kitchen across the street to get our visitor moved along. They consulted with the parks department and other facility manager types who have to deal regularly with these situations. Based on their work, proper clean-up is underway, our fence is now over 7-feet high, our gate locks, and our outdoor lights come on at night with every movement.

I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to being pissed off, especially considering what it’s cost us in terms of time and expense.

At the same time, it was melancholy work carrying a grown man’s blankies down to the dumpster. One of the sheets even had little teddy bears printed on it. As I tossed them, a part of me felt as if I were tossing away a human being.

Our school is located across the street from Seattle’s Woodland Park Zoo and we’ve all noticed that the last year has seen a huge increase in people living in campers and vans parked along that blank space where there are no residential driveways to block or homeowners to complain. They are the same vehicles in many cases that I used to notice parked a few miles away near the B.F. Day Elementary School until the city put up signs forbidding overnight parking. This is a safe, middle-class neighborhood which is probably why these people, like the rest of us, want to live here.

I’m sure it will be only a matter of time before the city puts up more signs and another safe, middle class neighborhood will be forced to install motion-sensitive lighting and 7-foot tall fences.

After making the courtyard presentable, I attacked the helter-skelter mess in our gym.

I was sweating by the time the parents arrived, but at least things were presentable. We set up our snacks in anticipation of the break that would come an hour later. I gave our new health and safety officer a tour of the classroom, showing off our first aid kits, fire extinguishers, and emergency evacuation plans. We engaged in slightly nervous getting-to-know-you chatter while waiting for everyone to arrive. Per usual, more that a quarter of our families are alumni, and they demonstrated their experience by casually arriving just as the meeting was about the start.

When we convened, we sat facing one another in a circle. Our fantastic parent educator, Dawn, kicked things off by having us introduce ourselves and tell the group a few things that “help comfort your child when he’s upset.” Listening to each parent share about her child is, for me, one of the most life affirming exercises on earth. There were no surprises: these 2-year-olds, like the ones before them, respond to books, singing, hugs, toys, talking, and distraction. But in the mouth of each parent, speaking from her love, these banalities told heartwarming stories about unique, beloved treasures.

We then got down to nitty-gritty of running the school. We learned about our budget, the schedule, enrollment, tuition, fundraising, cleaning and maintenance, health and safety, each report delivered by the parent in charge of that part of the school’s business. In what has become an annual ritual, Rene warned us about her daughter’s peanut/tree nut allergy and taught us what to do in an emergency, including a demonstration of how to use epi-pens. I’m always impressed by this down-to-business exercise in community building on behalf of our children.

During the break we filled our vacant parent jobs, created “buddy” alliances, and learned about the challenges of our co-ed bathroom.

As we mingled cozily around our table of crackers and sparkling water, I stole glances through the window at our now darkened courtyard that had until recently been the lonely summer home of our unknown intruder. I thought about the beer cans I’d carried down to the dumpster and wondered if he even remembered the hugs, stories and songs that been the true comforts of his childhood. I’m haunted by the image of that teddy bear sheet. I hope he didn’t need it to sleep last night, wherever that is.

The Woodland Park Pre-3’s are going to have an amazing year because of the safe, middle class “neighborhood” we’ve created for them here at school. Amanda, Jaimee and the rest of us spent our summer trying to figure out how to keep it that way. I honestly believe we approached the problem with love in our hearts, but I think we all know that a higher fence with a locking gate represents a failure, just as it will be a failure when the city puts up its “No Parking” signs by the zoo.

In His Element

(Note: This is a follow-up to a post I wrote last Friday about our tendency to label children who for whatever reason fall outside the narrow band of what we call “normal.”)

I receive two magazine subscriptions: Popular Mechanics and ESPN, the magazine. I learn a lot of cool stuff from the first, and the second I originally subscribed to only in support of my friend who landed a job as their head of ad sales. He long ago left ESPN, but for whatever reason I’ve not bothered to figure out which credit card is getting billed for it, so it keeps arriving.

And as luck would have it, I finally learned something from the most recent issue (Sept. 7, 2009) of ESPN. (I’m not going to link to the article because ESPN has a policy of making people pay to read some of its content. If you want to pay for it, the article is entitled, “In His Element.”) It’s the story of a kid named Clay Marzo who is a surfing prodigy. He struggles in school. He struggles socially. He pretty much struggles as long as he’s on land. Everyone just assumed he was a typical surfing stoner malcontent until his coach got him evaluated by an autism specialist named Michael Linden who diagnosed him as having Asperger’s, with symptoms of both ADD and OCD.

As a medical professional, Linden is exactly the kind of person in whose hand these labels can effectively be used. He knows they do not necessarily describe “disorders.” In fact, the doctor goes on to assert that it’s probably these very conditions that make him such a mind-blowing surfer. In other words, a “normal” kid would struggle trying to do what Clay does, just as Clay struggles doing things that come more easily to them.

In a sidebar to the story, journalist Alyssa Roenigk writes:

Michael Linden . . . believes 20% of pro athletes have ADD or ADHD – more than four times the rate of all adults. Kids with ADHD are drawn to sports because activity helps them release excess energy, plus the focus required to develop skills can calm their minds. Linden also says kids with ADHD have quick reaction times and tend to move instantly to the next moments. “They rarely dwell on mistakes and losses.” . . . Similarly, an athlete with OCD can practice shooting free throws or throwing a slider over and over without losing interest. And those with Tourette’s . . . may also have the ability to master quick, precise movements, which is why some are drawn to high-risk activities requiring extreme concentration.

As I suggest in my post entitled, "The Only Way To Learn About Each Other", we need to figure out a way to include these children in our educational communities without medicating or segregating them. Rather than trying to force these square pegs into the round holes of our current educational systems we need to find ways to adapt the way we educate to suit these perfectly normal kids, not just for the sake of these kids, but for all of us.

Instead we see school districts across the country cutting athletic, physical education, music, and arts budgets, in favor of yet more of the sitting in desks, facing forward style of education, taking away some of the few areas in which we’ve traditionally done a good job of serving these kids. Couple this with ever-growing class sizes and it’s almost criminal.