Month: March 2020

She felt nervous.  I could tell. “Mr. Ball, do you think the virus will get here…to our town?” she asked.  Her lips curled upward, just slightly, in what looked to be disgust.  Her eyes remained fixed on mine, exuding a deep, child-like fear. I could tell she was nervous.

The boy next to her chimed in.  “It’s already in Wilton,” he said. Wilton is a neighboring town. Although he delivered his words confidently, he likely felt nervous, too.

I placed the clipboard that held my conferring notes down on the table at which we sat.  I took a deep breath.  “I don’t know,” I said, looking sympathetically back at the eighth grade girl next to me.

Perhaps a better, more reassuring answer could have been provided.

But I’m nervous, too.

I noticed the small pile in the basement a few days ago.  On somewhat of a cleaning mission now, I kneeled down to take a closer look.  On top of the pile rested a CD. Right then I realized what this was.  Affixed to the CD was the smiling face of my late mom.  Picking it up, I held in my hand the disk she had lovingly entitled, “Tutu Sings” on which she had recorded around 18 children’s songs a capella.  She’d sung these songs and recorded them for my daughters many years ago.

Gently, I began to sift through the pile.  Beneath the disk lay a list of credit card logins, passwords – a list my wife had written down in an effort to help my dad sort through what was once a joint financial life but would now become his and his alone.  For on April 21st, 2017, my mom had passed away suddenly, the cancer finally winning out.

Other artifacts from that terrible time rested in the pile, as well.  A mournful collection.  My eyes clouded a bit as I looked through it all and remembered.  Mixed in were touching photos of Mom and a baby, now my ten-year-old daughter.  Wow, I thought, these pictures are now ten years old.  In each picture, my mom is smiling vibrantly.  Always so happy.  Always spreading joy to others.  That was the essence of my mother.  She lived her life as a bright light illuminating darkness.  Always helping others. Always love.  That was her.

I located a small box for the contents of the pile, and with a heavy heart I placed the items inside and closed the box.  But I know my heart will never be closed off from the wonderful woman I was privileged enough to call my mom.

Donna Rae Callaway Ball died April 17, 2017.  May she rest in peace.

We had been reading on the couch, sitting close.  My ten-year-old daughter suddenly closed her book and said, “That was so good!”  Looking up from my own book, I saw the satisfied smile beaming across her face.  I smiled, too.

“Wow, you finished it, huh?  That’s great!” I said.

My eight-year-old daughter had now entered the room.  She spoke to her older sister, who was now no longer engrossed in her book.  “I heard you yelling at Lucas (not his real name) on the bus on Friday,” she said.  Surprised to hear this, I turned to fix my gaze on my eldest daughter again.  Wait, she yelled at another kid? Not familiar.  Laying my book upon my lap, I remained silent.

“Yeah,” my ten-year-old started, “I did yell.  He tried to sit in my friend’s assigned seat and say it was his.  I told him, ‘no, that’s my friend’s seat, not yours.'”

“What did he say?” I queried, fascinated by this unusual recounting of a confrontation.  This felt like new territory.  I had never heard of my daughter quarreling with another kid this way.

“Well, he told me to mind my own business.  But I told him that since he was trying to take my friend’s seat, it was my business.”  She continued, recounting the argument and how she never backed down.

Reflecting on this conversation (to myself), the word “advocacy” came to mind. And “courage.”  I felt proud of my daughter.  I also, perhaps tangentially, thought about how reading builds empathy.  I thought about how reading books helps us to see, understand, and share the feelings of another.  My daughter is a big reader.  Did her reading habit play a role in her willingness to stand up to a known bully on the bus that day?  Does reading also build moral courage?  Or agency? Maybe it does.

It wasn’t a huge, consequential stand my daughter took that day.  But to me, it felt symbolic.  She wasn’t afraid. She stood up for another. And I felt so proud of her.

My room now empty, and the excited Friday hum of dismissal having dissipated, I sank into my chair.  The length of the week began to manifest in my bones, and I felt tired.  I took a deep breath and blew it out.

But I couldn’t leave yet.  There was one more thing to do.

I rose from my red, rolling office chair and retrieved Emma’s (not her real name) intervention binder.  Emma is a student for whom I’ve been providing reading intervention this year.  A sweet, soft-spoken girl, Emma works hard.  She tries.  Which I always admire, especially if struggle is a part of everyday life.  Which it is for all my intervention students.

Earlier in the day, I had asked Emma to independently read a short Newsela text, take some notes, and craft a summary.  Progress-monitoring we call it.  We had been working on this for some time, she and I; I have been teaching her to do more synthesis work as a reader, focus less on cool facts, see larger concepts, stick details together- that kind of thing.  Now, I felt anxious to read it.  Had her summarizing improved? My gosh, I hoped so.

Opening her binder, I located the correct paper.

I read.

I smiled.

Central idea? Check.  Multiple main ideas? Check.  Text evidence? Check.  Authorial choices? Check.  She’s done it!  I thought to myself.  Quickly, I laid this new work next to her baseline assessment (where I had asked her to summarize).  The difference… wow! I reached into the Friday air and pulled my fist down.  A rare moment of teacher pride filled my being.

I suppose this is why we do this work.

Tugging the beautiful shiny mylar balloon downward and in through the front door, I placed my shoulder bag on the floor.  I hung up my coat, took off my shoes, grabbed the balloon, and made my way toward the living room.  Piano music filled my ears, and I remembered it was Thursday, my daughter’s lesson day.

I peeked into the living room.  On the coffee table lay a small pile of presents and a few cards.  Then my wife’s voice came from the kitchen, “Happy birthday, honey.”  Her warm smile greeted me.

Yep, my birthday’s come again.  Tonight we would open those gifts, head out to my favorite restaurant, eat some cake.  The five of us would be together.

As I gazed out the window at the sun reflecting off barren winter trees, I silently marked the moment in time.  How lucky am I? I thought.  How lucky, indeed.