LANNY BALL, Literacy Specialist

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.

With the brightly-colored book now in my hands, I moved the pillow out of the way.  My four-year-old daughter snuggled closer to me.  No light remained outside, and the warmth of the lamp next to us glowed softly.  “Let’s read The Lorax!” my daughter excitedly announced.

Placing my feet gently upon the coffee table, I settled in.  “Let’s do it, honey!” I said.  On the table where my feet now rested lay a disheveled pile of colorful Dr. Seuss books.  This week, my two older daughters and I have been spending time in our respective schools participating in “Dr. Seuss Spirit Weeks.”  I smiled as I regarded the pile of books; the girls pulled every one of them off the shelf, I thought to myself.

Tonight felt special.  For some reason, my four-year-old has resisted Dr. Seuss up until this week.  Why is that? Not sure. We’d read plenty of Curious George, Snowy Day, Corduroy, fairy tales and nursery rhymes . . . dozens and dozens of books.  But for some reason, Dr. Seuss had not yet captured her interest.

However, now here we sat, we two, snuggled together on the couch- not our normal location nor routine, but that was okay.  We started in.

Then, the priceless moment.

I read the words from The Lorax:

He lurks in his Lerkim, cold under the roof,

where he makes his own clothes

out of miff muffered moof.

Suddenly, my daughter gasped, repeating the nonsense word “miff muffered moof” aloud.  “Papa! I know what that is!” she exclaimed.

Feigning genuine intrigue, I widened my eyes and turned to her. “You do?!” I asked.

Eyes now sparkling, she nodded.  “Yes! But . . . it’s a secret,” she whispered.  Cupping her hands over my right ear, she leaned in close.  I felt her warm breath as the barely-audible word came: “Fabric.”

I turned to her again.  “Fabric,” I quietly repeated.  “I bet you’re right, honey.”

I could see them through the glass-paned door, all sitting in a semi-circle.  As quietly as possible, we opened the door and sidled into the classroom.  Not surprisingly, all the little faces of the pre-school children, as well as the cast of adults positioned among and before them, turned to face us.  I felt my face form into a bright smile and heard my voice say, “Good morning everyone!  We’re just here to visit.”

Making my way to the back of the room, I watched as the teacher held up vividly colored flashcards.  “Let’s begin,” she instructed, sitting up on her knees.  Suddenly the room burst into unison voices, reciting the letter A, its short vowel sound, and the word ‘apple.’ I glanced over at my assistant superintendent who had accompanied me into the room and greeted her smile with my own.

Earlier in the day, she and I had visited the middle school across town from my own.  There, we had witnessed adolescent writers composing research-based argument writing on such topics as gay marriage, gun control, and the utility of bells in schools.  In that classroom, the teacher had patiently explained to us that these writers were working on a third argument piece.  I thought to myself how helpful that will be for the students, as repetition is how we learn.

Now sitting quietly observing a pre-K lesson, my assistant superintendent silently gestured to me that it was time to move on.  Our next stop would be a few kindergarten classrooms, followed by some time in upper grades.  Each room we visited left me awe-struck at the levels of organization, care, and skill the teachers brought to the mission of educating each group of young children.

Following our elementary walk, we traveled a few miles to our local high school.  There we were warmly met in the lobby by the school’s Humanities Department Chair, who gracefully led us through nine different English and social studies classrooms.  At one point, my assistant super leaned over to me to whisper, “See that boy in the front row? I’ve known him since he was in pre-school.”  Silently, I marveled at the breadth of the journey each of these students had traveled thus far; from learning what sounds a letter makes, to now presenting on the effects of globalization on the nation of Nigeria. Amazing.

As I drove home that day, I felt so privileged, so privileged to have witnessed a slice of the twelve plus year educational journey kids take on in their lives. I found it truly fascinating!