Giving Away Pencils

I saw this picture on Facebook and was struck deeply by it.  But then I realized: this is it. Right here. This is why I (and every teacher I know) have given kids hundreds of pencils that would never be returned. This is why I (and every teacher I know) have given kids countless notebooks that would never be returned. And snacks. And loose leaf paper. And lunch. And index cards. And on and on.

I can't do everything, but I can do something.

Every teacher I know does the same thing. As the school year starts, if there were one thing I wish non-educators knew, it would be this: the issues facing education in America are enormous. This poem from this student is the tip of the iceberg.

But teachers become teachers so they can *do something*. Not for pensions or pay raises or summers off or glory.

My own children have pencils and notebooks and index cards, but many don't. And those who don't are still important. They will be our neighbors and fellow citizens.

They matter.
Their lives matter.
Their poverty matters.
Their education matters.

And that is worth the cost of a case of pencils.

"Reader" as Identity

As the summer winds down and the school year appears on the horizon, part of my checklist for Back to School time involves the entire family getting updated glasses. I was included in this and went for what I presumed would be bifocals and instead had some semi-scary weirdness. In the process of dealing with that, I found myself going back, again and again, to the same question: Who am I if I am not able to read? 

Yes, I know I tend toward hyperbole. 
Yes, I know about audiobooks (and love them!).
But also, let's be honest, a big part of my identity is wrapped up in reading. 

I am a reader. 
I am a librarian.
I try to get others to read. 
I select books to facilitate reading in others. 
I promote reading. 
I study literacy. 
I am passionate about access to reading. 
I defend against censorship because choosing what to read is essential. 
When I drive alone in my car, I listen to audiobooks rather than the radio. 
My Facebook feed is littered with comments about reading, discussions regarding reading, comments by authors. 
I am a reader, and I want others to be readers. 

Who am I if I can't read? 

Now, again, that is hyperbole. My eye is, at the moment, just fine. 

But as I thought of it, I was ashamed at the depth of privilege my self-pity had been wallowing in. 

I grew up in a school where I was taught to read. 
I had access to books as a child. 
I had access to academic support. 
I have not suffered a disability to interfere with my ability to read or learn. 
I pretty much always had adequate transportation to get me to school, the bookstore, the library.
I currently have access to books. 
I currently have access to technology that can assist me if I am ever low-vision.  

And I see on the news, students suing because they were utterly failed by their school system. Followed by the court saying they don't have a right to literacy. Disgraceful! 

I know the data. 
36 million American adults can't read above a third-grade level. 
85% of juveniles in the criminal justice system are low-literacy. 
If a student can't read at grade level by the end of 4th grade, that student has a 75% chance of ending up in jail or on public aid. 

This is just in the United States. 

There are a lot of people who can't read, and I am not one of them.  

The fear that came with the possibility of losing what I have is just a glimpse of what it is to live in a literate society without access to literacy. What of those who never had it? Or don't believe they have a hope of getting it? 

Literacy should not be something reserved for the few, the wealthy, the privileged.

But it is. And there has to be a way to fix that.  Systems designed to repair it on a macro-scale have failed.  And that, in large part, is why they have failed. 

Literacy is personal.  Some can work within the systems that are created; many can't.  And for those many, it has to be an individualized approach.  

And that brings it back to me.  

While I was grousing about my eye, some student in my district is not able to read at grade level and could use my help. Many, actually. That is where my energies need to be turned.  

I am taking this as an opportunity to redouble my efforts to bring books and literacy to the most students possible in the most customized way I can. 

I am a person who helps others read. 
I am a person who helps teachers get the tools they need to teach their kids to read. 
I am an advocate who does whatever necessary to provide the services my students need. 
I am an ally who provides a safe place for my marginalized students to be able to develop their own educational selves. 

Yes, I am a reader, but I am more than that. I am someone who helps others add that label to their own identities.  

Reading is a part of my identity, but I want it to be a part of everyone's identity.  And I do have the ability to facilitate that. 
One teacher at a time. 
One student at a time. 
One decision at a time. 
One book at a time.

I am a reader who helps others read. I like that identity much more. 

Long and Rambling is Sometimes the Only Way Through

Content warning: abuse

A reckoning is coming in the publishing world, and it has been on the horizon for a long time. How to deal with it is another story entirely.

And it breaks my heart. In so many ways and on so many levels.  It is specifically difficult because of the way it intersects with libraries and their most vulnerable patrons. 

By way of background. I grew up reading the traditional canon of dead white guys.  It is just the way things were.

But I was very fortunate not to be trapped in that.  I read everything Laura Ingalls Wilder wrote and loved her dearly (Yes, I had long braids and a sleeping cap like Laura.  Yes, I lobbied my parents to change my middle name to "Elizabeth."  They refused) Then, at some point, I stumbled across A Wrinkle in Time and saw that girls could write and break boundaries. 

I also had a vast collection of Tasha Tudor books and even met her once. I would spend hours reading the poems and tales, staring at the detailed drawings, trying to drink in every last detail.

I was lucky. I could read stories by women. I could read stories about girls. I could read books where girls were traditional and ones where girls broke boundaries.  I could see the wider world with myself as a part of it. 

But this is because I was not only a girl but a middle-class white girl.  

I honestly don't remember the first time I read a book with a character who was a person of color and was not a criminal, poor, a slave, or an object of pity.  

So when I came to reading young adult books, especially ones with diverse characters, it was new and different. How would I  have felt if I had never ever read a book about a character that looked like me?

But I did have that experience, in a sense.  I am not just a middle-class white woman, but a middle-class fat white woman. (I was a fat kid too.) And that really does change everything.  

When was the last time you read a book and there was a female character who was fat?  Let's say there is one (which is rare).  There is a very good chance that this character is one or more of the following: pathetic, stupid, lovelorn, lazy, abused, dirty, the butt of jokes, self-deprecatingly funny, ugly, unwanted. Oh, and she is always dieting. Her entire existence is defined by her desire to be less

Go ahead, give it a thought. Think of one who isn't. 

Not just books, but TV.  Everyone loses their mind about how amazing This is Us is, but what in the world goes on in the one fat lady's life other than dieting?  Everything centers around it. Same with Mike & Molly. And Roseanne.  Heck, Empire broke ground because its fat female character actually had a love life.

And just like that, we have run out of shows with fat female main characters. And TV is just a mirror of books.  The lessons are the same.  

When Eleanor & Park came out, it was hailed as a groundbreaking take on teen life, at least in part, because Eleanor is fat. She is strong and powerful in her own way, and she finds the most beautiful young love that is so raw and real. And her fatness doesn't prevent that. Yet while she is a wonderful character who is beautifully written, without getting into spoilers, she fits into several of the above categories.  But she is pretty much the best option.

If I as a fat woman were to watch TV or read books, then use those to form ideas about myself, what would I believe?  Nothing good, that's for sure.  

So it is a powerful thing to see someone who could be you doing great things, being amazing and strong and smart and successful.  For kids, it is hard to push back against an unending wave of negative messages to see the possibility of something better in the future, that you can be more than what the world tells you that you are doomed to be. 

Several years ago, I read The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao.  It is a work of art.  It really is breathtaking in its scope. The story. The words. The characters.  Everything about it.  In it, the author Junot Diaz says, “[I]f you want to make a human being into a monster, deny them, at the cultural level, any reflection of themselves.”  

Let that sink in. 

It is dead on. 

Junot Diaz won the Pulitzer for Oscar Wao and has been a celebrity writer ever since. His books are astonishing.  They are fierce in their portrayal of the truth. They have strong, powerful, diverse characters and speak so much truth it is hard to comprehend at times.  

He has a newly released children's book, Islandborn. What a beautiful book! And with a Dominican girl as the central character, talking about her heritage, showing the strength of immigrants, and filled with richly written and drawn diverse characters.  What a treasure for a young child to open a book like this and see images of herself!   

Full disclosure, if it were not clear already, I adore Dias.  I love what he writes, what he says, the way he says it. His unapologetic support for those things that are important to him.  

That's what makes this so difficult.  

In mid-April, Diaz wrote a piece for the New Yorker detailing his childhood abuse at the hands of a trusted adult.  The essay is excruciating.  The trauma.  The residual damage to Daiz.  The ways his life has been warped and shaped.  It is painful and powerful and horrible. 

I grieved for Diaz.  I still do. Even now, writing this, my heart hurts, and I have to struggle not to cry. Thinking of how many people have a story like Diaz's.  How many kids have faced similar abuse and not survived?  The horror is too great sometimes.  

Then, just a few days ago, allegations surfaced of Diaz's abuse of women.  

And there it is.  

Now, in the last 24 hours, MIT has started an investigation into allegations against Daiz.  He has resigned from the Pulitzer committee and faces investigation there. 

Diaz, to his credit, acknowledges the voices and testimony of the accusers. He says that he accepts responsibility for his actions. What that means, in the long run, is anyone's guess. 

The fall of Junot Diaz, really, is just one rock in an avalanche of those who stand accused. When these powerful men fall, with them go the written works they have created, many of which are, quite frankly irreplaceable.  They fill a hole in the literary world.  With writers of color being marginalized and overlooked for so long, each and every work by one who did make it onto the shelves is essential.  

But when those writers have done despicable things, what happens to their works? 

• Bill Cosby's Little Bill series is groundbreaking for young kids, especially young African American boys.   
• Sherman Alexie's works are canon now.  What library worth its salt doesn't have The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian? 
• Jay Asher of 13 Reasons Why  brought important attention to mental health issues
• James Dashner's The Maze Runner books are important texts for boys who often find reading inaccessible or uninteresting.
• Heck, the Nobel committee announced that in the face of sexual abuse allegations there would be no 2018 Nobel in Literature. For the first time since 1949.      

And it is only May. 

Yes, these allegations and crimes are horrific. Not just Diaz but many many men in the writing and publishing world.  And for many of them, the situation has been whispered about and ignored.  It is a good thing that these are being brought to light. It is the only way to bring healing.  At a minimum, it is the first step. 

But then what in the world do we do with the books?

When Sherman Alexie's books are the best, most accessible, beloved representation of Native American characters?

When Bill Cosby's Little Bill books are beloved, beautifully illustrated, wonderfully written, and representative of positively written young black boys?

What about Junot Diaz's books?

Far better people than me have thought about this and written about it. 

Kara Yorio writing for School Library Journal 
Aya de Leon's blog post Reconciling Rage and Compassion
is the best I have read regarding Diaz and what happens next. (full disclosure: it has some strong language).

Watching the media circus around the #MeToo movement is, in many ways an abstraction. But when it comes to the shelves of my library, what happens?

Junot Diaz's words still hover over the entire discussion: “[I]f you want to make a human being into a monster, deny them, at the cultural level, any reflection of themselves.” How much damage would it cause to remove all the books by all the authors who turn out to be despicable or those who have done despicable things?

And for that reason, I can't look at a book without considering those kids who would benefit from reading it. Or those who will get a glimpse into a life and world they don't know and grow from it.

I am not pulling a book simply because the author is despicable.

This is especially true when those are influential texts or ones that are representative of diverse characters.

I can't justify taking down a book that can play an important role in allowing a student to see themselves and their world in a broader, deeper way with a true depiction of themselves. I can't. And I won't.

I strongly believe in access and the power of self-censorship. If you don't like a book, don't read it. If an author is reprehensible to you, don't read it. I follow this in my own life (Woody Allen, I'm looking directly at you), so I am going to give my students that same courtesy.

These long and rambling thoughts, while a glimpse of the chaotic pathways my mind takes, are really the only way for me to tackle a mess like this. Nothing happens in isolation. No single issue is without connection to a dozen others.

It is hard to separate the art from the artist.

And it is impossible for me to separate the art from those who will benefit from it.

Books are essential as mirrors and windows and doorways. Who am I to close them?

Stacks and Basements and the River Styx

When I was rather young, I would go to my public library (having been dropped off) and wander through the stacks; that's the term for the shelves upon shelves of books, typically not on the main floor or main area. No displays. Just very functional shelving. Shelves and shelves of books. There was rarely anyone there, certainly never any other kids. 

I liked to wander up and down the aisles, running my hand across the cool spines and gold-embossed letters. I rarely checked-out a book from that section. In fact, I don't recall ever doing so since this was basically overstock of adult fiction and non-fiction. But every trip to the library, I always climbed the stairs to the stacks.  It is amazing how being the only person amidst thousands of books is actually not lonely, but comforting.  The solitude and quiet, surrounded by this cloud of stories. Unknown. Unread. But still present.    

When I was a teenager, I used to go to that same public library (having driven myself there), check out books, and sneak down to the basement. There were large, typically unused meeting rooms where I would lie on the floor for hours in the cool and dark, and read. I doubt this could happen today with security alarms and cameras and such. But at that time, all one had to do was know which door led that way and open the door with purpose. 

Those were days when I had no place to be, no people to be with, and a desperate need to exist somewhere safe. I could have gone to the park, I suppose (full disclosure: I am not a big fan of nature), but when seeking a sanctuary, the public library was my go-to place.  

Yes, libraries are often rooms full of books, but they are a lot more than that for a lot of people. 

It is National Library Week, and that always makes me a bit maudlin.  I can't really fathom where I would be without the libraries that have dotted my path.  

At those several crucial times in my life, they have been essential as places of sanctuary.  

When I think of libraries, it is always with a sense of reverence.  
A sacredness.  
These places that serve the public good. 
Storehouses of knowledge.  

Places of refuge. 

I think back to my much younger selves and doubt that either of those versions of me could know how long-lasting the impact would be. It is as if I was being dipped repeatedly in the River Styx, strengthened, readied, prepared for life and the larger world. 

May I brag?

May I brag for a moment?  

This year, I got valentines. 

Plural! 

Now, this might not seem like much, but part of the bargain that is choosing secondary education is the tacit agreement that you will likely never receive a Valentine, Christmas gift, or birthday gift.  I am not saying it never happens.  I am sure it does.  But I have been in education for 20 years and can count on one hand the number of times I have gotten a holiday gift.  

Until this year!

And I got Valentines!

Let me be clear: this is not a complaint.  It is just the way of things. Little kiddos give teachers gifts while older ones do not.  

But what makes this even more amazing is that I got these cards from students on a day I was not even in their building.  I am at this particular school on Tuesdays, and Valentines Day was Wednesday.  

But a handful of kids remembered me, remembered my name, made me a valentine, and dropped it off for me to get on the following Tuesday. 

And that is something.  

Mirrors and Windows, Opening Eyes, and a Long Way to Go Part 2

Transcript of conversation from a class on Thursday

(Having just finished reading Trombone Shorty) 


Me: Now, this picture of Trombone Shorty and Bo Diddly is in black and white, so it might look like this story took place a long time ago, but it didn't!  Trombone Shorty is actually a young

man.

Student A: He's still alive? 

Me: Oh, definitely! He is still alive. He is only 30 years old.  Just a few years ago he played at the White House for President Obama. 

(turned the page)

Me: Here is what he looks like today.

Student B: (gasps) He...he looks like me!

Me: You think he does? 

Student B: Yeah! He's brown and I'm brown! (points to his own arm)

Me: You are right! And you know what, Trombone Shorty travels all over the world playing his music.

Student B: Yeah! (continues smiling)

Mirrors and Windows, Opening Eyes, and a Long Way to Go

I am always acutely aware of the fact that I have an important role in shaping the way the young people in my district see the world.  I am constantly reminded of the need for diverse books. Books are mirrors and windows.  We see the world, but we also see ourselves. 

Recently, Junot Diaz was talking about his new book, his first children's book, and it spoke to this idea of books as windows and mirrors. This idea of writing about heritage and family, of seeing diverse people shown in books and talking about the wider experiences of the world.  

How powerful it is to see someone in a book who looks just like you and has the same experiences or the same hopes or a great life filled with possibility. 

The thing about both windows and mirrors is that we can see others in them too. 

I recently read The Last Stop on Market Street, in which a little boy rides with his grandmother on the bus to serve in a soup kitchen.  My students loved the story and the illustrations.  One drawing shows the poepl on the bus.  


"I'm the guy with the tattoos!"
"Why does that guy have a stick?"
"Look at the dog!"
"Why does that guy have tattoos!"
"Look, the tattoo guy is on his phone!"
"That guy has sunglasses!"
"I think that man is blind!"

On and on, students made observations about the people in the book. This that were new (including the blind man) or familiar (going somewhere with a grandparent), and many expressed surprise at things that were familiar to them but not typically in books, namely the tattoos on the man.  Every class noticed the tattoos.  When asked, every class knew people who had tattoos.  Their surprise, then, was not that he had tattoos, but that the book included a man with tattoos. And that man wasn't threatening or scary. He was on his phone. "I'll bet he is playing Minecraft!" Indeed. 

Later, the boy and his grandmother arrive at the soup kitchen to serve.  I talked with the kids about what a soup kitchen is and why someone might go. They were curious and respectful. Then one girl proudly said, "I have gone to a soup kitchen before! And I go to the food pantry all the time too!"  She was proud to share her experience--no shame, no stigma--this was just like what was happening in the book.

It is moments like those that make me so proud of what I do and see the power in a book.  The power of opening a book and seeing a character who looks familiar. Or approachable.  A story that could easily be one's own life.  Worthy of being put in on a page. 

Today, I read Trombone Shorty, and we all marveled at the young boy's skill, persistence, and bravery.
"I would be too scared!" 
"How did he do that?" 
"Does he have his own hot air balloon?" 
"That's a once in a lifetime chance!"
"He did all of that with a broken trombone?"

They peered interestedly at the photo of Trombone Shorty and Bo Diddly. They asked and wondered and marveled.
Then I turned to the photo of him today, and most of the comments were about how grown up he was, how strong, even how handsome. 
"He has big muscles!?"
"He must work out!"
"He's still alive!" (The earlier black and white photos surely made him seem ancient.)
"Wow, he's young!"

And then, there it was: "He's in jail?"

The photo was just of Trombone Shorty, a young African American man in an undershirt and jeans, smiling for the camera.  Nothing about the photo in any way indicated that he was in jail. 

Unless it was his race. 
If all the media images you saw of young African American men involved their being in jail. Or in a gang and soon headed to jail. 

My heart broke when I heard it.  I smiled and said, "No, he's the leader of a band. He plays his music all over the world. He even played at the White House!" The child thought, then nodded, and that was that. 

But that isn't that.  We have so very far to go.  

And a big part of that responsibility rests on my shoulders.  I need to be sure that my students have the chance to see positive images of traditionally underrepresented or marginalized groups. I need to be sure that we have plenty of books to counter all of the racism coming out of Hollywood today.  

In a larger sense, it is also about, in my personal life, voting with my dollars to say that yes, I want to buy books with diverse character. And I want to pay to see movies with diverse casts. And I won't tolerate books, movies, and TV shows using tired tropes of young black men as criminals or any other stereotype. 

I think it is also just being conscious in a very deep sense to the ways the messages I send help shape foundational ideas.  

And it is easy for me to say that there is no way I can fight a tide of negative, biases, harmful messages kids see, hear, ingest, and absorb. But, really, I can. The primary source of pleasure reading material for students under the age of 17 is the school library.  And that means that the books they check out are helping to form foundational ideas or countering negative messages. 

And that is on me.