Happy Fourth everyone! As I was neatening up the house tonight, trying unsuccessfully to find a home for all the stuffed animals, toys, and little trinkets, I thought of the graduation speech Masterman's valedictorian made this year. A brilliant student who is headed to Harvard in the fall, he shared a bit of his personal story in the speech. He and his mother came to this country from China when he was only five years old. They joined his father, who was already here, and lived in a basement apartment in New York City. Both his parents worked long hours, so much so that he rarely saw his father. He saw his mother, who worked in a factory, only at night. A babysitter dropped him off and picked him up from daycare. Eventually, the family moved to Philadelphia and opened a Chinese restaurant, where they all spent long hours fighting to succeed.

What touched me most about the speech is that Yun-Teng recalled each of the gifts his parents had been able to give him over the years. There weren't many, but they were treasured. He spoke in great detail of a miniature basketball game (the ball now lost) that he taped to his bedroom wall and played over and over again. And this is what I thought of as I attempted to clean up my children's many, many things. We have too much stuff.

Like everyone I know, I love my children beyond measure and want the best for them in life, and I delight in seeing them happy (as do their grandparents and many aunts and uncles), but it's this desire that has lead to all the stuff. I'm not quite sure what to do about that. I feel blessed to have the problem.

This Fourth of July, I am so grateful to live in a country where I am able to provide for my children everything they could possibly need (though often this turns into more than they need!), and I am also grateful, and proud, to live in a country where stories like Yun-Teng's are possible.

I saw the movie Brave tonight with Grace and Genevieve, so I was thinking about destiny as I put them to bed, and thinking about destiny got me to thinking of how Anthony and I got together (we were neighbors), and how we probably never would have had my grandmother not driven by our house when I was just nine years old and seen the "For Sale" sign. As I pictured that old Woodland Avenue house and thought about the first time I saw little ten year old Anthony riding his bike down the driveway (didn't like him), what I next saw was what I first fell in love with on Woodland Avenue: the milk door. You know, one of those old metal doors leading into the kitchen (one door on the inside, one on the out) where the milkman used to leave the cold glass bottles each morning. Of course by the time we bought the house the milk door had long been out of use, and a few years later it was taken out when my parents renovated the kitchen, but nonetheless when I think of my destiny, and of that house, I think of that tiny metal door.  I used to crawl through it to get into the kitchen, though there was a perfectly good screen door just steps away. Sometimes when I had friends over we would pass secret messages through the door, and other times I would store my own secret things there, as by this time in life my older sister had outgrown the need for such silly childhood games. The tiny space between those two metal doors was mine and mine alone.


I used to be so nostalgic that I could hardly move forward I was clinging to the past so tightly, but I have gotten better about that as I have gotten older. Still, I think tomorrow morning, the sun rising on a whole new day, I will sit down at my dining room table and drink a cold, lovely glass of milk to honor for a moment that little metal door I fell in love with so long ago.

The Moon

Grace has to keep a weather log this week, which had us running outside in pajamas and bare feet at 7:30 this evening to sketch the moon. Though she is 7, she still wanted someone to come with her. It was, after all, dark. I liked this bit of vulnerability after an afternoon of feeling like I had already lost her to the teenage years. She slammed a door, teased her sister mercilessly, and then told me that she has a boyfriend, Timothy (though he, apparently, doesn't know that he's her boyfriend).

When Grace was 3, she woke up in the middle of the night barely able to breathe and came stumbling into our bedroom. I will never forget it. As I carried her out to the car to rush her to the emergency room, she looked up at the enormous moon that summer evening and, gasping with each word, said, "Look ... at ... the ...moon. ..It's ...so...beautiful."

Tonight, standing on the cool grass with eyes turned upward, I could almost touch the thread of time connecting us to all those past moon-lit nights--with Grace, before Grace, before me, even--and all those future moon-lit nights before us. May we all have a chance this week to stop for a moment and look up, if only to record that we are here. We are here.

Genevieve and Joseph

Genevieve, 5, and Joseph, 1

Two days ago, as we got out of the car on a cold, moonlit night, Genevieve asked me, "Mom, can I marry Joseph (her brother)?" I explained that she couldn't. "Why? Because it's the rules?" She looked pensive. Why can't she marry someone she loves? And she does, indeed, love Joseph.

Still, today when I got home it was to Joseph, held by Anthony, with blood running down his chin. The crime had just occurred. "Genevieve hit him in the face with her knee. She says it was an accident," said Anthony. Joseph was all smiles and clearly fine, but a knee to the face is still a big deal. And those who have seen Genevieve in action with Joseph know that it was probably not an accident. Genevieve followed close behind Anthony (we were all in the driveway still), smiling unconvincingly. With false bravado, she began, "We got The Smurfs from Redbox! So we can a have a family ..." At this point her face crumbled and she started to cry. "...movie night." She ran inside ahead of us. Later we found her hiding in my closet, sobbing.

Sibling love is so deep, and so complicated, and I think for a five year old used to being the baby of the family for four years, it is just too much at times. Tomorrow is another day, and we will start anew.

Race to Nowhere

My mom and one of her biggest fans, Genevieve

Let me start this entry by saying that I am so grateful to my mom. Though I have been crazy for as long as I can remember, taking on extra courses and activities with abandon since preschool (I emerged the first day crying because we hadn't done enough), my mom has always, always encouraged rest and balance. She pulled me out of school for a week in first grade to go on a family ski trip ("Mrs. Smith was SO mad at us"), told me that the C I got in 8th grade math was OK, as long as it was the best I could do (it was), made me go to bed earlier when I started getting up at 5 am to play tennis before school in high school, and, even recently, has let me know that it's alright to not do the dishes and make the beds every day (or week) with a schedule as packed as mine. Without my mom, I would be completely insane. Though a colleague at work recently told me that I was crazy (I was moving a desk up a flight of stairs by myself), I took the comment in stride, because I know that I am the only one pushing myself to do such ridiculous deeds. No one else expects it. I do it, ultimately, for my own enjoyment. Which brings me to Race to Nowhere.

Have you seen this documentary, produced by Vicki Abeles? I finally saw it tonight at a showing at my school organized by another teacher (this is the only way to see it, I think). Though persuaded by some of my students the buy and wear a bracelet for $1 ("Stop Racing To Nowhere! Embrace Balance!"), I wasn't sure if I would like the film, which is about "the dark side of America's achievement culture." After all, I just recently watched another film (organized by another teacher at my school) called "2 Million Minutes," which documents how Americans (read: lazy Americans) are falling further and further behind other nations, and how our educational system needs to address this. But I loved Race to Nowhere, and I'm not ashamed to admit that I had tears in my eyes--as a teacher and as a parent--when the lights came on. The auditorium was dark and I only had scrap paper in my bag, but I managed to write down a few questions and comments from the movie. Here they are: "Kids come to us with a love of life and learning. Can we not take that away from them?" "Rates of adolescent anxiety and depression are soaring" "Kids are 'doing school' but are burnt out by college" "People who are successful aren't the ones who go to the top schools. They're persistent, very very persistent. And they really love what they're doing." "In today's educational system, the joy and wonder of learning is lost" And, finally: "Why can't happiness be as important as reading and math skills?"

I want my children, and my students, to be happy. Hard work is a part of that, yes, and so is mastering skills so important in today's world (math, literacy, communication, science). But Race to Nowhere is a powerful reminder that time with friends and family--and perhaps, most importantly, with ourselves--is just as important. Thank you, mom, for taking so much time and effort over the years to make sure that I ended up somewhere, and somewhere I liked. And thank you to produce and director Vicki Abeles as well, for repeating the message in such a powerful way.

Reflections During Advent

Coming in from the back porch after my run tonight, I picked up James Vance Marshall's 1959 novel Walkabout, which for some reason had fallen off the bookshelf into the stuffed animals. Just looking at the cover, the silhouette of an Aborigine boy standing on a rock at sunset, I was back in my classroom at Central High in Philadelphia, where I taught two sections of freshman English. Walkabout was a summer reading assignment. The theme of our year was "Search for Self." My classes were great at Central: inquisitive, creative, enthusiastic, and bright. When I left to come teach at Masterman (where my classes are also great), we all promised to keep in touch, but of course the rushing river that is life soon swept us along and far from each other (or at least me far from them). They graduated last year and are now off at colleges around the country. But I digress.

I opened to the first page of Walkabout out of curiosity, as I hadn't read it in five years. "It was silent and dark, and the children were afraid," the book begins, "...the little boy nestled more closely against his sister. He was trembling." The story, as many people know (the book was a bestseller, and there's a movie, too), is about a brother and sister whose parents die in a plane crash in the Australian Outback, hundreds of miles from civilization. They meet an Aborigine youth on his "walkabout," a test of manhood, and must undergo a walkabout of their own in order to survive. This is of course the 1950s and the brother and sister, from North Carolina, have all kind of ideas about the superiority of their own culture, ideas of superiority that begin to dissipate throughout the novel. What I had forgotten before I picked up the book again tonight was that the brother's and sister's names are Peter and Mary. Two more Christian names there could not be: Peter, of course, being the disciple who in his fear abandons Jesus (and then goes on to found the church), and Mary, Jesus' mother, who stays with him even at the foot of the cross.

As we enter this Advent season I have my own little Mary on the creche on my fireplace. She is surrounded by the sheep, the hay, the three wise men, and Joseph. They all, of course, are surrounding the baby, Jesus. The scene is quiet and humble. It is not self-aggrandizing or coercive or critical, as "Christianity" or "The Church" sometimes appears to be (and I say this as a  Christian and a member of the Catholic Church). It is not smug. Nor is it loud. No, it is humility and love that I see in my creche on the fireplace.  Humility and love, of course, being the path to God. A path we're trying to clear this Advent season (and again, and again, and again throughout life). I believe in this humility and love. I believe in Jesus. But I know that, like Mary and Peter in Walkabout, if I only wrap myself in comfortable ideas about  my culture and my religion, I am moving away from the place of beauty in my soul that the manger represents. I am moving away from God.

In Walkabout, Mary does this, and despite her good intentions, her ignorance brings about the death of the Aboriginal boy. His last action is to smile at her. For me, it is the most moving scene of the book: "It was the smile that broke Mary's heart: that last forgiving smile. Before, she had seen only as through a glass darkly, but now she saw face-to-face. And in that moment of truth all her fears and inhibitions were sponged away, and she saw that the world which she had thought was split in two was one." As Christmas approaches this year, may we all prepare to see God face-to-face.

Running Again

After a Run, Happy Again

So, I've gotten dangerously close over the last few weeks to just being "Teacher Mama" instead of "Running Teacher Mama." Work was busy, the kids were needy, the house was messy, the weather was bad, etc. etc. etc. etc. Ironically, last weekend I attended the Haddonfield Sports Banquet because a former tennis teammate, Kim Lamaina, was being inducted into the Hall of Fame. Kim was an amazing player in high school, one who was known for her aggressive strokes and net game (she was invited to train in Florida and try to go pro at one point), while I was a workhorse doubles player who was known not for her impressive ground strokes but for "always getting the ball back" (very boring), so it's not like I was reliving my glory days by being at the dinner. But still, being there was a poignant reminder that, at one point in my life, I had been an athlete.

Usually, running is enough to remind me, in a good way, of that past, and to bring enough of it into my present life to keep me happy and sane. After a few days without running, the happy me starts to sink bit by bit into the quicksand of modern, frenetic life. Before yesterday, I hadn't run for 3 weeks, at least. Finally, yesterday, Anthony was home for Thanksgiving so I was able to get out for a jog around the river in the morning while he stayed with the kids. My body creaked and protested, but the light was beautiful on the river, the warm sun felt good on my back, and the cool air felt delicious. It brought me back to solid ground again. 

Tonight, I was determined to make it two days in a row, so after putting the girls to bed I came downstairs and headed out to the treadmill on the back porch. I allowed myself to go slow and ran three miles listening to Bruce Springsteen. I ran the last mile to "Something in the Night" and "Candy's Room," and then walked a bit to the sweet, sad "Promised Land." I felt good.

The unmatched sock table. Another night ...

It's nearly 10:30 now and not much else will get done tonight, but that's ok. I'm running again, and that's enough for me right now.