The Other Side

March 28, 2020

As I reached for a coffee cup this morning, I was drawn to the other side of my cabinet.  Typical mornings have me going to the easiest to reach, right above my coffee pot; but today, I headed around the island and opened the door looking for a different cup.  My cupboard is filled with meaningful coffee cups. In these retirement years, I choose to live as if this were my last cup of coffee; so, if a vessel doesn't hold meaning...it doesn't make the cupboard.  There are cups from friends, some dating back to 1989,  and cups from nieces and sons and travels, and jobs and events.  I was surprised today when I choose a plain white mug from a set our son bought us when Matt and I were having some tough economical times.

Why go to the other side this morning?  Why a plain, white cup?  Is this simple, comfortable mug representing my longing for a simple, comfortable life I once knew?

The silence inside and outside of my house overlooking the Tillamook Valley is deafening.  No trucks hauling lumber and dairy products- just one of the sounds I'm used to waking to.  There are no humming tractors, no children's laughter echoing from the near-far neighbors' yards.  The birds are not even singing.   I am feeling more alone than I've felt in the last 15 days of the Corona Virus quarantine. I originally "chose" to quarantine knowing my health risks check too many boxes on the vulnerable list; then, a week into isolation, Oregon locked down. Many families are at home together with the dark cloud of unemployment.  I am alone as Matt is working six-day weeks and 8-10 hour days. Everyone is experiencing unprecedented changes and sacrifices.

Two weeks ago, the scenic Oregon coast had a beautiful spring weekend.  The sunshine invited residents from Washington, Idaho, and what seemed all of Portland, to flood here for some peace and beauty in a world that is anything but tranquil right now.  This sudden surge of humanity caused panic for those coming and those of us who live here. With the famous Tillamook Creamery closed and schools shuttered, we had a false sense that the coast was not open for business; but simply our home.   Restaurants were closed except for take- out; therefore, no restrooms were open.  We have two grocery stores and they had been out of many necessities before this onslaught of visitors.  People were everywhere.  They parked along both sides of Highway 101 as parking lots were inadequate for the number of vehicles jockeying their way to find a bit of space.  Retail workers were overwhelmed; many closed early.  No one was following the six-foot physical distancing guidelines we were told would "flatten the curve" meaning give our medical staff and facilities a fighting chance against this formidable enemy.  Our usual welcoming attitude became ugly, we showed the other side of us.

Having self-quarantined for over a week, I used our grocery app to order and had waited five days for it to be ready.  I ventured out with a mask I found in our first aid kit and an unexplainable sense of freedom. I knew I wouldn't leave my car but the experience felt equitable to being 16 again and that first solo trip with a driver's license. It was downright exciting!

As I approached Highway six, our gateway to and fro the Cascade Pass and on to Portland,  I was shocked to see the steady stream of cars pouring into our valley. I was shocked to know that others had not closed their rentals, that people were ignoring Governor Brown's guidelines, that all these people were not on the other side yet.  They simply had no understanding of what was at hand and what they should be doing.  They might have known it but comprehension was lacking.   As locals, we are well-aware of our meager 25 hospital beds and limited access to food and other necessities and yet locals were out too...like the world was not changed.... like there was no invisible enemy lurking in the air.   By Monday, the state had given visitors a 24-hour notice to exit the coast.  Most of the visitors left-unknowingly, leaving our shelves empty, and I fear, way too many droplets of Corona Virus in their wake.

Here we are two weeks later.  We are on the other side.  The other side of understanding how contagious and cruel this virus is, how it feels to quarantine in solidarity with a closed-down economy.  We struggle to work from home for the few that still have jobs, and learn to "home-school" our own children.  The empty highways, the boarded stores, the lack of sound is louder than sound itself.

I don't want to be on the other side.  I long to go back to the way life was in a free-wheeling America in a world where I sipped limoncello with my brother and sister in Italy among the great works of art and the gracious people...people now dying by the thousands. A world where going to the grocery store was a daily outing, playing MahJonng with friends was a luxury for non-busy days, and a trip to the beach held the sound of waves crashing, children laughing, and gulls calling to the wind.  A time when I could open my home to family and friends without fear of risking life.   Like the rest of us, I am forever changed on this unknown side of reality.

My America, the one I call home, the country I love, no longer feels safe and secure.  It is vulnerable, more vulnerable than I felt during the Viet Nam War, the assassinations of the 60s, the OKC bombing, 911, or the economy of 2008.  I feel the loss of leadership and continuity. But more deeply the loss of caring, caring about all Americans, caring about our environment, caring for our health care and caring for the greater good.

 Hope lies not in our government but in our people. We have unlimited capabilities to care.  The gifts of love I've witnessed these past few months are nothing short of miraculous.  Dyson, from vacuums to ventilators.  Niki, from shoes to protective gear. The children and their thank-you gestures for those still out there in the virus-filled environment.  The musicians donating their talent to make us all feel a little better.  Friends sewing masks.  Foodbanks feeding the hungry. Young people volunteering to shop for the elders.  Therapists, faith leaders, universities, museums, and small businesses putting resources online to feed minds and comfort souls.

People are getting off their electronic devices and finding inventive ways to connect.  The image of Italians singing together from their balconies or Spainards exercising from rooftops will never leave me.  Choirs have found a way to harmonize together-separately.  How?  I know not but what comfort those beautiful voices bring.  Ping pong between apartments, happy hours over Zoom, trivia night with other couples, scavenger hunts in seclusion, virtual field trips-together.  The evidence that humans live for belonging and connection is penetrating the sound of silence.

On this other side, the outer silence is deafening; inside, I struggle to silence the screams. I am left to meditate on the gratitude I have come to cherish and the faith I've come to know.  I pray this other side, this horrible but heartwarming side, teaches us what we never knew we needed to know.  I hope as the death tolls decrease, the lungs of the world inhale fully once again and the heart of America, and everywhere, enlarges beyond our dreams, we learn.  I pray for cohesiveness, harmony, and a return to humanity.  In this, I have hope for this other side. 

Flipped Perspective

Back in my early 20s, a young man, I thought I'd marry, invited me to go to Vegas and see Elvis.  I'd never been to Vegas, never seen Elvis, and frankly, I was a Beatles fan.  But, I was also in love and girls in love do crazy things.
We drove from Tulsa to Vegas with not much time as I remember.  We still managed to stop and take some pics on the Hoover Damn, him in his black cowboy hat me in my halter top and long blond hair.  We were living large.   Young people didn't travel like they do today.  We had our nose to the ground and were intent on getting an education, good job, marriage, children and happily ever after.  It was simple:  hard work will pay off.  This trip was huge during my youth; different times now for sure.

Vegas blew me away.  I'd never seen a city so lit up and soon I was immersed in the glory of lights and sounds and marquis.  The goal was to see and do and drink as much as we could.  I have vivid memories of wearing a sheer top, crushed velvet hot pants and purple suede boots as I strutted across the casino carpets.  I was bra less, brazen, and bending to no one else.

Elvis' performance was some kind of charismatic that I had never experienced.  He convinced me the title KING suited him and had me screaming with the best of his fans.  The rest of the weekend was foggy; but, I remember returning home with pneumonia.  Live hard, play hard-isn't that want we do with our 20s.

This past weekend, my husband of 30 years and I returned to Vegas.  This time it was to find a place away from everything to gather our boys.  Our whole family hadn't  been together in over six years and we just wanted us to reconnect in a neutral zone away from jobs, homes, and all the responsibilities of normal life.  Vegas is anything but normal.

Our boys are now in their 20s and 30s.  Their idea of Vegas mimics my views of Vegas in my 20s.  Personally, I can take about 48 hours in that city now-there is just too much craziness.  However, I wouldn't have missed seeing my daughter in law enjoy her virgin visit, my three boys have a guys night out, the two shows we saw, my husband's elation as he came off the roller coaster, or those family conversations we had.  I would do that anywhere, anytime.

This I know for sure.  As we age our perspective changes.  I would be appalled at a young girl looking and acting like I did in my 20s...in fact, I was pretty shocked at the young women I saw and their great lengths to get attention.   My health is far more important than alcohol now.  And I'll take family over strangers any day.  I still enjoy and respect the talent which is bountiful in Vegas shows: but, other than the consistent entertainment, all of my perspectives on Vegas have changed.

I'm saddened by the money being thrown into gambling while  hunger and drugs fills the streets.  I can't differentiate between the hookers, dancers, and tourist girls; they all look wanting.  Smoke, and drugs permeate the air while beautiful desert landscapes surround the city.  The contrast causes my body to tense.  The city that once excited my senses now violates them.

I'm sure our perspective comes from the inside out.  In my sixth decade I am confident and comfortable in myself.  I know making someone else feel good about how they look is much more important than the way I look.  God's landscape is more miraculous than anything man made.  Peace and happiness doesn't come from a drink, but from self.  And it is important to make time for family to reconnect...even if it's in Vegas.

Life Story

Currently I work for an organization, City Year, that truly values people.  I don't mean as "workers" even though that is important to the success of this service orientated non-profit, I mean the human aspects of me as a person and not just an employee.  One of their traditions is to invite people to share their life story to inspire others.  As my granddaughter would say in her peppy quick -step tone:  "Guess what?"  Seattle chose me.

Between working on professional development sessions I'll be delivering there next week, I have been doing some real Pat's Pondering about what you say when asked to tell your life story.  I have spent the last few days of reaching back to memories, stories, and antidotes I might share trying to revise, edit, analyze, organize, think about myself.  Do you know how hard that is?  I am the person on a plane who can listen to the stranger next to me all the way across the country and not share even so much as my name.  I have always felt I learn more by listening and thinking.

Most of my sharing about myself comes in funny stories for social events; I love humor.  This audience is a room full of magnificent 18-24 year-olds with their whole life ahead of them.  They have chosen to spend this year giving back to their communities.  It feels like I learn so much more from them than they ever could from me.  The invitees, a staff of dedicated professionals just a few years older, will be there as well; believe it or not, they look to me for guidance and expertise.

How did I get here?  Here to this place where I have lived long enough for someone to think they can learn from me.  A place where, no matter what your story is,  you will be accepted.  A time when thinking about how you live your life is honored.

And how do you cull 62 years of stories into an engaging 30 minute talk.  This will take some pondering.  This may be one of my biggest challenges ever.  So, stay tuned, I have a story to share...when I get time.  :-)

The Extra Room...and leisurely breakfast

https://www.airbnb.com/rooms/1090039

Yes, that's a link to our new business.  We are renting our mother-in-law apartment on airbnb.  The apartment has had various guests over the past six years.  It has been put to good use for visiting pastors, cyclists giving their efforts for cancer, mom's friends, and of course family time and again.  But most of the time it has just been an extra room and it has been an expense rather than a resource.

Since updating it a bit and putting it on airbnb, we have enjoyed the people and the income. Our first visitors were a co-worker  and family.  They helped us see what we had forgotten to include in our "all inclusive kitchen" and reminded us of how nice it is to share the things with which God blessed us so richly.

Later, came a dear little family:  mom, dad, Polish exchange student, and two adopted African girls who came to explore the coast and kayak.  The mom and girls filled the house with music as they practiced on our piano.  This group of five reminded me of times before our empty nest when we had a home of five filled with love and laughter.

A greenhouse salesman spent the weekend.  He comes to Oregon often and enjoys different parts each time.  The whole time he was here I worried he would think I should take better care of my flowers.  He didn't.  He just sat in the early rising light with his coffee and admired the view.  Some people love to visit, others to be left alone.  All agree this is a great place to rest and relax.

As I write this we have three more groups coming over these next two weeks from LA, OK, and WA:   one a single woman, one a retired couple, and one a grandma and grandson who run their own bnb.  There's an excitement in the air as we smooth spreads, stock the refridgerator, and sweep the porch.  Hosting on airbnb makes me feel like it can be Christmas every day. Who is coming next?

A-Bliss-ia

My perfect granddaughter is named Alysia.  When ever we get to spend time with her, we call it Grandparent Bliss and recently we got to spend a whole weekend with her in Rhode Island where she lives with her mom.

We have been fortunate to have her at our house the last two summers.  Living in a rural area, our little LA glitter bomb relishes the snakes in our garden, learning archery with Grandpa, riding in the lawnmower cart, and making dandelion chain necklaces.  She loves being outdoors and has the most creative spirit--she made a fishing line from long grass and a stick!

When we picked Alyisa up at her after-school day care, we asked what she wanted to do during our time together.  Being adults we were thinking museums, movies, historical experiences, and other various learning opportunities.  Alysia's answer:  "Playgrounds, I want to go to playgrounds."

Our GPS listed parks, so we headed to the nearest.  Turned out to be a historical site with a walking path and one room school house.  Our journey took us over logs and hopping off benches, balancing on a stone  wall and collecting sticks.  It was perfect. 

The Elizabeth Gray Garden and Paradise School






But, alas, there was no playground equipment, so how could Alysia show us her new monkey bar tricks or her perfected forward roll?  And so we continued looking for other parks. 

Next, we found an old, old playground with a cement slide.  Matt, having raised all boys, told Alysia she would love the hard ride down.  She didn't.  I think we were at that "playground" around five minutes.   We also found a nice neighborhood playground where Matt thrilled the kids with fast spins on the old fashioned merry go round and Alysia impressed us with forward rolls and balance beam work.   We headed to the beach.  Our fearless granddaughter was ready to jump off the seawall onto a tiny rock-filled piece of sand.  Grandpa reviewed the concept of "sneaker waves" which left Alysia unimpressed.  Wanting to preserve her life, we headed for pizza and ice cream.  She was "starved to death" as was evident from the meal she devoured.  Next, it was off to find Walmart and pick up some toys for the motel room.  Deep decision making behind us we left with cards, a jigsaw puzzle, some plastic thing for her wheeler- ja -bob, and a coloring book.  None of this was opened as after Grandpa read the bedtime story we all fell quickly to sleep from playground overload. 

Alas, a new day and more playgrounds to explore.  Saturday started with a trip to IHOP for the making of a girl-faced pancake.  Matt was determined to explore Fort Adams.  There we did a one and 1/2 mile seawall walk; the fort having started its last tour of the day, we settled for the walk around.  Alysia hopped along finding treasures and asking if it would ever end.  I think the frozen lemonade grandpa bought made it all worth it.
And more playgrounds on Sunday.

We hit the Y playground where our adventurous girl climbed the rock wall and slipped on the monkey bars.  Ouch!  But we survived that to munch down a McDonalds happy meal, by request of course.  We actually repeated the playground visit by the IHOP as it's one of Alysia's favorites.  Turns out one of her friends was there; she is a friend seeker, everywhere, anywhere...a social butterfly much like her daddy. 

At Dunkin Donut we stumbled upon the Police Parade.  Matt loves the bagpipes and Alysia and I found a seat along the curb to watch the seemingly endless display of vehicles and bands.  We bought her a pony and watched as it became real in her hands--real like the Velveteen Rabbit, loved in the hands of a little girl.  

Sunday was bittersweet as we knew our time was quickly drawing to an end.  At the beach Matt and I found some lobster to satisfy our seafood desire.  Alysia opted for a hamburger but enjoyed watching the lobsters in the tank.  Tears began to flow and our girl shared missing us...even before we were gone.  Heart wrenching to leave a little girl with tears welled in big blue eyes.

Before this trip to Rhode Island, I had the opportunity to visit our grandson Riley in Tulsa.  Funny, but we ended up at the park/playground as well.  He was not interested in the playground equipment at all; in fact, I thought he was just going to sit.  A rain-made pond gathering at the end of the parking lot changed  the scene.  We spent hours together cracking open the pecans he collected along the walk to the park.  They made perfect  boat hulls.    The puddle of water became a lake, the leaf sails took wind, a pirate war emerged.  I watched his crafty hands, marveled at his quick imagination, and traveled back in time at the sounds coming from the pecan gun boats.  The spittle-boom sounds created from a little boy's guns transformed me.  At some point,  I swear Riley  morphed into his dad and I was reminded of another little boy's pretending.  

Being a grandparent is bliss. It takes  shape in the simplest of things: playgrounds, pancakes, pretend--it doesn't matter.  It is just the moments, holding on to them for dear life.  Because this time, you are sure they will pass quickly and you know they will never come again. 

Three and four quickly became seven and eight

Conference Style:  IRA 2013

Cool conference bag with words of wisdom.

Admittedly, I've been attending professional conferences for years--you don't want to know how many.  But, that makes me a conference-goer  professional.  Early on, I would go to any conference I was allowed.  This was usually dictated by a benevolent principal with specific reasoning behind my attendance.  However, in 1995 after completing five weeks in the Oklahoma State University Writing Project, I began to take control of conference attendance after attending my first National Council of Teachers of English.  That same year I attended the International Reading Association Conference in New Orleans.

Even though I had begun to choose which conferences to attend, this didn't mean I controlled my behavior when I was there.  I took empty suitcases to bring back free teacher stuff, discount books, and way too many purchased books.  I stood in line for the Children's Book Luncheon, nearly fainting when I realized I was talking to Donald Graves who was in line behind me.  Book Adoption years became my passion as those folks know how to wine and dine teachers lavishing them with food and freebies like never experienced before.   And, I stood in line for hours to tell Kathleen Patterson how her books resonated with a certain troubled boy in one of my classes.  I made bandies and groupies look tame with this Gangum style conference gung-ho, full force, marathon form of conference attendance. 

I attended NCTE from 1995- 2010 with the exception of one year.  The later eight years, I played a predominant role in organizing the National Writing Project meeting which is held in conjunction with NCTE every November.  I prefer the deeper thinking and collaboration of the NWP sessions over the quick fix sessions at other conferences where it feels like any teacher with a classroom idea could present.  These became an endless stream of theater style, standing room only "lectures."    I have learned--this is not my conference style. 

Lynette speaks with Terry Thompson as Donalyn looks on.

So, this year, fulfilling a new role as a Regional Literacy Trainer for City Year, I attended IRA once more with my friend and colleague Lynette Herring-Harris.  She too is a seasoned conference goer; so, we planned very strategically to make the most of the time and preserve energy for the other work we were doing in San Antonio.    One priority was looking for the names we knew and trusted. 

The first session we attended feature three Texans focused on creating classroom reading communities.  Donalyn Miller, The Book Whisperer, and founder of the Nerdy Book Club http://nerdybookclub.wordpress.com/2012/09/23/embarrassed-to-read-by-donalyn-miller/ was hot on our list.  She spoke at our NWP meeting one year and we became enamored  with her love of reading and passion for leading students to books.  The bonus in this session was meeting Terry Thompson who talked about professional reading communities.  Twitter:  @terryreads.  He made me think about how important it is for us to share what we are reading with others, how I should pass this on to the Site Literacy Leads I speak with weekly, how I can incorporate the idea of reading and learning communities in all we do at City Year.  The third speaker enlightened us with a librarian perspective.  Again, focused on the importance of surrounding ourselves with a reading community. 

We are also fans of Jeff Wilhelm and Kelly Gallagher who presented their ideas on argumentative writing along with Judith Meltzer.  I will always be inspired by teachers who find concrete ways to bring learning front and center.  Jeffrey's session, Teaching Argument:  Writing as a Form of Inquiry across the Grades and Disciplines came from the ideas of his book: Improving Comprehension with Think Alouds.  Wilhelm uses "Warrant Workouts" and CSI detective pictures to generate student ideas around presenting a valid argument. 

These sessions were two highlights, but of course we did other things like scan the exhibits finding cool pre-printed whiteboards with KWL, graphs, etc.  to pass on to our colleagues, bought some gifts for our team, and we had to book shop!

I did purchase two books.  The Truth about Dibels, What it Is and What it Does by Kenneth S. Goodman provides an explanation of why education professionals are opposed to using Dibels, " it impairs learning and teaching."  This book is written from a classroom adoption perspective rather than an intervention between non-professionals and students, our City Year situation.  I bought it to be more informed as two of the sites I serve use Dibels in their intervention space and more are considering the program.  I seem to return to the same stance:  It isn't what you are using but HOW you use it.  Dibels is no exception from what I know so far. 

The second book brings me ripples of joy.  Moving Forward with RTI by Mary Howard features simple strategies to use in whole group engagement, independent application, small group collaboration, small group instruction and partner work.  Several Lawton, Oklahoma  teachers I worked with as PD Director of the OSU Writing Project are featured.  To see them blossom from reluctant teachers of writing to collaborative authors is thrilling.  I hope to share strategies in this book with sites as we work toward building learning communities, spreading a love of reading, and supporting students with solid intervention work. 

Professional Conference attending takes a little practice, but once you get the right moves conquered, you too will benefit from time away from your normal place and pace to grow and reflect among other professionals.  It is worth the time and money to inspire your own learning and develop your own conference style.  Me, I'm sticking to Patish-style conference going:  1) Maintain control-if you run yourself ragged, you will not have a positive experience 2) Focus on your present need as a professional  3) Look for names you know and respect  4)  Take time to reflect on the experience  and 5) Share what you learn with others. 

Oregonizing for Mission

Here at Sunriver Resort near Bend, Oregon I am surrounded by my Christian brothers and sisters at the Lutheran 2012 synod assembly.

 I wonder if you just quit reading.  I wonder if a limited, stereotypical definition of Christians turned you away after my first sentence.  I dare you to keep reading.  If you do, I pray your vision of Christianity will be changed forever and you'll join us in knocking down borders as we reach through communities forming partnerships, non-denominational, unplanned, unpredictable, across all levels of diversity including income, culture, language, gender, and age.

In less than 24 hours I've learned that many of our Lutheran churches share a pastor with other denominations, especially in rural places or places of smaller congregations:  Methodist, Presbyterian, Episcopal, and those less known. The stories I've heard confirm our guest speaker's theory that this is the new direction of Christianity.  Barbara Rossing,  Th.D., professor of New Testament at the Lutheran School of Theology at Chicago, talks about rubbing shoulders with those different than us, seeing God's face in the the face of another, needing the story of someone else to complete our own story,  and renewing abundant life in our local communities.

Nativity Lutheran  in Bend, Oregon had homeless people living  in tents on their adjacent property.  Their pastors were away at a conference in Mexico learning about homeless issues, when in the middle of winter, members of this congregation invited these people  into their church to stay warm.  Now, several churches in the area  alternate as a warm place to stay for the homeless in the area.   Nativity has a community garden where these and many others in the community learn and grow together providing food for themselves, the local food bank, and their non-profit restaurant, Common Table,  where everyone eats fresh and healthy food whether one can pay for it or not . Common Table not only provides food.  On the walls are stories of detained immigrants written by members of the local Presbyterian Church.  I was shocked to learn a green card can cost from $3000.-$10, 000 and still not be definitive for US citizenship. Each letter of  the sign, Common Table,  was created by a different artist.   The work of local artists is displayed and changed weekly.  A paying bar, tokens for giving others a meal, library, and stack of games add are other welcoming touches to the cafe.

 Nativity has also built a community memorial garden where the ashes of loved ones and pets may be memorialized with plants, trees, benches, and peace.  A beautiful natural landscape includes a labyrinth and a fence to keep the surrounding deer at bay.  Anyone is welcome to come and sit, walk the labyrinth, or meditate in the peace of the sage brush, juniper trees, and plantings.  A beautifully carved juniper cross greets you as you enter the gateway.

Nativity has also opened their doors to the local head start program.  The wee ones not only share space with the church and community members, they benefit from the learning gardens, start their own seedlings in the two recently donated green houses, and frolic on two playgrounds built on the premises.

Across from the gardens is a wood cutting and chipping area.  Members of the community donate wood.  This deposit provides fire wood for anyone in need.  Many people here heat their homes with wood.  Those needing wood come to split wood, load wood for others and get a chord supply for 15-20 dollars.  The receivers enjoy the benefit of giving to others and a cost saving of over $100.00  for their fuel supply.

Making this situation even more unique, the church members do all this on joint property with a wealthy resident.  He is supporting the church to support the community by offering his land for additional garden plots, the wood chipping area, and meditation garden.   The day we visited two  volunteers were planting and maintaining the memorial garden and several people came by to check on their garden plots.  Once known as the "little white church on the way to the garbage dump" Nativity is now known for their hospitality and reflection of God's love. 

In Heppner, Oregon congregations join to provide care and lunches for students on Fridays.  School has always been out on Fridays there.  Their was a need for day care and lunch for the students of working parents; the church fills the need and offers a curriculum of morality and spirituality to those who come.  Far from a Sunday School offered during the sermon, this reaching to meet the community, breaking out the church walls, joining together in partnership is the new church direction.  Throughout the weekend, I heard story after story about the work of churches in the Oregon Synod and it made me feel blessed to be touched by God's grace. 

Christians have always reached out to their communities but usually to bring people to Christ, not necessarily to bring Christ's love to others.  It's time for us to do more than talk about faith in action.  Mark Hanson, presiding bishop says, " We are called to be engaged in God's work of healing and restoring community in the world through love and service." I believe Oregonizing for Mission is our calling. 

In the past few years the title of  Christian has become synonymous with religious fanatic, unbending, and judgmental.  This is not the Christian I see.  I see people who unselfishly open their doors, and lives, and resources to help others in need.  People breaking down barriers and spreading love.  People who are committed to making the world a better place of all of us.  People providing a Common Table for all to share. 

Full Circle

Here I sit on the floor of a hotel bath room , laptop propped on the trashcan just typing away.  My BFF lies in the adjacent room sleeping soundly after successfully overseeing a huge event she’s been working on for over two years and been dreaming about for eight.    According to my trusty laptop, it is 2:20 AM at home in Oregon but I’m in Tulsa, Oklahoma, my birth place.  In fact, the hospital where I took my first breath as a 4 pound premature baby, who wasn’t supposed to make it, is a stone’s throw away.   Now 60, a long survivor, and way over 4 pounds, I have returned to my Oklahoma roots.  

I spent my toddler and early childhood years here in Oklahoma wrapped in the care of my grandmother and daddy.  On summer days I napped under wet sheets hung from a clothesline to ease the hot, humid Oklahoma thickness and on summer nights I chased fireflies among the cacophony of frogs, crickets, and cicadas.  On Wednesdays, I baked apricot fried pies with the church ladies and tinkered on the clunky upright piano, ending the day with an evening service of hymns and halleluiahs.  And, on Saturday nights we polished my Mary Jane shoes, laid out my gloves and hat, and tied my offering in a pretty hanky for Sunday School the next morning.  I shucked peas and beans with Grandma and Mrs. Patella on the shady cool porch and ran from the old mean rooster in our yard.  My brother and boy cousins would tease and torture me with horned toads but watch over me each Saturday morning as we skipped to the corner store to spend our weekly nickel on candy for the Saturday matinee.  It was my life in downtown Tulsa in the early 50s. 

By seven my dad re-married.   We left grandma and Tulsa behind and moved to Littleton, Colorado where my father started a new business.   Our family grew as we added my two little brothers and adopted my sister, who is actually my step-mother’s sister, orphaned much too young.  I claim her now and always as my full-fledged sister and I wouldn’t trade her or any one of those wonderful family years in Colorado for anything.  I became a woman in the shadows of the Rockies; but most every summer we would pack all seven of us into our Buick station wagon with four- window air conditioning and travel back to Oklahoma where our grandmother, aunts, uncles, and cousins would feed us Sunday fried chicken and slabs of barbeque bologna after we spent an afternoon taking turns churning the ice cream freezer. 

In the 60s the army took my brother to Viet Nam and college took my sister to Durango.  My parents moved back to Oklahoma and I learned a concept called “in-state” tuition.  My parents agreed to let me spend my senior year back in Colorado with my friends as I was very active in high school and couldn’t bear to give up my life there to finish High School in Oklahoma.  (Are you feeling the teen drama here?)  The deal was, I would attend college in Oklahoma where they would pay “in-state” tuition.  So,  in short, I had a blast my senior year of high school living with various friends on the Tom-Tom (drill team) squad  and cried all the way back to Oklahoma the night of graduation.

Stillwater would be home the next four years while attending Oklahoma State University with summers back in Tulsa waitress-ing my way to tips for the following school year.  Instead of chasing fireflies, my sis and I “dragged” Peoria chasing boys.  The nights felt even muggier after growing up in Colorado and the natural sounds of frogs were replaced with the Beach Boys and Beatles blasting from car radios through open windows.  It was my life in the early 70s in downtown Tulsa.  

My first teaching job took me to the Eastern Shore of Virginia.  Here, I left my white bread world and became the first public kindergarten teacher in a county of black and migrant field workers.  Dr. Martin Luther King, the Reverend Jesse Jackson, and other civil rights workers I’d seen on TV took on meaning now as I became immersed in a culture far different than what I’d known.   At 23, I had only met two black people previous to this teaching assignment:  1)  An attractive and very polite young man at a leadership conference in Denver who pulled out my chair for me and  2)  A  model from Dallas who I roomed with me second semester at OSU.    Yes, at 23 I had no awareness of black people living in downtown Tulsa.  Unbelievable isn’t it?

Those first few years of my teaching career on the Eastern Shore were as eye opening as an Oklahoma tornado coming straight at you.  Every teacher holds that first class closely to her heart; but, those dear little forgotten children captured my very soul and I began to notice…to look…to understand what I was seeing on America’s nightly news. 

After twenty more years of teaching, two marriages, three children, and military moves coast to coast, I moved back to Oklahoma in the early 90s.   I took a job teaching in, you guessed it, downtown Tulsa.  Not far from where the rooster chased me in grandma’s yard, I taught in a school made up of 98.6% black students with a teaching staff of 80% white teachers.  This school was comprised of families who were descendents of the Tulsa Race Riots and was located across the street from one of the long-standing churches to survive the racial holocaust. 

 

   Like most white Oklahomans I had never heard of the Tulsa Race Riot which took place in 1921 when a black man was accused of accosting a white woman…leading to bombing of Black Wall street located in the Northern part of downtown Tulsa.  The oil barons were in our Oklahoma History books. The dust bowl and the Five Tribes…however accurate…but nothing of Black Wall Street, “separate but equal”, or race rioting.  It was eye-opening to have Eddie Faye Gates, grandmother of cute little Chutney, visit our classroom and tell the story of such an event. 

That same year, I would be invited to attend the Oklahoma State University Writing Project, one of 190+ sites of the National Writing Project helping teachers become teacher leaders and better teachers of writing in all subject areas and grade levels.  Attending this professional development and my work in downtown Tulsa transformed me as a person and a professional.  Founded in 1974, the NWP is committed to preparing teachers of all students equally, giving them a voice and strength and resiliency.  One of the ways to increase teacher awareness was to develop a network of sites in urban areas sharing common challenges.  Thus, a yearly Urban Sites Conference evolved offering a space for teachers to talk the hard talk and address the sticky issues of reaching students attending urban schools.  As co-director of the OSUWP, my friend (you know the one who is sleeping in the next room) and I decided it would be a great mission to host the USN conference in Tulsa one day.  

After directing our local Writing Project site, I took a position on the national staff at NWP.  It was like a dream working with teachers all over the country, attending the conferences, coaching the sessions, and mentoring new sites.  I served in this capacity for eight years.  Unfortunately, last year, NWP lost a large federal grant and I was laid off with most of the rest of our staff.  I continue to keep in touch with the many friends and colleagues, especially Britton, the director of OSUWP.  This year, our dream of having USN came true; OSUWP hosted the national Urban Sites Network conference in downtown Tulsa. 

It’s tradition for the host site to hold a town hall at the end of the Urban Sites Conference. Yesterday as we were rapping up for 2012, teachers shared what they learned from their tour of the Greenwood District, tour of downtown, and a visit to the sites that inspired the book, ”The Outsiders.” 

                                                                   Just as the executive director was sharing her writing from a tour of Greenwood, the Reverend Jesse Jackson walked into the room.  There was a frozen hush right before a spontaneous applause.  There was history standing right in front of us.

“Recruit, retain, and cultivate”, he told us “just like the successful coaches do.  He told us that teachers are in a wonderful position to touch the lives of those young ones at risk and he praised us for holding the conference to tackle the tough issues.  He encouraged all to continue the work for the sake of the children.

It was a full circle moment for me.  There I was in my birthplace sharing our story with teachers across the nation.  I flashed back through time.  I could see Martin Luther King with Reverend Jackson on television leading the march for equality …men willing to risk their lives for the betterment of others.  I thought about the oppression, the liberation, the transformation, the continuing…the struggle… still.  

This week, I return—to my birthplace, to my family, to my friends, to my calling, to dreams fulfilled, and to my faith in education as transformation.  It is a coming home like no other, truly a full circle revelation.