What a Gold Star can't Teach You

     In second grade, my wonderful teacher, Mrs. Tracy, read the story I wrote about a brontosaurus and taught me that I couldn't start every sentence with the word 'AND'. It was a pivotal moment in my writing career. Of course, it took me decades to realize that I could start a sentence with the word 'AND' on occasion. Sparingly. As a tool in story telling.
     And that was the beginning. :-)

     The story wasn't "perfect". It was about a dinosaur who was green and did a lot of boring, routine sort of stuff. My grade in my reading and writing class was a solid B.
    That moment, when she sat down next to me, in the tiny chair the 2nd grade classes had, her knees folded uncomfortably, is burned into my mind. I felt so crushed at first. It wasn't perfect. It didn't get a gold star.
     It wasn't as good as my neighbor's, some girl with long blond hair, perfect teeth and stylish clothes. The complete opposite of me, with my buck teeth and thick brown hair and thrift store clothes. 
     I felt insecure, lacking and if it wasn't for the gentle tones of Mrs. Tracy and her reassuring smile, I probably would have never wrote again.
     In my entire life.
   
     A few days of mulling over what I thought was an epic failure, I realized something important. A gold star doesn't force you to get better. They're nice and all and sometimes you have to award them. But when there is something to learn, we need to listen to the lesson. It's not a failure to learn how to get better.
    It's a failure to think we have nothing to learn.

    Fast forward to college and my easy sailing through classes and assignments came to an abrupt halt as my piano/choral teacher, Mrs. Reed, told me in her blunt and no nonsense tones, "You're getting a B in my class because you think everything should be easy and you shouldn't have to work too hard to obtain it. I know what type of student you are. School is easy for you so you haven't learned how to push herself for something you want. It's sad."
    Ouch. Still not totally my fault though. After 2nd grade, no teacher wanted to push me. I was getting A's easily, so they didn't have to spend time with me. They could focus on other students. I understand. It's difficult to give each student what they need. Obviously, you're going to spend time with the students having trouble. Not with the students who don't.

    But it was still a statement I had to let sink in. I couldn't toss it out and pretend I didn't have any responsibility in the matter.
 You can still be a slacker, even with straight A's.

   Hero Hottie challenges me. He invites me to listen and understand the lyrics to songs. His humor keeps me on my toes.
   Today, my editor, who I adore by the way, sent me a long list of things I needed to correct in my story before I should publish it. That crushing sensation of failure was pressing against my lungs. All the little self doubts came rushing into my head, trying to suffocate me.
 
   Hero Hottie came to the rescue. He read what she wrote, pointed out all the good things she had to say and asked about the points of corrections she was recommending and prevented me from seeing it as a failure.
   
    And instead he reminded me to embrace it as a chance to grow and to learn and to push myself to achieve success. To become the writer I know I can be.
   
    Because the path to success and growth isn't littered with gold stars, it's full of falling down and stumbling and scraping your knee.
    And not using the word 'AND' at the beginning of each sentence.
  
   

    

An Old Friend Can Save You from a Tidal Wave

  Back in January I was feeling overwhelmed. I wrote "So for right now this girl is going to find a rock ledge to hide under and wait for the storm to pass; letting the waves wash away the debris of gathered negative thoughts and when the sun breaks and the ocean glows with its warmth; this girl's going sunbathing" (Link for Blog)

    A few days later I would find out I was pregnant and that explained a lot of my ups and downs I was feeling. But in between writing my blog and reading a positive pregnancy test, a dear friend from my childhood sent me a letter.
    With excitement, I tore open the letter from Mrs. Tracy. She was my second grade teacher and is still my friend. And even though we're 1100 miles apart and there is a 49 year difference between us, we can still connect. And somehow, because friendship is just that powerful, she knew exactly what I needed that week.
  The letter was wonderful; sharing news of her family and life and her passion, even in her eighties, of trying to save the world. She also sent old photos from so long ago. I was shocked to see myself, standing on the Oregon beach, surrounded by my family. The sky is slightly overcast and you can see the edge of the waves coming in. The smiles are huge and the joy can be felt just by looking at the photo.
  The other photo is a familiar place, Tolovana Park. I can feel the wind and smell the sea salt just by looking at this glance into my childhood.
  When I was feeling swept away by life, Mrs. Tracy sent me something precious.

   I don't usually share really personal photos on my blog, especially from my childhood but I just felt like I needed to...
     Because it's the people in our life that define us, that support us, that hold us up when we feel threatened by the waves of life. 

    So here is the first photo- Tolovana Park.

And the second photo. I should almost make you guess what goofy kid I am...but I won't. I'm the one on the far right. So goofy with my tucked in shirt and thick bangs. But I absolutely loved those pants and my watch. And obviously the smile on my face says a lot.

So Thanks Mrs. Tracy for being there for me, even if you don't know just how timely your letter and photos are. And even if I can't properly explain just how powerful a letter and a few photos from a trip to the beach can be. But maybe since we've been friends for so long...you do understand.
   And that's why a good friend is something precious...beyond the simple words on a blog.

Day Three- Mrs. Tracy and the Second Grade

      My journey of faith leads me to the second grade. A year that changed my life. A year that made it possible to write this blog without starting each sentence with the same word. :)
      It was a big year and at first it wasn't going the way I wanted it to.
      But thank goodness it unfolded the way it did.

  
      My second grade self; a bit chubby, with long, mousy brown hair and eager to learn; stepped into Mrs. H's room. It was a typical room, not exciting, not cluttered- just efficient and sterile. The huge chalkboard  took up the entire front wall of the class, with all the desks in neat rows facing it, like soldiers standing to attention. A row of big windows lined the entire wall opposite the entrance.
      I quickly picked a desk near the windows because outside those windows there was life.
      Adventure. A little bit of life in the otherwise cold, Arctic environment that was my second grade life.
     Towering maple trees lined the school outside my view and when I was bored it was easy to be distracted by the whirling and swirling of maple tree seeds, like little helicopter blades traveling where the wind took them.
     I wasn't fond of Mrs. H, not after she caught me counting on my fingers. 
    "Don't count on your fingers." She frowned, her white bushy eyebrows drawing together with icy disapproval.
    I just stared at her, afraid to question this imposing, strict disciplinarian.
    "When you're an adult all your fingers might be chopped off, or frozen off and then they'll have to chop them off and then what are you going to count on? You won't be able to count on them anymore. Math in your head."
     Chopped off? Frozen off? I swallowed, staring at my fingers, completely horrified.
     But that was Mrs H's teaching style.

    
     For reading groups, all the second grade was going to be tested and then divided into three different levels with each second grade teacher taking a class. Mr. S would take the highest readers, I know I would be in that group. Mrs. Tracy would teach the middle group and Mrs. H would have the struggling kids.
     On the day of the test, I knew, just knew that I would be put in Mr. S's class. I had devoured every book I could read since I was preschool age. The library and I were already great pals. There was no question in my mind which group I was going to belong to.

     Unfortunately, the reading test wasn't what I was expecting. I had to read passages from books- aloud- with perfect pronunciation.
     I, had to read aloud, the kid that had a speech teacher.

    I knew what the words meant, I had a huge dictionary inside my head.
    But I struggled to pronounce the words correctly.

   When the groups were decided, I wasn't selected for Mr. S's class. I was placed with Mrs. Tracy.
   Me. The smarty pants of the second grade was put in a class that wasn't the highest level.
   I was embarrassed. Mad at myself for failing. My pride had taken a hit.
   But sometimes pride has to fall.


   The day of our new reading groups I entered Mrs. Tracy's room with resentment and anger. I just knew I was in the wrong group, the teachers didn't know what they were doing.
   I stepped into her room ready to hate her and then I froze...if Mrs. H was rim rod straight and cold...
   Then Mrs. Tracy was the exact opposite. Her room was warm and inviting. Mobiles, made of natural materials, hung from the ceiling. Posters, not silly school charts, but art covered the walls. Her colors were forest green, warm brown and Earthy tones. In the corner, she had made a reading corner with bean bag chairs and an Earth tone colored rug, surrounded by short, wooden bookshelves. Kids with content smiles read intently.
    And even though she had been assigned the same sterile space that all the other teachers had been given, she had created something special and unique. A true learning environment.
   Our group from Mrs. H's class stood in shock. How come our room didn't look like this?
    This was a paradise.
 
    Mrs. Tracy approached us with a gentle, welcoming smile on her face. Some where in her fifties, her long, thick black hair was only peppered with a bit of gray. But it wasn't styled, just drawn back into a hippie braid and slung casually over her shoulder.
     She was slender, dressed in brown corduroy pants and a flowing blouse. Her hands were beautiful- long, sculpted fingers, wrinkled with age and moving delicately as she spoke softly.
    Every once in a while she would pause and tuck a stray piece of hair back behind her ear. The smile never left face.
    She gestured towards the room and we were invited, actually invited, to enter this wondrous domain she had created.
  None of us hesitated.

   During the next few months I settled into the best kind of learning with her. She had created an environment that was encouraging, nurturing, challenging.
   Softly, with a voice that never seemed frustrated or upset with any of us, she guided us to improve our reading while retaining our love for learning.
   Reading aloud to her I never felt embarrassed by my faltering words.
   She knew my difficulties weren't with the words and their meanings but with my speech.
   This meant she encouraged me to read novels to myself. And enjoy books and their wonderful stories for myself and not allow the difficult schooling part of it damage my love for literature.
   When I completed my work I could read in her reading corner. It was a treat. Not just for me but for all the kids. That corner was never empty because someone was always reading in it.

  She also worked on writing with us. My first story I wrote for her was about a dinosaur. And this poor dinosaur did a lot of things in my dozen sentences.
  But every sentence started with the word, 'the'.
  It was quite repetitious.

   Mrs. Tracy pulled me to the side, she never corrected a student with an audience.
   "Christy, I like your story." Her gentle smile warmed me and I beamed.
   "What if you didn't start every sentence with the same word?" She pointed to my obvious over use of the word, 'the.'
   I frowned at first, hurt because my favorite teacher had found something wrong with my dino story. And then I really started to listen to the encouraging tone in her voice that hadn't threatened me to learn or else but had guided me to learn something new without feeling like I had failed because I hadn't gotten it right the first time.
   From that time forward my stories never overused the word, 'the'.
  And instead of squashing something just blooming, she nurtured it. My love of reading and writing was strengthened by this teacher that I haven't even wanted.
   But I'm so thankful I wasn't put in the other class. I ended up right where I needed to be at that time. My pride had been scuffed but what I learned from Mrs. Tracy changed me. And to this day I still write her. A second grade reading class led to a life long friendship.

   So my journey leads me to believe that we must not let pride get in the way of our faith. We might miss opportunities to know the 'bestest' of friends and mentors.