Read To Me

Public school subbing is not for the faint of heart.

For several years I have traveled from one end of our county to the other, filling in. I am grieved by the lack of innocence, the lack of learning, and the lack of manners among elementary-aged children. Also? The reticence of administration to promote teaching in ancient, proven ways.

Regardless, my difficult subbing scenarios have not been without humor. One day, while in a disturbingly cluttered, raucous classroom, I informed the children that following their current assignment, we would be cleaning (more like shoveling) out their desks before recess. One boy stood up, rolled his eyes, and informed me that their teacher never made them clean anything.

Clearly, I thought.

Please sit down and finish your quiz, I said.

Are you trippin’? he said, pointing at me.

Sit down, I repeated firmly, pointing to his chair.

After he plunked down, I walked to the back of the classroom and pulled my phone from my bag, texting my family in our group chat.

Hey guys-I’m subbing today & a boy just asked me if I am tripping. What does this even mean?

I could hear the laughter via emojis.

Trippin’ Mom. Not tripping. He’s asking if you are crazy.

Well then.

The answer for today is yes.

Yes, I am crazy.

Crazy to be subbing.

In fact, I must be trippin’.

//

After a few rough swims through the subbing seas, I resigned myself to the cold, hard facts:

1. I am one woman—not Houdini—a woman unable to snap my fingers and fix a broken system.

2. I must switch things up if I aim to return home with one ounce of sanity.

3. I have one day only to reach the hearts and minds of the children in any given classroom. But how?

Read-alouds.

Good stories, from the dawn of time, are potent. The best words awaken the human heart and invite the reader to feast on something beautiful, nourishing, and true.

Fine stories are powerful, indeed.

And reading aloud, I have discovered, is essential.

//

A few weeks ago I encountered a wild second-grade group. And by wild, I do not mean sweet little spitfires; rambunctious children with normal energy to burn.

I mean wild as in rude, obnoxious, angry, belligerent. Troubled.

After a rocky, disruptive morning, I took the bland lesson plans and tucked them in a drawer. The busy work was not cutting it, even a little. Every child was languishing, their faces blank in front of their glowing computers. Their eyes were dull, sluggish. I could not endure this pitiful scene one moment longer.

Boys and girls gather around on the carpet, I said.

They looked up at me, surprised.

We have half an hour before lunch, and I am going to read you a story.

But we never do that, one little man piped up.

Well, guess what? We are today, I said.

After everyone was situated, cross-legged, I cracked open A Chair for My Mother, by Vera B. Williams. One of my favorites.

Has anyone ever read this story? I asked, guessing at least a few had. Such a treasure, this Caldecott Honor book.

They shook their heads. Out of 23 children, not one?

Well, we are going to fix that, I said.

I read slowly with much expression, making sure everyone could see the pictures of a young girl and her waitress mother who works in the Blue Tile Diner. Mother and daughter plunk coins into a large jar, earnings from the mother’s waitressing tips. Grandma even pitches in when she gets a good bargain at the market. This trio lost everything in a house fire, and the story picks up with their gentle wish to purchase a soft, comfortable chair. Quarter by quarter, they work to fill the large glass jar, and make their wish a reality.

When I finished the story, I smiled at the little awakened faces before me. Boys and girls seated, hushed, on the shag rug.

Raise your hands, and tell me what you thought about this story.

Nearly every hand shot up in the air.

We discussed so many important things: the hardship of losing everything, the kindness of good neighbors, the importance of pulling together as a family, and the patience learned in saving coins. One girl told me her grandmother lives with her and brings her to church. This sparked a conversation about God, which was unexpected and grand. The children’s eyes now glowed, as the book worked its wonders.

I felt the fresh wind of life and learning and educational possibilities returning—a cool breeze blowing through this stuffy, overly decorated, and cluttered classroom.

One boy raised his hand.

Can you read us another story?

Others chimed in. Please? Please!

Of course, I said, reaching for Thy Friend, Obadiah, by Brinton Turkle.

The little boy stood and wrapped his arms tightly around me.

Thank you, he said.

I recalled a similar scenario that had played out months earlier with the boy who told me I was trippin.’

As it turned out, no one had ever read to him before.

He was smitten with the story I read aloud.

No hugs from Mr. Trippin’, but I received a fist bump and a smile that stretched for days.

//

Reading aloud is a gift. In fact, I can still tell you what books my first, second, and third-grade teachers read to us:

Frog and Toad.

Island of the Blue Dolphins.

Lost on a Mountain in Maine.

Those books were, and still are, dear to me.

I had forgotten what it was like to be on the receiving end of a read-aloud.

And then? A trio of students read to me.

//

I was invited into a public middle school as a volunteer—critiquing stories the students had written. I looked forward to this opportunity to encourage, knowing firsthand the vulnerability of speaking aloud one’s craft.

Writing is an open-handed offering… costly for the author, and free to the reader.

The teacher offered me a seat at a round table with three eighth-grade girls, one of whom handed me a translucent, half-sheet of paper with five neatly typed questions to consider as I listened. We were soon prompted by the teacher to get moving. Time is ticking.

I must confess that I would make a poor professional editor. I do not enjoy critiquing anyone else’s writing. I find it incredibly difficult to suggest improvements while simultaneously keeping the author’s voice intact. Writing is highly subjective, isn’t it? Personally, I either enjoy reading an author’s words or I don’t.

I am also of the persuasion that fine writing cannot be taught. Writers are born, not made.

While any writing may be slightly improved, exquisite writing is not an exact science as is spelling, algebra, geometry, or physics. The best writing breaks many, many, rules. Rules spun in the classroom by way of precise, cut-and-dry exercises.

Regardless, I have come to learn this:

In the writing world, 2+2 does not = 4.

//

The first student began reading, her long pink fingernails chipped. I enjoyed her story. After reading one page, she shared the heartbreak of her own parent’s recent divorce, which had prompted her to create this fictitious story of a plucky heroine who down deep, missed her Dad, desperately.

The second girl’s story was dull, rambling, and hard to follow. As she read aloud she pushed her glasses up the bridge of her freckled nose, peeking at me every so often over her paper. After a few paragraphs, she said, plainly: I wasn’t into this. Halfway through I wanted to quit writing but the teacher made me finish. I have a better idea for a story.

The four of us then discussed scrapping our own words.

Is it ever a good idea? they asked me and I told them that yes, sometimes it is.

I have crumpled up more pieces than I care to count, I told them, and it frees my mind to begin again. It is hard to resurrect a work that has wilted and perished in your heart. Sometimes it is better to toss what isn’t working and start fresh.

The third girl’s writing held immense potential. She had an overtly dramatic, depressingly dark storyline, but her timing and word choice danced. She told our group that she has always wanted to be a writer but she also wants to be rich. Which is why she might become a lawyer.

I smiled at her, shaking my head. I was not surprised by her longing to write.

Writers always want to write.

Hey, can you read something of yours? she asked me. I was caught off guard.

I picked up my phone and tapped into a piece I had been wrangling. The girls listened, and then the writer touched her heart and then my sleeve.

Wait a minute. You write stories of everyday things…I did not know we could do that!

I nodded.

Can you read us another story?

So I did.

And soon the bell rang, and we waved goodbye, going our separate ways.

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