Allow me to tell you a story.
There are many parts to it, but if you give it a chance, you'll see how they all link together.
My daughter was tardy to kindergarten every day. Every single day.
The irony of this is that I am a teacher. And for eighteen years, I've given detentions to students who are tardy to my class.
I did not even realize it was a problem until parent/teacher conference time came along. Her teacher handed me the report card and my eyes could focus on nothing but the attendance box. Under "Days Tardy" the number 36 had been boldly written as if the teacher had pressed her pen down ever so slightly more when entering it.
The teacher's mouth moved, sound came out, but nothing registered. I kept staring at that 36. Heat rushed to my face and my legs began to twitch. Certainly, she must have made an error because if my career in education had taught me nothing more- the teacher is always wrong.
Once my mouth opened, words stumbled out. First, inquiry- "Are you sure this is right?" Oh, she was. She kept very accurate records because the state requires her to keep such accurate records and it would be against the law for her to not report attendance accurately. Then, challenge- "Well, is this hurting her learning?" Long pause of silence. Not exactly. Moving onto, a plea- "If you tell me what she is missing, I will do it with her at home." No, absolutely not. Calendar can only be done in kindergarten. Until finally, shame- "I just don't know what to say. I am trying." A glare.
The truth of the matter was, I was trying. For my entire life, I'd sucked at mornings, seriously sucked at them. I was the kid who often had to be dragged out of bed with threats and demands and a few times- physically dragged out of bed. I was incorrigible until after 10... or 11. I waited until the last minute to do everything- shower, eat, brush my teeth- so much so that once I started driving, some tasks just got done at stop lights. In college, I missed more than a few... more than a lot... of my 8 AM classes, to the point that a visit to the dean's office was necessary. By the time my daughter was in kindergarten, being an only parent was still quite new to me. There I was, the girl who sucked at mornings, now trying to get a herself, 2 small children, a dog and a cat all ready for the day. (Ok, the cat doesn't really count, but he is one more living thing who took up moments in my mornings.) And, the bigger truth of the matter was- I still sucked at it.
My daughter being tardy to kindergarten became a bone of contention for pretty much the rest of the school year. There were days when everything went just right- picture the merry scenes in Snow White or Cinderella when all the little animals come to help- and we were all smiles and on time, but most days- most days were what my son would now call "epic fails." Someone was missing a sock, the milk spilled all over the kitchen floor, the dog ran away, I turned the alarm off instead of hitting snooze, traffic backed up for miles- whatever the matter, we walked in 5 or 10 minutes late many... many... more times that year. The teacher never got over it. In fact, I heard from other teachers at the school that she complained about it in the teachers' lounge. (Even more irony- I was the one being talked about in the teachers' lounge now.) Finally, one of my daughter's preschool teacher's told her, "You know. That mom is doing the best she can. There's more to it than you know."
But, you know, I don't think she wanted to know. She did not want to know my story. It bothered her immensely that we were late and missed the calendar activity every day. She took it personally, when, really it had nothing to do with her and everything to do with me. Our tardies were becoming part of my story.
My story was unfolding and shaping and ripening. Just like yours is.
Allow me to continue my story.
The other night I had the distinct privilege to attend a lecture given by Alex Kotlowitz.
In case you just heard crickets, Alex Kotlowitz wrote the award winning biography, There Are No Children Here. For one of my education classes many years ago, this book was required reading. We had to read other similar books including, Savage Inequalities by Jonathan Kozol and Among Schoolchildren by Tracy Kidder. There Are No Children Here so engrossed me, I read it in a day. The same happened with the other books. What so hooked me, what so moved me were the stories. Stories of people, some who lived not so very far away from me, yet seemed to live a million miles away from me. Their lives, their struggles, their hopes wove their wave into my heart. Because stories do that.
Alex Kotlowitz's lecture was about storytelling and how much it is fading from our culture. He spoke of how many people have stopped listening to other's stories, how maybe, they don't even care to know their story.
Could that be true? Have we become a society that no longer values its stories?
Sitting there, becoming downhearted, I thought of the world around me. That world you live in- the news you hear or see, the people you interact with, the things that bother you, the things that elate you- thought of all of it and how often examples of the lack of stories had been a part of it.
Just a few weeks before, I'd had one of those days as a teacher- a day with no plan. Really, it happens. You might be in between units or waiting for another round of testing to be over or stuck in a time of great attendance lows (think the days before winter or spring break). Moments before 130 students storm through your door, you find yourself with absolutely not one thing for them to do. For me, these are sometimes the times when the best lesson plan comes into play.
Common Core contains an oral speaking standard. By the time a child leaves public school, they should be proficient in public speaking. Therefore, teachers must provide ample instruction and opportunities for oral speaking. (For the record, this is easier said than done. And the next person who tells me teaching is so easy a monkey could do, I am going to assign them this task- teaching eighth graders about public speaking- and then sitting there while they do it- all 130 of them.)
But, I digress in my storytelling...
So, it is minutes before the 130 students ram their way into the school door's and I had a few thoughts. First, I'd been thinking lately how this year I feel like I don't know my students. There has been so much shift in education discourse that the student- the people- in front of us have been lost. Then, I remembered we hadn't done an oral presentation in a while. And finally, I thought it best to combine these two problems. So when my gifted class walked in I informed them they would be turning their personal narratives into a storytelling presentation.
They groaned. They moaned. They slammed their books and binders onto their desks and then they said, "Ok. How do we do that?"
So, I taught them about storytelling- what it is, how you do it, the best tips for it, shared examples of it (even one of my own) and gave them time to practice. All the while, it was never far from my thoughts, that this... was never going to work. 35 students had to get up in front of the class, no notes, and just... tell their story.
But the magical thing was, it did work. It worked so well that we laughed. We cried. We cheered... really for one student who gave such compelling tale of his experience with a kindergarten bully, we cheered and gave him a standing ovation. We learned that one girl nearly drown and still fears the water, one girl felt the freest she ever has while zip-lining in Hawaii, one boy helped a homeless family in Mexico, and another boy had recently become a proud uncle.
The thing of it is without those stories, we might still only see that quiet boy who sits in the back and never adds to the discussion, the boy who never does his work, the socially awkward girl who doesn't really fit in, the beautiful girl who nobody thinks is smart, or the boy who constantly goofs around.
Without the stories in Alex Kotlowitz's biography, you might only see the young boys from the projects doomed to continue the cycle of poverty. Without my story, you might only see the mom who can't get her children to school on time.
And what of the numerous people who pass through our lives every day, the ones so easy to judge-that mom didn't show up at the grade school classroom party, or that guy from the office who always keeps his distance, or the people standing in an unemployment line, or the... people around us with stories to tell.
Everyone has a story. And everyone's story is worth hearing and knowing. But, let my students convince you because after that storytelling experience, they told me it was awesome, the best thing that had ever happened in school. Through their stories they had become a family. And to think, it almost never happened.
What if we never heard another person's story? What if we stop listening to each other's stories all together? What would we be then?
