Bonnie

One of the first pictures I took of Bonnie in September 1996

I was radiating sunshine on the morning of my very first day of my very first year of teaching. Everything excited me.

I had a mailbox in the main office! 

I had my own classroom - Room 108!

I had made it. The dream I worked so hard for was about to begin!

Teachers were told to report to the cafeteria to get a class roster and meet their students. I was eager to read the names of my kindergarten children, but when I was handed my class list there were no students on it. I immediately panicked. They hired me by mistake. There aren't enough kids and I will be shown the door. I quietly sidled up to my fellow kindergarten teacher, Bonnie, to show her the paper. 

Bonnie was a veteran teacher who knew how things worked. She was funny, animated, often irritated, and did not suffer fools gladly. I adored her. 

"Bonnie, look at this. I have no students. They are going to send me home."

She took one look and told me not to worry about it. At that time, our school admitted only deaf and hard of hearing students and classes were built as the year went on. Class sizes consisted of a maximum of 6 students.

"Stick with me" Bonnie said, "We can teach together until you get students."

And I did. Bonnie knew how to get things done in the school. She knew everybody. She had all the intel (gossip) and knew where all the bodies were buried. She also had a short fuse, a raspy smoker's voice, a working knowledge of ASL, and one foot out the door. I was energetic but green. We were a fantastic pair. 

All of my shortcomings were covered by her experience. I'd come up with ideas for lessons and she'd skillfully know how to execute them. We complimented one another perfectly. She easily went along with my plans and appeared happy to teach beside me without having to take on the burden of writing out excessively detailed lesson plans. I learned a great deal from Bonnie.

Once my class list grew, we still taught together. She'd bring her students to my room and we'd spend many happy days teaching and enjoying one another's company. 

We became friends outside of work too. Bonnie would sometimes drive us out to Atlantic City after school on Fridays. She enjoyed Bally's casino and we'd take advantage of her high-roller status with a free room, meal vouchers, and show tickets. Our weekends in A.C. flew by as we played the slots, ate, and laughed. In those days, I had very little money and would marvel at how easily she fed the machines. She once put $100 into a slot machine as an "experiment" just to see how few times it would hit. Meanwhile, I'd get depressed over losing $20 and rationalize it by thinking I got a room, a show, and meals for free at least. I'd spend a lot of time just watching her play and listening to her talk. Bonnie was talkative, opinionated, and could get herself comically worked up about things. I loved it. She delighted and amused me.

Bonnie retired a few years after I started teaching but our trips to A.C. or to each other's homes continued. However, at some point we lost touch. I called her a few years ago and we had a great time catching up. She sold her place in Brooklyn and was spending her time at her home in Halcottsville, NY. It was a cozy house in a charming village. 

Last week, I learned that Bonnie had a heart attack on July 24 and passed away. She was 79 years old. I've been thinking about Bonnie a great deal since I learned the news. Last night in a dream I ran into her. I told her I heard she died and she told me that was nonsense. She was annoyed at the rumor. We were both in a hurry so we said we'd meet again soon. We hugged. I walked away relieved she was okay. Upon waking, I was a bit confused. Reality tells me one thing while my dreams tell me another. Or did it? Perhaps the take away is that she's okay and we will meet again one day. 

Yes, I think I'll go with that.

Year 29!

Clock design by Tibor Kalman for The New Victory Theater

 
In a few weeks, I step into my 29th year as an elementary school teacher of D/deaf, hard of hearing, and hearing children. My joys, frustrations, and reflections on that experience are recorded on this blog (for the past 17 years anyway). It's been quite the ride. It hasn't always been good, but when I look back I feel exceedingly blessed.

I've learned some things along the way.

1. I love teaching young children and I am very good at it.

2. Children thrive under a teacher who believes in them and one who is knowledgable in linguistic, psychosocial, emotional, and educational development.

3. Good teachers retire as teachers. Bad teachers retire as administrators. *

4. Administrators, coaches, politicians, and policy makers rarely add value to what happens in the classroom. In fact, teachers are often only successful when they find ways around this outside interference. It isn't easy to do. The emotional toll expended fighting against the pig-headed bureaucracy has caused a teacher shortage. The structure of our educational system needs to be reimagined allowing for more teacher input. We are the experts. Take heed!

5. There is nothing truly new. Research can be manipulated, like bible quotes, to fit the story one is trying to tell. Education is a money-making machine with a cyclical recycling of ideas containing new labels and catchphrases designed to keep the money rolling in. 

6. Children are amazing and will astound you with their insights.

This year begins on a wing and a prayer. I teach in an ICT classroom and my team teacher is out on maternity leave. Meanwhile, my home life may require me to take time off from work here and there. But even with all of the professional and personal stresses, I am looking forward to Year 29. I suppose that says it all.

*some exceptions apply

Growing Up John-Boy

Writing is my thing. It belongs to me. I say this not because I've been paid to write (although I have), but simply because I have the desire to write. This is evidenced by stacks of journals dating back to my early teen years. I started writing my first book on yellow legal pads when I was in junior high school. It was a murder mystery in the style of Agatha Christie called A Face in the Window. I also wrote short stories, plays, poems, song lyrics, notes, and many, many letters. Later, there was this blog, journal publications, writing for hire, and my dissertation - I am the only person I know who loved the experience of writing their dissertation. 

Of course, the world is full of folks who have a personal connection to writing. I grew up watching The Waltons on TV with my family. The eldest son on the show was an aspiring writer named John-Boy. He had a good heart and strong moral compass. He was deeply loved by his family. He was sensitive and kind and honest. He was also a bit different than the rest of his family because he had an artistic sensibility. He aspired to achieve his dreams, which would take him to places outside his family's purview. John-Boy was strong and sure-footed and a good listener. John-Boy loved his Mama.

My mom used to tell me I was just like John-Boy.

It is one of the best compliments I've ever received. It is one bestowed on me with love and a mother's pride. The feeling of knowing your Mom beams with pride and love when she sees you is a glorious one. I loved being John-Boy in her eyes. 

My mom passed in 2020 and, since then, I haven't been able to watch The Waltons. It's too painful. I also struggle with writing now because I'd grown accustomed to her feedback. I liked sharing my life with her through my writing. It's the reason I started this blog in the first place. 

There is a sadness associated with The Waltons that has to do with growing up and moving on. The show captures a time in our lives when we are surrounded by family and everyone we love is alive and vibrant. As the show went on, characters died and moved away. Life changed. 

Life changes. 

Constantly.

I'm starting to come back to writing now. It's a bit painful sometimes. Is it therapeutic? I'm not sure. Probably.  

I was working on a book project when my mom passed and the desire to continue felt forced afterwards. But, I think I am ready to return to it. I think my mom would be thrilled if I did. It's a way to honor her. I can hear her voice in my head saying once more that I'm just like John-Boy. 

My mom loves me. That's one thing that will never change. No, no, even death can't take that away from me.