Writing With Abandon

Reflections and ramblings about life as an educator, writer, reader, knitter, and over-thinker. Trying to do the writing only I can do.

Tag: SOLC25

  • Knitting Club

    In November, I started a knitting club on Mondays after school. Vero had been asking me since my first year at KLA, but I couldn’t bring myself to add something else to my to do list. At the time, my commute was also a lot farther.

    But this year, it felt like the right time. We set it up so that classes would begin in November and sent out the class details on a cute Canva flyer. I squealed as she told me 5 of my students had signed up.

    The first class was a doozy.

    “I don’t know if this is going to go so well,” I told Patrick that night.

    I had found all of these beginner how-to videos on YouTube that I thought were pretty easy. I knew to start with the basics: slip knot, cast on, knit stitch. I taught them the vocabulary they would need. I was ready to help them with the cast on like my mom did when I was first starting out, and even pivoted mid-class to show them an easier type of cast on.

    “But they struggled to even make a slip knot!”

    Luckily, the girls practiced that week at home, and by the second class, a few had mastered each of the new skills, and were helping the others to figure it out. Each week I watched their skills grow, the pride they took in their projects.

    One student’s chunky scarf!

    We’re in the fifth month of class, and now we have 8 knitting club members: 7 fifth graders and one of their sisters, who is in third.

    It’s a funny dynamic each week.

    “I don’t feel like knitting today,” E stated on our way to the classroom this past Monday.

    So she and other E decided to have a dance/karaoke party to music from Descendants.

    Three others sat at my table knitting along with me as I worked on my Eva cardigan by PetiteKnit. The rest sat at a different table, whispering about something as they knit up their squares, headbands, and scarves.

    “It’s like a bunch of old ladies getting together and knitting,” I’ve described it to others. “Half of them don’t even want to learn new stitches anymore. They just want to knit and gossip.”

    “What happens in knitting club stays in knitting club,” A mentioned one time. She cracks me up.

    This month, we’re working on a journalism unit in writer’s workshop and creating a KLA News Magazine. One of my students is writing about the knitting club and interviewed me to get perspective for her article.

    “Have you ever considered making a YouTube channel that teaches kids how to knit?” She asked me towards the end of the interview.

    “I haven’t,” I replied, a smile coming to my lips as I remembered those first videos that confused the heck out of them. “But I am now!”

  • Reading Ripple Effect

    I sit crosslegged on the bench, anchor charts behind me, the students before me on the rug, a book in my hands. I’m about 6 chapters into reading aloud one of my favorite middle grade books ever, one I’ve read to two other 5th grade classes before this one: Refugee by Alan Gratz.

    I first read the book when Ariel and I lived together in 2017. Her mom worked for Scholastic at the time, and she gave us an uncorrected proof. We both devoured it.

    I decided to try it as a read aloud for my fully-remote class during the pandemic. Read aloud was the only time of the day where I felt like the students were all engaged, even if their cameras were off.

    Whenever we’d get to an exciting or intense part, various cameras would flash on to show me their shocked faces. The chat would be blowing up with emojis and “whaaaat?!!”s.

    Refugee in particular got one of my students into reading. She thanked me for this in a card she gave me at her (luckily in-person) graduation. Knowing that I helped her to become motivated to read more filled my heart with all sorts of warm goop.

    These are the cards we save and cherish!

    The next year, I read it to a completely different group of students in my new home, Miami. It was a class of just 13. They loved being read to, and they forced me to do a read aloud marathon in the days before Thanksgiving break, because they refused to go off on vacation without finishing Refugee.

    They also liked to get REALLY close during said read aloud marathon. Hahaha.

    It was with that same group that we decided to put on a theatrical production of Isabel’s story from the book. I took the dialogue straight from the text, and Angie helped me adapt it to our stage. The kids knocked it out of the park.

    Now, as I read the lines of dialogue I’ve read so many times before, I can’t help hearing those students’ voices as the characters speak. So many rehearsals, so many times repeating those lines, getting them just right.

    They became their characters, just like this year’s students became the characters of Flying Solo.

    It’s a pretty magical thing the way my brain works, replaying that memory, and their voices, as I share the story with a new group for the first time, watching their eyes widen just like my students on Zoom’s did.

    It’s like a ripple or an echo, reverberating through time. Reminding me of all the ways teachers, and books, can touch hearts and minds.

  • Giggle Incontinence

    At the start of every year, we hold interviews with our new students’ parents to find out their hopes, goals, and concerns about their child. It’s always informative, and my favorite part is watching their eyes light up as we say: “Tell us about your child.”

    “She’s just, the best kid,” I remember one mom said, her voice breaking and her eyes starting to water. “I don’t know why I’m crying!!” And we all laughed.

    At one of our interviews this year, a student’s mom told us in a thick French accent that her daughter has “giggle incontinence.” At first, we thought she meant that her daughter sometimes just laughed uncontrollably, but then she mentioned the change of clothes her daughter would be bringing to school in case it happened.

    “Wait, that has a name?” Kim blurted.

    “Oh my god, I have that, too!” I exclaimed.

    It hasn’t happened in a while, but it’s something that I’ve experienced since I was a little girl. It usually occurs amidst uncontrollable and nervous laughter — a sudden need to pee, the loss of the ability to hold it in as I continue laughing, and then a heat in my face and pure terror as it rushes out.

    I always just thought I was someone who “peed her pants” at the most inopportune moments. But I much prefer the term “giggle incontinence.”

    Yesterday (or I guess, two days ago, since I am writing my slices and scheduling them for the following morning), I almost had an episode of said giggle incontinence.

    We were on the school bus, getting ready to head off on a field trip with fourth grade, when screams erupted from the back: “Ms. Amy!! There’s a cockroach!”

    I’ll let you read the full story in Gianna’s slice, while I zoom into a small moment.

    After I returned to my seat, thinking said roach was done and dealt with, Gi sanitized my hands and we sat down.

    “Qué asco,” Gi said in that way she does that I love so much. Then she turned to the window, and we watched a small roach crawl up the wall and under the sill.

    She immediately squealed and stood up, her hand covering her face to try to hide her fear as the students around us shouted “What? What??”

    “Nononono,” she started repeating as she made to, what? Leave the bus??

    Because that was the problem. We were stuck on this bus, and our journey had barely even begun.

    I looked at her and I looked back at my students with their huge eyes filled with pure horror, and I lost it. I started cracking up.

    Gi started laughing too. Tears streamed from our eyes. The teachers at the front looked confused, screams were ricocheting from all sides, Gi was up against me as though I could save her from the roaches, and that’s when I felt it — the moment of the giggle incontinence threatening.

    Oh shit.

    I took a deep breath in, crossed my legs, and willed myself not to freaking piss my pants while on a school bus full of my preteen students, the fourth graders, and 5 other teachers!!! PLEASE, bladder, don’t do this to me. Haven’t you embarrassed me enough? Wasn’t Lara’s birthday torture enough? The Great Gatsby skit in 8th grade, Ms. Mansell’s knowing look? The bar in Madrid where my coworker bit into a too-hot croqueta and turned bright red as he went “Haa! Haa! Haa!”? PLEASE, BLADDER, NOT TODAY!!

    By some miracle, I was able to calm myself enough that my bladder backed off in retreat. The moment passed. My face cooled off and I could breathe again.

    I continued to laugh-cry for the rest of the wild ride, even shouted to the students at one point, “This is a small moment story!! You can write about this!”

    Mostly I was glad that I was sharing this crazy experience with one of my best friends, because I knew that even if I had experienced an episode of giggle incontinence, somehow, she would have helped make it okay.

  • This Body of Mine

    “Can you tell me all the things you like about my body?” I ask softly. After an afternoon of shopping and feeling like nothing I tried on looked good on me, my self-esteem has fallen and I am trapped in the upward comparison loop.

    “What do you like about your body?” He flips the question on its head, knowing the reclaimed confidence will have to come from me. I love this man.

    What do I like about my body?

    My body that has carried me on this Earth for 33 years and five months.

    My body that is a bit achey this morning (Do I need a new pillow? Do I just need to exercise? Are teachers destined to hold all their stress in their necks?).

    What do I like about this body of mine?

    I like my hands — their ability to type fast, write neatly, knit complicated patterns to create clothes and accessories my loved ones and I can wear.

    I like my legs — they’ve always been strong — their ability to run half marathons, walk 20,000 steps in a day of sightseeing, squat and sit and lunge with proper form.

    I like my feet and ankles — they’re a bit bony, and my sister has always hated my longer toes, but I like them, and my feet take me everywhere. How different life would be without my feet!

    I like my belly button — how, when I was a kid, it used to look more like an “innie-outie,” I called it, and now is a bit more of an “innie.”

    I like my smaller chest — I can run without it hurting, go bra-less whenever, and wear a lot of different types of tops.

    I like my hair — it’s thick and curly and it always air dries well. I have natural highlights, blonds and reds, and not many gray hairs yet.

    I like my eyes — the blue-gray-green of them, how they change based on what I’m wearing. I love how they take in so many details as they observe this world I live in.

    So why, when I look in the mirror at a shop, try on an article of clothing not made for this unique body of mine, do I blame my body instead of the store? The store who only designs for one type of female body? (Juxtapose this with Gi and I accompanying Jason to Suit Supply, where he explains how he’ll try on a suit, they’ll fit him, and then they’ll make it to his exact measurements.)

    I don’t have the answers, and the ending of this slice got interrupted in real time by my dog throwing up (I think she swallowed a hairball, ha!), so it will have to end here.

    And when that little voice inevitably makes herself heard, I’ll try to remember all the things I love about this body of mine.

  • The Sanderling

    The bird scurries so quickly, it looks like he’s ice skating across the sand. One leg moving as the other hover-floats, skiing between the seaweed slopes.

    He speeds back and forth, drawing loop-de-loops, but remains ever ahead of me at my easy pace. I walk along the shoreline, sun beaming on my face, wind strong. The bird guides me, flitting along in search of something to eat.

    As we walk, me behind him, I people watch.

    A young girl sits in the sand, her legs beside her like a mermaid. She lets the water rush across them, her head hanging back, her long braids waving.

    The bird scurries on.

    A toddler explores with his hands, stands up holding a shell, looking for Mommy.

    The bird speeds ahead.

    A boy and his dad have built an excellent shelter and moat. The boy cheers as a wave crashes against their strong wall. The dad smiles and says hello as I pass.

    The bird zips back and forth.

    What kind of bird is this? I wonder. Smaller than a child’s shoe. White with grey flecks on his back. A long black beak.

    A quick internet search yields sanderling, the name deriving from the Old English sand-yrðling, meaning “sand-ploughman.”

    He flits ahead, faster now, joins in with a friend, the two seesawing as they plow the sands. I stretch up and shield my eyes from the sun, look out at the sea, then turn around.

  • Surrender

    “Are you a religious person?” she asks me.

    “No, but I’m spiritual, I think,” I tell her.

    “Do you believe there is some sort of higher power?”

    “I guess so, yes,” I say, “though I don’t think there’s a God, per se.”

    “For me, the highest power is divine love,” she shares. “Your sensitivity is a super power. You have the power to feel others’ feelings. And you’re a healer. But you don’t heal by taking on others’ feelings. You heal by being a conduit, a tube, through which divine love can flow. Love passes through you to heal others.”

    I imagine myself as a macaroni or cavatappi noodle, divine love coming in through the top, and shooting out the other side.

    “What you need to remember is that you have no control — none of us do. Most of the time, you just have to surrender to the greater power of divine love.”

    I nod.

    “Prayer is powerful, you know. There have been studies on it.”

    I recreate this conversation with sentences I’ve logged in my Notes app, trying to capture her wisdom before I forget it.

    ***

    I think of all the people in my life I want to surrender to divine love today. My heart sends out love in color to their hearts. I pray, even though I’m not religious, that divine love will cradle them as they wade through grief, anger, fear, make the landing softer, allow them to find even a small moment of peace amidst the chaos.

    I visualize them in violet light, soft green light, pink light, white golden light. I let the light envelop them, protecting them like a flame, where anything that comes towards them burns up with a sizzle.

    I surrender, knowing I have no control but this: to have faith that they will be okay.

  • The Last Time

    There’s something bubbling beneath every day lately at work. A thread weaving between the seams, a whispered undercurrent.

    “This might be the last time you…” it says.

    I try to shake it off — it jars me.

    But it’s a persistent little f***er.

    “This might be your last chapter book read aloud,” it whispers to me as I put post-its to mark each day in Refugee.

    “This might be your last field trip,” it sings as I send the confirmation email to Bowlero.

    “This might be the last time you hear that,” it taunts me when I read a Valentine’s card from a student that ends with “I want to be just like you when I grow up.”

    “F off,” I will it to leave in my mind.

    But I know it will linger. Because the truth is, many of these moments will be the last.

    I guess what I’m trying to say is, just because I made the choice to leave the classroom, doesn’t mean it’s easy.

    I’m reminded of Vicky’s slice as I think: Why does choosing myself sometimes feel like I’m breaking my heart?

  • My Water Bottle

    My Water Bottle

    My water bottle is covered in stickers. The students love to look at them, and so do I. Each one brings me joy.

    Side 1

    Side 1:

    • Iris Tattoo and Piercing flower from my third and fourth holes I got in 2023
    • A llama from the cultural carnival last year, representing my love of knitting
    • A hint of a pink tulips sticker, also from the carnival, for my family friends in Holland
    • “invisible string” and “Karma” stickers #Swiftie
    Side 2

    Side 2:

    • evermore album sticker #Swiftie
    • “Forgive Me!” sticker. My college friend/fellow writer, Bob, created a podcast and I got this sticker as a token for supporting their GoFundMe. I believe it was illustrated by his wife!
    Side 3

    Side 3:

    • Cobscook Institute sticker from where the Quoddy Writing Retreat took place; I also love its LGBTQIA+ flag in the background
    • London sticker, also from last year’s cultural carnival, for my London boy
    • Leslie Knope sticker — my absolute fave — from my student M.

    I was stumped for what to write this morning, and then I looked at my water bottle and saw the Leslie Knope sticker with the quote, “I am super chill all the time!”

    It made me laugh as I remembered my PMS-induced outburst on Monday when I was helping some tired and reluctant students (not my best moment). It’s a good reminder to not take myself too seriously.

  • A Lesson in Abandoning Books

    “Your hold at the Miami Public Library is ready to borrow,” my Libby notification popped up, with a small photo of Onyx Storm.

    Yesssss! I whisper screamed, then remembered I was only 35% through Family Lore by Elizabeth Acevedo. I love Acevedo’s YA, and I was very excited to start her first novel for adults. But I hadn’t been feeling too thrilled about reading it lately. It’s not that I didn’t like the book, but there are a lot of characters and jumping back and forth through time, so I was always a bit confused as I read. The worst part: I never wanted to go back to it, and I was always having to reorient.

    I’ll have to just dedicate more time to reading this week so I can finish it and be able to start Onyx Storm, I thought, and then I caught myself.

    Why?

    Why would I force myself to dedicate more time to a book that I’m not enjoying? Isn’t The Storygraph’s motto “Because life’s too short for a book you’re not in the mood for”? Didn’t I teach a lesson about abandoning books earlier in the year?

    What were the guidelines we came up with together?

    • Choose wisely (read the blurb; do you know the author?; do you think you’ll be interested?). — Okay, I did this.
    • Give the book a real try, at least 80 pages. — Check.
    • Read it every day for at least 3 days to see if you get in the flow. — I tried! I’ve been reading every day for over a week!
    • If you still aren’t into it, you can abandon it, but you have to journal a quick reason why. — You don’t need to tell me twice! That’s a slice!

    I’m no better or worse if I finish or don’t finish this book, I reminded myself. But I’ll be a whole lot happier if I just give myself permission to abandon it and crack open the third book in a fantasy series that I know I’ll enjoy.

    The next day, at school, we introduced the Engagement Continuum to our students during morning meeting. As we had them self-assess for math, investigations, and read aloud, I realized something.

    “Your temperature check has me thinking,” I said out loud. “Do we need to abandon our read aloud?”

    Their eyes widened in that did-she-really-just-say-that way that my students tend to do when I say something out of their scope of things-teachers-say.

    I shared with them my own personal debacle with Family Lore over the weekend.

    “Here’s what I’m noticing: Many of you are disengaging, some of you are interested, but the energy is low. We’ve already read about 100 pages. And honestly, it’s not very fun for Ms. Kim and I to read to you, because we can tell you’re checked out!” I looked around at the nodding heads. “So… what do you say?”

    It was an emphatic yes.

    “Wait,” M said. “Can we still read one of the ones from our list?”

    I laughed and initially responded with playful sarcasm. Then I told them we’d be starting Refugee. Cue the cheers.

    And that’s how I abandoned two books this week, replacing them with ones I know I’ll love.

  • “Let everything happen to you”

    Over the weekend, P and I watched Jojo Rabbit. We’d both seen it once before, and have been in somewhat of a historical film marathon, so it fit right in with the rest (although a much more — is “lighthearted” the word? — take). Taika Waititi’s film is funny and heartfelt and soul-filling, despite its serious content.

    At the end of the film, this quote from Rilke appears on the screen, and it was like a punch to the gut for me:

    In the midst of a lot going on in our personal lives right now, this quote was a reminder to me of the impermanence of every moment, bad and good. A reminder that storms pass, and to soak up good weather while you have it. P and I looked at each other and a whole conversation passed between our eyes without saying a word.

    A hunt for a screenshot of the quote led me to this wonderful blog post with some other gut-punching quotes from Rainer Maria Rilke. Nishtha’s reflections on Rilke’s life and words are beautifully written, and will surely give you some inspiration if you find yourself in need today.

    Until then, a reminder to dance, even (and maybe especially) in the ruins.

    Jojo and Elsa dancing in the street after he brings her outside for the first time.