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Teaching the Great Depression to my fifth grade class will not go down as the Great Disaster, but it was an eye opener. First off, I spent a lot of time thinking about my delivery and my activities and went in Monday with enthusiasm and excitement. My kids showed up Monday with…less. I started them off with a dice game that guided them through a simulation of financial realities of the 1930’s. I forgot that it had math. My students don’t love math. Okay, let’s be real. Most of them hate math. Some of them are still struggling with subtraction. No one above my pay grade wants to believe that ten year olds are struggling with basic math facts, but my students are struggling with survival math. And Great Depression math was survival math. A factory job paid forty dollars a month, rent was thirty and rats got into the flour, kids need shoes, and maybe some food would be nice. I literally had to help every kid with every math equation for the seven months of the simulation. This DOES NOT work in my room. My students can’t handle themselves if the work is too hard. I always overestimate EASY. Even with calculators, kids have to know what numbers and operations to input. But we got through it, and they could see how hard it was to have enough money to get through basic things. I was wondering if any would make the leap to modern day times and how paychecks still work the same way, but no one did.

Next came a webquest about the Great Depression. Basically the kids were supposed to go to a very specific history site and look for answers to questions. Here are some misconceptions about technology and kids. Just because they have grown up with technology, doesn’t mean they know how to use it. Finding specific information on a website still requires being able to read and locate the right areas of text and the ability to discern what the question is asking. I used a very good source that uses a nice, readable font and big headings and pictures, but the reading level was too advanced for probably sixty to seventy percent of the kids. I had them in partners, but the web quest was too long. I can’t make a kid who has only run a fifty yard dash do a marathon, but I gave it my all. I was exhausted at the end of the day, and didn’t even know if I could give it another go. The kids wanted to know if they could play silent ball.

On Tuesday, I had an escape room planned. I bought the plans on teachers pay teachers, so I can’t take credit for the idea. But it was cool. The kids had to decode information using cryptograms and other puzzles to learn facts about the Great Depression and then put the facts together to unlock a code. The instructions said that the activity should take an hour. It took three hours for my most on task kids to get through it, the other kids, all day. No one had ever seen a cryptogram before. I had to teach them how to make guesses about letter choices and to look at the letters already there for clues. Once they got the cryptogram, the other puzzles were easier and it was kind of cool to actually see them working together to figure out what the text said. I heard one boy say, “You have to read the paragraph and you will find out information in the words for the clues.” It was the prize that kept them working though. When the kids solved all the puzzles in the “escape” room they got a prize. The prize was a bag of Takis. I didn’t even know what Takis were before I met these kids. Now I know that Takis are the highest form of currency.

When the escape room was complete, I had a bunch of cardboard scraps and wall paper samples and some tinfoil and I had the kids build Hooverville and make some signs with facts about the Great Depression. One kid did ask why. The same boy that figured out that reading the paragraphs helped with the answers told her, “Because it was a way to represent what was happening during that time. We could write a paragraph or build shit. What would you rather do?” Then three kids said, “POTTY MOUTH! DON”T CUSS! Miss (that’s me) has sensitive ears.” Their actual representation of Hooverville did look like ramshackle housing that would blow down in an actual gust of a breeze. But their facts were legitimate and a couple of the girls came up with an idea of putting paper underneath the whole settlement and making a time line, so it actually turned out better than I thought.

Here is the magic that happened: On Wednesday, I gave them a quiz. It was a quiz where I project the questions on the screen and they answer on their computers. The class average was 95. They have NEVER once scored as a class in the nineties or eighties or seventies this entire year on any unit in the entire literature book.

I wanted them to learn about FDR and the WPA because a lot of items in Pueblo were built with WPA money including the bandshell at Mineral Palace Park and the old stone buildings, the bear pits, and Monkey Island at City Park, but in the opening discussion of FDR, someone made the connection that there were no TV’s. So someone asked if there were movies. And I said, “Oh yeah, in fact some of the greatest movies were made in the thirties–like The Wizard of OZ.” Blank stares. I said, “You know? The Wizard of OZ? The wicked witch of the East? The yellow brick road? Toto? There’s no place like home?” They started shaking their heads. No. They had never seen the Wizard of Oz. Not one of them. So I said, “Well, Disney came out with Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs in the thirties.” None of them had seen that either. Although they sort of knew about it. One kid said he knew one of the dwarf guys was called Grumpy because his grandpa called him Grumpy in the morning. Then they wanted to know if we could watch The Wizard of OZ. I wasn’t prepared for that, but instead of doing FDR, I picked a movie, or a book for them look up and do a slide show presentation for the rest of the class. One girl actually asked if she could do Dorthea Lange because she remembered that photographers got paid to take pictures of the Dust Bowl and the farmers. Then the kids stood in front of the class and presented their slide shows. It really was sort of incredible. They listened to each other. They clapped. They wanted to do well. I stood on the sidelines watching them, wondering if was I in the poppy field having a dream.

I am not at school finishing up the Depression unit. I am getting my stitches out of my hand from the skin cancer surgery. I left the last passage in the literature book about Music During the Great Depression. Maybe having more background knowledge and being excited about the topic will help the kids not be jackwagons for the sub. Or not.

My time with this class is growing short. I have learned a lot from them. Like about Takis and what’s bussin’ and cap. Mostly, I have learned about resilience and showing up and trying again even if I don’t think I can do it one more day. Maybe that’s why this Great Depression thing has been so symbolic for me. It’s been bad, but I have faith it can be better. I want to be FDR, not Hoover.

I have spent a lot of time in the last few years listening to other educators talk about what kids DON’T know. It shocks me everyday, but kids DO know things, they are just different than what we as educators expect them to know. Kids can and do want to learn, but some of them have been so beat down at ten years old that they have the armor of a porcupine. I don’t know a lot of strategies for teaching porcupines, but I’ve learned a few things. And I know that under all those quills is a pretty soft, fragile center. I’m glad that I’m finally getting a glimpse.

This image began my literature unit this week. I asked my students what they could tell me about the photo. Here were some of the responses: It’s the Great Starvation! It’s a picture of the 1980’s. My grandma watches that on TV. It’s about enslavement. Yeah, it’s the Great Enslavement. I scribbled all their responses down ready for a quick laugh later.

But then I started thinking more deeply about their misconceptions. I have known people in my life time that experienced the Great Depression. My students probably have not. I understand how the Great Depression happened and the impact that it had on our country and isn’t it my job to teach them why this event was so important? So I started researching how to teach this era. I found a cool video clip, and a game and I have a great idea about how to build a model Hooverville. Monopoly was invented during the Great Depression and it would be fun to play for a class activity. I thought about dressing up and maybe putting together a slide show of some of the things that were built during the relief projects. My ideas are endless.

However, it has been a week. I feel like a cop not a teacher. Stop. Listen. Open your book to page 366. 366. 366. Turn the page. Where is your pencil? Is that a good choice? Inside voices? Find your seat. Page 366 for the ninety-seventh time. The cheating, stealing, bullying, vaping. Yea, fifth graders vaping. It is freaking exhausting and it makes me not want to do anything fun or creative. It makes me want to call in sick and stay under the covers all day.

My arm pit is on fire. Ever since the breast cancer, when I am run down, or a little sick, my arm pit will throb. My incision on my hand from last week’s surgery is healing, but I had another lesion taken out this week. This time in my mouth. So I am a little worried. I have had three lesions in six months and I am not sure how to turn it off. Not sure I can. I can’t help but wonder how stress is impacting my health. Is this my body’s way of pushing me to another path?

I am not sure about any of that. I do know I have a long weekend to relax and let my wounds heal. But this also happened to be the night of school district elementary art show reception. Even though, an evening of children is the last thing I wanted, I decided to drop by the show. I watched one of my fifth graders stand proudly by her art. Her mom thanked me and took a photo. Then a kindergarten girl came and her grandmother could not be more proud that her baby got best of show. A lot of people stopped by the Park View panel and exclaimed over our art. It was a great way to end a tough week.

Even if it is crazy, I will probably try to bring some sort of hands on creative version of the Great Depression to my class. And with nineteen days left, it might be my last stab at an idea that works. After all, the Great Depression is a great example of strength, determination, and hard work. Maybe a little creative thinking is the ticket to a strong finish. Or maybe it will be a complete flop and I will call it the Great Disaster. If I have learned anything this year, it is that turning off my imagination and instinct for creating is impossible.

My little skin lesion turned into a pretty big deal. I felt like I was in Silence of the Lambs, watching my skin being carefully cut and lifted off my body. There was enough tissue to make a flesh bracelet. I didn’t say any of that to the surgeon. I wasn’t sure he’d appreciate my humor. It never fails; I think of the funniest stuff in the most inappropriate moments.

To be honest, the incision hurts like hell. I had a little pity party and wished that my mom would make me pancakes and bring them to me in bed. I told my son that he was going to have to be functional and help me. He gave me a terrified stare, like he’d never be able to pull off functional. But then he brought me breakfast and Harry Potter. He said, “reading about a boy wizard with a dark lord trying to kill him is bound to make you feel better. ”

I uncovered the wound by myself and followed the instructions for care. I really needed another hand for the tape, but I didn’t ask Shayne again. I have a quota of how many terrified looks I can take in a day. I am back in bed with my arm elevated on a pillow. Like a princess. When this heals, I’ll probably have a scar worthy of a story. I just wish it was a better story.

Mondays have been hell all year. My students go home for their three day weekend and return to school like it is a brand new experience. They have bags of chips they sneak into their desks. Today I threw away an entire bag of gummy bears that had fallen out of someone’s desk. One girl today brought a damn remote control car and actually took it out of her backpack to do what with, I have no idea. During our language arts lesson, another girl interrupted my reading to ask me what I did for Easter. I almost cried. She hasn’t been to school in over a week; she reads like a first grader; and she isn’t even pretending to be engaged in what I am trying to teach. Then during math, some kid told me that he wasn’t doing math because x and y coordinates were college math. He said he might do his work for fries from McDonald’s. By the time the bell rang, I wondered if I had the stamina for the rest of the year.

When I got home, I noticed that my son had not done the yard work I had asked him to do. He was asleep on the couch and the garbage was still overflowing, plus he had opened the last can of La Croix. I asked him why he hadn’t done any of the chores. He said, “Chores?” And then he said that the voices were tormenting him. I didn’t even respond. I went for a bike ride.

When I got home from my ride I fell asleep and had a dream that McDonald’s was sponsoring a writing contest about first visits. I woke up all freaked out that I hadn’t preread tomorrow’s reading assignment and I am unprepared to make it engaging and then I started thinking about my dream and what if McDonald’s did really want stories about America’s memories of visiting the Golden Arches for the first time. That would kind of be fun.

More than going to McDonald’s my first time, what I remember is when McDonald’s was built in my hometown. There was a little Mexican restaurant in the spot that was torn down to make the parking lot for McD’s. My dad liked Maria’s and was irritated that a good restaurant was disappearing for a hamburger joint. When McDonald’s finally opened, the line stretched out the door and down the sidewalk for more than a week. My family didn’t join the crowds, but everyone at school was talking about going to McDonald’s. Kids at school were wearing plastic green “watches” with Ronald McDonald’s face. The face popped open to reveal a compartment. My friend put her pencil sharpener in hers. I never wanted anything more.

When my mom finally did take us to McDonald’s, the lobby was still packed with people. My brother and I sat in the main dining room on a little table under a big plastic tree with a face and fake apple pies hanging from the leaves. There was big mural on the wall with 3d figures of the French Fry guys, and the Hamburgler, Grimace, and Ronald McDonald. I remember wanting to touch the characters on the wall. But I sat at the kid’s table, waiting for my mom to ease through the crowd and bring my 35 cent cheeseburger. I was completely enchanted.

I wasted a lot of time tonight thinking about how McDonald’s was always kind of backdrop of my life, even if the food was always something I could take or leave. My sixth grade teacher gave out coupons for fries and drinks for reading goals. I’d hang out there in high school with my friends after dances. My friend, Mary Ann and I spent an entire summer collecting the 4×4 vehicles in the Happy Meals and doing our chemistry homework in our junior year. My kids played in Playplaces while I worked on my master degree work and McDonald’s was always a go to pit stop on road trips because of clean, safe bathrooms. And even though, I haven’t had a hamburger there in decades, McDonals’s is definitely a hallmark in my life. I wonder if they still give coupons to teachers. Maybe my students really would work for fries? Huh. Maybe it is worth a try?

When I graduated from college, I had three jobs. On the weekends I was learning to tattoo at a shop on East Colfax in Denver. During the week, I was working nights at a yuppie-slumming biker bar in North Denver and working days at a day care center. I remember wearing jeans and t-shirts to the day care center and playing with five year olds all day and then changing into slinky tank tops and putting on eyeliner at stoplights to get ready to deliver long necks during happy hour. I ate nasty goldfish crackers and the fruit from the drink garnish bins. I’d go to my mostly empty apartment and take a notebook out onto my deck and write about the crazy, funny things I was thinking, then sleep for about four or five hours and get up and do it all again.

My parents came up to see me during that crazy time and brought me a computer. That was back before EVERYONE had a computer. Mom said it was for my great American novel. Dad said it was for law school. Just for the record, I never wanted to go to law school. That was their way of saying, “Why are you working in a bar and babysitting with a degree from CU?” They didn’t know about the tattooing. I bring this up to illustrate that NOT knowing what I wanted to do in my career has been a life long problem. Everyone but me always had ideas about what I SHOULD be doing and I was always afraid to do what I WANTED to do.

But I have to say I was pretty happy during those months. I still remember the kids at the day care center and I wonder how they grew up and what kind of lives they have now. Working with them didn’t have any pressure…no high stakes testing or watching bar graphs in harsh shades of red to show how they are failing as students and how the adults are failing in their teaching. I remember doing fun things like tye-dying and running with them in sprinklers at the park, and watching Beauty and the Beast on a rainy afternoon. The bar was equally satisfying. I had plenty of adult conversation and laughter and good music. I met two women that became life-long friends and I started learning about the loneliness that brings people to an addiction, giving me a sense of compassion for those down on their luck. But there was always the sense that I wasn’t living up to my potential. I wasn’t doing ENOUGH.

I have been thinking about the ENOUGH thing. How was that born? And how do I transcend it? It’s been a life long theme. It’s one of the reasons I left teaching art. I felt like I should be doing MORE. I was wrong about that. My work in the art room was more powerful than I ever knew.

When I was thirty, interviewing for a job meant a new outfit, answering questions with conviction and confidence. I really believed all the shit that poured out of my mouth. Now at fifty-four, interviewing for a job is both tiresome and terrifying. I will still dress up, but I am not wasting my money on new clothes. I have lost confidence about what I say because I have seen too many broken children to believe in ideals anymore. The right answers feel like lies.

I found out this week that I might be teaching kindergarten next year. My first thought when I heard that was-do you know me at all? I told my son and he said, “Well, you did teach Darian and me to read and do math before we got to school. And you like reading stories and love the alphabet. If you suck at it, you’re only ruining fourteen or fifteen kids for life.” Thank you, Shayne.

My dreams this week have been about living in houses without walls, and my dad hammering up framework, and sitting up against tour buses with Stevie Nicks. I don’t know what ANY of that means. I do that ENOUGH is more about how I feel inside than about my job. I do know that this road of a life in education has reached some sort of crossroad. I am not sure if it’s the getting off point, or a better path ahead. I do know whatever comes next NEEDS stories, art, music, love, and laughter. And it is time to do what I want. I just wish I knew what that was.

In the meantime, it’s the weekend. I am going to get out my bike and see where THAT road takes me. The answers are there somewhere.

March 24 would have been my mother’s 91st birthday. It was the first time in all the years of my life that I didn’t acknowledge her birthday aloud. Even after her death, I have wished her happy birthday on social media. I think she might be hurt, because she has been showing up in my dreams, making pancakes and giving me unsolicited advice. Except the truth is if she were around I’d be sitting at her kitchen counter hoping she would help me choose a direction.

I went back to the skin doctor. I have a new lesion on the top of my wrist. It started as a teeny, tiny blemish, but grew to over a centimeter in a few weeks. The doctor said, “It’s probably squamous; I will have to biopsy it.” I figured. I was smart enough to look away this time as he numbed me up, shaved off the lesion, then cauterized the cut to stop the bleeding. Now my wrist just looks like it has been burned with a big cigar. It looks better than it did.

My mom had skin cancer. I don’t remember what kind, but it was a rare form of head and neck cancer. But hers presented atypically. She had a tumor removed from her calf that was almost as deep as her shin bone. Then she had a sizable tumor on her neck and a series of growths on her scalp. A piece of her scalp was actually removed and she had to use a solution that burned her. After that, she almost always wore her little pink “Life is Good” ballcap.

One time I went over to the house and she was sitting in the bathroom on the floor with a wash cloth on her head, crying. She tried to cut off the new growths herself with scissors. I remember being alarmed, wondering if she had finally entered the land of crazy. But I get it now. Basically that IS what the doctor does, only with skill, surgical tools, and drugs at hand. I hate doctors even more than my mom did, so I totally give her grace for that day in the bathroom.

I have to wait for the biopsy results to see what the next steps hold. I asked the doctor if these lesions were going to keep popping up like popcorn. He said potentially. So I said, “It won’t kill me, just take pieces of me, painfully, like teaching.” He laughed. Everybody always thinks I am joking.

This week back after spring break was kind of hell. I was trying to make a last push toward teaching my students how to divide before state testing, and they were passing low key hate notes to each other. I guess I should take this as a sign that they know something about writing. I went to watch them play basketball and got hugged by the team. I love them, even if I feel like I am in trapped in a cage with them. I guess figuring out what comes next is another thing I am waiting for.

In the meantime, Happy Birthday to my mother and good vibes for all the people touched by cancer in whatever form.

I was just drifting off when the pilot announced that the Northern lights were out there. He said the best way to see it was through the camera on our cell phones. I was over a wing and had a red light flashing and a propeller moving, but I still managed to get a shot. I decided it was Alaska telling me, “Until Next Time, Chica.”

Shayne was waiting for me with a clean house and scratch lottery tickets on the table. Charlie came running, even though he waited an entire minute to purr when I picked him up. Lucy forgot who I was and hid under furniture, and then something clicked and she will not leave my side. That’s fine, because I am so tired that I feel like I could adopt a cat lifestyle and sleep for a year.

Now that I am home and on the downside of Spring Break, I am choosing not to panic. I spent a lot of time in Alaska at the tide pools peering around the rocks, looking for treasure. Maybe that’s an analogy to live by–wonder is in the dark places, if you look for it and accept it.

I have a lot to unpack from this trip. Literally and metaphorically. My trip might have come to end, but I feel like it is just the beginning of living my best life.

Every morning since I got to Alaska, I get up and check the view. Depending on the light, the cloud cover, and snow, it is different every time. It was gray this morning because I am out and about earlier. It’s my last day in Alaska.

I couldn’t sleep last night. And when I did, I had dreams about being back in my classroom. It was chaos; no one was listening to me and kids were being mean to each other and throwing things, and I was trying to be patient, but firm. Administration was watching me and writing notes down on a clipboard and a social worker was trying to talk to me and kids were crying and other kids were fighting, and I just wanted everyone to leave for five minutes, so I could breathe. Then I woke up and thought about the dream. Then I tried to not think about the dream. Then I reached for my phone and started looking for jobs. Then I tried to go back to sleep. Then I just got up and showered and got up to look at the ocean.

The snow surprised me. I mean I wasn’t surprised that it was snowing; it has more or less been snowing since I got here. But most of the snow has been a fine, glistening sparkly sprinkle, interspersed with fat fluffy snow globe moments. This is the first time that I can see how all those flakes ARE new and piling up and it makes me think of how I want Christmas morning to look. I immediately wondered about my flight. Will it be able to take off? Do I even care?

Yesterday I spent the day exploring art galleries. There are quite a few photographers and painters. Some of the pottery was really unique with glazes I have not seen before. I did talk to another artist and showed him photos of my glass weaves. He asked me if I was a hobbyist or more of a professional. I told him, I probably leaned more to a hobbyist. And we talked about that. I looked at the fused glass and realized that I could make everything in the gallery, but the subjects were new and really stretched my thinking about things to make with glass. It got me thinking about making art for a living. I just don’t know about that. I think I get more joy from making things and giving them away. I don’t mind getting paid for a mural job or a piece of artwork, but money will probably never be the point. But that doesn’t mean, I wouldn’t like to paint murals, or backgrounds for theaters, or make illustrations for a graphic novel. I am just not sure art is my next career path.

As I have been writing this, the light has come up. The ocean is still there. My plane will probably leave, but I am going to enjoy one more day in Alaska. I am going to check out the beach at low, low tide and thrill at the surprises waiting. I do want to go home and enjoy my mountain view from the porch and pet my cat. I just hope that the quiet, calm of this wild Alaska will return with me and help guide my heart to finding peace.

Because I am very busy listening to what the universe is telling me, I have decided that an earthquake first thing in the morning on my second day in Alaska, was a wake up call. The Earth was saying, “Rise and shine, girl, and be prepared for wonder.”

Probably everyone who comes to Alaska hopes to see wild animals. I am missing bears and puffins, but my friend assured me that I’d probably see seals, sea otters, moose, and plenty of bald eagles. She didn’t tell me how close I’d be –like reach and touch if I wanted to close. I still can’t believe yesterday was real and not some dream about being an Alaskan animal whisperer.

Ocean boats fascinate me. I love walking among them and reading their names, and trying to figure out what the boat does. A lot of boats on the Spit are fishing boats. A fisherman named Dave gave me a herring to lure in a seal. The seal took the bait , but surfaced further away. But I wasn’t disappointed because there was a mama sea otter fussing over a baby perched on her tummy. I have only seen sea otters in zoos. The ones I have seen entertain the crowds as they speed around their enclosures. Now I wonder if that frantic, circular swimming is a form of pacing . The sea otters I saw today were calm and slow, just floating around, checking out the slips for fish scraps and friendly fisherman handouts.

We went to a different beach at sunset. It was low tide and the clouds were lifting and I could see into the endless ocean, the Cook inlet and the Kachemak Bay, but I was focused on the tide pools under my feet. I have seen starfish before. The dried up carcasses at tourist shops. From a sea cliff in Washington, I looked down on colorful starfish beached during low tide, but I have never peered into a tide pool before and been able to capture a photo from my phone. I just read a story with my students about tide pools. My students were totally disinterested, but I wished that they could have seen the starfish and all the other little tiny creatures waiting for the ocean to return.

The bald eagle was sitting on the rock when we came to the beach. I thought it would fly off as we approached, but it didn’t seem bothered by us. Two other women approached it and took selfies and photographed the hell out of it. And then traded places with us. I was cautious because the talons were very real. I was so close that I could see the dark wet particles of sad clinging to the yellow gold claws. I was standing right next to a bald eagle. Uncaged. Untethered. Wild. Free. Massive. Magical. I photographed her (?) at every angle in the changing light.

I will never forget standing next to the eagle. I was walking back to the car in the fading light thinking about how completely lucky and humbled to be able to experience that kind of magic and I joked that if I saw a moose on the way home, nothing could be more perfect. And then this happened.

Not sure what perfection is ahead for today, but I am ready.