Meet Me. . .in the Bathroom

The challenges we professional educators are facing as we navigate serving children during a pandemic multiply by the hour. The media, the general public, parents, district office personnel, administrators, coaches, consultants — anyone who does not actually interface with children daily — all have an opinion. . . and a silver bullet. Turn off the chat box. (You already know how I feel about this.) This is the best videoconferencing platform of them all. Give them an incentive. . .

This “easy, quick fix” mentality is not surprising to veteran teachers. (I have been doing this for twenty-three years, y’all!) It is the snake oil education reform has always been made of — by folks who do not truly know children .

While I do not believe that you have to be in the virtual classroom every day to have a voice, you do have to show up. And when you do, you need to log on with a learning stance. All of your preconceived notions about what school “should” look like have to be thrown away. These are not “normal” times. Children are not learning under “normal” circumstances. And “normal” wasn’t working for the majority of children anyway.

For so many of our dear children, normalcy was erasure. When we expect “normal” — which has always been a harmful social construct rooted in all forms of bigotry — we fail to see the bold brilliance and beauty of the actual children who are sitting in front of us.

When we fail to see children, we cannot possibly make them visible in our curriculum, libraries, instructional practices, or our individual and collective class and school hearts. Under these circumstances, children become invisible. This isn’t a pandemic schooling problem, but it is now exacerbated to the point that not acknowledging it is willful ignorance.

This week I had to administer a computerized assessment to my students. While I question the rationale behind standardized testing under our current circumstances (I’m just lying. I question it under all circumstances!), there are some battles I choose not to fight because I know I will become weary to no avail. So, I showed my students how to log onto the assessment platform and told them they needed to find the quietest place in their homes (babysitter’s, tio’s, or abuela’s homes, or daycare centers) to work:

“I am at school right now and no one is our classroom but me, so it’s quiet. But if I were at home, I would definitely take my iPad to my bathroom and shut the door to take my assessment. My bedroom is noisy because I live by the train station. The rest of my house can be noisy because I live with a lot of people. When I have to record something, I really do go in the bathroom and shut the door.”

Not only was this an intentional move, it’s the absolute truth. Every PD video I did this past summer was filmed in front of the cabinetry of my bathroom. (You didn’t notice, did you? It was the fancy lighting I rigged up.) No one who participated in my professional development was harmed by this “abnormal” behavior, quite the contrary. It got the job done! I wanted my kids to know that it was okay to live in a noisy house and to find “out of the box” solutions for getting away from the jubilation when necessary.

One of my loves said, “I’m going to take my iPad to my grandma’s closet. It will be very quiet in there and I can focus.” She headed for her intended destination, sat down, and got to work. When she was finished, I looked at her assessment report and the results were phenomenal. She, in defiance of the “learning loss” narrative that is being perpetuated throughout US schools, was right where she needed to be to begin the challenging work of third grade. And. She. Took. The. Assessment. In. Her. Grandma’s. Closet.

There are so many things we need to release to truly meet children’s needs as we embark on this school-year-in-the-middle-of-a-pandemic. But I hope we will all quickly come to understand that perhaps the first thing we need to toss into the basura is “normal.” We are not returning to “normal.” We cannot.

The past several months have laid bare the inequities that exist in our society. Turning off chat boxes, perfect videoconference platforms, and incentives will not erase them and make education equitable. Only dismantling this system that does not live up to its calling will do that. And this begins with deliberately meeting children, their families, and their communities as they are, right where they are (and not trying to “save” or change them). Even if that’s in their Grandma’s closet.

And you can meet me in my bathroom if you want to continue this conversation. I’ve been working there since I was a child, to be honest. . .

All Because I Trusted Them to Use the Chat Box

A week ago I viewed a professional development video that made me cringe. The presenters said that the chat box in our virtual classrooms should only allow students to communicate with the teacher, not one another. “They might be silly if you let them chat,” they suggested. I took to Twitter to express my very refined thoughts:

When we shut down schools in March, I had no idea what I was doing. I had never taught a class of elementary school students online and was not even sure it could be done effectively. But I’m the kind of person who does hard things. Always. I mustered together my resources, found other educators facing the same challenges, leaned into the ambiguity and discomfort of the moment, and radically imagined new possibilities.

As I began to navigate this new territory, the thought of closing the chat box never crossed my mind. It wouldn’t. It is an instructional practice rooted in adultism and control. I believe in the humanity of children and their freedom. And they never, ever let me down when I maintain those values, even when the world seems to be spiraling out of control.

California is ablaze right now. The Bay Area skies are filled with smoke. When we returned from our lunch break yesterday, the children were filled with questions (and answers) about what is happening. So we skipped my intentions for our writing workshop and spent some time asking our friend, Google, our questions. We watched videos and read an article. As we came to the end of our inquiry, a message appeared in the chat box:


I gasped.

“I know, friend,” I responded verbally. “This year does seem to be very difficult, doesn’t it?”

And then, the chat box exploded (correct spelling and punctuation courtesy of me):

I agree with you, (student’s name).

I know! First Kobe died.

What else?



I wish I wasn’t born in this time.

I agree.

I agree.

I agree.

Am I going to die?

2020, why? Just why?

I agree.

*Hits 2020 and eats it!

We have COVID-19 and now we have wildfires? Jeez!

This is super scary!

How much more?

*Crying emoji

What’s next 2020? Just don’t make it bad!

I want to see 2021!


What’s next in 2020 that’s gonna be bad?

Please, 2020, make something lucky, not worse!

I’m going to 2021.

I agree.

Me too.

More like 2022!

No. Wait. Go to 2016. That was the best year!

I am going to 2019.

I hate 2020.



Bye! I’m going to 2022.

I want to be a baby again.

I’m sick.

Every year except 2020 is the best year. You want to know why? Because there was no virus.

Take me with you!

Virus! Whyyyyyyyyyyyyy?


*Forty crying emojis

My family’s still alive.

No, no, no! It’s like this. First Kobe Bryant dies. Then alarms go off on our phones. Then quarantine. Then fires! Like jeez! What else could be next?

2019, I miss you.

Me too!


This thread began at 12:39 and ended at 12:50. We engaged in deep dialogue orally as the children processed alongside each other in the chat box. Our conversation led us to make a heart map that posed the initial question: WHAT IS GOING ON WITH 2020? While we listed what was troubling our hearts, we also thought about the joy that the year has brought us as well. Our time was running short, so I offered a teaching point: Writers think about hard things and process their feelings in their writing. We spent three minutes quick writing from our heart maps and decided we would continue this work today.

These pieces are still working drafts, but let me tell you that I was blown away by the power of my third graders’ writing as they shared today. I didn’t teach any craft moves or require the writing to be done in a specific genre before the quick write yesterday, but appropriate ones for this topic — like poetry and narrative, and repetends and dialogue — surfaced naturally. I cannot wait for them to finish these pieces. Their drafts are already so good!

And now I have to wonder, would any of this have happened if I had limited their chat box use to communicating with me? You already know the answer. . .

Children might not “be silly.” Children will be silly. They are children. But they will also be brilliant if we stop trying to control them to accomplish our desired outcomes, which only serve to fuel adult egos.

I have said it a million times, at least. I will say it a million more. Children are the epitome of everything good in this world! It is children who will set us free. I feel more empowered to navigate this harrowing year already having had this incredible experience with them. . .all because I did not stifle their voices and trusted them to use the chat box.

Excerpts from Opal School Summer Symposium Presentation, June 2020

Any fellow educator who really knows me is aware of my obsession with Opal School, which is in the Portland Children’s Museum in Portland, Oregon. I know, right?! What a great place for a school. Opal is a Reggio-inspired elementary school that serves preschoolers through fifth graders. The work the educators there do with children is breathtakingly beautiful because it is rooted in a deep respect for children and their families and a firm belief that children are not becoming, they already are brilliant, capable human beings.

I have learned so much from Opal School educators and children over the past several years. Every opportunity I have had to spend time at Opal School has left me overflowing with love for children and gratitude that I get to spend my life learning from them. Sadly, we had to gather online for this summer’s symposium. I missed seeing some of my favorite educators, but I was thrilled that they gave me an opportunity to be a featured speaker.

I wanted to share some excerpts of my presentation here to both give Opal a public shout-out and preserve the thoughts I am having in this moment. (And, if I’m being honest, to post without writing something new.) In case y’all didn’t know, this is really more of a public teacher diary than anything else. . .

I opened with a viewing of Keedron Bryant’s viral outcry:

“I Just Wanna Live”

Colleagues, I cannot protect your feelings or mince words with you today. The world, as my dear friend Sara Ahmed says, has given us a curriculum. It has been offering itself to us for an incredibly long time, actually. But the very system that purports to be the great equalizer, the foundation of our democracy — allegedly free and ostensibly appropriate public education — was never designed to listen to all of its stakeholders or serve all children. Our education system has always been, and currently is, a tool of white supremacy. Racism climbs inside fancy boxes that say “teacher-approved,” it slips between pages labeled “peer-reviewed research,” and hides itself between the lines of discipline referrals that read “non-compliant, disorderly, and distracting” in an attempt to dupe us. But those of us who refuse to be, at this point, willfully ignorant know the truth: For the Black, Brown, and indigenous children in our care, education requires assimilation to whiteness. And assimilation by its very nature is racist and stands in stark contrast to genuine listening. This dear boy, Keedron Bryant, every peaceful activist pounding the pavement, every author behind antiracist texts, every Tweeter, every artist, every anti-bias/antiracist teacher, even every brick hurler and every looter who are authentic protestors. . .all of these people who are crying out #blacklivesmatter, #mylifematters. . .are former or current students who have been systemically, perpetually unheard. I hope that you will listen to me today. 

I just wanna live.

I told a number of Black, indigenous, children of color’s stories before closing out the presentation as follows:

The trauma that the refusal to listen to and believe Black, Brown, and indigenous people causes has ushered our country into upheaval. And if we stop and do an honest analysis, we will discover that our classrooms are microcosms of society inclusive of the same problems. The only answer to the challenges we face is antiracism. Educators must become co-conspirators who actively work to dismantle a system that is oppressing all of their students. 

For Black, Brown and indigenous children, schools are places where they must shed their identities, and often endure affronts, in order to simply learn. Their schooling experiences are so contrived, so disconnected from the lives they lead in their communities, it is as if they are living two separate lives. This double consciousness weaves the tangled web of a colonized identity marginalized children will spend their entire lives untangling in order to “get free.” Surrendering ourselves is too high a price to pay for an education. 

I just want to live.

The centering of whiteness — a social, not a biological construct, designed for the purpose of subjugating people of color — is problematic for white children, too. What does it mean to grow up with your way of being in the world centered all of the time while you watch others get cast aside? How do you learn to listen to varied perspectives and live an inclusive life beyond Ethiopian food delivery if the world in which you live is always all about you?

The most powerful action we can take right now is to get proximate with our children and their communities and listen to them — both their verbal and nonverbal communication—with no intent to respond and without an expectation to hear what we want them to say. When educators truly listen, we develop the kind of empathy necessary to humble ourselves in the presence of our children and their communities. When we embrace a pedagogy of listening, we begin to see beyond our biases and the children and their communities begin to shed light on how we can be anitracist co-conspirators as they seize the power that Martin Luther King, Jr. referred to as “our birthright as inheritors of the American Dream.” 

We just want to live.

“I Wish I Knew How It Would Feel to Be Free”

I am so blessed to be able to think alongside the Opal School community. They have pushed me to continuously dig deeper and work harder to ensure that the children I am blessed to call my students never experience the tyranny of what Paulo Freire called “adultism” in our classroom. May the children in my care always know how it feels to be free. . .

Thank you, Opal School!

Sometimes Grief Comes in the Middle of the Night. . .and I Cry

Tonight as I tried to fall asleep, these beautiful souls came to visit me and would not let me rest. To all of my dear students who are still living who happen to read this, I hate it when people say this, but there really are no words adequate to describe how much I love you and how grateful I am to have been given the blessing of your presence in my life. God forbid anything should happen to you, but if something does, I want you to know that I’ll be sitting on this side of eternity clamoring for answers as to why I was not taken instead. I would gladly take any of your places. You have given me life. I would be happy to offer it back to you!

Dear deceased ones,

How’s it going over there, yo? That’s a really dumb way to begin this, but I don’t know how else to greet you. Our relationships were characterized by a ton of silliness. All of my relationships are, if I’m being honest. But I have always been more of myself with kids than anyone else. My classroom is a stage and you were my captive audience. I think you liked the show, though. You came back ready to join in the dance every day. . .

Bernard, I remember the day you were overwhelmed by your physical inability to raise your arms above your head to dance with us during morning meeting. I had no idea what to do, but I knew I couldn’t take something away that brought you so much joy that you wept at the thought of not being able to do it fully. I understand aching. So we kept our dance routine and your peers and I gave you an assist, helping you raise your arms and pushing you around in your wheelchair. We all need a little help sometimes.

I know I never told you this, Bernard, because it would have been inappropriate. But my dear friend, Pat, a woman I called my Arctic Momma, was slowly releasing her grip on life here on earth at the same you were. She had brain cancer, too. Loving you through your battle taught me how important it was to love her by keeping our friendship exactly as it had been with perhaps a lot more openness about how grateful I was to have her in my life. You wanted nothing more than to feel “normal.” You showed me how to offer normalcy to a friend who had given me so much in my time of need. Thank you for the assist.

I wish to God I had been able to help you, Moosta. I often wonder if I would have seen your pain if I’d been searching for what was troubling you as relentlessly as I was pressuring you to return the iPod you stole from me. I can still see the smirk on your face now as I shouted my last words to you over the engine of your moped: “Give me back my iPod, you punk. I know it was you!” You giggled, eyes smiling, and took off waving goodbye as if you’d see me later. You knew. You hanged yourself that night, but months later you came to visit me at school.

Your niece, who was in pre-kindergarten by then, was in my music class. As I taught her to dance to the call and response song, “Che Che Kule,” which hails all the way from Africa and found its way to our tiny Alaskan village through me, she shouted, “Ms. J! Ms. J! Moosta has this song on his iPod.” All I could do was giggle and thank you for stopping by. I’d missed you. Did you see the new iPod I was finally emotionally ready to purchase a little over a year after your death? I had it engraved in Italian so we could keep our little secret:

Se lo rubi, ti preghiamo di non suicidarti.

As if unexpectedly losing you were not painful enough, we lost your competition in getting under my skin, too. I can still hear you rationalizing your love for me, Gunner. “Ms. J, you are cheap, but you are not as cheap as the other high school teachers, so I like you.” I liked you — so much! Your humor was the gift that kept on giving. I can visualize you now, laid back in your desk, wondering aloud how I was going to make your life miserable today by asking you to choose a book to read that you’d eventually have to admit you enjoyed because it, too, wasn’t as cheap as the others.

You didn’t make me earn your respect or affection the way the boys did, Marisa. You sat down in our classroom with your partners in tomfoolery, Lexy and Jaclynne, on the first day of school and it was instant, mutual shenanigans. The teasing began the moment we met and it never let up. We were an odd pair of friends. (I have to call us that because as you became an adult, that’s exactly what we were, though you still called me Ms. J.) You were a baller. I’m as clumsy with or without a ball as they come. You were a tomboy. I am currently shopping for the perfect summer purse. You parted your hair straight down the middle. I begged you to let me part it on the side just once so you could see how beautiful you would look. But you were never swayed. You were as loyal to that part as you were to your friends.

After I touched your hand and felt that all the warmth that was you had left your body, I went home and looked at every single picture we took on the senior trip to Europe. In every one we’re both in, you were right by my side. Who stands by the chaperone in every picture? Who leaves their dorm room and picks up their former teacher while she’s having an asthma attack and takes her to the hospital? Who is a friend whose kindness surpasses expectations? My Petunia, that’s who. (Did you actually like that nickname or were you just being nice?) I’ll never have a better, more selfless friend.

I remember exactly where I was when I found out every one of you died. And though the locations were different, I wailed every single time. It didn’t matter that I was in the middle of a restaurant in New York City or that I was in Houston preparing for an important presentation. Losing you stopped me in my tracks. My grief heaved out of me with the same passion and precision that your loving presence had infiltrated my being: it didn’t miss a cell.


Oh, God, s/he is juuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuust a CHILD!


I still do not know how to live without any of you. I am writing this now because I could not stop the tears from streaming down my face tonight. I had to talk to you. I needed to let you know how much I still love you. How could I ever stop? You are my reason for being. You are the people who taught me about the infinite capacity of my heart for love. You are the reason I have not settled down or given up. Because of you, I cannot live a lie. And as long as I live, you will remain a living, breathing truth. My humanity is inextricably tied to yours. God I love you!


Ms. J


eyebrows waxed

hair cut

external flaws concealed

even online teaching has found a groove

distracting and deflecting requires more effort now

because the only struggle that remains

(the one she has never been able to overcome

the way she conquers everything else —

sheer will

sheer will

sheer will—)

is with the woman reflected in the mirror

whose brushes cannot powder over anxiety

whose scissors cannot cut off the naysaying voices

and whose wax leaves behind the sticky residue

of always believing she’ll never be enough

#31DaysIBPOC: An Open Letter to Black Joy

“To be Black is something so special.”

Dr. Bettina Love
Dear Black Joy,

Thank you. 

You have nurtured and sustained me my entire life. 

Before I could even name you, you showed up 
in Grandma’s slender hands 
as she cut articles about my first love, 
out of the newspaper for me to keep. 

When Bobbie Lee’s hands 
clapped in church on Sunday mornings, 
you showed up in fresh-pressed suits 
straight from Uncle Willie’s dry cleaners, 
and the tightly braided, 
fresh out of a bonnet hair of 
little girls like me 
who could not sit still.

You were in the harmonies 
that ushered the Holy Ghost 
into Hurst Chapel A.M.E. Church
and sent church mothers running 
up and down the aisles
to convince us all to 
lift our hands in praise 
and join them in singing 
that we don’t feel no ways tired.

I’ve come too far from where I started from.

When we were all spent,
you awaited me in the church kitchen 
in heaping mounds of macaroni and cheese,
crispy fried chicken, honey-baked ham,
collard greens, green beans,
peach cobbler --
food that seemed to have no beginning or end.
(Everybody knew this alpha and omega 
was Mrs. Moore, though.
We don’t eat just anybody’s cooking.
We don’t know where they’ve been.)

Grandma’s been gone almost four years, 
but you, Black Joy, survived 
in the old Ebony and Jet magazines 
she proudly displayed in her Florida room,
an orange and green sanctuary 
reminding us to give thanks 
for our family’s legacy
at the university on Tallahassee’s highest hill.
My grandmother, Bobbie Lee Mitchell McKennie, graduated from
Florida Agricultural & Mechanical University in 1946.
You outlived the one 
person I thought could look 
death in the face and tell it to 
get to stepping.

You defy all odds!

That a people could rail against 
the horrors of chattel slavery 
for centuries, 
spend every moment since emancipation 
fighting for our humanity 
and have you remain, 
in our hearts 
is nothing short of a miraculous
gift from the ancestors.


When I left your sacred arms and refused 
to give you the time of day, 
because I was out there 
contorting myself and my dreams to 
please the white gaze, 
you paid my infidelities no mind
and passionately pursued me anyway.
You crushed yourself up -- 
like momma used to crush aspirin 
into orange juice
because I didn’t know 
what was good for me -- 
so I would still take you. 

I’m so sorry. 

They taught me all about you,
Black Joy, 
but nobody told me 
white supremacy 
is insidious, 
that it comes, 
like a thief in the night,
to kill and destroy.

I nearly died 
trying to appease it.

But you never stopped 
calling me in (not out)
and I found my way back to you --
the only venue that could host 
all of me,
just as I am --
and relearned how to live 
in community
with people who can 
wholly reflect who I am,
people willing to die 
for my liberation.

Thank you for escorting me 
through doors of return:

the words of the ancestors --
Love makes your soul
crawl out from its hiding place --

the poetry written on my heart --
I rise
I rise
I rise --

the song of my soul--
Shadowed beneath Thy hand
May we forever stand
True to our God
True to our native land --

and those actual doors.
Door of Return in Elmina, Ghana (No, there are no better photos. It was hotter than Hades!)
Thank you for saving 
my place at the table. Thank you
for helping me return -- 
to the coil of my hair, 
the curves of my body, 
the sass of my mouth, 
the music that seizes control 
of my hips and emotions,
the literature that feeds my soul, 
the comedy that conjures 
full-bodied laughter, and the
peace in my heart.

Thank you for giving me back 
vibrant head wraps, 
hoop earrings that touch my shoulders, 
brightly-colored lips,
sister friends, 
and men 
who don’t need the manual 
about how to love a Black woman.

The epitome of Black (educator) joy — love, laughter, and liberation
Thank you for making me love you
so fiercely, so palpably,
that a Mexican little girl
reads "Black Teachers Matter" 
on my t-shirt, rolls her neck,
and says, "That's true!"
in solidarity.

Thank you for drawing me
so close to you
that my rendering of
The Undefeated
touches a young Mexican boy
brimming with machismo so deeply
that he ducks
behind a bookcase
to hide his tears.

Thank you for liberating me.

Thank you for giving me life.

Thank you for reminding me of
how blessed
I am to have overcome
it all
and have the luck
to be
Black and proud
on this Saturday morning
with my vow to you
tattooed on my mahogany skin:

Sankofa is a Twi word meaning “go back and get it” and an Asante Adinkra symbol
often associated with the proverb
“It is not wrong to go back for that which you have forgotten.”
This blog post is part of #31DaysIBPOC. Click here to read the previous post in this blog circle by Dr. Kim Parker, and here to read the next post by Dulce-Marie Flecha.

For Dr. Jonathan Lovell: Peacefully Sheltering-In-Place

Dear Jonathan,

The last time I posted here, I shared a part of the work we are doing to support SJAWP’s teacher, parent, and student community during the COVID-19 pandemic, the invisible thief that ripped you away. You were so complimentary, sharing my work with your network. Making you proud always brought me joy. It could have been your brilliance, which was co-signed by your Ivy League degrees. Who wouldn’t want the vindication of such a smart man? It might’ve been because as I gained my footing as someone who is trying to make a broader impact on the profession we both love so much, you were my North Star, the one who guided me in every aspect from which jobs to accept to how to manage finances. But these were not the reasons why I longed to be found worthy of your praise. The best part of pleasing you was the gift of your smile.

From the moment I met you, you started tearing down the walls I keep around my heart to protect me from any man, but especially father figures. I remember spending our first week writing together wondering, “Why is this man so nice? Is he for real?” You were for real. Your kindness toward me never wavered under any circumstances. Not even my crass humor, sassiness, or penchant for misanthropy could make you stop caring for me. You came into my life at just the moment I needed an unconditional source of fatherly love and remained. . .

I’ve cried every time I’ve gone somewhere — well, virtually anyway — you are supposed to be, Jonathan. The heaviness of losing you has taken up residence in my chest. I’m thinking of asking our dear friends to cease using your name as an email title. My teary eyes cannot make a distinction between from Jonathan Lovell from whom I long to hear and about Jonathan Lovell who is never going to write me again. I know the healing will only come when I fully allow myself to grieve, but reaching for you and finding you absent still feels like gasping for air. I’m finding peace sheltering-in-place right now. There is no return to normal in a world that does not have you.



When Your Heart is Broken: Using Literacy to Heal with the San Jose Area Writing Project

*Caretakers, please take note of the letter to you at the end.

Dear SJAWP friends,

Hi. My name is Ms. J. I am a teacher. You may have met me before on a Super Saturday at the San Jose Area Writing Project.

This is me.

I have been experiencing lots of feelings since we have been sheltering-in-place to keep ourselves and our families safe because of COVID-19. I miss seeing my students and teacher friends every weekday. I miss teaching with my students sitting right in front of me. I can see them on my computer, but that is definitely not the same. I cannot give them hugs, high fives, or help them learn in the same ways that I usually do. All of this makes me feel heartbroken! And, honestly, sometimes I feel bored although there’s so much I can do.

Even though staying in my house makes me glum, I have also been doing some things that I normally do not have time for that make me feel better. I am cooking delicious meals. (I usually just eat tacos from the taqueria around the corner from my school.) I am hanging out with my friends on FaceTime and Zoom. I am watching movies that I have been wanting to see for a long time. I am reading lots of books! I am writing more, too! Having a little extra time to do some of my favorite things — especially reading and writing — makes me giddy with delight! But do you know what? Just because I get to do things I normally often have to give up in order to get my work done doesn’t mean I don’t miss my routine. I do! I wish I still had my schedule. It made me feel safe!

All these feelings don’t seem to go together, do they? Is this happening to you, too? I know it’s happening to my students. When I Zoomed with them on Friday, they told me that they were having a lot of feelings. Some of them said that their parents were having a lot of feelings as well.

It is hard to have our lives change so much at one time! It is okay to have strong feelings. But how do we work our way through them and help ourselves feel better? One way we do this in our classroom is by reading, thinking about, and writing poetry and lyrics. In fact, I did this with my class on Friday and we had the best conversation ever!

After we listened to Maya Angelou read her poem Life Doesn’t Frighten Me, we thought about what lesson the poet was trying to teach us. We took some time to think about that. We shared our ideas about the poem. We shared our feelings about fear. We shared our beliefs about fear. I wrote everything down. Then my students came up with a list of things they could do to help make life better while we are all quarantined in our homes. Our reading and writing are not complete until we act! Here’s their list:

  • hugging
  • loving
  • helping keep the house clean
  • being thankful for what we have during this time
  • taking care of the baby while my mom works

We all felt so much better after this! Earlier this school year, one of my eight year-old students said,

“When you are sad, your heart is broken. Poems glue your heart back.” 

I think she is right! So this week, I wanted to give you some poems and lyrics to listen to, and think and write about so you can take the actions you need to take care of yourself and your loved ones. Let’s let these wonderful words glue our hearts back!

Here’s a routine you might follow with an adult or another older family member (a sibling, cousin, etc.) who is sheltering-in-place with you (you can also establish your own routine. Do what works for you!):

  • Listen to the poem/song with someone. As you are listening, notice what you are thinking and feeling. Notice if you have any questions. Wonder about what the poet/lyricist is trying to teach you.
  • Talk to the person with whom you are listening. Share your thoughts and feelings. Ask your questions. Tell them what you think the message is right now.
  • Draw pictures and/or write words about your thoughts, feelings, and questions. Show and tell us what the message is with your pictures and/or words.
  • Listen to the poem/song again. This time you should notice any changes in your thoughts or feelings. Notice if your questions are answered this time. Notice if you have new questions. Notice if you think the message is the same, or do you have a different or deeper thought now?
  • Add more to your pictures and/or words about your thoughts, feelings, and questions. Show and tell us what the message is with your pictures and/or words. This time you should also jot down/draw some ideas about how you might act. What are you going to do because you listened? (Remember the list my students made?)
  • Talk to your person about your plans.

This routine is really just the first step to get your thoughts flowing. Save all of your work throughout the week because you can go back to it later to create a project. Some things my students have done after following this routine with all kinds of texts are:

  • painted
  • illustrated the poem/lyrics with any medium
  • created murals and collages with any medium
  • written their own poem/lyrics using the poem/lyrics as a mentor text
  • built a visual representation of their ideas with clay, boxes, blocks, and other materials
  • made puppets to act out the poem/lyrics
  • written longer pieces like stories, opinions/reviews, and informational texts (such as a newsletter, how-to, or all about)
  • filmed videos with a smart phone, tablet, or laptop

I bet you can come up with even more ideas using the things you have available at your house!

The poems/lyrics for the week are:

Monday – Life Doesn’t Frighten Me by Maya Angelou

Tuesday – Love by Matt de la Peña

Wednesday – You’ve Got a Friend in Me by Randy Newman

Thursday – Hug o’ War by Shel Silverstein

Friday – Turn! Turn! Turn! performed by Dan Zanes & Elizabeth Mitchell

Continue thinking and feeling with these additional poems/lyrics:

Gracias Thanks by Pat Mora

Things by Eloise Greenfield

GongGong and Susie by Janet Wong

All you have to do is click on the link and you will go straight to the video. I hope you will have a great time listening to these wonderful words! I hope they will help you think about and express your feelings. I hope that by Friday you will have some new ideas to help you and your family enjoy life even when you cannot leave your home.

I also hope you will email photos of your projects to me at I can’t wait to see them! Here are a few things my students have made:

*A note for caretakers:

We know that you are excellent because you are here, seeking out ways to engage your child in literacy during this difficult time. Give yourself some much deserved praise for everything that you are doing to keep your family afloat. Offer yourself grace on the hard days. We are all having them right now. 

In addition to literacy projects that will help your child process their emotions, I wanted to share this incredible resource with you. Several play therapists worked together to create this interactive document to help families and children cope as we shelter-in-place to ensure our wellbeing. I hope that you will find its contents helpful. And, yes, I really do want to see the work that your child does. I would love to celebrate it by publishing it! 

Thriving at Home: A Mental Wellness Workbook for Children and Their Parents During Quarantine

Be well!

In solidarity and with love,

Ms. J (Aeriale)





14 days

The same butterflies I usually have on the first day of school fluttered in my stomach. I have been teaching for twenty-two years, but I still get nervous. I’d like to think it’s because I’m still vulnerable. I still have so much to learn. I still have so many risks to take to outgrow myself for children. I still have so much to learn from children,

And this experience, this #teachinginthetimeofcorona, has caused me to feel more incompetent overnight than I have felt in decades. So when I logged onto Zoom donned in a zebra costume, I took a deep breath and whispered a prayer that I wouldn’t ruin the first day of school we’ve had in 14 days.

My goal for today was for us to learn about the features of Zoom and lean into each other to restore the collective brilliance and humanity we’ve found in our classroom community all year long. We chatted. We giggled. We shared toys, pets, and our families. Then we listened to Maya Angelou read aloud her poem, “Life Doesn’t Frighten Me At All,”, while Jean-Michele Basquiat’s beautifully haunting illustrations flashed on the screen.

I told the children to use all the strategies they know to think about the poem as we listened. It was thrilling to see the excitement on their faces when I told them we were going to listen to a poem. We begin each day with a poem and I could tell the familiarity made them feel safe. When it was over, thumbs shot up all over the screen (I’m going to have to get used to this.).

“It’s again and again!” a woman child shouted.

“I wonder why the poet did that. I wonder what it means,” I thought aloud.

We thought about a time when we’d repeated that we weren’t afraid over and over again. A thumb shot up.

“I think the person is trying to convince herself that she’s not afraid. She probably is afraid,” said a man child.

Several children agreed with him. We discussed how this kind of self-talk is one way to get through difficult moments. We decided that it’s okay and important to experience our feelings. But sometimes feelings can overcome us and send us on a downward spiral into anxiety, stress, depression, and even physical pain. I told them that self-talk is a strategy that I use when I’m reading or watching news about COVID-19 because otherwise I become extremely anxious and my chest begins to hurt. One student typed a comment into the chat box, “My mom, too.”

“Have you been having strong feelings about coronavirus?” I asked.

Heads nodded and thumbs flew up.

Once we’d shared some of our feelings and our family member’s feelings, I asked the children how they could regain some control while we live through this pandemic. This is what they said:

  • hugging
  • loving
  • helping keep the house clean
  • being thankful for what we have during this time
  • taking care of the baby while my mom works

And that’s when I knew that everything is going to be okay, folks. Everything we have done throughout the school year prepared us to transcend physical boundaries and stay connected through our hearts and minds. Poems still heal and inspire us to think deeply and problem-solve. We are still us — individually and collectively. And I’m going to figure out how to be the best online educator I can possibly be — with their help.

It was a long 14 days, perhaps the longest I have ever experienced. But I can see the light again. It is the children. And in 14 more days, it will still be them.

COVID-19’s Got Me Feeling Some Kind of Way

I’m angry.

I’m shamefully content.

I’m angry that I live in a country where science is not heeded by government officials.

I’m shamefully content that I probably won’t be the one to die because I am educated.

I’m angry that I live in a society that is so grossly inequitable that children who live on the margins of it have to worry about food security during a pandemic.

I’m shamefully content in the joy the unexpected opportunity to spend time cooking my favorite recipes has brought me.

I’m angry that my students’ hard-working families will struggle for ends to meet for a time yet undetermined.

I’m shamefully content that my paycheck will continue to show up in my bank account because a way for me to work from home is being made.

I’m angry that I have been sitting at home for over a week without permission to teach my babies as a solution is found for me to do my job without my input.

I’m shamefully content in the rest this time away has given me.

I’m angry that our school year was brought to a screeching halt right at the moment that children blossom in early childhood classrooms after months of lovingly nurturing them.

I’m shamefully content that if I fail at this juncture, families are places where children learn, too.

I’m angry that I am not learning from and growing with my school colleagues.

I’m shamefully content with the online content that is being created in the midst of this crisis and in my ability to access it when others cannot.

I’m angry that my summer plans will probably not come to fruition, that I will not build relationships or fulfill contracts that would have brought me emotional and financial overflow.

I’m shamefully content in knowing the meaning of enough and that I possess it in a time of scarcity.

I’m angry that I am struggling to read and write because I cannot focus.

I’m shamefully content knowing that when the anxiety wanes I have shelves of books and plenty of Moleskines waiting.

I’m angry that I have to distance myself from the people I love.

I’m shamefully content that I have found peace in the independence that over a decade of living in rural Alaska grew within me.

I’m angry.

I’m so incredibly angry.

I’m content.

I’m so shamefully, blessedly content.