Tag: memories

Friday Photo – The First Halloween

Posted on October 29, 2011 by Jennifer Wolfe

1999

Sometimes as I’m moving around in my day, an image gets stuck in my head that I can’t shake. Sometimes it conjures up a memory, a feeling, or provides an impulse to do something. Often, though, I just see something that I want to capture in my mind for no particular reason-it just speaks to me. I’d like to offer these images up for ‘thought contributions’-as a way to generate a community of ideas together.

Today’s Friday Photo is in honor of when the fun began just over 12 years ago. I think many parents dream of the time when their babies can participate in all the rituals of childhood – first steps, first words, birthday parties, Easter egg hunts, Christmas morning, and dressing up for Halloween. For me, my September baby was easily disguised in a hot chili pepper costume, while his adoring sister became the least scary witch I’ve ever seen. I’ve always thought it was interesting to see what people choose for their own Halloween costumes, let alone how they dress up their houses, pets, and children! Did my early intervention of my son’s costume predetermine his adoration of habanero salsa?

All these years later, Halloween has changed in our house. We still have the decorations, the pumpkin carving (much more elaborate than ever, thanks to the children’s talents), and they will both still go trick or treating. What’s changed, however, is that I have little to no say over their costumes. Both kids have strong ideas of what they will or won’t wear, and my advice is not given much weight. But when I really think about it, isn’t that what it’s all about? Trying on new personas, new styles, new masks, until we find the one that fits us best? And if we’re really going to be authentic, it needs to come from within. No one should tell us who we’re going to be. Not even our parents.

What does your costume say about you this year? Are you being your authentic you?

Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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I Remember Sleep

Posted on September 28, 2011 by Jennifer Wolfe

I remember when I used to sleep. It was really a wonderful time. I would actually sleep until my body woke me up, not the alarm. Not a child screaming from a nightmare, nor sleepwalking down the hall. Not the ding of an incoming text nor the toot of car horns outside my window. I could sleep through our barking dog, blaring sirens, and our screeching burglar alarm.

I remember slipping softly into crisp high thread count sheets on my soft, pillow top mattress. I remember the feeling of the cool breeze floating down on my face from the window open just above me. Sleep came easily, quickly, silently, lasting 10, 11, sometimes 12 hours. Bliss.

I remember sleep. She would come almost anywhere-on a boat, in a plane, on the floor of the train station, on a bench, or in a car. She didn’t need just the right place, nor any special stuff. Upright, laid out, or curled up she descended.

I remember waking up peacefully to the smell of freshly brewed coffee and the chirping of sparrows in my garden. I remember the swoosh of the sprinklers soaking my lawn. Not an alarm, not the thud of footsteps down the hall, nor the thwack of the newspaper hitting my front door.

I remember sleep. I used to think maybe I slept too much, that I was ‘wasting the day’. What I know now was that I was storing up, notching the hours for the deprivation yet to come. Not dozens, not tens, but hours that can be counted on one hand each night.

I remember sleep. Maybe someday she will return.

Jennifer Wolfe

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A Deadly Difference: The Story of Thong Hy Huynh

Posted on September 23, 2011 by Jennifer Wolfe

“We are more alike, my friends, than we are unalike.”
― Maya Angelou, The Complete Collected Poems of Maya Angelou

When I first started teaching I worked in a rough neighborhood. It was completely different from where I grew up-no long, winding bike paths, well manicured little league fields, or bountiful Farmer’s Markets. There was no nearby college, rich with cultural opportunities, nor any kids hanging out at the public library. Instead, there was concrete, apartments, iron gates and bars on windows. There were grassy areas devoid of dogs on leashes or children on swings. It was different, and I was a bit intimidated.

Where I went to high school

The 25 mile commute each day from the bubble of a community I grew up in took me from a place where crime wasn’t something we worried about. We hardly ever locked our doors, and if we broke curfew (or any other teenage rule) someone always saw us and informed our parents. We knew everyone at school, and there was no escaping a reputation that siblings had left behind. We went to school from kindergarten through graduation among children we played in sandboxes with-some might have called it utopia. Until one day…

May 4, 1983:

Thong Hy Huynh was a new kid in town. His family had recently immigrated from Vietnam, hoping for a better life. He was quiet-in fact, so quiet that I never even met him. I never knew his name until the day he was killed on campus.

On that day, life in our idyllic little town changed forever. One minute we were walking to Home Ec during our senior year, preparing for another period of delightful cooking instruction. The next minute, total chaos erupted just around the corner from our classroom. People were screaming and a huge crowd hovered near the art room. For a moment I thought it must be just another fight-not that fighting was an everyday occurrence. But the teacher’s grave expressions and composed panic told me this was more-much more.

Thong was different. He didn’t speak English fluently, and had seen horrors in his native country we can only imagine. At that moment on May 4, he was defending a friend who was being tormented by a red haired, light skinned bully. Words were exchanged, and before anyone knew it Thong was down, stabbed and bleeding to death.

Eight years after his death, I remember what I felt when I began teaching in my new community. I felt different. I was out of my comfort zone. I felt scared and insecure. But after a few weeks, I felt myself relaxing. I felt the love and trust of my students and their parents as they realized my care was genuine, and my passion for teaching began to override my fears of being ‘different’.

I don’t think it was until then, years after Thong died, that I really realized what Maya Angelou was saying. And now, when my daughter walks past his memorial plaque at the high school I hope she understands. Actually, I know she understands. Because what I learned from Thong and my students is a part of me, and the message flows from my heart and actions into my children at home and at school. We ARE more alike than we know, and being different is what makes life such a beautiful experience.

Jennifer Wolfe

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9/11: It Started Like Any Ordinary Day

Posted on September 11, 2011 by Jennifer Wolfe

9/11: It started like any ordinary day.

After maternity leave, I’m still getting the hang of getting out of the house on time each morning. I’m up early enough to have some ‘me’ time – 5:30 a.m. – before the pitter patter of my 23-month-old boy’s feet signal the start of mommy-time. Must plan Cameron’s birthday party for next weekend, I think. Coffee made, candles lit, I start up the desktop as part of my morning ritual, eager to check email and read the news. Having children broke us of our TV news habit when we realized they were transfixed with images of stark reality we were trying so desperately to shelter them from.

A breaking news alert flashes into my inbox – “Plane crashes into building in New York.” Hmm. I’ve never been to New York. Worlds away from my cozy study. I hope it’s nothing serious.

Pitter patter pitter patter…here comes my boy, blankie, and book in hand. My heart thrills at the sight of his big round head. “Make sister juice,” he chimes with a smile as big as any Cheshire cat. I switch off the computer, eager to start the morning snuggle and reading time. It is just another ordinary day.

The 11-mile commute to school is nothing unusual. I drive past the harvested tomato fields, crop dusters skim the highway. Lesson plans fill my mind. Exit right, then left, then straight down the walnut tree-shrouded road towards Douglass Junior High, where my 7th grade English students stand lined up, waiting for me.

“Hey, did you hear about the plane crash?” they shout as I open the door.

“Yes, I did,” I answer, and switch on the lights. “Let’s get started.”

“But, can’t we watch the TV? I have an aunt that lives in New York, and I’m worried,” a child pleads.

“TV? When do we ever watch TV in class?” I respond with a smile. ‘Let’s get started – it’s grammar day everyone’s favorite!”

Moments later, an announcement is delivered by a TA telling us the grim news. Not one plane crash, now it’s two. What??? The Pentagon? Three planes? Buildings collapsed? People dying? But it’s just an ordinary day!

Why don’t I have my cell phone? This ancient classroom has no Internet; the only technology is the old TV mounted in the corner of the classroom. Where are my babies? Did Lily make it to kindergarten? What the hell is going on? I want to go home…

Thoughts flash through my head as I try to process what to do. Thirty sets of eyes stare at me, searching for comfort. I’m the teacher. I’m in charge. I know what to do? Frantic thoughts of my own children race through my mind. Are they OK? What will happen to us? Are the terrorists on their way?

Then I realize-someone is taking care of my children, just as I’m taking care of someone else’s. I know what to do. They need me to make sense of it. That’s what I would want my child’s teacher to do. Reluctantly, yet desperately, I turn on the TV. I have to know. I can’t wait all day.

After two hours, no word from my family, I switch it off. Business as usual – that’s what educators do. Keep them calm, keep them busy. I know it’s only going to get worse, and it’s only 10 a.m.

Two more hours and I’m done. As I jump in my little gold Escort wagon, I’ve never been so relieved to only work part-time; 11 miles fly by-not enough time to decide how to explain the unexplainable to my 5-year-old. The radio news drones on and on. Thousands dead. The children. The mommies and daddies who will never commute home again. The parents who will never see their babies again. The young people who will never have the joy of holding their child in their arms. It’s more than I can bear. The tears stream down my face as I safely reach home. It’s clearly not just an ordinary day.

‘Mommy, why are you sad? What happened at school today?” Lily whispers, her big blue eyes boring into mine. How do I answer? She’s only five. Far too young to have to learn about such horrors. I tell her a story about a plane crashing and good guys trying to stop the bad guys. “Did the bad guy go to jail?” she questions.

“No, he died,” I reply, choking back tears at her innocence.

“I’m sorry he died, Mommy. But I’m glad that we weren’t on that plane.”

“Me too, baby. Me, too.” I realize it may never be an ordinary day again.

Jennifer Wolfe

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Friday Photo: When Summer Ends

Posted on September 3, 2011 by Jennifer Wolfe

Unlike most people who live in my part of California, I hate the hot weather. Sometimes I really wonder what I’m doing here-all I can think of is how to escape the heat and get to the cool, foggy days on the coast. So when I think of summer’s end, I don’t mourn the long, hot days – my mind actually goes right back to our last summer trip to the northern part of California, where when the valley is baking in 100+ degree heat, we enjoyed a lovely day in the mid 60s. Today’s photo, taken while hiking with my kids at Trinidad, California, is in honor of the end of summer-and the beginning of back to school, back to work, and back to schedules.

When summer ends, what do you miss the most?

Jennifer Wolfe

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May 4, 1983:

Thong Hy Huynh was a new kid in town. His family had recently immigrated from Vietnam, hoping for a better life. He was quiet-in fact, so quiet that I never even met him. I never knew his name until the day he was killed on campus.

9/11: It started like any ordinary day.

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