Piano Stories

“I tell stories not to play on your sympathies but to suggest how stories can control our lives, for there is a part of me that has never been able to move past these stories, a part of me that will be chained to these stories as long as I live,” (King, 2003.)

~

Mid-morning Saturday, a friend sat at the graffiti-covered piano in the classroom and tapped out a melancholy tune, “I am afraid of your past.” The words weren’t meant for me; they were sung in response to the tensions that live in attending to stories.

He shared stories of his childhood mentor and shared stories of his summers at the lake. What resonated were his messy stories.

Long ago a student had sat at that same piano and shared similar stories, his hands too lingering over the piano’s out-of tune keys…

This is a story I know.

~

Several years ago as part of an identity project a student, James, painted a piano with graffiti. His father wanted him to study classical piano. James wanted to compose his own music. More than that, James wanted to write poetry. The piano is covered with James’s story and his poetry. The piano’s wooden shell is pulled off to reveal its keys. The piano was one way James found to give voice to his story, to come to honour his own story. When he graduated he entrusted me to continue to care for the piano.

This week I’ve been feeling the messiness of my own piano stories.

Saturday night, while my grade-eleven daughter, Jess, and I relaxed at my Mom’s and Dad’s home, I received a message from James; he was having a difficult weekend. For many folks around here, last weekend was Thanksgiving, a time of gratitude and of being with family.

Though James has left home, his stories linger. Though James has spent a great deal time thinking deeply about his messy stories, coming to honour his stories, he is still learning to retell them.

Saturday he messaged, asking for the second time since I’ve known him, “Don’t give up on me.”

I am beginning to learn that coming to retell our stories into stories to live by takes time.

I remember when I first began to learn the depth of the messiness of James’s story. I can still see him standing in the doorway, a big kid aching to live a story of confidence, asking me to do more than hear, to do more than listen. James was asking me to attend to his messy stories.

James was asking me to honour him. And he asked me not to give up on him.

This was a request for trust.

What I learned as I came to attend to James’s stories, I learned that I was at the same time, learning how to honour my own stories. “The curious thing about these stories was I had heard them all before, knew them, in fact, by heart.” (King, 2003). For so long I had forgotten to listen to my own stories.

Together, James and I were life making.

~

Friday I sat alone in a car dealer’s office. I was about to purchase a new-to-me car and I was wiping away tears. Six week previously, my car had been stolen. Weeks afterwards I had settled with insurance. The day before the car dealer, on my way to an educational conference, I stopped at the salvage yard to gather my personal items from the retrieved car.

The person at the gate warned me about what I’d find, “Honey you’re gonna drive down there and I’m gonna turn off the security cameras ’cause you’re gonna have a little cry.”

“I’m not going to cry.”

I drove through the compound. Two days before my car was stolen it was my best friend’s wedding. I had given her a ride to the church. When the car was stolen I told the officer that the police could identify my car from the wedding dress glitter in the front seat. There was no visible damage to the car, inside or out, yet it took me more than a minute to get out of the rental car. Grasshopper remains coated the vehicle. I was not prepared for what I’d find inside, rubble: bottle-caps of used dark maple coloured adventure, baggies dusted and discarded.  Sour scent and earth comfort and sweat stank clung to the fabric; attacking the closed doors of my memories like sealed papers locked in safety deposit boxes and packaged away perfectly in 12 step programs. Angrily, with some sort of misplaced power, I began to gather strewn paperclips. I pulled them from under seats, between cushions, under mats. Then I found the seven beads from the discarded key chain a student had made for me during my under-graduate degree, the first student with behaviour challenges that I had taught. Seven beads. Strewn. The security guard had warned me.

“I don’t tell this story out loud because it’s not much of a story. No plot. No neat ending. No clever turns of phrase. And because I always end up weeping… But for myself,” (King, 2003).

In my fancy teaching garb I crawled over remnants, lifting my shovel and my soccer chairs from the trunk.

My thesis advisor recently asked, “Why this work? Why now?”

Stories matter.

Okay, maybe I am afraid.

Tears came that afternoon. They were not the ones I’d expected. Life is messy. The prairie wind danced raw across my face. A salvage yard tow truck in the distance dredged up steel and more steel like stories. Inside that car lived the messy stories from which I had walked away. The experiences that had led me to pick up my daughter and to retell our narrative into a story to live by. Standing in that compound I know I am still learning to live with the messy tellings. Standing in the salvage compound, I ached to share my story. I ached to have my story honoured.

Stories matter. I am beginning to wonder if it is the messy ones that need the most attending.

All those years ago a scared grade ten student stood in my doorway and asked me to attend to his stories.

Wiping away tears in the car dealer’s office, I heard over and over the comfortable, common story of trying to be like steel. It is a difficult story to live by. Sometimes… It is messy.

~

When I think about James standing in the doorway and asking me to attend to his story, it was James who was courageous. I am beginning to realize that it takes so much faith to trust another person with our stories.

Stories matter.

 I am beginning to understand that attending to stories takes time…

Summer in Ten

The girl on the right has been a Rider season ticket holder a year longer than she’s been alive. There’s nothing like the first night game. The chill night settling onto the stadium, the hope the team will pull out the infamous 400 points in the final 3 minutes. It’s Rider football baby! We don’t leave to beat traffic. We stay late, we cheer hard, and we sort our laundry into three groups green, white, and green and white. We, the collective Rider nation have opinions on everything football; this is after all, our house!  

I never wake to the sound of an alarm. I set it, and then my body wakes me before the buzzer. My internal clock is set early.  For three weeks I was officially a student again, taking a University course. I was up early to read, to study, to write, to edit, to re-revise and to write more. There was no time to mow the lawn, to visit friends, to enjoy campfires. The work was challenging. I loved every moment.

Attending the Festival of Words is always my birthday gift to me. I love listening to writers share their stories, in their own way without any pressure to take notes, to plan, or to organize. It’s a truly selfish gift. This year, two young authors that offered much delight were my daughter, and one of my students, both whom were attending the Sage Hill summer writing experience. Yet the most delicious moment came Friday noon, experiencing Don Kerr as he shared his poetry. I was sitting in a church basement having eaten boiled wheat salad, when this wind-swept grandpa, looking over his glasses at us, walked up onto the low stage. Here was Saskatchewan’s newest Poet Laureate. He flipped through his current book of poetry, “That. Not that. Those are no good. Ah.” He chose one about his mom and launched in. I know I was sitting with my sister and 250 others, but the room fell away and by the end my Nana was standing there in front of me, having driven the Olds 150 km for the first time without a driver’s licence, mad at my Grandpa. There I was hands clasped: Her girl, Wiens woman strong. Later he shared a session with the author of Lakeland, a former student of his. The two fell into a dance from days long past, chatting about process, and Kerr, still critiquing. If it wasn’t for this photo I’d be certain I’d fabricated the moment. Hmm, maybe I did.

Jess and I were watching a movie this summer, sitting on our worn and quite ugly forest green couch. She looked at me and grabbed my hand, “Thanks for never missing a game, Mom.” Soccer mom, as it means to Jess, is my greatest success.

Essential equipment for summer reading: great literature and one giant hammock.

I’m the kind who notices details, sometimes the big ones and most often the important ones. This day I needed to note the odometer turning to 100,000. I needed to click along with the mechanism; I needed to stay the course. It was the kind of day when the big things and the feeling things kept spilling over. I had just hugged so long to my one of kids.

Years ago my father took a group of family and friends to visit one of his childhood haunts, an abandoned church and its grounds. He shared stories of underground tunnels leading to the stables and to the main residence. He told stories of access hatches and glass green houses. That cool fall day we found some of them, and ventured down the tunnels as far as we could without flashlights. I returned this August with a friend who’s never cached, we entered through the trap door, and signed our name in one of the log books I had since placed just near the tunnel. Though I wanted to, we did not linger; there was no moon.      

Towards the end of summer, Jess and I started out on a Grand Adventure looking for her great-great aunt who died from scarlet fever at 12 years of age. My Nana would tell of her not being able to say goodbye to her sister as they took the body away. We wondered if the sister had been buried on the farm, but not likely, since she was taken “away.” Though we have yet find her grave site, we have leads for another adventure this September. Instead, we cached and snooped, “Just go on, the cache is in there. You have to put your head and shoulders into the furnace to reach it.”

The archivist in my daughter had us snoop through the obituaries in my grandparents’ hometown, some 300 km from where we began our adventure. There, in the upstairs room of the museum, done up to look like a classroom, nun and all, were pictures of my parents, married just five years. Mom can’t remember if I’m in this picture, but I was born the following summer. We have no idea what the heck is going on with her hair. I would bribe her with this photo but she’s my mom, if anyone has the goods, it’s her. I think they sure are handsome!

I snapped this image on my way to White Bear Lake mid-August. I wondered where the rainbow was coming from, and why the moon was just hanging round. The field full of bails made me feel at home, you know, this year of rain and heat and driving these adventures; I know where I am when I see a land dotted with bails. When I arrived at the lake, my friend, tired and stressed from helping her father move from the family home, reflected on the lifetime of photos she and her siblings had had to sort. She said she tossed all the ones without people. She feels no one will ever want a photo of hers if there isn’t a reference point of a person. I like land, and I story for me.    

The Tale of Hay Loft Grads

I sat down last weekend to try to write a grad speech, but I couldn’t. I didn’t want to. Grad speeches are supposed to be about looking ahead and achieving dreams, but I couldn’t do it. I was just too grumpy.   

So for you, my lovely grads, welcome, for family and friends, kick off your shoes, tuck up your legs because Ms. Saas is in the mood for a story…

~

Last Friday my grade 11/12 Creative Writing kids and I spent the afternoon in Moose Jaw. It was day four, which meant it was Place Based learning day. The day when we spend the afternoon in the field learning how our connections to place shape us as writers.  It’s an in-depth author study, and we are the authors we choose to study.  

So last Friday we spent the afternoon in a hay loft. And as we’ve discovered this past year, it’s by challenging our perspectives we come to better understand our own stories. But last Friday I had a hard time listening to stories; I was just too grumpy. It was raining and there was no hay. The whole afternoon wasn’t going according to plan.

As we sat around a big green blanket, surrounded by mouse droppings and dust, eating lunch – with Cassidy already nagging me to leave – the grads stated chatting: Can our world be divided into two groups, those who are assholes and those who are not?   

Cole sat across from me, his shoulders straight and his jaw tight. His eyes were shining, but not sparkling. Later that afternoon, Cole reflected that one of the things that means the most to him is not taking life too seriously unless he has too. There in the hay loft, Cole had a moment of seriousness.

Cole sat across from me very still, singularly certain in his belief in humanity’s goodness. While defending this belief, his posture and demeanour changed. 

I often tell people that my dad is the kindest and best of men. Cole, in so many ways you remind me of my dad, the kindest, most loyal and best of men.

In our ELA class we share, and we share, and we share. And when we are done sharing, we share some more. Though Cole, you often refer to this process as both “Vomit” and “Tears of Sadness” it is you, Cole, that I have to ask to put down your pencil during sharing time, during instructing time.   

For all your childish antics, and incessant tauntings and ridiculous games, when it comes down it Cole, you, of all your classmates, have shared the most.  I am privileged to know you, to be privy to the meaning behind the truck metaphor. Someday, where ever your journey takes you – oh, I sure hope you’ll never put down your pencil;

In your words Cole: The roads finally started to dry up around June which was good because it was warm enough to go to the lake. I went there often by myself. Mom and dad were working; the first times I had gone alone. I wanted to be there all summer, but then haying started and the lake was all that was on my mind, though the hayfield was all that was on all the minds of the other guys. Mostly, I just wanted to be at the lake because Taylor was there.

~

So, while Cole sat sure the goodness of humankind, Cassidy was arguing for all its shades of grey.  Her point was that people can change, that people can grow once they have found a deeper understanding.

Cassidy, my girl, sometimes I don’t even know you from the girl you where in September.  Somehow you’ve made the decision to allow the rest of the world to know the brilliant story teller you keep locked away in your journal, lost in sunsets and hidden behind sweat pants.

Cass, I bet you’re hoping I won’t pull out your journal to read from it right now? Nah, I won’t. I’ll save that for Nadine, let her sweat a little.

Cass. At the start of the second term, you stated, “It’s like a mine field in this classroom.” And I agree – I’m sure yours is the only grade 12 class that has ever been put in time-out. But that mine field has proven purposeful, it has become your creative process. Cassidy, you have learned to dive into writing and editing with passion and ruthlessness. 

Watching you take tough memoires and find in them your own universal truths has been both delightful and excruciating. I can’t wait to get updates from you when you’re at university, emails describing how you’re arguing for a just cause and helping others understand the universal truths that bind us all.

In your words Cassidy: I believe in Mom. I remember when my mom used to read me bedtime stories. I never listened to the words; I would listen to her voice. The familiar rhythmic voice would lull me into a cocoon of safety and comfort. She would warp one arm around me and turn the pages with the other. I couldn’t read or understand the letters strewn across the pages, but I remember Mom pointing at the pictures and her eyes flicking back and forth while she read. When she finished, she would close the book and tuck me in. She would flick off the light and say “Goodnight, I love you.” I would close my eyes and go to sleep.

~

On our way home from the hay loft last Friday, I asked Andrew what I was going to write in my grad speech. What could I possible share about these five young people? I’ve only known them since September. You paid me a great compliment with your response Andrew, “I think you know more about us than any other teacher.”

Andrew, your classmates and I are so grateful for your willingness to share and to laugh. This last year along side you we have eaten grass soup, nervously paced a hospital room, let twilight enfold around us and have gone tobogganing down basement stairs as soon as our parents left for church.

Yet Andrew, last Friday a great deal of my grumpiness was your fault.

Though being an English teacher can be a joy, being your English teacher and living up to your expectations has been one heck of a test. You ask so many tough questions.

In case you don’t know Andrew, it is you, above all my students, grades 9 & 10 alike – let that simmer a moment – who has stepped up most often this year to match my temper. And for that, Andrew, I thank you for inviting me into the ring!

You continue to ask hard questions of me, and that, in turn, has allowed me to ask them of you all, and most importantly, has allowed you to ask them of yourself. Andrew, my dear Andrew, let’s both of us, never forget the answers.

In your words Andrew:

“Will the defendant please rise.” The judge says gruffly, tired of this trial, showing no remorse.

Tears dwell in the corners of my eyes as he rises to face a surest fate.

He glances over at me with eyes I once held in my arms, the same eyes of a scared boy wanting his mother to check the closet for monsters. The same eyes now held by a man I do not know. I glance away, ashamed.

“By the order of the court, you are sentenced to life in prison.” I look back into the eyes of an imprisoned man, eyes shared with the boy who dropped his ice cream cone. Gasps and relief and empathy fill the room. Shackles bind him; men lead him down the walk of truths. I stand, head hanging low. I watch as feet scuffle past, feet that will never have freedom.

~

Last Friday we spent the last 40 minutes rushing through two quick reflective writing assignments. Nadine was gracious, though she sure was tired of being there. The next thing on Nadine’s to do list loomed before her, and if you know Nadine, B always follows A, and tanning always follows Place Based Learning afternoons. We were late and she needed to go – get a move on it Ms. Saas.

But learning doesn’t always work that way, and instead, Nadine held her paper and watched her classmates jump into the quick writing task. More than anyone else, the unconventional nature of my courses has been difficult for our Miss Nadine.

About four weeks ago I assigned a short writing assignment. I felt it wasn’t too difficult. Perhaps it was a bit more reflective than a memoire, but the grads had been constructing and deconstructing their beliefs for three months, so surely they were up for the task.

Nadine had a meltdown. She screeched, “Well, I don’t know what to write!” Her hoodie went up, she tossed a pencil at Cole, switched tables away from Kevin and Cole, and later both Mrs. MacLachlan and Mrs. Cobbe asked me what I’d done during ELA to our poor Nadine.

“I asked her to reflect.”

Nadine, that moment when you put your hoodie up was your best moment of creativity all year. I am not worried about you, Nadine. You are a student who knows how to self-manage your learning.  Whether it’s asking to schedule time to edit writing assignments, look over scholarships or go through biology papers, you know how to take care of you. This is the biggest determining factor in success. And I have more than a dozen text messages from you that prove you’ll do beautifully.

Last September Nadine you were working on the rough draft of your memoire. You were writing about your Papa.  You tried to read your draft aloud, but were too overcome to finish. You handed the manuscript over your shoulder to me and as I read your words I began to get to know you.

My lovely grads, there is a common thread that ties you together. It is how rooted you are in family and how focused you all are to staying connected to family no matter where your paths take you.

Nadine, last January I broke a promise to you. Do you remember? A week after winter break, I was reading your journal, sitting on the sofa with my daughter, with tears streaming down my face; I was sharing your journal entry with my girl.

Nadine, never forget that the remembrance assignment didn’t bother you because it’s hard for you to reflect, it bothered you because you’ve learned to reflect well, and you’ve learned to reflect beautifully.

In your words Nadine: This Christmas held a lot of firsts for my family. It was the first time I had to milk in the morning and afternoon, the first time we didn’t open all of our presents on Christmas morning, the first time there was only two kids out of four waking up on Christmas morning, although I know that was bound to happen sooner or later. Most importantly though, it was the first Christmas we spent without Papa. It was hard, but we all got through it. Christmas to me this year just felt like another day. Only one of my brothers was around, we didn’t open presents and we didn’t have a turkey dinner. But I think this year I finally learned what Christmas is all about: Family.

~

For those of you who aren’t familiar with my senior ELA courses, my students have to lead conferences 4 times a year. These quarterly student led conferences allow me the privilege to listen as my students share their successes with their parents. These conferences also allow me to get to know the families which my grads write about so beautifully and with such passion.

I should take this moment to apologise to both Kevin and his mom, Karen. I believe in sharing student’s success. It’s been a wonderful gift every day after writer’s workshop to zip into the staffroom and share the newest piece of brilliance that Kevin has created.

Yes, Kevin.  You’ve survived both your mom and me. Kevin. My walking commentator. I can’t tell you how pleased I am that last Friday I used a word that you didn’t know.  Perhaps teachers shouldn’t find joy in stumping their students, but for me, it’s simply hard enough keeping up with you.

I remember the first time you were brave enough to ask for an edit – after watching Cole go through and survive this process – for all of you who have heard rumour of the fierce edit, it’s purely fabrication; I am nothing but kind and generous during the writing process – Kevin, I remember reading your draft that first time and thinking, “What the heck am I supposed to do with this.”

What might I offer when my student writes better than I do? How on earth do I help my student edit? More importantly, how might I help him to grow?

But I’ve figured this out Kevin, since we’ve determined Cole is brilliant at metaphor, have him sort out your whole zombie thing…

I remember jotting down lines from your stories this year and sending them to other ELA teachers and to university professors because they are simply that fine.

Last winter I checked out an anthology from the library and was chatting with your Mom about my favourite short story in the book. Later that day, after reading a paragraph that you had handed in, I sent her this email, “Someday, we’ll be signing Kevin’s books out of the library.”

In your words Kevin: A large part of my childhood consisted of playing with army toys with Bryan. We had quite the variety of army toys, ranging from the basic little green army men to metal tanks the size of a loaf of bread. We would spend hours building up our bases and placing our forces in strategic areas. Sometimes our bases were in different rooms and occasionally we would combine our forces to fight the evil stuffed animals and rubber dinosaurs. When we had put the final touches on our bases, we would let the opposing force attack. The dinosaurs would always rip through our front lines and throw our tanks around (almost as if they were toys). The battles would rage for hours, either until we had to clean up, or a victor would emerge from the carnage and upturned tanks. Usually our armies would be victorious, but on the rare occasion there would be the one teddy bear that was just too strong to defeat.

~

Last Friday as I sat in the hay loft, as I watched the boys jump out of the hay loft, and then as I sat in a field of dandelions, I realized I was not grumpy. I was just sad. I was beginning to feel the weight of your journey. I was beginning to miss my grads.

And I wondered, had we asked the right questions?

What are our universal truths?  Are we poets or piranhas?  What is our constant?  Do you each have your own bouncy ball?  Are we invisible to dogs?  What is the quest?

Cole, Cassidy, Andrew, Nadine and Kevin, I hope you will always remember that it is in your own stories that you will find the deepest wonders and most inspiring of truths.

It is your journey that has meaning. ~