Beverly, Kelly Yang, and the Sullivan County Board of Education

This morning I thought I would write an amusing story about Beverly, my schnoodle, who through no fault of her own currently looks like a long-legged naked mole rat attached to a Schnauzer head. But I went to sleep thinking about a tweet from an internet friend, fellow author Kelly Yang, and I woke to an article on the same general topic in my local newspaper, and so I'm going to write about those instead of my dog. But I'll post a photo of said dog, for interest:

 

See? It's unfortunate, but not nearly as ridiculous as the crap being doled out to Kelly Yang and a Sullivan Central High School teacher named Matthew Hawn. Let's take them individually.

Kelly Yang is an author I've never personally met but one whose work I admire. This year Appalachian Literacy Initiative selected her novel Front Desk as one of the choices for 4th grade. Front Desk is about a10-year-old Chinese immigrant, Mia Tang, who's helping her parents run a motel in California. It got universally terrific reviews--it's well-written and funny. It's also a great example of a kid in a tough circumstance making good. Most of the students ALI sends books to are low-income, so we like to have books that mirror that and end hopefully. (Not all of them: Dog Man is a perpetual favorite, and so is Animal Smackdown. But it's a point in a book's favor when it comes to our list.)

Two days ago Kelly tweeted that the New York Times had quoted an organization who had put Front Desk on a list of books that teach Critical Race Theory and "demean our nation and its heroes." It's been awhile since I read Front Desk. I've been searching my mind, and I can't think of anything about it that demeans anything. There's an antagonist--but he, like the Tangs, is of Chinese descent. There are different people of different backgrounds. There's a discussion that it's harder in America if you're poor than if you're not--which is pretty hard to argue with. The whole reason ALI sends books to low-income students is that their lack of access to books means they're 250% less likely to read at proficient level than their higher-income classmates. 

I looked up the other books on the list. Most are nonfiction. One is a YA novel by Meg Medina called Yaqui Delgado Wants to Kick Your Ass. I have no idea why that book is supposed to have anything to do with Critical Race Theory, but it's on the very short list of books I wish I'd written myself. My admiration for Yaqui Delgado is unbounded.

It seems to me that lots of people are talking about Critical Race Theory without having any idea what it means. I found a definition online:

Critical race theory is an academic concept that is more than 40 years old. The core idea is that race is a social construct, and that racism is not merely the product of individual bias or prejudice, but also something embedded in legal systems and policies.

The basic tenets of critical race theory, or CRT, emerged out of a framework for legal analysis in the late 1970s and early 1980s created by legal scholars Derrick Bell, Kimberlé Crenshaw, and Richard Delgado, among others.

The fear seems to be that schools are trying to get students to hate white people. 

We don't teach hate by teaching the truth. We teach empathy, perhaps. Justice. Critical thinking. Adolf Hitler calls himself a Christian in his book Mein Kampf--but we don't claim that speaking against Hitler demeans Christianity. Teaching the entire truth of our past and present might make students hate what certain white people have done in the past--but it's not going to make them hate every white person. Nothing is all white people any more than it's all Black people or all Asians or all Presbyterians. But also, no one is actually teaching the nuances of Critical Race Theory in elementary school. Letting kids know that sometimes other kids have a hard time for reasons they can't control--that teaches some kids to be more compassionate and others that they aren't alone. It's love and it's hope. It's a responsibility that I as a writer for children take very seriously.

Ok, Matthew Hawn. I never met him and never heard of him until this morning, when I read about him on page 3 of my local paper. Matthew Hawn, who taught at Sullivan Central High School for 16 years, is coming before the Sullivan County Board of Education  on December 14 to appeal his termination last spring for not offering varying points of view in his contemporary issues class. According to the paper, Hawn assigned a reading of a Ta-Nehisi Coates book "The First White President" and also played a four-minute video of someone reading Kayla Jenee Lacey's poem "White Privilege."

I've read some of Ta-Nehisi Coates's books and am familiar with most of them, but hadn't heard of one called "The First White President." I just Googled it. Now I understand why the Sullivan County Board of Education is so upset. I live in Sullivan County and know the local brand of prejudice pretty well. "The First White President" is actually an article published in the magazine The Atlantic, in October, 2017, and it links the presidency of Donald Trump with racism. I encourage you to read it. If you're pro-Trump your knee-jerk reaction might be negative,. I encourage you to really examine the facts Coates presents as well as the words he uses to present them. Now imagine this article being picked apart and discussed in a high school class. Pretty instructive--which was of course the point.

As for the poem "White Privilege." Wow. I didn't know Kyla Jenee Lacey until just now. There's an interesting article online, from Slate magazine, where she's interviewed specifically about this poem and Matthew Hawn's firing. Here's a salient bit:

One thing that the school board mentioned in their decision to dismiss Hawn was the “inappropriate” language in your poem. What was your reaction upon hearing that? Did that strike you as being the real reason why?

I know it’s not the real reason why. I have their required reading list. And in the books that they are required to read, there’s sexual assault, murder, a lot of cursing. So I know that it was just a terrible excuse for their discomfort. And this is coming from somebody who was 16 years old having to, who grew up in a mostly white neighborhood, in my latter childhood, reading Mark Twain and reading the word “n***er” over 200 times in a book.

I went to look up what was on the Sullivan County high school reading list, but couldn't find it online. Sullivan Central High School closed last spring when the new consolidated county high school, West Ridge, was built. Contemporary Issues is still a class at West Ridge: This course acquaints the student with topics of national and international interest and equips students with the analytic skills needed to assume leadership roles as a citizen. 

I want to wrap this all up in a tidy conclusion, but I haven't got one, just a sense of heartsick frustration. Our children are capable of understanding nuance and truth, empathy and love. They deserve books like Front Desk and teachers like Matthew Hawn. 

Matthew Hawn's hearing will take place on Tuesday, December 14th, at 4:30 pm at the school board meeting room, 154 Blountville Bypass, Blountville, TN.

The Best Days Ever

 Yesterday was a very good day.

It was day we shipped out the second set of teacher books to the 185 classrooms enrolled this school year in Appalachian Literacy Initiative.

I'll back up a moment, and explain. Appalachian Literacy Initiative, ALI, is the non-profit my friend Tracy Griffith and I started four years ago to increase low-income Appalachian students' access to books. It began when I stumbled upon the horrifying statistic that, among fourth graders enrolled in public schools in the United States, those whose parents can afford to pay for school lunch (roughly $2/day) are two and a half times more likely to read at proficient level than those who get free school lunch.

In Bristol, Virginia, over 90% of the kids get free lunch.

Tracy was equally horrified. We started educating ourselves, and learned that the biggest barrier to reading success in low-income kids was simply access to books. So we started giving kids books. We enroll public school classrooms in Appalachia that have more than 50% of their students getting free lunch. Four times per year we mail the teachers sets of six books; the teachers keep those books and show them to their students. The students decide which of the books they'd like a copy of, the teachers send us the orders, and we send the students books. The end.

The student orders come in over a period of several weeks, so that while we're shipping books every week, the only time we have to do massive ship-outs, like yesterday, is when we're shipping the teacher sets. And this year, since we added schools into the program until just a few weeks ago, we staggered the first shipment of teacher sets. And our program has grown massively even since last year. All of that meant that yesterday was a Big Day. Tracy, Kathy, Shannon, and Caroline started working at 10 am. Another nonprofit, Bristol Faith in Action, has donated the use of the room we like to call ALI World Headquarters, but yesterday we took over the big conference room too. I had an appointment and got there late; when I did I started printing mailing labels and moving boxes into the lobby for the postman. We got everything finished around 3:30, and then Tracy and I hung around tidying up loose bits and discussing how our new organizational system worked. (Very well. Tracy's a genius at this stuff.) And then, just as we were about to leave, we got an email from Parents magazine.

Last June they came and filmed us for a segment for their website. We hadn't heard anything back from the producers until yesterday, when they sent us this: 

We sat and watched it together.

There have been other times when Tracy and I have stopped to consider what, with the help of so many others, we've managed to accomplish so far. The year we got to do book fairs for all the Bristol Virginia students--we'd be staggering out to the car at the end of the day, carrying the few remaining boxes of books, and we'd look at each other, and smile. We'd say, "Hey. We did good."

Yesterday was like that. Yesterday reminded me of the time I recall at the very end of the video, when I gave a kid some books, that he chose, and heard him say to a friend, as he walked out of the room, "This is the best. Day. Ever."

Light in the Darkness

 This morning I woke up at my usual-early time, 6:15. (My usual-late time is 7:30.) Thanks to Sunday's time change it was already light outside, and I felt a bit annoyed, because we can't actually change the amount of  daylight we receive, we can only shift it around, and I'd rather mine be at night. I grew up in northern Indiana when we didn't change clocks, not at all. All through elementary, middle and high school I went to school in the dark this time of year. I saw it as a regular thing, and, as such, I've never minded getting up in the dark. I don't even mind it in the middle of summer, because usually I'm only up in the dark because it's a horse show morning, and those are the best mornings. The sunrise over the stables and the horses murmuring for their breakfasts and chewing their hay--lovely.

Having it be dark by the time I'm doing evening chores--not.

Happily, it's pretty light and cheerful inside my house. My wonderful husband loves to decorate for Christmas. He's very good at it. He'll make plans and buy ornaments all year around. Up until now, however, I've made it a firm rule that no actual decorating takes place before Thanksgiving. I really enjoy Thanksgiving and I like to let it have a place all its own. All the years of our marriage we've started decorating for Christmas the day after Thanksgiving. Forget Black Friday--in our house it's red and green.

This year my daughter is studying in England, where they don't celebrate Thanksgiving. Happily--joyfully--how amazing to travel again--we're taking Thanksgiving to her. We, including my son, will be in England the entire week of Thanksgiving, including both weekends.

Nearly a month ago my husband came up to me. "We need to talk." (I know him well. This is not as ominous as it sounds.) He said, "It's October 11th." (It was.) He said, "I'll never be able to get all my decorating finished in time if I don't start soon."

We could quibble over the precise meaning of "in time," but why? Why not enjoy some extra lovely? Particularly when I will not in fact be able to see a Christmas tree when I sit down to eat my Thanksgiving turkey. (No one can tell me if I'll be able to get a turkey in England. If not, it'll be Thanksgiving goose. I've never cooked a goose before, and it's about time.)

So this morning I schlepped down the stairs grousing that it was already light, and lo, there was the kitchen Christmas tree lit up in its red, white, and green glory. There was the living room tree, shining red and gold. There were the little trees, and the banister swag, all bright and cheerful. (The family room tree will be a live tree, so it really will go up after Thanksgiving.) 

It was a pretty glorious start to the day. 

I can already see what's going to happen next year.

Tossing the Office

 Lately I've been trying to do one thing every single day that's been on my List of Things Undone. It's a long list, which gives me a lot of options. Yesterday, for example, I stripped and re-bedded the stalls in the barn. Our horses live out nearly all the time: they spend the night of the Fourth of July indoors (fireworks) and stay in any time it's below fifteen degrees for an extended period of time, or below forty degrees and raining. Obviously I'd cleaned the stalls after July 4th, but since then I'd just scooped up any poop they happened to leave during the hour or so they're in to eat and so I can ride. Over time this mean we were down to very little sawdust and lots of just plain dust, along with some scorned bits of hay. So now we're ready for winter again. Yay, me.

Monday I got my car's oil changed, first time since before the pandemic.

Today I tossed my office.

My fellow knitters will probably be familiar with the term "tossing the stash." This is the periodic pulling out, looking over, and sorting all the yarn you've bought and stashed. I'm all for a good stash toss--usually enjoyable--but today called for much more than that. 

My office is an original part of the house we designed ourselves, and to say that I love it would be an understatement. It's shaped like an L, with a decent bit of floor space in the short end of the L, nearly entirely taken up by my floor loom. The loom blocks access to the built-in bookshelves, so eventually I plan to move it upstairs, but I've got a monstrously long warp on it right now and I'm not moving it until I finish weaving that. I haven't been weaving because books surrounded the loom and filled the bench I sit on when I weave, and--yeah. 

The long end of the L has counters lining both sides, with a space for my sewing machine, and culminates in a built in desk across the corner. I have windows on both sides that let it lots of light but that I can't see out of when I'm working, so I don't get quite so distracted. I have cabinets on both sides, too.

The countertop space gives me lots of room for books sorted into piles, and also papers, and also manuscripts in progress, or research notes, or miscellaneous things I put there that never leave on their own. The sewing machine and the counter beside it were heaped with works in progress and also mending and also a few bags I'd forgotten about, and then there were work bags full of yarn and--yeah.

I can work just fine in chaos for a surprisingly long time, but even I have limits and I'd reached them. 

So, today. Books first, starting with the ones around the loom. Now there are still piles. But they are properly sorted piles--research books I've read, research books I haven't, books I've read and plan to keep forever, books I've read and need to rehome. Books I'd borrowed from ALI and need to return. Books I've already purchased as holiday gifts. Books I wrote--ok, those go in a spot in the cabinet. Books I need to read soon, sorted into piles: fiction, nonfiction, poetry, and things that require me to sit down and take notes. 

The countertop with papers wasn't too hard. I knew what everything was and more or less where it should go. But then, oh, reader, I delved into the pile of yarn and projects and stuff. And then I got a wild hare and pulled out all the miscellaneous project bags from beneath the sewing machine and I dumped their contents out too. The dogs ran and hid. I started sorting.

It was amazing what all I found. A multitude of socks, one each of some very complicated patterns. I was in a Sock Club, lo these eight years ago. Every month we'd get a lovely yarn and a beautiful pattern, and I'd have just about enough time to knit one sock before the next month rolled around. 

No, that's not true. I actually was in the sock club for several years, and I knit many, many pairs of socks. The single socks were the ones where I didn't enjoy the first sock enough to knit the second. Once I'd faced that I understood that I needed to do something else with both the socks and the basket. 

I also found a pair of socks that were entirely knit except Kitchner stitching one toe. Kitchner stitching the toe takes about five minutes, but every single time I have to look up the directions, because every time I think I remember I do it backwards and have to rip it out. 

I found an entire sweater, finished, that I made for myself, probably at least 15 years ago as I distinctly remember working on it during one of my son's little league games. (His coach once grinned at me from the field and yelled, "Hey! There's no knitting in baseball!") Now that I'm a much better knitter I understand why I never wore it. 

I found three pairs of scissors, including my good ones. I found some projects I had to stare at for a good long time to remember what the item was. I frogged back quite a few small things on the grounds that it would take me longer to remember what I was doing than to just get that far with something new.

I filled a paper bag with perfectly nice yarn to give away. I filled another with trash, including many nice pieces of yarn that I forced myself to discard. Apparently any string greater than six inches long can count as a nice piece of yarn, one I might save for future use. I was uncharacteristically ruthless today.

I found a hot glue gun. No explanation there.

I found several quarters, which didn't make sense, and several dollar bills, which did. (Dollar bills are exactly 6" long, which makes them handy makeshift rulers, especially for socks.) (I supposed twenty-dollar bills are also 6" long, but I didn't tuck any of those into my project bags.)

I sorted and re-stashed and I'm pretty stunned by the result. Honestly, I could see myself doing this again, in another five or six years.