A day or two before leaving for a long stint away from home, speaking at UW-Madison and then on to Boston for NCTE and CEL, it was a typical afternoon. Right around 2:40 my mother-in-law and I were getting ready to leave to go pick up my kids. It is often a two person job–she was heading to our preschooler several blocks to the west and I to the bus stop for our first grader several blocks to the east. Shoes on, coats on. Routine.
She reached for our apartment door and it wouldn’t open.
Jiggle, jiggle, lock, unlock, lock, unlock. Nothing. I ran over. Jiggle, jiggle, lock, unlock, lock, unlock.
“Está cerrado!” I said, not able to find the word “broken” in my mental Spanish dictionary.
“Oh no,” she said.
Both children are picked up at 3:00, we had fifteen minutes to get this door open.
So, we did what any reasonable human being would do, we completely freaked out in this order:
- Jiggle, jiggle, lock, unlock
- Shake the door handle violently.
- Jiggle, jiggle, lock, unlock–with more conviction.
- Imagining how to jump out of a third floor window to the street.
- Get angry.
- Call my wife’s cell phone, who was teaching and clearly not in ear shot of her phone how dare she HOW DARE SHE.
- Call again.
- Both of us call her at same time on different phones.
- Jiggle, jiggle, lock, unlock
- Butter knife, right? Thieves do that or something.
- Call wife’s school in a panic and frighten the secretary.
- Call my daughter’s school in a panic. (They were calming, they know how to handle this).
- Hammer, pliers, large and small screw drivers.
- Dismantle door plate and begin to remove door knob.
- Stop, bad idea.
- Reassemble door knob and door plate.
By this point my wife had gotten the message, had left school early, was rushing home, by this point it was clear it was too late to get to the bus stop on time and (as her school calmly told me) my daughter was most likely on her way back to school at the end of the route, by this point my son’s teachers knew we were running late.
Everything was arranged on the outside, we were basically not needed.
by MichaelDiederich used under Creative Commons lic
I wedged the butter knife back inside the little open space on the side of the door, near the latch, and paid attention. While the flat side didn’t grab the latch, the teeth did. The slightest movement! TWO KNIVES! I grabbed a second and like two little hands inch-wormed the latch open. Freedom.
Caution: broken doors
The NCTE and CEL conventions this past weekend in Boston were incredible, as they always are. Joyful, exciting, like a homecoming. There was also, just below the surface, a sadness.
At the end of my session with Kate Roberts and Maggie Beattie Roberts on Saturday, I told the crowd that now, more than ever, at speaking engagements people seem to come up at the end and cry.
They cry because while filled with a deep joy for the art of educating, they are feeling crushed by the state of education. The many people in my life, dear friends or friendly acquaintances who have a gift for teaching that shines through their children’s eye, those people who are pillars in our world are all asking, “how much more of this can I take?”.
I’ll be honest with you, I’m seeing their faces now as I write this and am trying very hard not to cry myself.
I see you, my friend, the Curriculum Coordinator, and you Literacy Coach, you ESL teacher, you Amazing Principal and you brand new Science teacher, and I see you teacher I just met and hugged after that session, a big bear hug as we cried together.
This was not our routine. This was not in our plans.
Know this: there are always butter knives.
For me those butter knives are connecting. At NCTE (as with twitter, conferences, and working in schools), I get to remind myself why I fell in love with teaching in the first place. This weekend I shook Nancie Atwell’s hand (and tried not to embarass myself with gushing), I met Donna Santman… I mean, I have been in rooms listening to her for years and carry Shades of Meaning like it’s a map… but we met each other for real. I had the incredible pleasure of speaking on the same stage as Kate Roberts and Maggie Beattie Roberts. I spoke in hallways, turned and talked in sessions, toured a museum, sat at lunches and dinners, all with old friends and new. I stood back and saw the sea of faces in those sessions, hallways, hotel lobbies, and was reminded that we have the collective power to do amazing things.
Butter knives are different for each of us, but those butter knives are there.
My friend Paul Thomas won the George Orwell Award at this past convention, his butter knife is writing and speaking out for the lives of teachers and educators.
Jillian Heise received her National Board certification this past weekend, her butter knife is learning and belief in learners.
Penny Kittle passed out envelopes at a session to raise money to support more classrooms having books, her butter knife is supporting readers.
Heather Rocco spent two years organizing the CEL convention, her butter knife was bringing leaders together to refuel their own passions.
The list continues: listening to children, talking with a colleague, taking on a study, joining a twitter chat, writing a blog post, leading an organization, waking up in the morning and deciding to go to work.
You know your butter knives. Use them.
Once we got that door opened it was amazing how all of the stress left. Nothing seemed hard anymore.
We replaced the door handle.
It works now.