Paying it backward / One Good Thing

I went back to second grade -- and it felt great

Back to school!!

When was the last time you stood in your own elementary school’s classrooms? (I’m talking about the actual physical spaces where you learned to read, write, and play well with others.)

I had that privilege a couple of weeks ago, and gulp — it was a deeply resonant and sort of magical experience for me.

I live in my hometown and pass by my little alma mater elementary school many times a day. But I’m rarely actually inside the building.

We are so incredibly lucky to have a school at the center of the village. (Other small schools are being closed and this school faces a constant threat of closure.)

Many of the young students walk to and from school (with a parent), just as I did at their age — only I didn’t have a parent with me. As many readers will remember from your own lives — back when dinosaurs roamed the earth, children flew solo a lot of the time.

I’m not saying that’s right or wrong, but … that’s how it was.

Plus … we ate paste. It’s been many decades, but I can still remember the smell and taste of our classroom paste.

So yes — in the 1960’s I was a grubby little paste-eater, and I hit the absolute jackpot with the experience I had at Freeville Elementary. I remember so vividly how — in second grade — I felt completely seen by my teacher, Mrs. Jones. One time, Mrs. Jones asked me to read aloud to the class, and I got to stand up and do that. Whew!

I mean — wow — that feeling when you’re a kid that an adult gets you?

To this day, I still seek that sort of validation, and rarely receive it.

So thank you, Mrs. Jones. I’ll never forget you.

This year, I decided to celebrate the last day of the school year by giving each child in the school a new book to take home and read during the summer. Fortunately, the school was very accommodating in indulging this modest literary ambition. I had a great time picking out books for each grade, and I chose the sorts of books I enjoyed the most when I was a young reader.

I spent time in each of the three classrooms in the little school, visiting with the kids and their teachers. I started by telling the kids that I had a secret.

They leaned forward. Secret time!

“I went to this school. This is MY school!” I told them.

I think that kids are always surprised to learn that any adult was ever a child, like they are, or that a grown-up was once a second grader, like they are.

“What are your favorite kinds of books?” I asked them. Their answers crossed every genre: picture books, graphic novels, “Diary of a Wimpy Kid” books, fantasy, and true-life stories.

I gave each child my favorite kind of book when I was their age. Basically, I’ve always been fascinated by the backstories of real people. The kindergarten class each received one of Brad Meltzer’s charming “Ordinary People Change the World” series.

First graders each received a “Geronimo Stilton” book. (Geronimo Stilton is a mouse who has various adventures in his job as the editor of his local newspaper.)

Second and Third graders each received an “I Survived” book. These books tell a survival story from various historic episodes, excitingly narrated from the point of view of a young survivor.

(I left out a couple of survival stories that I thought might be too intense …)

On the way out of school, I peeked into the little library — site of so many reading circle times. Only the carpet (and the books on the shelves) had changed.

The second grade teacher caught up with me.

“Hey — did you have Mrs. Jones for second grade?” she asked.

WHOA. Yes!

“I had her, too!”

So far, I know for certain that Mrs. Jones inspired at least one student to become a writer, another to become a teacher, and countless others to become readers.

Well done, Mrs. Jones.

I paused to look at the school’s historically appalling mural, painted by my grandfather in the 1940s.

I could be wrong, but I have a feeling that the Iroquois natives who occupied this land didn’t exactly hand it over to the first settlers.

Later in the week, I went to an art opening. As I was leaving, a mini-van was arriving. The side door slid open and three kids spilled out.

“Hey — it’s Amy. You’re the book lady!

Amy! I’m reading my book!”

Much of my adult life has been spent in pursuit of big things. Big jobs, big salary, maximum attention.

But I have never felt more proud than to be called “the book lady” by a couple of elementary school students.

I hope you enjoy a week of pared-down, beautiful and personal successes.

The best times really and truly are about the little things.

Love,

Amy