The Red Pashmina

I have a red pashmina I bought in Rome. It travels with me where ever I go. It's been to Sweden, Ireland, Canada, Ohio, Pennsylvania, Maryland, New York, Connecticut, Massachusetts, Vermont, Colorado, Washington, California, Oregon, and all over the southeast; Florida, South and North Carolina, Georgia, West Virginia, and Virginia. It's well travelled, and it keeps me warm as a cover on chilly flights. I wear it often as a fashionable neck scarf when not traveling. It's soft and light, and I easily conforms to whatever role is needed.

I searched Rome for it; literally. Pashminas, in Rome, are available everywhere in wide arrays of colors, textures, and lengths. I wanted a particular shade of red, and I found it my very last day there. It was meant for my mother. She loved red. She had a red leather jacket, red leather fringed boots (that I bought for her). She wanted her kitchen to be red; red cabinets, etc. The Pashmina I found was an earthy red, almost brick red. Not too much orange, brightness or dark tones to it. Perfect.

I got home from Italy on a Saturday morning, and I talked to my mother on the phone for two hours on Sunday, sharing so many details of my trip; the food I was going to prepare for her, the sights, the sounds, the smells, the tastes. The feel of the air in Tuscany on a clear, cool, spring night, with a million stars shining down on me, the only sound to be heard, the wind in my ears. I told her of the 1100 year old church I discovered, still in use, on the road from Radda-in-Chianti to Adine-in-Chianti, and how I sat in those beautiful thick stone walls, cool even though the sun made my hike quite hot. I sat, relishing the peace, listening to the wind, with the scent of luscious food cooking and the faint, lovely sounds of Italian radio coming from a nearby kitchen while the woman inside prepared a noon time meal for her family. I told my mother how the Adriatic looked as it lapped the shores of The Lido in Venice; the quiet, calm, serene slippage of Venice; the joy and glory of Venetian children playing gondola tag, or soccer In their local square. How I adored Florence with David, Raphael, Dante....how Artemisia Gentileschi's paintings moved me to tears...the bars on the windows below the street and how I imagined bony fingers reaching for scraps of food. Rome and the ancient glories; how the old merges so very well with the new, about sidling up to the bar in a cafe and ordering une cafe, per favore - non, no - not Americano! Being stopped by men on the street, kissing their fingers my calling me Bella signorine. Stumbling on Bernini's Ecstasy of St. Theresa by accident, and only because another tourist added a euro to her light box. About the tragedy of the beggars on every corner; on every church step, the woman who dressed her child In rags and sent her begging with a crushed McDonalds cup. The Roman forum and how eloquent it still is; the majestic, crumbling colosseum. I was a chatterbox and she was so proud of me and my wonderful adventure alone for 22 days in a very foreign country, not knowing the language, but having absolutely the best time of my life. She  told me her mouth was watering and she could not wait for me to try the new recipes I obtained from my Tuscan cooking class. I told her that I bought her the perfect present; probably the most perfect present I'd ever found for her (besides the red leather fringed boots!). I told her I could not tell her what it was, but I would come visit soon and cook for her and bring it. Three days later I was on my way to her house, unplanned, dreading the drive, dreading being there. My mother died two days after our wonderful, unknown at the time, last conversation. It was sudden, they say painless, but it was such a staggering loss it's indescribable.

She will always be young forever to my sisters and I. She had just turned 63, and the heart attack was so unexpected. I brought those soft red, fringed leather boots home, and they are in my closet, waiting for me to wear them. The pashmina is with me right now as I write, sitting in a plane, an hour or so east of Seattle. My mother is gone, but she lives on through me and my sisters. She was not a brave adventurer. She lived a small life the best way she knew how. She did not travel much. She was happy enough in the world she made. She was not the strongest or the bravest person in the world. She depended on a man to help create her happiness, and on a man to take care of her, and often the men in her life changed her outward appearance - she was a chameleon with the ability to be whoever her man wanted her to be. Still, she was my mother; my beautiful, adoring, caring, kind, quirky, sensitive soul of a mother. She taught my sisters and I to be brave, to take chances, to want more, do more in our lives, but to above all be happy. She loved poetry and reading. She instilled in my sisters and I a sense of wonder and curiosity, and I love her. She did not dole advice, but I can hear her words in my head when I have decisions to make. I  miss her daily, and I still hear her breathy chuckle-laugh in my ear all the time. I carry the pashmina I bought for her in Rome every place I travel to; every adventure I take. It's like having a piece of my mom with me, and it's kind of like giving her adventures she never had. My great-grandmother, grandmother, mother, us; now my nieces. We are all a part of those who came before us, who lived their lives so we could come into being. My great-grandmother was an adult before women could vote. She gave birth to my grandmother and great-aunts right around the time the law passed giving women the right to vote. My grandmother raised my mother in a post -WWII world; a time of subdivisions, women joining the work force, etc. My grandmother stayed home; never drove a car, raised her two daughters in much the same fashion as she was raised. She was a round, warm, affectionate, apron-wearing, cookie-baking grandmother. My mom raised her daughters in the tumultuous 60s and 70s and we are all a part of them. Fate, destiny, chance. I am who I am because of those who came before me, and I am so very grateful. My pashmina keeps me warm now, as the plane begins the descent to Seattle, and my next adventure begins.

I Will Never be a Highly Effective Librarian

In my current position I will never be considered a highly effective educator. I am evaluated by a peer mentor. This mentor observes me in my library setting over the course of about a 30 minute period twice a year. I am observed a few times during the year by school administration. I receive good scores – mostly average, a few exceeds expectations, a few needs improvement (more signage needed; consider letting students do their own check-outs). I can live with that – they are fair and unbiased observations; they are a small snapshot of my “normal” days, but I am okay with that. Those scores are added in to the entire school population reading scores, and I will never be a highly effective educator in the eyes of my school district.

My school ranks in the lowest 300 reading scores in the state. We are a Title 1, Renaissance school. We are given resources that other schools are not, because of these labels. Title 1 means we are given extra state funding to help serve our student population. Renaissance is more extreme. It means that a vast majority (97%) of our students live below poverty level and are eligible for free or reduced lunch. It means us, as educators, receive slightly more pay than those educators at a non-Renaissance/Title 1 school. That does not mean we have sunshine and roses every day. Students often come to us without any basic skills; how to say please or thank you, how to look someone in the eye when speaking; how to greet someone good morning. Anger is their only form of communication; throwing chairs, knocking books off shelves, destroying classrooms. Our students come to us often after rolling out of “bed” in their cars, or a hotel room; a house without running water or electricity; any number of basic needs not being met. School, for them, is a chance for clean air, two meals a day; maybe a little stability. Many of the students do have parents who try their best and just cannot make ends meets. They send their students to this local school and hope that their children can meek out a better life than they have been given.

I don’t teach children to read. I don’t even serve as much of an actual librarian at this school. I don’t have a group of avid readers waiting on the edge of their seats for the next Magic Tree House, Harry Potter, Lightning Thief, or even Wimpy Kid. I have kids who check out books because they are free, and because they can. I have kids who have lost books because they left them in their desk and their 1^st, 2^nd, 3^rd, 4^th, 5^th grade friends stole them because they did not know better. Or they left them at home one day, to never be seen again because their family was evicted and all of their possessions taken as collateral damage. I have had kids check out books but could not bear with parting with a possession so sacred; they could not stand turning it back in. What I can give my students is this. Every single hug they ask for. A smile, each time, no matter how difficult they feel they need to be. I can reassure them, remind them of how to act, how to speak to one another. I can give them so little and just hope that one day they will say, oh, let me smile, or let me hug this person. I remember once someone did that for me and it made a difference in my life. I will never know if I made a difference; I can only hope I can. So, no. In the eyes of my media mentor, my administrators, the county I teach I can never be deemed highly effective and get an annual bonus. I can only hope that despite this fact I can continue to be a smiling, positive presence in the eyes of children who don’t care if the school district calls me highly effective. They just know that I care about them and hug them, and that I am a librarian with heart.