Category: Alicia Writes

The Itty Bitty Airball Queen

On By Alicia McCauleyIn Teacher TalesLeave a comment

Friday was our school wide reading program finale.  The finale was a series of races and games.  There were jump rope relays, basketball relays, soccer relays, minute to win it games, hula hoop contests, scoot board races and a host of other challenges for my little ones to participate in.  It was a scream!  There were times when I was doubled over, laughing so hard that I was crying.  Balls were escaping, jump ropes were tangling, and all the while the first graders were clapping and cheering with abandon.

One of the harder games was a basketball shooting game.  Each kid stood at a line in the middle of the key and shot five baskets.  This is a supremely hard task for first graders.  That basket might as well be in the clouds.  One of my darling little girls-a teeny, tiny breath of a kid-was chosen for this game.  
 
She’s an adorable kid.  When she gets excited about something, her blue eyes open wide and she flaps her arms.  I’ve seen her do this when reading her favorite books, when mastering particularly difficult math problems, when playing at recess and especially when she paints.
 
She stood at the line, basketball in hand, with a serious expression on her face.  She shot.  Air ball.  She scrunched up her face in concentration and shot again.  Air ball.  Her third and fourth shots arched through the air and again fell short.  
 
I bet you’re thinking this is going to be one of those stories where she makes the fifth shot and does a victory lap around the gymnasium.
 
It’s not.
 
Not one of her five shots even came close to grazing the net.  
 
Not a single one.
 
Back in the classroom after the reading program finale, we were gathered at the carpet talking about all the fun we had racing and cheering each other on.
 
My tiny airballer raised her hand to share.  “Mrs. McCauley, I was nervous about that basketball game because I’ve never played it before.”
 
She paused and I waited, scripting in my mind words of encouragement or some sage advice about perseverance or something, anything to ease the sting.
 
Then she continued, the pitch of her voice rising to an exuberant squeal, her arms flapping in wild excitement, “I was nervous at first, but then I played the game and I was AWESOME at it!!!”
 
Wait, what?  
 
She explained, “I’ve never thrown a ball that high before.  I threw it really high five times.”  She held up five fingers. 
 
My face broke into a huge grin, mirroring the smile on her own precious face.
 
What an idiot I am for thinking I needed to pepper her with my “sage advice”.  As is so often the case, I found myself marveling at the unconventional wisdom my students. 
 
I’m so hard on myself when it comes to trying new things, so fearful and bound in nerves, so unwilling to try, lest I fail, or worse yet lest I fail in public.
 
The next time I’m facing a new challenge, I’m going to remember her face, scrunched up by every ounce of her concentration.  I’m going to remember her candor in admitting she was nervous and afraid.  But most of all I’m going to remember her wild, flapping arms and the triumph on her face for throwing the basketball higher than she ever has before.
 
She didn’t make any baskets that day, and for that I’m grateful because if she had, I would’ve missed the lesson.  She didn’t score any points, but one thing is for sure, my itty bitty airball queen is winning.

Love in the Middle

On By Alicia McCauleyIn The Junk DrawerLeave a comment

“I don’t have a middle initial,” she tries to submit the form, but the computer highlights in red her namelessness.

I feel her begin to crawl up into herself, chameleoning into my couch.

“Shouldn’t I have a middle name?” she asks.

“Not everyone has one,” I try to make this unnamed middle a smaller absence.

But it is there.

This blackness.

This shadow always creeping across her face.

This unbuoyed business of being unclaimed.

I think of names for her, this blazing star so terrified of burning everyone else.

“You could choose a middle name,” I say, cursing the computer and that damn red box.

“What’s your middle name?” she asks.

“Wheeler.”

“Like a wheel?” she laughs.

“Sort of,” I smile.  “It was my maiden name and I kept it because I wanted to remain linked to my brothers.”

“What do I want?”  Her question is pregnant with wanting.

I hold my breath.  She’s not asking me.

“Love.  My middle name will be Love.” She types an “L” and submits the form for college.  “What do you think?” she asks.

“It’s perfect.  But then again, what do I know?  My Acholi name means ‘Laughter’,” I shrug.

“Love and laughter,” she relaxes into the herself.

“Love and laughter then,” I squeeze her hand and we giggle.

Hard to Love

On By Alicia McCauleyIn The Junk Drawer6 Comments

You fold your matchstick arms, one atop the other,
The sun is a token of yellow,
Glinting through the window behind you,
Playing off the filaments of your skin,
The skin of my soldier boys.

You twist the straw wrapper,
Threading it through your fingers,
Then crumpling it in your fist, which contains your story.

I choose to take another bite, the avocado slippery on my tongue.
“How do I unscrew you?” I think.
“How do I unfold you?”
You who have determined to occupy so little space.

I think of you,
Tucking yourself under the pews at church,
Until the parishioners left and you slept there alone,
Notched in the arms of God.

I wait for you.
I wait with you.
I wait.

You slough off your shell.
And tell me about the father who sold you,
And your mother who let him.

You walk a tightrope between telling and keeping,
I hold onto your silence,
Watch the landscape of your face,
Marvel at your eyes, still white, still lit.

You tell me about being a slave at the age of ten,
And of the man who tried to undo your silver straps.

But the worst of it all
Is the family who rescued you,
Called you Princess,
Loved you,
Taught you,
And then,
And then poured it all out and sent you back.

You say to me, “I think I must be hard to love.”
With bravery trickling down your face, you whisper,
“It is hard for me to love.”

I nod.  I know this difficulty of loving and being loved,
The exquisite risk of allowing myself to be loved.

We sit across from each other,
Two so hard to be loved.
And somewhere on the table,
Between lunch plates and crumbs,
Love has joined us.

for E.L.M.