We’re a rag-tag group of people vigilantly pursuing self-sustaining educational & employment opportunities with and for students and their families living in rural communities in developing countries. We believe in asking hard questions like, “What do you need and how can we help?” We believe that communities know their needs better than we do and that it’s our job to listen. We’re big on being kind for the sake of kindness and we believe that even the smallest acts of kindness can make a big difference. We believe in keeping vigil over one another and watching for opportunities to help, no matter how far off the beaten path those opportunities take us. We’re vigilant in our belief that God has given each person unique gifts and that one of the highest forms of worship is using those gifts to serve others. We believe God has a purpose for each life and Vigilante Kindness is our purpose. Join us as we live out wild adventures in service of God and others. Join us in committing acts of Vigilante Kindness.
the great parent volunteers working in my classroom
writing in bed early Saturday morning
the parents of a former student who called down the hallway “How’s our favorite teacher doing?” It was the tail end of a long day and hearing that made me smile.
Jaison, a server at Olive Garden, who made the Never Ending Pasta Bowl true to the name. I had dinner, lunch and dinner again. Plus when I asked if I could box up the teensy bit of leftover salad, he boxed it up and added more salad and garnish. Best service I’ve had in a long time at any restaurant. He really loves his job and it showed.
walking by the river just in time to see the sunset
my work-out buddy
lifting weights until I’m sure my arms are going to fall off
these beautiful flowers picked from a student’s backyard
Today, in the sweltering heat of bus duty, I had one of the best moments of my teaching career. As I stood corralling kids in the bus line and stopping kindergarteners from throwing their backpacks at each other, a young woman tapped me on the shoulder. I turned as she said, “Mrs. McCauley, do you remember me? I used to be in your first grade class.”
Of course I remembered her. I knew her the second she said my name. I knew her eyes. I knew her voice, quiet and strong. I knew the tip of her shy smile.
I often dream of former students, children who lived nightmarish lives and found refuge at school, safe in our classroom. I dream of little ones who lived with monsters, horrid monsters who were careful to never leave a thread of evidence for me to report, but leave me still with a sick pit in my stomach. I dream of little ones who one day just up and moved, never to be seen again. They visit me in the sacred space of night, these lost children.
My lost children.
As I stood by the bus area, looking at this beautiful young woman, I hugged her, probably too tightly, and peppered her with questions. How are you? What are you doing now? Are you going to school? Are you working?
She is the same sweet six-year-old I taught eleven years ago. She’s the darling girl who I hugged hundreds of times, her head resting on my shoulder as her little hands gripped my neck. She is the same girl who fell in love with reading. She’s the same girl who used to light up the room with her giggle.
She told me about her life and how, at the age of 17, she has removed herself from her monster. She tutors her peers. She’ll graduate this year. She’s college bound.
She’s strong.
And beautiful.
And courageous.
And kind.
And introspective.
And smart.
She is the woman I always knew she could be.
She’s the little girl who filled my heart so many years ago and she is the young woman who made it overflow today.
Tonight when my lost children tiptoe into my sleep, I will think of her. She’s given me renewed hope that my other lost children have grown into strong and courageous adults.
And in the solitude of night I will fall asleep hoping that maybe, just maybe, they too will someday return to me.
skirts because it’s just too blasted hot for pants
the little boy who wrote this for our August weather summary. “Mostly sunny. I like Mrs. McCauley. She is nice. I like school.” Yep, that about sums up the weather, both inside and outside of the classroom
my little one who brought an encyclopedia bookmarked to the page on Nudibranchs for N day. Who knew sea slugs could be so beautiful. I heart word nerds.
the fact that I have 364 more days until SweatFest Back to School Night comes around again
my parent volunteers, especially the ones who don’t even have kids in my class anymore and still come and help
I had a dream this morning, a nightmare actually. I dreamed that it was the day you died and I was alone in your house. I’ve had this dream before, a memory that comes back to me at night sometimes. But this time I was in your old house, in the house I visited as a kid, not the house you lived in when you died. I was walking through the house, crying up the creaky stairs. In the face of such a devastating loss, I crammed myself in the little closet that used to be a telephone room and I closed the door.
Your doorbell rang and I untucked myself from the corner of the closet. Out on the front steps was a real estate agent and a family ready to look at the house. In my dream I didn’t even know the house was for sale. I explained to the agent that you had just passed away that morning and it really wasn’t a good time. The agent pushed the door open and showed the family in. The mother started asking me all these questions. I gave them a tour of your house, staggering through the rooms of memories with a lump in my throat and tears welling in my eyes.
My alarm clock sounded and I’ve never been so glad for it to go off. I woke with that lump in my throat and swallowed it back down. My pillow was wet from crying. The dream felt so real that it took me a few minutes to realize it couldn’t have been real because you haven’t lived in that house for over 20 years. I swept away the cobwebs of the dream and pulled the covers up under my chin, wiping my eyes with the sheet. I miss you so much that sometimes it’s a physical ache in my chest. This morning was one of those times.
I got up to ride my bike with Terry and Nick. A good hard ride was just what I needed. I pedaled up and across Shasta Dam, the water in the lake blue and glassy. We followed a new piece of trail and at a split I jumped on the old the river trail and Terry and Nick followed the road back home. I wanted to be by the river, to be near something beautiful. I rode fast, pushing a big gear, passing everyone I encountered.
I reached the Sundial Bridge where there was a breast cancer awareness walk. I got caught in a crowd of people dressed in pink. I felt the lump rise up from my belly and bob in my throat. I saw people walking in memory of loved ones lost and the ache stabbed at my chest.
Then I saw people walking with the word “Survivor” pinned to their shirts. There were stickers and pins and hats and everything else rightly proclaiming survivorship.
White hot envy bubbled up. And I know I shouldn’t be envious that they survived and you didn’t, but sometimes I am. Most days I think you won, Gramma, that you lived the best life of anyone I know. But some days I feel like cancer won, that it’s unfair that other people survived cancer and you didn’t. It’s the ugly part of grief, Gramma, the part I hate the most. It’s not that I wish these other people didn’t survive. It’s not that at all. It’s that I wish you were still here, too.
I tried to get out of the crowd of walkers, but no matter how many times I called out “On your left!” or “Coming through!” they didn’t move aside. The entire bridge was filled from one side to the other with walkers and survivors and pink shirts. I felt the tears pricking my eyelashes. I needed to be anywhere but there. I unclipped and walked my bike through the crowd, keeping my head down until I got to the road and onto the trail that would lead me home. I rode uphill, stomping on my pedals, crying until hot snot ran with my tears. By the time I got home I’d stopped crying, but the sadness remained.
Gramma, I don’t mind dreaming of you. In fact, I love it when you talk to me in my dreams. But this dream was different. You weren’t in it at all. And that’s what makes the sadness stay, the fact that each day I get further and further away from the life that had you in it. Sometimes that loss devastates me all over again.
Come talk to me in my sleep, Gramma. Sidle up next to me and drawl “Hi, honey. How are you?” Make me watch Jeopardy with you while we eat ice cream for dinner. Come back, for just a little bit, even if it’s only in my dreams.
The following four were a bit, uh, different. It’s the period of time I dread every year: testing time. Not paper to pencil testing. It’s the period right after the honeymoon when my little ones get comfortable enough to test the boundaries.
To give you a quick snapshot of just what I mean, let me tell you the things that happened in the lunchroom on the sixth day of school, as reported to me by a lunch duty aide. A little boy took a seam ripper with a handle that had been sharpened to a point out of his pocket and threatened kids with it. Another little boy called a girl a “b*%ch” after he wouldn’t stop pestering her and she told the lunch duty aide. A third little boy pointed to his private area and shouted “Penis! Penis! Penis!” over and over again for the entire cafeteria to hear. And the grand finale was the little girl who pulled on another girl’s ponytail and then went home and pulled out handfuls of her own hair and told her mother the other little girl did it.
After lunch that day, I made sure the little ones who’d been picked on were okay and then I followed through with consequences for the aggressors. All of them were absolutely shocked that I’d be talking to their parents after school. They were even more shocked that their actions had consequences like writing apology letters and loss of privileges. But what I think they were most surprised by is that I didn’t get angry or raise my voice. They’re used to stirring things up.
Later that day we had a class meeting about how we can all make school a safe and happy place to grow and learn. I followed up by reading a story about a school bully and how to respond to bullies. Interestingly enough, in the discussion that followed the story, none of those kids saw their actions as those of a bully. When other kids pointed out that their were behaving like bullies, the aggressors were completely surprised that the other kids would consider them bullies.
This is the thing though, within that testing period, each of those kids had really sweet, tender moments, too. But just when we’d be rolling along having a nice day, one or all of them would do something to try to throw the whole class off balance again.
Have you ever met people who thrive on drama? You know the ones I’m talking about, the ones who can’t stand it when everything is going well in their lives. The ones who take the smallest difficulty and whip it into a frothy mess. The ones who create chaos just for the sake of creating chaos.
If something doesn’t change, these little ones are going to grow up to be those people, whirling dervishes who wreak havoc because that’s what they think life should feel like. I know a handful of adults like this. I think of how miserable they really are, I think about what a lonely life they lead and it breaks my heart to think of that kind of future for these little ones.
Earlier this summer I encountered the word ‘ballast’ for the first time. Then I heard it again the following day. And again the next. It was like this word had something to tell me and if I didn’t listen, it was going to keep repeating itself. I’ve been chewing on this word for months, thinking about it in terms of my life in general and in terms of my life as a teacher.
Maybe you’re new to this word, too. Here’s one definition:
ballast, noun 1: heavy material, such as gravel, sand, iron, water, or lead, placed low in a vessel to improve its stability
image courtesy of superstock.co.uk
Ships use ballast so they don’t tip or capsize in high winds. By placing the weight in the very bottom of the keel, the ship sits lower in the water and is less likely to be swayed. Even people can serve as ballast. The weight of the crew can serve as ballast. So can that guy hanging over the edge of a sailing boat.
This idea of ballast makes me think of my little ones because for whatever reason, and I’m sure there are several, they aren’t just aren’t filled with enough weight to be steady. They think life is about capsizing and then recovering. Or not. And the attention they get for capsizing things has made them good at it, very good at it. They don’t know the pleasure of being steady, the joy of sailing through the chop unharmed and upright.
These little ones and this idea of ballast has left me thinking of what it is I want to put deep in their hulls this year. What can I fill them with that will keep them steady? How can I make them stop craving the chaos?
Ballast is a verb, too.
ballast, verb 1: giving stability (as in character or conduct)
In thinking about filling these little ones with things that will help them steady themselves, I’m also thinking about the things I can do to give them stability. I’ll continue to respond to their inappropriate behaviors calmly with logical consequences. I won’t give rise to their undesirable behaviors or allow them to create chaos in my classroom. I’ll be on the constant look out for instances when they act in ways that are helpful and kind. Those are the things I’ll give attention to, the things I’ll crow about. And best yet, I’ll weight their hearts with stories of people who exhibit integrity, courage and compassion.
Did you know that when a heeled vessel returns itself to its upright position it’s called the “righting moment”? This year is going to be a year of learning to read and write and do math and all of those things, but what’s exciting to me, what has me still believing it’s going to be the best year yet is that it’s going to be a year full of creating ballast in place of chaos.
Vigilante Kindness 