It's Complicated

As is true of most ideas, this one blindsided me out of nowhere.  A simple statement uttered at the end of a sigh by a shelter administrator. Nothing more. But as the days afterward rolled by, I had that familiar gut feeling that this idea was glued to my side like a hungry toddler, begging for attention.

An inquiry here.  A phone call there. A bit of research. And the homeless shelter Parent Forums were born.

We held them once a week, for three weeks.  The parents did not really know what to expect, and neither did I.  Conceptualizing something is one thing.  Execution is another. Homeless shelter attendance is lower in the mild months, and so was class attendance.  But that was just as well.  Fewer people means greater interaction and a much less formal atmosphere. And at least one of us enjoyed them very much (me).

The first week we looked at the research on why reading aloud daily to our children is crucial. The second week we discussed, and practiced, cognitive strategies, before, during, and after reading aloud. And last week…

Last week was the icing on the cake.

I came across an article yesterday from The Atlantic, called, “Where Books Are All but Nonexistent,” by Alia Wong (July 14, 2016).  The accompanying picture drew me in initially (living trees with built in bookshelves is GENIUS!).  But the article enveloped me. Much of the research was familiar to me. High-poverty children will have been exposed to thirteen million words by age four, versus the forty-five million in a middle-class, white collar home.  As a reading teacher I know these numbers are staggering and make all the difference in school readiness, or lack thereof.

The article then went on to discuss the findings of Susan Neuman (2014), who coined the term, “book deserts,” meaning lack of book availability for high-poverty children.  These families often do not have access to the internet and cannot afford to purchase books.  What about public libraries, you may be asking your computer screen? Good question.  This is where it gets complicated.

And this is where this article and this blog intersect. 

Back to the “icing on the cake” parent forum…

I had arranged for my parents to go on a “field trip” with me to the local library for our last class. The very helpful, kind, and generally groovy librarian had agreed ahead of time to give us a short tour, then discuss how to access the digital card catalog, how to help their children find books of interest to them (their reading territories), and most importantly, to feel comfortable asking the librarians for assistance.

Obstacle #1presented itself immediately.  My parents had no source of transportation to get to the library. Because I was not shuttling young children, I secured permission from the shelter to pick them up the adults in Goldie, my trusty, aging van. 

But what about when the parents want to take their children to the library?  One of the mothers has several young children that require strollers, and the closest city bus stop is many blocks away. The shelter does it’s best just to stay open and provide meals and basic necessities.  It cannot afford a large vehicle (and all of the required car/booster seats to go with it).  Transportation in a smaller community without widespread public options can be a huge obstacle.

The tour was great – I learned a few things myself. But I could sense the wheels falling off the proverbial bus as the librarian launched into her description of the digital card catalog.  Obstacle #2 was now doing a stare-off with me.  If you don’t own a computer or don’t have access to one, it can be a very intimidating prospect to go experimenting on one, let alone to try to find information.  Even if you have access, but possess rusty computer skills, the obstacle may feel insurmountable. Uncertainty was written all over faces.  Note to Self: Computer classes at the shelter would be enormously beneficial.

And now Obstacle #3 reared its head.  On the ride over, I had asked one of the mothers if she already had a library card.  There was a short pause. “No, I don’t.  I asked about it once but you need an ID to apply for a card.” Another pause. “I don’t have an ID, so I can’t get a card.” No car means no license means no ID means no library card. I am aware that there are other legitimate forms of identification. But what if you don’t know where your birth certificate is?  Don’t know how to get a copy? Or don’t own a passport? (good grief, that word doesn’t even belong in this conversation).  Just think how often you and I use our driver’s license as proof of identification.  Stop reading this paragraph and think about that for a moment. Trust me. It’s a LOT.

As the tour came to its conclusion, I pulled the groovy librarian to one side and whispered quietly, “Do they really have to have an ID to get a card?” Then held my breath as I silently willed her to provide the answer I hoped to hear.  She glanced over at my beautiful group of parents who love their children every bit as much as you and I and want to do right by them.  “We can make an exception” she whispered back. I felt incredibly victorious.

I cannot describe the look of pure joy on that mother’s face as she accepted her glossy, new library card.  I felt like crying. To be handed the keys to a building filled with books and quiet, cozy corners.  Is there anything better?  I think not.

I ended the evening with this final reminder.  Wherever they are, whatever their circumstances, there is sure to be a public library nearby. My friends at the shelter may not be able to afford to buy many books for their children, but they can hand them the world on the pages of a book. They can come a little closer to that forty-five million words mark.

The transportation is still an obstacle, but when school starts again, the Book Mobile will make a stop much closer to the shelter, within an easily walkable distance. Computer skills can be taught. And kind-hearted librarians can empower parents to open up the world of literacy to their children.

Book Desert?  It’s a tiny step, but it’s a start…

Is it Worth it?

I have been mentally casting about for the perfect dissertation topic for the last year, or so.  Getting a little frantic about it for the last three months.  I need to get that baby nailed down, and SOON. I met with my UND adviser a couple of weeks ago and tried to define with her where my heart and passions lie. It was a bit like launching into the ocean in a dingy and thinking I can paddle my way to a distant continent.  So many topics.  So many things I’d like to know.  So many potential topics. She told me what I already knew. I have to narrow my focus. What is it I really want to know? I am adrift. The only thing I am certain of is my desire to center my research around Project Armchair.  Does what we do make a measurable difference in the lives of children in crisis?

One of the best parts of my summer thus far, has been teaching a parenting class at the homeless shelter on the value of reading aloud to children. The role it plays in language acquisition and vocabulary storehouses. The human contact between parent and child that accelerates brain development.  The conversations about reading that build neural pathways in developing brains. The cognitive strategies good readers employ in order to better comprehend texts.

Last night was the second class in a three-part series. As I dismissed my parenting group, I asked one of the mothers if I could talk to her for a moment.  “I have a question for you,” I began.  I then proceeded to stumble through seven or ten sentences of disjointed and illogical rabbit trails as I (vainly) attempted to pose my question to her, much like my conversation with my adviser. 

“What do you need?”  I began.  She looked at me like I must surely be outside my mind. I could almost hear her thoughts. What do I need?  Lady, I’m living with my children in a homeless shelter.  I have nothing.  I need everything.  How much time do you have and where do I begin??  She didn’t verbalize those things, but I surmise something along those lines passed through her mind, however fleetingly.

Good grief.  She must wonder how I ever managed to make it out of high school.

I backed up and made another run at it.  “Let me ask it another way,” I offered.  “I have two primary goals for Project Armchair.  One is to boost literacy.  I am a reading teacher.  I want to help kids become better readers. But beyond than that, and much bigger than that, I hope to give the children I read to a brief escape from their circumstances. That for the moments we are lost in the pages of a book, they forget that they are in a hospital or living in a homeless shelter.” I paused for a breath.  “From your perspective as a mother, is that a worthy goal?”

Her answer was instantaneous. 

“Yes, it IS worth it. When you come to read to my children, they are so excited! They come back to our room afterward and they want to talk about the book you gave them and they want to look at it some more.  Then after we’ve looked at it and talked about it, they tuck the book away in their “secret” hiding place, under their mattress.” She stopped and her animated face softened. “It is very much worth it.” Her words were heavy with meaning and conviction and uttered with soft intensity.

I felt the sting of tears threatening my eyes. A Ferris wheel of thoughts and emotions raced through my brain. In those few concise thoughts, she had provided me with several viable possibilities. She had also thanked me in a manner I will never forget.  It came from a heart that has known trial and difficulty, but recognized that there is hope and light.  In that moment, it all did feel worth it. She had given me a great gift.

Back to my question.  Do we make a measurable difference?  We make a difference. I believe it with every pump of my middle-aged heart.  I see it in the way the eyes of children light up when I walk in the door. I feel it in the grateful smiles of the parents. I sense it in the words of the pediatric floor nurses and administrators as they hand me lists of room numbers.

We DO make a difference.

Is it measurable?  Perhaps not. And perhaps scientific data does not matter.  Not in the grand scheme of things. A child who treasures a book so much they carefully hide it for later… that matters. Teachers who willingly and joyfully give of their precious few free hours to read to children in crisis… that matters as well.

I will close with this short anecdote. After my conversation at the homeless shelter last night, I met a light-up-the-room kind of teacher who needed to be observed as she read to children (a requirement of Project Armchair) before being allowed to read solo.  I sat in the pediatric floor play room and watched her read to three siblings, one of them with IV’s running into her body. I watched the magic happen as a third-party observer.  I witnessed shy children, unwilling to join her at the table initially, become active participants. I watched the smiles and then the giggles erupt from tired and bored faces. I glanced at their weary father who seemed delighted that his children were being entertained and transported from the stress of a hospital to the pages of an engaging book. Grateful that strangers care.

I have seen it countless times, but it never grows old.

Is it worth it?  I believe it is.