The Giver

 

 

 

 

As mentioned previously, it brings me to near delirium to be back reading live in the homeless shelters after Beast Covid devoured two years of volunteer service. Yesterday after work I headed to a local domestic violence shelter and was greeted by a gaggle of boisterous children.

 

This shelter is dedicated to women and children who have been victims of domestic abuse. I find myself compartmentalizing my emotions before entering. It’s the same with reading to patients on the pediatric floor. Reading to a child with medical tubes running in and out their bodies or facing a daunting cancer diagnosis is tough on this mama’s heart. Children shouldn’t suffer. It pains me when they do. Stepping into a structure that houses children who have most likely experienced (or at least witnessed) violence is a pain of another variety, but one that can be as traumatic as a health crisis. To that end, I find myself steeling my emotions before stepping into this place. I focus on the task at hand and the children as they are in that moment, happy and interactive.

When I arrived, I buzzed into the entrance and was greeted by a smiling staffer. “Lots of kids today?” I ask. “Yes! Lots of kids,” she replied with a grin and a bit of forewarning in her tone. “They’re in the back, waiting for you.” I head toward the gathering spaces in the shelter and am greeted by a sweet mix of moms sitting at the kitchen table working on arts and crafts, and kids… everywhere!

To my delight, they recognize me and come running, anxious to peek into my ever-present book bag. We choose a sofa to sit on together and in a flash, I am a reader, a fresh listening ear for their cacophony, and a human jungle gym, all rolled into one. It’s like sitting on the floor with a litter of 6-week-old puppies. They are crawling into my lap, climbing into my arms, and maneuvering behind my back. This frenetic movement never stops for the 40 minutes I am there. I am silently thankful I had worn my hair up. If not, I would have left looking like a dandelion gone to seed.

The challenge in shelter reading, I have learned over the years, is gently pushing past the behaviors that can go with children who are currently living in a crisis environment. They are almost always sweet and loving, sometimes reserved, but often a little frenetic due to developmental maturity, lack of space to burn off energy, and other factors. They also sometimes have little idea of book care and can be a little rough on materials. I don’t take offense. It becomes a gentle teaching moment.

The golden moment of the day came near the end of my reading time. A four-year-old beside me was zeroed in on every book I read, asked a mountain of question, and shouted his answers to mine. When we finished reading his chosen book, he closed it carefully and declared, “my book!” and ran off to squirrel it away. He soon returned from the playroom with a book from the shelter’s stock. He shoved into my hands with a shy smile and said, “You keep it.” My heart melted a little as I gently placed it back into his small hands and said, “That’s a good book. You should keep it here.” He tried again. “You keep it!” The smile was a little wider. Again, I gently refused. “That belongs to someone else,” I explained. “You should keep it here.” Two more times he tried to gift the book to me. Each time he glowed with anticipation at the hope of my receiving his “gift.” Although he didn’t cognitively understand what he was doing, he had observed the cultural norms of our budding relationship that involved the gifting of something precious to me, books, and wanted to reciprocate as a means of expressing gratitude. After his fourth attempt my heart was reduced to a gooey mess of melted marshmallow. Such a beautiful gesture from a child with so little. Oh, how these little ones teach me to be a better person!

My doctoral dissertation had a strong theme of children’s agency, premised on the belief that children are capable reporters of their own feelings and ideas. This little guy tried to convey much through his giving gestures. His actions said to me, “I like you. I like that you read to me. I value the books you give me each time you come. I want to give you something to show my appreciation.”

I hear you, sweet child. I like you, too, and I’ll be back soon.

Waiting For the Other Side

Two years. 

Two years since a virus raced around the world with dizzying speed, closing public gatherings, emptying store shelves, social calendars, and upending life as we knew it. Parents became teachers and teachers became pioneers of instruction delivery. 

For Project Armchair it meant an abrupt end to our volunteer services. The door slammed shut with a loud and reverberating clang. Two years of waiting and hoping for life to return to normalcy, then fighting despondency when new variants emerged, plunging hope into despair. Two years waiting to emerge on the other side. Two years of wondering how a volunteer organization premised on direct interaction with children could re-calibrate to still be of service. 

I must be honest here. I have felt a little lost wondering just how to do that. If we can’t read to kids, then… who are we? 

Miraculously, we DID find purpose. Or rather, purpose found us. The Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation and its sub-committee, Children of Incarcerated Parents, asked us to help them find a way to increase visitation rates for incarcerated fathers at the state penitentiary. We collaborated with an incarcerated artist and a band of really nice high school shop guys to create an inviting space inside the visitation room at the penitentiary, where we filled the shelves with book and will continue to fill them, as long as donations for the project continue. This energizing task kept us thinking, growing, and dreaming big. 

While that initiative kept us from growing moss on our north side, today marked the turn of a really big corner. A big, beautiful, hope-is-born corner. For the first time in two years, I loaded my bag with books and headed to a local domestic violence shelter. Not to simply drop off books at the door, but this time to step inside, remove my coat, and stay for a spell. I looked forward to it all day, willing time to speed up, through meetings, presentations, desk work, and interaction with colleagues. C’mon, clock! Let’s end this workday. 

Pulling up to the facility, I felt a joyful buoyancy. Ringing the access buzzer, I fairly sang into the intercom, “reading volunteer!” The staff was happy to welcome me back and it felt so utterly right to be there, like finding the perfect spot on your pillow in the middle of the night. 

My little charges were sweet and unafraid of the grinning-too-big and alarmingly happy lady with the bag of books. They moved from bench to toys and back to bench, listening briefly then running off, only to run back to me the next moment. The tiniest tot munched happily on cheese puffs, ran his tiny, orange-coated hands over my black dress pants, and grinned at me with laughing eyes. And, oh how I loved every moment! I loved the brief flashes of true engagement when they pointed to the illustrations and jabbered incoherently, and the acrobats demanded to keep up with agile moving bodies. I loved seeing their mother’s happy smile watching it all. I loved the look of true gratitude in her eyes as I handed her new books for her children to keep. And I loved the brief chat we had, one mother to another. 

Coincidentally (or not), as I pulled away from the shelter, I had a phone conversation with another mom that I met in a shelter years ago under similar circumstances, who has since become a dear friend. She has worked hard to rise above hardship and overwhelming odds. Over the phone she glowingly shared her plans to attend college in the fall. To be witness to her triumph is an honor so deep words fail me. 

Because of women like these and the hundreds of children our organization has read to, I believe in the value of this work more than ever. A caring adult, a good book, and a child dealing with challenging circumstances is a sure way to provide a needed disruption in the difficult narrative of a child in crisis.

This work matters, and I have missed it. Perhaps the long, dark night of abstinence has helped me realize just how much. 

Now it’s time to get back to the work of serving our community's most vulnerable children. But first I need to wash the cheese powder out of my pants.

Home Behind Bars

 

The finished product

I stood in front of the heavy steel door and waited for it to open by an unseen hand. Stepping through the doorway, it jarred my senses to hear the clang of the door shut immediately behind me as metal hit metal and locks clicked into place. Following the cinderblock hallway, I passed other sealed steel doors and was informed by the prison employee guiding my tour that they led to the heart of the prison. I couldn’t help but wonder about the stories, hopes, and heartaches held within the labyrinth of those doors and walls.

 

We followed the maze to our destination, the visitation room of the North Dakota State Penitentiary. This was my third visit to this room, the first being over a year prior. The first time I laid eyes on this spacious room, it was unquestionably drab. Cinder blocks were painted in neutral shades. Chairs and small low tables dotted the room. A cupboard held tattered games and puzzles. The only splash of color was at the far end where a few bright paintings were hung on the wall over an assortment of toys. The opposite wall contained the guard station and the only wall space free of doors or equipment.

 

On that visit I was accompanied by fellow board members, treasurer Jill Vollmers, vice-president Jerri Carlson, and secretary Annette Kost. We had been invited to this tour by the Children of Incarcerated Parents committee. It was their hope that Project Armchair could partner with them to help breathe life into the drab room and turn it into an inviting space that children wanted to visit. Research shows that when incarcerated parents have frequent visits with their children, recidivism rates decline. The COIP also hoped to infuse literacy opportunities into the children’s visits. Enter, Project Armchair.

 

A vision for the space slowly began to take form and shape. The foundational and obvious premise was that incarcerated parents do not want to be incarcerated. They want to be home with their families. What if we created a space that reflected those hopes and dreams? Working in partnership with Art from the Heart and an artistic inmate, we brainstormed about what the space could look like and if we could create a living room scene using only paint.

 

Believing that the sterile plastic chairs provided by the prison would be counterintuitive to a cozy space, I approached the shop teacher at Mandan Public Schools, Eldon Kroh. When he heard the vision, he quickly pointed out three students who were talented and eager for more woodworking challenges. Lucas Fleck, Ian Eilers, and Riley Engelstad immediately embraced the vision and got to work on a freestanding bookshelf and a two-person bench that had the shape and size of a small sofa or loveseat.

 

Then COVID hit the penitentiary and hit it hard. Visitors were prohibited from entering the penitentiary in an effort to slow the contagion. We waited for months for family visitations to resume, but in the meantime, the artists were busy at work.

 

On this, my third visit with Project Armchair board member, Jane Morrow, along with Riley and Ian, we were finally allowed to view the finished product. Stepping through the same metal door as I had on previous visits and into the visitation room, I was floored by the beautiful mural. Rich with color, details, and warmth, I was amazed that this was accomplished with nothing more than paint. The bench built by the graduated seniors was located invitingly by the “fireplace” and the shelf securely attached to the wall next to it. The books donated by individuals through Barnes and Noble filled the shelves, ready to be enjoyed by fathers and their children. It was absolutely perfect. The books are intended to go home with the children after their visit so that they can relive a pleasurable experience with their fathers over and over.

 

Perhaps as fulfilling as the finished product, was the wide collaboration of individuals and organizations to make the project reality. All working for a common cause with the end goals of strengthening family bonds in the face of forced separation, building foundational literacy skills, and where possible, reuniting families in their homes through lowered recidivism. I believe that this is one of the most important and potentially impactful efforts that Project Armchair has undertaken. I hope it will be so.

 

If you would like to donate books to keep the visitation room shelves filled, please visit the “donations” tab on the main page of this blog for more information or contact us through our Facebook page. All books must be new.

 

Visitation room before upgrades

The "sofa" in progress

Project Armchair board members Jerri Carlson, Vonda Dahl, Annette Kost and Jill Vollmers

 

Books are the Bridge

It had been a while since I last read in this particular shelter. It has not been for lack of want. This shelter is one of my all-time fave places to read. It is one of my favorite places to be, in general. But life is a demanding taskmaster at times. A new role in my school district. A dissertation that won’t write itself. Out-of-town guests. Etc., etc. All have detracted from spending my time dollars in the fashion I prefer.

A volunteer had let me know that we were low on books at this site, and so I raided the shelves of other sites, scrounged through the tubs of books that fill my garage, called ahead to the manager, and headed to the shelter with an odd tingle of excitement. It always feels a little like the scene from the old Cheers show when Norm walks in off the street. These kids know my name and they have my heart.

From the moment I step into the room where they congregate, I am surrounded by chatting voices who seem unaware and unconcerned about my absence, swarming bodies who have no awareness of personal space needs, little girls that want to touch my jewelry and stare at my shoes, and hungry eyes that are eager to peruse the books I have with me. Every time I step into this place, it has the feel of Christmas morning. The eager joy of anticipation. The smiling faces. The excitement of receiving a new item. It gets me every time and puts a little lump in my throat. Every blasted time.

Today was no different. Happy, chatty voices. Bodies swarming. Shy touches on my bracelets. Eyes fixed on my book cart. I hugged and asked about school and congratulated on birthdays celebrated. It was a hard sell today, as always, to get them to back up, give me room to grab a lungful of oxygen, and help them one-at-a-time pick just the right book, both to read together and for them to keep.

I have often wondered why they have such a difficult time waiting their turn. Even when I ask them repeatedly to take a step away and wait their turn, they don’t. They don’t do this in a defiant way. They are neither disrespectful nor pushy. But there is a quiet determination to stand close. This used to bother me a little. I’m a teacher, for crying out loud. Where are my magical classroom management skills when I need them?

I think I have arrived at a few conclusions about this phenomenon. The first is that they don’t want to hear just one story. They want to hear them all read aloud. Why eat just one fat green grape when there is a whole bowl in front of you? The second reason I believe may explain this mystery is their need to guard their precious chosen book. They have already eyed the one that they want. When new items are such a rare and precious commodity in an impoverished child’s life, they will treasure, cherish, guard, and fight for it. To walk away from it, even for a moment, might mean someone else will claim it.

I have come to be less insistent about having them step away until their turn. For this one afternoon every week or two, I can help grant these simple wishes.

Today I faithfully read with each child, sometimes more than one book. We looked at the illustrations, made predictions, laughed at funny parts, and shared reading responsibilities where children could decode words within their skill level.

The last precious lamb ran away with their coveted book and I stood to pack my things and head home after a long day at work. As I bent down, I heard a deep voice say my name and I looked up. A young teenage boy was staring at me and expectantly waiting for me to respond. I smiled and greeted him by name. He smiled back and said words I never thought that I would hear from him. “Mrs. Dahl, do you have an origami book?”

It took my brain a moment to process what had just occurred.

This boy has struggled. Home is hard and chaotic. Food is often scarce. Nurturing even more scarce. The local law enforcement knows his name. Survival is his norm. He has paid me no attention on all of my previous visits. Never seemed interested in me or my bag of books. Always distant. Coolly detached.

Suddenly my brain was screaming at me. “Do you know what just happened, Vonda?? He asked for a book. A SPECIFIC book. HE WANTS A BOOK!! If I could have willed my fifty-seven-year-old body to do a cartwheel, I would have done one on the spot. Adrenaline and joy surged into a tidal wave of understanding and happiness.

I forced myself into a more appropriate response and grinned at him. “I will find an origami book.” He gave me a half-smile and with eyes never leaving my face, quietly said, “Thanks, Mrs. Dahl.” And I knew that he believed me. This kid who has known more disappointment than any human should. He believed me. He believed that I would keep my promise. Books built a bridge between us.

So, I will close here and head on over to Amazon to put an origami book or two in my shopping cart. I cannot wait to go back to the shelter and hand him a bridge.

Boys and Books

I have been running to catch up with my own life for what seems like a very long time. Just ask my husband. My life has been exceptionally chaotic lately, to the point that my volunteer hours as a Project Armchair reader have suffered. And, oh how I have missed it. Nothing feels quite right when I don’t have time to do the thing I love best.

I pulled into the parking lot of a local homeless shelter yesterday and smiled. Finally! I was armed with a wide array of upper-elementary books. Books the older boys of the after-school program had requested the last time I read there. (SIDE NOTE: Shout out to their teachers who helped them discover their own “reading territories” - books that kids are naturally drawn to).

It was sweetly calm when I entered the large room where the kids spend time until parents can pick them up. There were kids at long table working on puzzles or crafts. Others lounged in comfortable chairs. The workers looked in my direction and smiled warmly.

As familiar young faces ran to greet me, I hugged each one that stretched out arms for affection. Others stood shyly at the perimeter and waited. They soon directed their attention to my rolling crate. The one filled with what they were REALLY excited about… my books. A tall kid just to my right asked without preamble, “Do you have any Dog Man books?” “As a matter of fact, I do,” I responded with a broad smile. “But you’ll have to wait your turn.” His shoulders slumped a little, but he followed me dutifully across the room.

I (vainly) attempted to have the children take turns choosing a book and sitting beside me while I read their choice to them. But no matter how many times I asked them to stand back and wait their turn, they continued to crowd around the rolling treasure box of coveted books and to search longingly for the perfect choice. I finally gave up shooing them off and had them sit around me on the floor as I read every book to every child. They were like hungry little birds, absorbing every word and feasting on the bright illustrations. They laughed at funny pictures and nodding knowingly at familiar connections.

The Dog Man fan eventually had his turn to choose one of several from the series. He gratefully accepted his treasure and disappeared. Soon another middle school-aged boy appeared and asked for a book. Then another. Apparently, word travels fast where graphic novels are concerned. I packed up the remaining books, put on my coat and turned to leave. Then my heart constricted and melted into a gooey mass. Lounging on chairs and stretched across the sofa were boys in big bodies devouring their new books. They were aware of nothing around them. They were utterly and contentedly lost in their new books.

This…

This is what it is all about.

This is what the volunteers of Project Armchair have set at their primary goal. Kids in crisis finding a moment’s reprieve from challenging circumstances through the pages of a really good book.

In my doctoral studies, I came across the story of a young woman who spent most of her growing up years in transience. Homeless shelters were a natural part of her environment. She longed to escape from the cycle of poverty and was naturally intelligent. She recounted in an interview how she would read any and everything that she could get her hands on, including cereal boxes, and old copies of Readers Digest. Books, she claimed, were her escape.

I witnessed echoes of that yesterday. Shelters are not beautiful places to live. Life is hard when you are transient. I mean HARD. Fear, stress, and chaos are the norm. If Dog Man can relieve a little of that for a few brief moments, then I am a happy camper.

Oh, and Khadijah Williams? The girl who read cereal boxes when there was nothing else available? She ended up at Harvard. You can read more about this inspiring young woman here:

http://www.jeannineamber.com/uploads/cgblog/id22/homeless_to_harvard.pdf

One Thousand

After the hellacious pace of my last doctoral semester, life has fallen into a pleasant rhythm of schedule for me. When most teaching days end, I head to the hospital or one of several local shelters to read for an hour, or so.

Today I stepped out of my car, hoisted my bag of books over my shoulder, and stepped into the shelter. I smelled dirty diaper right away. A good sign that I would find at least one child to read to.

I found three. Three of the darlingest cherubs ever. Chubby cheeks and big sparkling eyes. These children are strangers to me and yet they run immediately in my direction, without the slightest hint of shyness, raise chubby arms in the international sign to be picked up, and lay downy heads onto my shoulder. My heart melts instantly.

I find a place to sit where all can see the book I am about to read. I choose “Don’t Press the Button” by Bill Cotter. All three clamber to sit beside me, or on my lap. Don’t Press the Button is read-aloud gold. It’s funny and fun. By the second page, my audience is roaring with approval and deep belly giggles. They obediently press the button upon command and hearty laughter fills the room like shafts of warm yellow sunshine. I’m pretty sure the one on my lap is the one with the dirty diaper, but I don’t mind. The joy on these little faces is worth any momentary olfactory offence.

A parent is laughing, too. I find age-appropriate books for each child and read them aloud. He and his children gratefully accept their books and he promises to read them all again before bed tonight. I smile with satisfaction. This is exactly my hope each time I read to a child. I hope that the book I hand them will be read multiple times. So many times that the edges get tattered and the pages frayed. I hope that the children will memorize the pictures, know the words by rote memory, and have them spring to conscious memory at odd times in their adult lives, as the favorite books from my own childhood do. I hope that the parent reading will grow weary of reading them over and over, (and over and over).

I hope that the laughter and joy of a silly book with bright colors and mischievous characters will burn indelible neural pathways into those little, developing brains, and create a lifelong love of literature. I hope that their vocabulary warehouses will grow and that early reading skills will take root.

I hope that all of them will think about me in the coming week and look forward to my visit next Monday, eager for another book.

I hope that Project Armchair can give many books to these beautiful children over the course of the next weeks, and possibly months.

I hope so much for these children, and those like them.

I hope.

Project Armchair hit the thousand mark at some point around the end of 2017. One thousand children read to and one thousand books given away. That number may not seem significant to you, but it is staggering to me. If you packed one thousand children into a single facility, it would seem like a whale-of-a-lot of kids. If you stacked one thousand books on top of one another it would be an impressive structure. One thousand is a LOT.

I could not possibly reach that many kids by myself in two years. It is the faithful army of teacher-volunteers that show up on the pediatric floor at the end of a long workday, or selflessly sacrifice a Saturday morning. I am so grateful for their service. And humbled by the donations of books that find their way into our coffers.

It all makes what happened today possible. Precious children, cooped up in a shelter, or confined to a hospital bed, get a moment of reprieve from trying circumstances through the magic of a really good book.

I was reminded today that it is all very much worth it.

Project Armchair is Growing

Sometime in the late summer of 2016, I placed a call to a friend and fellow teacher in Fargo, ND. I explained the concept of Project Armchair; that we are certified teachers who read aloud to children in crisis, and her asked her if she knew of any teachers that might be interested in doing the same thing in Fargo. Coincidentally (or not), she was at that very moment sitting in a literacy conference with a roomful of colleagues. She asked around, and found several interested. Of that group, a wonderful and radiant teacher, named Deb Shasky, stepped forward to be the lead person for the Fargo area. None of this would have been possible without Deb’s passion and enthusiasm for reading to children in crisis.

And so it began.

Since that day last July, there have been a few bumps and hiccups to get a Fargo chapter launched, and the home chapter board of directors has spent many hours carefully considering how best to proceed. But it is with great joy that I share that we are well-ensconced in the Fargo Sanford Children’s Hospital. Volunteers and administrators seem passionate about the value of our presence there, and I know the Fargo chapter is in capable and talented hands. I want to thank Fargo’s volunteer team for the many hours they have invested in hospital training and meeting with me to get started. Deb Shasky, Nancy Frosaker, Morgan Pandolfo, are hard at work to fulfill all Sanford training requirements, raise funds to purchase books, and recruit fellow teachers so that there is volunteer reading to hospitalized children as often as possible.

I believe with my whole heart that great things are going to come of a Project Armchair presence in the city of Fargo. Sanford has a magnificent, shiny new hospital (pictured above), which just opened within the last two weeks. It is truly beautiful. And Project Armchair will be there to help lighten the load of suffering with the words and illustrations found in quality children’s literature, the comfort of a caring adult reading with enthusiasm, and the gifting of the book to remind the child over and over of those precious moments of reprieve. I have witnessed the power and magic of this very thing hundreds of times in the last two years.

If you would like to help the Fargo chapter achieve its goals of putting books into the hands of hospitalized children – and a hospital this size will go through books very quickly – please visit the wish list and donation tabs on this blog for more information.

Welcome to the Project Armchair family, Fargo!!

Srategy planning with Nancy Frosaker and Morgan Pandolfo