Leo Lionni’s Alphabet Tree goes like this: there’s a bunch of letters hanging out on the leaves of a tree, and everything’s going well until a gust of wind and then a gale blows so hard that some of the letters get blown away. The rest are terrified, so they huddle together in a jumbled mess in the middle of the tree, where they believe they’ll be safe from what comes along.
A bug flies over to them and asks what in the world they’re doing, and the letters tell the bug how afraid they are. They’re too afraid to go back on the leaves, so they’re hiding. The bug tells the letters that if they get together in twos, or threes, or even fours, and make a word, they’ll be stronger and they won’t need to worry about being blown away. Because it’s important to know who you are, but how great is it to understand who you are in relation to others? Of course there’s strength in placing yourself alongside someone else, using what it is each of you have to create something new.
So the letters get together and make words – cat, leaf, it, fan, the, door – and they are thrilled because the bug was right. They ARE stronger together, and now they can hang out on the tree. All is fantastic until a large, purple caterpillar comes along and tells them it’s all well and good to make a word, but it’s not enough. These words need to now get together and make a sentence. It’s time to mean something.
The letters are baffled. What’s a sentence that means something? They think for a bit, and decide that, “Peace on earth, and good will toward all,” is the most meaningful sentence they can arrange themselves into. The caterpillar is satisfied and tells them so. Then, the caterpillar tells the letters who’ve figured out words and now a sentence, that it’s time to go. “Climb on my back,” he offers, and the letters are afraid again.
“Where are we going,” they ask, as they climb on his back and prepare to leave their beloved tree.
“To the President,” the caterpillar tells them on the last page of the story. It is a picture filled with movement. We only see part of the caterpillar’s body, and the word “PEACE” on his back, and all that’s seen of the tree, who housed those letters, is a branch, that looks like an arm reaching out to say goodbye as she releases them into the world.
I cut pieces of brown butcher paper for a trunk and branches, and taped them to a wall in the library, and I drew leaves and bugs for the students. The preschoolers and the Kindergarteners practiced writing letters on the leaves, and the first graders made words with those letters, and now we have our own alphabet tree in the library. I don’t feel terrible that we didn’t get to sentences because we aren’t finished yet, and I think there’s a lot we can do with words as they are.
For example, at the other school I work in, while Dr. Ford was using her words to put together sentences to be heard, to be regarded, to be attended to, because they matter, all the students preschooler through fifth grade, with the help of their teachers, administration, and staff, went outside and arranged themselves in a word that I think the caterpillar would be thrilled to show the President.
(Thank you to Essatto View Photography for taking this photo.)
It’s no sentence, sure. I was standing next to another teacher and we made a few remarks about the chaos, the noise, the effort it takes to arrange all these kids into five letters. She held tight to the hand of one of her students because he’s a runner. I remembered him from last year, and smiled at him. He smiled at me and waved. I waved back, and pivoted myself slightly so that I could help his teacher if he decided to run away from peace. If she needed it, I’d help her bring him back.
There was a roar of glee when the camera flew in the sky to take our picture. I’d never seen anything like this, and laughed along with the students who pointed and screamed in amazement at this Star Wars looking robot positioning itself to make sure it captured our message accurately. I alternated between laughing, looking at the sky, and watching the photographer on the ground control the camera.
I remember saying to the principal in the first school I taught in, that the first year of teaching had to be the hardest. She said, “Nope. It’s every year after that because then you understand the job.” She was right, and it applies to this small role I have in the Ypsilanti Community Schools. There’s so much to do, and I never feel like I’m making strides towards getting it done. It’s hard to stay committed to the belief that we start with a letter, and then it’s sound, and that sound paired with another letter’s sound can become a word, and then a sentence, and all of it is there for a person to stand up, take her place in the world, and mean something. No matter how difficult it is, no matter how complicated it becomes, we all have to keep using our words. On this day though, I was comforted a bit by those who help us do it: a children’s author, a bug, a caterpillar, a tree, a photographer.
I felt a pull on my sweater as I made my way into the school. That’s one thing I’m not used to with the younger students. Middle schoolers don’t touch their teachers, and I’ve never been a hugger or really, a warm, cozy person. The little kids though, they hug. They hold your hand. They pull on your clothes pleading with you to help them find the story with the pigeon who wants a hot dog. So I stopped and looked to see a little girl smiling at me. I sat beside her three mornings a week last year as she read, each of us hunched so close to the words it felt like prayer. It is grueling to learn to read, and it is grueling to help someone learn to read, and seeing her, I immediately knelt down and gave her a hug and she hugged me back because we were in the trenches together, and she made it out.
“You’re here! You’re here!” she said, patting my hair and looking at me from head to toe like I was some kind of super hero. I wanted to tell her I’m not. Super heroes don’t leave their jobs in the middle of the year. Super heroes don’t give in to their fear even though the pull to put the cape back on is so strong they can barely stand it. Super heroes can sit in faculty meetings.
I couldn’t stand how she was looking at me, so I hugged her again.
“Will we read together this year?” she asked.
“I don’t think we have to anymore,” I told her, hoping the tears in my eyes wouldn’t spill over. “You have a fantastic teacher this year,” I told her. “Do you know she’s Wonder Woman?” I whispered, and her eyes grew rounder, and brighter.
“We’ll still read stories, I promise.” I told her. “Your teacher will bring you to the library, and I’ll show you stories you can read all by yourself.”
She gave me one more hug, and ran to get in line with her class. I watched her go.
I looked at the grass where we all stood. It had been spray painted so we knew where to stand. I chuckled at all the effort it took to make, “PEACE.” Just one word; not even a sentence.
But we have to start somewhere.
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