Lester L. Laminack
Author and Consultant

October 9, 2024

Thinking about Helene: The aftermath

 

The summer had been dry, and we were needing rain. The grass was brown and crunchy in places. The ground was hard-packed and cracked. Even the big rocks in the streams and rivers were parched.  So, we were glad to see the slow rains that came in the days before Helene.

 

Those first two days of slow and steady rain refreshed the green in the fields and brought the creeks and rivers back to a more normal flow. I could hear the voice of the creek on our property for the first time in months. On the third day the rain continued more heavily. The creeks and the rivers were rising now, some of them moving more rapidly and threatening to come out of their banks.

 

Then, Helene moved in. The dry ground was now saturated. The thirsty streams, and creeks, rivers, ponds, and lakes had swollen. There was no place for the storm water to go but down hill.

 

The rain fell throughout the region without ceasing. As it filled every low-lying spot it gained volume and momentum and rushed toward the next lower spot. Pause a moment and think about thirty inches of rainfall in hours.

 

The flow of that water became an Olympic runner going for gold down the mountains, rushing into rivers that had suddenly outgrown the channels they had  comfortably navigated for eons. The smaller rivers swelled and gained power rushing to find the next larger one. As they joined forces, they gained strength. All that newfound power had no sense of itself and lifted houses off foundations and moved them downstream like bathtub toys. It folded boxcars around the concrete pilings on bridges. It ripped out highways and tossed cars, trucks, and tractors like a toddler in a tantrum.

 

With no other place to go, the water rose. Neighborhoods became lakes with the peaks of housetops peeking out like islands. Automobiles tumbled with trees and trailers and barns into massive tangles carried by unprecedented force that took out bridges and buildings rushing toward lakes and reservoirs. The force of all that water rushing downhill carved away the earth along the banks, pulled away the solid ground upon which houses once stood, ate away the roadbeds and spit out pavement and concrete leaving those who survived no way out.

 

Some may think the water was the worst of it all, especially when you saw the images of homes and towns submerged the morning after. And, clearly, that flooding was catastrophic and life-altering. Life-ending for many.

 

But the debris.  Consider for a moment, everything caught up in the power of that water upstream was carried in the flow until it hit an immovable object or reached a place where the water spread out, a lake or a reservoir. All that debris changed the landscape leaving everything almost unrecognizable.

 

A low-lying town may now be a collection of giant root balls, mangled campers, splintered trailers, crumpled-mud-covered-vehicles, bits of furniture, random hot tubs, bicycles, toys, and mud. Mud piled several feet deep that may hold the bodies of those who didn't escape miles upstream.

 

Large lakes and reservoirs are now the repositories of everything that flowed through to the end.

 

God bless the survivors. Imagine in the rush of getting out, knowing you must get to higher ground. Safety is your singular focus. Save the lives of your loved ones. Just get out. It is not until the waters recede, until the sun shines bright the next day that anyone can begin to think of what has been lost. Family treasures that mean nothing to anyone but those who have lost them. A child's favorite lovey. Photos. Keepsakes. It is not until the morning after that you think of food and water and medicine…and what next?

 

Dear ones, the outpouring of love and compassion, empathy and assistance has been heartwarming and most impressive. I've done my best to post each day any new information or images that I trust. I am not doing this to flood your FB feed, but to show the vast territory that has been impacted. The news channels have focused on the larger areas, but there are numerous small towns and villages in need as well. I'll continue to share what I can as I gather any new information. 

 

Let us remember the elderly. 

 

Let us remember the little ones who have no sense of what is to come. Our little folks will have nightmares, and fears of thunder and rain. Remember, their experiences are limited but now include this event. Those wee ones have lost their toys, their books, the things that take their imaginations to a new place and help them imagine a better tomorrow. 

 

So many of you have sent essentials to help the people in this region survive. Now, let's help them thrive.

Much love to you all,

Lester

It was months ago now, when I saw him standing there staring at the shelves holding ketchup, mayonnaise, mustard and the like. I remember thinking that he looked overwhelmed or confused. He was an older man,  perhaps in his eighties. He was small in stature, slight build, and had a gentle demeanor. He was standing there with an intent focus.

 

He held no basket. He pushed no cart. I watched a moment as he seemed to be searching the shelves. "Excuse me, sir, you seem to be searching for something. I'm happy to help you if I can."

 

He looked up at me. "Well, I'm a looking for Bunker Hill hot dog sauce." He pointed to the condiments before us. "It ought to be right here with all that other stuff you put on a hot dog."

 

"Yes sir, that sure makes sense. Bunker Hill, that comes in a can, doesn't it? Maybe they keep it on the aisle with all the different kinds of soup. If you will wait right here, I'll go over there and look."

 

I set off pushing my cart to the aisle where I expected to find Bunker Hill hot dog sauce. Well, I looked on every shelf among every kind of soup and found no can with a Bunker Hill label.  It took longer than I expected and when I rolled my cart back to where I had left him, he was no longer there. 

 

I walked to the end of the aisle and then down the outside edge looking into every aisle as I passed.  When I spotted him again, he was moving slowly down the cereal aisle. His gait was more a shuffle.  I assumed he had given up on me and set off on his own wandering up and down each aisle. I rolled my cart down to where he was and told him Bunker Hill was not with the soup as I had thought it might be.

 

He said, "I don't know where to find it. But I know they got it because I've bought it here before."

"Yes sir, I guess I'm just looking in the wrong place," I said. If you will stay here with my cart, I'll find someone who will know."

 

I left him standing by my cart (hoping he would stay put) and set off to the front of the store. At one of the registers there was a man who appeared to be about my age. I told him about the older gentleman and his search and my unsuccessful attempt to locate the Bunker Hill hot dog sauce.  This man walked with me to where I had left the older gentleman standing in the aisle.

 

The employee spoke with the gentleman and said, "I believe I know where that is. Let's walk this way." The older gentleman moved slowly; we adjusted our pace to his as we were guided to an aisle where several cans of Bunker Hill hot dog sauce waited.  The older gentleman looked up, "I knew they had it here. Thank you, both. Thank you for your help." The employee smiled and said, "glad to help," and walked back to the front of the store.

 

I watched as the gentleman reached up and took one can. One. Then he moved slowly to the end of the aisle. I stood keeping an eye on him as he shuffled on to the checkout. That one can of Bunker Hill was the only item he purchased.

 

I stood off to the side a bit and watched as he shuffled out the door. Several stories danced through my head before I could move from that spot.

        1.He and his wife had begun to prepare a supper of hot dogs and all the fixings when they realized they didn't have their favorite topping. He came to the store to bring it home in time for                 supper.

        2. He had outlived his wife and now he cooks very little. Meals for one are not fun and he keeps them very simple. Hot dogs and Bunker Hill.

        3. He is living on very limited funds; and at his age he doesn't see the point in having a stock of groceries in the cabinet. So he buys only what he needs for a day or two at a time.

 

I came back to the present moment and moved on down the aisle. After a few feet, I paused and turned around. I rolled my cart back to that spot and placed a can of Bunker Hill hot dog sauce in my cart. I don't know why, but I needed one. I thought of more stories, and it suddenly occurred to me that I had not introduced myself and I had not asked him his name. This realization saddened me.

 

I finished my shopping and headed to the checkout. The cashier began running my items through her scanner. The man who had helped me find Bunker Hill hot dog sauce came over to bag my groceries.  He put a few things in the first bag and paused. He looked me in the eyes and said, "That was very kind, what you did for that man."

"He seemed overwhelmed," I said. "He knew what he wanted but just wasn't sure how to find it. I was happy to help him.  And thank you, for helping me locate it for him. I thought it would have been with the soup."

 

"Well," he said. "I've worked here a long time, and I can tell you, it's rare to see anyone take the time you spent with that man to help a stranger anymore."

I nodded and said, "Isn't that sad? If you and I are lucky, and I hope we are, we will be that old man one day.  When we are, and when we move more slowly through this world, I sure hope there will be a spirit of kindness alive in folks."  He nodded and I pushed my groceries out to my car.

 

I left wondering about kindness and just how common it is.  When I was young the practice of helping others was commonplace. In fact, it was modeled by adults and expected of us kids. In recent years I've heard some folks argue that kindness isn't enough, that we must move beyond, "just be kind."  Well, yes, there is so much more to work toward. But if common kindness isn't common anymore, then we have a great deal of work to do, and that work begins at the baseline. We have to remember and teach others that each act of kindness is an acknowledgement of the basic human worth of another. When we pause our routine, step out of the flow of our thoughts to assist another we acknowledge the presence, the needs, the dignity, and the worth of another person.

 

Friends, it seems that we are moving away from the idea that kindness is strength. We seem to be losing the belief that being kind does not diminish us in anyway. Rather, it lifts us and those we assist. Somehow, we seem to be adopting an attitude of self before all else.  Somehow it seems that we are becoming a people who believe that our values, our truths, are absolute and, therefore, values and truths of another person that do not align with ours makes them not only wrong, but also less than. The practice of othering has become more common than kindness. The idea that any difference in beliefs, mores, attitudes, politics, religion, origin, ethnicity, race, sexual orientation, or any number of identity markers makes a person automatically placed in a category of other. This distinction alone sets us up to act as if "otherizing" is normal, acceptable, even necessary.

 

Before we move further down that path let's pause and reflect on the importance of common kindness. Let us be reminded why, even a generation ago, common kindness was considered a positive marker of good character. Let us revisit how making kindness common again changes those who receive the kindness, and perhaps to a greater extent, it changes those who extend it.

Lester Laminack

October 1, 2024

 

 

September 30, 2024

In the wake of hurricane Helene so many lives have been altered forever. The last report I heard was that over 90 lives were lost in the region leaving hundreds, thousands even, with a person-sized hole in their hearts. Countless people lost everything but life, and they now must cope with the struggle of figuring out how to move forward, to rebuild from scratch, and recreate a routine, a life.

We are among the fortunate and blessed in this storm. Our home and property are intact and unharmed. We have electricity and, therefore, water. All we lost was internet and cell service leaving us unable to communicate with anyone beyond those we see face to face.

 

In the towns and villages east of us, including the city of Asheville, there is great devastation—flooding of epic proportion, landslides that have taken out mountainsides and whole sections of interstate 40, a major east-west corridor.  Small towns were under water, bridges have been swept away, villages have been erased as if they never existed.  Those left behind, even those with homes intact, have no electricity, no water, no internet, no cell service.  With major roads washed away emergency supplies are being brought in by helicopter pilots, shelters have been set up for those who either lost their homes or simply can't stay in them.  Gas has become a very scarce commodity—shots have been fired at gas stations by desperate folks in the Asheville area. In surrounding areas, like the community where we live, gas stations that still have gas placed a limit of ten gallons per person paid in advance by cash.  Everything is cash only since the internet and cell service is down throughout the region. This has given rise to a rush on banks which has resulted in some banks limiting cash withdrawals to $100 per person.

 

I cannot access television coverage, I cannot email or text or call or use messenger or post on social media.  My access to information has been limited to an old-fashioned FM radio. Go today and buy a good one with good reception that can run on batteries. You never know when it may be your only source of news and information.

 

Yesterday, Sunday 9/29 I drove to Bryson City, a small town west of us, to buy a few grocery items.  The cashier reminded me that they were operating cash only. I asked whether this was because of the internet outage. She shrugged and said, "I honestly don't know, but I don't know anyone that has internet." A man in the next checkout lane turned toward us and said, "sir, if you need access to internet you can go to McDonald's and connect in their parking lot."  Well, I paid for my groceries and drove to McDonald's.

 

As soon as I connected, my phone began pinging and dinging with multiple notifications.  I responded to family and friends who were concerned over not hearing from us. Then I made a general FB post about our current situation and promised to update as often as I can get to a WiFi source.  As of today, 9/30 we have no internet without the nine-mile trip into Bryson City for a visit to McDonald's.

 

Each time I turn on the radio I am hearing reports of shelters, water services, and rescue efforts in the midst of all the devastation.  At present this region is the focus of national news reports, thoughts, and prayers. But we all know how the media feeding frenzy moves from meal to meal and soon this catastrophe will no longer feed that need.  Friends, the situation here is not a "story" on the evening news. It is a life-altering event for countless human beings like yourselves. Please don't let this become a "bless their hearts" event that grabs your attention until the next headline flashes in bigger, bolder font.

 

This is real life for thousands of adults, children, and pets.

 

If you have ever visited these mountains to enjoy the brilliance of fall, the splendor of new green, the joy of dogwood and laurel blossoms in spring, hiking or camping along the trails, the exhilaration of white-water rafting in the summer, or cruising along the Blue Ridge Parkway, then you have left a piece of your heart here. You, too, have lost a treasure. You, too, know the magic of this glorious region.

 

Love your neighbor as yourself

 

I was raised in a faith tradition where these words were spoken often, yet I never really paused to reflect and think deeply about what I was being called to do.  Recent events including the decisions of the United Methodist Church and the tragic events in New Zealand today have left those words ringing in my ears.  This time I did pause.  I have given this a great deal of thought and it has left me needing to write.

 

This call to action, "love your neighbor as yourself", begs a close look at two words, love and neighbor.  I was taught that love is patient and kind, does not envy, and is not boastful nor conceited or rude.  Love is not selfish, not quick to take offense, and keeps no score of wrongs. Love does not gloat over the shortcomings of others. Love takes delight in the truth.  If we subscribe to love as it has been described here we must recognize we are not being asked to merely think or believe, we are being called into action to support and lift our fellow human beings. 

 

We are called to be patient in our dealings with others. We are called to be kind in thought, word, and deed in all interactions with others. We are called to lift them up, offer support, without feelings of envy or jealously. We are called to be kind and helpful without conceit, rudeness, judgment of worthiness, or selfish feelings or actions.  If we subscribe to this notion of love we avoid any urge to boast of our goodness when we act on the opportunities presented to us in daily life.  To love in this way is an active-doing thing and not a saying-thinking thing.  To love is to act for the greater good of others without regard for getting credit or accolades and squelching the urge to tell others of our good deeds. To love in this way is to avoid any opportunity to name the flaws of others, and to decline the opportunity to gloat when others fail—even if they are attempting to advance themselves at the expense of others. 

 

When we consider who among us is our neighbor we are not speaking of the person who lives in the next nearest dwelling.  Rather, neighbors, from what I was taught are your brothers and sisters in the human family, that is, every other living person.  The story of the Good Samaritan was told to allow us to decipher the meaning of the word neighbor. I take the word neighbor to mean anyone we come in contact with, any and every member of the human family.

 

So what does it mean to love my neighbor as myself?  It does not mean that I feel some romantic attraction to the person next door.  It isn't that kind of love.  It does not mean that you go door to door and hug everyone who greets you. From my perspective--thinking about love as described above and thinking about neighbor in the broadest sense--I believe that at the very least we are called to feel basic human compassion for all human beings. We are called to do this without regard for any descriptor or category humans have created to separate others into groups in an attempt to make ourselves feel superior.  I believe that we are called to feel and exercise a deep and abiding respect that honors the humanity, the dignity, and personal identity of each person we meet.  We clearly are not called to judge the worthiness of another human; rather we are admonished to love.  So what does it mean for us to love our neighbor?

 

I speak only from my human experience and from my heart.  I believe this love calls upon each of us to expect nothing less for others than we expect for ourselves.  I believe this love calls upon us to accept nothing less for others than we would accept for ourselves. To love is an action, not a thought, or an ideal.  It requires that we not only think, but that we also do.  What must we do if we want for others what we expect for ourselves?  First we have to think about what it is we expect for ourselves.

 

Truth be told, I suspect that most of us never articulate this notion.  Instead we react when we don't get what we believe we are due.  At the core of this question we each expect basic human dignity, personal integrity, identity, safety for self and loved ones.  We are indignant when disrespected.  We are incensed when treated as less than another. We are angered when our children or our elders are made to feel inferior to others.  The question is whether we are equally incensed, indignant, or even angered when this happens to someone we do not know and cherish.

 

That is what this call to love is about.  Do we hold the same expectations for the treatment and rights of others that we have for ourselves?  If it is not what we feel and act upon, then we are complicit in the actions of those who fail to love their neighbors as they love themselves.

 

At the most basic level we are called to live a life of kindness in action.  It is a simple thing actually and is easily summed up in a lesson from childhood: The Golden Rule.  We do nothing to anyone, ever, other than that which we like done to ourselves or to our beloveds.

 

Pause here a moment and reflect.  Think about what you believe are your essential human needs.  Think about what you expect from others with regards to respect, dignity, integrity, trustworthiness, and honesty. Think about times when you have been afforded these by others. Think about how you felt.  Think about a time when you have been denied any of these.  How did you feel?  Consider your most private thoughts and beliefs.  Are any of them placing other human beings in a place of less than, less deserving, less human?  Consider your actions toward others.  Where do you embrace, fully, the humanity of your neighbor?  Where do other thoughts and feelings slow, or cripple, those actions? Do you harbor any thoughts or beliefs that place limits on any other individual or group allowing them less than yourself or your beloveds?  Do any of your behaviors place limits on any other individual or group allowing them less than yourself or your beloveds?

 

Now consider our institutions—government, business, schools, hospitals, places of worship, places of recreation, etc.--when and how do they enact this love or fail to do so?  Should not the very institutions laying claim to being the embodiment of the greatest love have the greatest demonstration of it?  Shouldn't we be able to expect nothing less from our government and faith communities than the living embodiment of this love?

July 11, 2018

This is my 62nd birthday. No birthday has ever given me pause; no number has evoked a missed breath. But this one brought a few hours of very conscious awareness of my mortality. My son, daughter-in-law, and granddaughter came up on the 8th and 9th to celebrate Everette’s 2nd birthday early with her family here. It was a most delightful gathering. Everette is blossoming with mobility, agility, cognition, personality, and language. She is an absolute delight. When they left to return home I was flooded with wonderful emotions. Zach and Cindy are excellent parents. I am filled with joy and pride each time I see my baby with his own baby.

When they had returned home and Steve and I were back to our own routine I became a bit nostalgic. I found myself seeing Zach at two and reminiscing about all the wonder and magic the world held for him. I realized just how quickly those 32 years have moved on downstream… now he is the adult, the father enchanted by his own child. Thirty-two years passing so very quickly made me miss a breath.

On the evening of the 9th I lay in bed very conscious of the fact that I, at 62, have lived the better portion of my life already. I’ve never been in love with mathematics as I am with language, but I realize that I have lived over half my time on this earth. And knowing the average lifespan of a male is 75-80 years; well it is very clear…I’ve made it well beyond the half-way mark. I lay there thinking, “In 8 years when she is 10 I’ll be 70.” Somehow that idea jolted me.

The next morning, July 10, one day before my 62nd birthday, I decided to drive out to the little cottage on our property. It is a very small house built in the late 1930’s and in need of more work than we can do to save her. I keep the yard mowed and tend to the flowers and sometimes take my coffee and sit on her steps for a short while before going up to the office. On this morning I noticed an old Ford pick-up slowing down, then stopping at the drive. I walked out to meet the driver curious to see who would be stopping at an abandoned house. An old man with weathered skin and bright eyes emerged with a spring in his step. Two little dogs were with him, one in the bed and one in the cab. His cab companion jumped out and began exploring the property. I stepped up and extended my hand. He took it. We shook hands. “I hope it ain’t no bother that I stopped. My wife’s sister and her husband used to live here. I noticed somebody’s been a-mowing the grass and got the place looking nice. I just had to see it for myself. I hope you don’t mind.”

I told him that I welcomed his visit, that I loved the old house and had planned to restore it as a guest cottage. I had to admit that my contractor had advised me against that plan saying it would be more cost effective to burn it and replace it.
“I come down here often and sit on her steps. I’ve named her Grace, because I really want to save her and I know it will take the grace of God for me to do so,” I said. He smiled and began to tell me stories of the property. I learned about the garden spots, and which meadows they used for hay and which they used as pasture land for the cattle. I was warned that I’d need a chain saw to remove a couple of the portions of fencing because he and his son had sunk the posts deep in the ground and “made ‘em solid with concrete so them old bulls couldn’t knock ‘em down and get out.” He told me his brother-in-law and sister-in-law didn’t have children and had left the place to him and his wife. He had given it to his son who is now retired and sold it to the man who sold it to us. We stood there and chatted for the longest. “I don’t have the key to the house with me or I’d invite you in. But we can sit on her steps if you’d like.” He thanked me for that offer, smiled, and spoke. “I just went out to take the trash to the dump and I been gone a while now. I’m coming up on 92 soon and my wife will be worried if I don’t get back.” He extended his hand this time. I took it. He told me his name again and told me where he lived. “It’s just on the other side of that mountain there. Just dive around anytime if you want to know anything about this place.” We said out goodbyes and he drove away slowly like the fog burning off to reveal the light of day.

In that new light I breathed deeply filling my lungs with fresh air. I thought about that man and the stories and life that were part of this place I love so. I thought of his wife and her sister planting those flowers I’m trying to tend. I thought of all the plans I have to reclaim the meadows and pastures, to clean out the area around the creek so we can watch the water frolic through the streambed and over the stones. I thought of the joy we will share with visitors and family who come when our house is built.

My visitor that morning thought he was filling a need of his own, but he gave me a gift for my birthday. He gave me a bigger vision of what it means to follow the current of life downstream and to frolic in the streambed and over the rocks along the way. I am grateful.

--Lester Laminack
(from my office)
Thistle Hill
Whittier, NC

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[First Printed as the closing comments in Lester Laminack (2009)"Unwrapping the Read Aloud: Making Every Read Aloud Experience Intentional and Instructional" NY: Scholastic, (pp.93-95)
Reading aloud to the children in our lives seems like such a commonsense practice. Yet in recent years I have heard teachers remark that they simply don’t have time to read aloud. These same teachers comment on how much they enjoy reading to their students and share fond memories from their own school years when teachers read to them. It is as if we feel the need to justify the use of precious time to read aloud. We seem afraid to exercise our own good judgment to do what our professional knowledge tells us is right and good for children. Let me remind you that we are professionals. Somehow in the midst of all the demands for higher scores, the very real threats of school takeovers, and the infiltration of scripted programs, we have lost sense of this fact. We are professionals.

Remember that we have a specific knowledge base that sets us apart from the rest of the population. We have deep understandings and insights into human growth and development, language and literacy development, pedagogy, curriculum design, and instructional technique. We know things the general public simply doesn’t understand. Yet we continue to allow influences beyond our profession diminish our sense of self and steal our very professional identity from us, and in doing so we lose our professional integrity.

I urge you to renew that knowledge base. Revisit those books and articles that once sparked your professional knowledge and piqued your curiosity. Revisit those books and articles, conference proceedings, and videos that once excited you, invigorated you, and nudged you into new practices in your classroom. Revisit the last time you felt charged and in charge. Remember those days when you entered the profession, and remember the feelings and beliefs that brought you in.

I can’t know your reasons for becoming a teacher, but I am virtually certain that there is not one teacher breathing who chose this profession because he or she wanted to raise a test score or make adequate yearly progress goals for the school. Whatever the reason you had for becoming a teacher, I’m confident it had something to do with children and their welfare and their sense of self. I am fairly confident it had something to do with helping children reach their potential and realize their dreams. Let’s refocus our energies on the children. Let’s make each decision based on what we believe would be good for the specific children in our charge. Let’s make daily decisions with that in mind. Let’s trust our professional judgment to guide our decisions. Let’s teach with integrity and know that our students will do well if our attention is directed toward the child—the mathematician and scientist and artist and writer and musician and athlete and reader and social scientist and dreamer and inventor and visionary in each of them. Let’s teach children again. Let’s be reminded we are here to raise humans, not scores.

Let me remind you that literature in all its many forms has such potential to expand the horizons of every child—regardless of background or baggage, privilege or poverty. When we read aloud to them, we offer them new vistas and new visions. We offer them new ways of coping with life’s issues and pleasures. We offer them new opportunities to grow their language and their understandings. We help them realize how much there is to learn. When we read aloud, we show them how we gain a little knowledge to ask better questions, and that asking better questions drives us to read even more. When we read aloud, we introduce them to people just like them and like no one they have ever imagined. We help them realize their homes are only a small sample of the dwellings of all humanity. We help them realize their families are one of many ways families can be formed. We help them realize that the sound of their language is one note in the music of the many languages on the globe. When we read aloud, we help them realize what they value and cherish as worthy and worthwhile and holy is only one way of assigning importance in this great big world. When we read aloud, we help them realize that no matter who we are, no matter where we live, no matter what we value, no matter how we sound, we are more alike as human beings from the inside out than we are different from the outside in. But perhaps the most important message that comes from our reading aloud to them is one that says you are worth the time this will take. You are the focus of what I do as a teacher. When I read to you, I give you that same undivided attention you once had snuggling in the lap of a caregiver who read to you. When a teacher reads aloud, it is a bonding between the teacher, the children, the books, and the act of reading. That in itself is worthy.

Friends, I urge you to reconnect to those stirrings that brought you into this profession. I urge you to refocus your attention to the children in your care. There is no more precious treasure on this globe than the children of its people. Nothing holds greater potential for good, for truth, for justice than the children on this Earth. We cannot afford to contaminate that precious resource with notions of worth connected to the number on a test. We cannot afford to lead our children to the belief that our school’s success, our success, their success, and, by association, their worth, is invested in adequate yearly progress. For a child to believe that he or she has responsibility for the success of a school, a community, a state, and the nation is ludicrous at best and immoral at worst.

Take some time now to search through your books, to carefully and critically examine your schedule, to revisit your vision about why this matters. Pull a favorite book, stop what you are doing, and read to them.

In all things, be kind and truthful. Let nothing you do take from a child his or her dignity as a human being, his or her integrity as a learner, his or her identity as one who is capable. Cause no intentional harm.
Peace be with you,
Lester
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International Literacy Association Interview
5 Questions
Lester Laminack

Q: You’ve often discussed the importance of read-alouds in school. Do you write with that in mind?

A: I am very conscious of rhythm and phrasing as I write. All through the development of a story I pause to read and reread and read aloud. I listen for the sounds of words hanging together. I listen for those places where the balance is off, where the music in language just doesn’t resonate. I read with attention to how those words feel in my mouth, noting where I stumble or have to pause when reading aloud. Reading and listening to my own writing is one of my most frequently used revision tools.

Q: What about read-alouds get children interested in independent reading?

A: Reading aloud to children is one way of making numerous deposits into the account they will draw from across their lives. It fills their ears with the music of written language, attuning the ear to the rhythms, pacing, and flow of language used in story, essays, expository material and every other type of text. Reading aloud broadens vocabulary, develops familiarity with the arc of a story, the patterns of beginning, middle, and end, the development of a character. It creates a sense of kinship among those who share the story. Reading aloud to students exposes them to the structure of an essay, the framework for an argument, the reflection of a memoir. It is an engaging and non-threatening way to expose children to various genres, authors and purposes for reading. When a text is delivered on the voice of one who is passionate about language and writing and reading and teaching, the result is a powerful current that pulls anyone within earshot of the banks of onlooking and into the flow of language. I believe that experience is necessary to the development of independent readers.


Q: How has your work as a college professor affected your children’s books?

A: I’m taking the liberty here to alter your question just a bit. I was an elementary classroom teacher and a Title I Reading teacher before I was a college professor and I think of myself as a teacher who happens to be a writer. As a teacher I have knowledge of the growth and development patterns in children and youth. I believe that helps to keep me focused on what and how children make sense of experience. And while that clearly rests in my conscious mind, it doesn’t constrict or define parameters for me. Perhaps it comes from that academic background, but I believe the more powerful influence is that I have somehow kept alive the child within.

Q: Do you sit down with a particular lesson in mind or does the plot just lead to the lesson (envy in Three Hens and a Peacock, for instance)?

A: I believe my best writing emerges and is fed by the process of allowing a story to grow. I have attempted to begin with a “lesson” in mind and it always fails. When I have taken that stance the story builds to a point and implodes beneath the weight of that heaviness. There is one particular story I ache to tell and the primary problem with every draft I’ve made is that I am being guided by a particular “lesson” when I need to be guided by the character and let the story emerge. I have learned that story works better when I give the characters enough room to live in my head and just follow them around taking notes.

Q: I saw a photo of you in front of a bookshelf. Is that really yours, and if so, how are they organized?


A: Yes, that photo was taken in 2010 in my old loft in downtown Asheville. I’ve moved since then, but had similar shelving built in the new place so all my friends could come along. Regarding the system for organizing. Anyone who knows me well understands my need for organization (I can hear a few of my friends chuckling as they read this). These books are organized in two ways. The majority of these books are shelved alphabetically by authors last name. I also have several subsets organized by category or topic (bats, honeybees, civil rights, the holocaust, kindness, etc.) because I work with them frequently and need to pull a collection for some purpose.

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How can educators teach character?

It is my view that character is something we demonstrate and develop over time. There are lessons we can teach, books we can share, conversations we can host, but none of it will matter if we are not living exemplars of what we say and ask our students to live out. Children, even the youngest of our students, recognize the disconnect between our words and our actions. In short, integrity is not something we can fake. Our actions and behaviors are the more effective teacher in matters of character. Children learn from our behaviors what a promise means. They learn from our actions and our reactions what it means to be kind and truthful and honorable. They learn from our consistent ways of being what it means to be trustworthy, considerate, empathetic and caring. Our ways of being are, in my view the most powerful instruction we can devise when it comes to developing character.

Developing character is an incremental process, one that takes time, consistency, modeling and conversation. I believe our task begins with living what we expect. We model civil conversations in which all participants listen and respond, initiate and scaffold. We behave with our colleagues in ways we would expect our students to behave for I do not believe we can lead the development of anything in others that is not a basic component of our own belief and behavior.

In my work I am encouraging teachers across the country to drop the traditional list of rules; the "you can't..." statements and the "if you do..." threats we find posted on the first day of school. I'm suggesting that in place of those lists we focus on a guiding principle such as this: "In all things be kind and truthful; cause no intentional harm." This statement focuses on what we expect, what we hold as common behavior in a civil society. It doesn't suggest the behaviors we want to avoid. It doesn't imply a punitive system to coerce the behaviors desired by authority. Character is not compliance out of fear, it is a manifestation of core beliefs. Character is how we live every day in every circumstance. The task, then, is to help students develop deeply held beliefs about the value of human dignity, respect for oneself and for others.  Read More 

On August 6, 2015 I delivered the Thursday keynote for the Teachers College Reading and Writing Project (‪#‎TCRWP‬) August Writing Institute. I focused on the importance of trust in teaching writing. At one point in the keynote I read my most recent blog post (see www.LesterLaminack.com). That post was my response to the recent events in Charleston, southern heritage, and the confederate flag. The speech was well received and I was deeply touched by the response.

Though many came up to speak with me afterwards, one young African-American teacher from CA (I wish I had his name) came up to tell me what the remarks had meant to him. I thanked him. We embraced and he removed a button from his shirt and handed it to me. "I want you to have this."

I pinned the button to the lapel of my jacket and left it there. I embrace its message and I'm proud to wear it. But as I moved through the hours I became unconscious of having it on my jacket. So yesterday afternoon (Friday) I board the flight from LaGuardia to Charlotte. I had been upgraded to first class and took my seat on the aisle in row two. The flight attendant came through asking if anyone wanted a drink while we waited for others to board. I declined, but noticed that each time she passed she seemed to be looking at me as if she expected me to say something. Finally, as everyone was boarded she stepped into the aisle and came over to me, "I hope you don't mind me asking, but I'm intrigued by your button. Shouldn't it say, ALL lives matter?"

I looked at her and sat silent for a moment. Then I asked, "May I ask you how old you are?" She was 32. "Then this may be hard for you to imagine, but I'm going to ask that you reflect a while before saying anything. Imagine you have two sons that are the same age, twins. But one is white and one is black. Can you hold that thought in you mind?" She said yes. "Now let's imagine that your two boys are age 19 or 20 and are heading out for the evening in the city...maybe in Ferguson or Baltimore or Charleston... (I pause to let that settle). Would you feel that both your boys would be equally safe for the evening? She said little. Very little. Then I said, "So, I guess you could say we have to remind our friends, families, and neighbors that Black Lives Matter. And until they embrace that notion and live with it as a truth, we can't do more than give lip service to the notion that ALL lives matter." She just stood there and I added, "you know, I think I will have a drink."  Read More 

Southern Heritage is Deep and Complex
by Lester Laminack

My American family can be traced to a German immigrant who entered Philadelphia in 1739 and made his way to South Carolina in 1767. The roots of my family tree have reached deep into southern soil and spread far across the region. I grew up in a small rural town halfway between Birmingham and Atlanta. That Alabama county seat with its three traffic lights was my geographic world back then.

I was born in 1956, early enough to remember two water fountains on the side of the Tasty Dip, separate schools, and separate churches; early enough to witness, but not understand, two separate worlds. I was a child when the evening news brought black and white images from the streets of Birmingham into our home. I saw a bombed church and heard the somber voice tell of the death of four little girls close to my age. I saw fire hoses being used to force black teenagers off the sidewalk. I saw police officers holding taut leashes with German shepherds lunging toward black people on the streets. I saw images of people draped in white robes with conical coverings that hid their faces. I saw a burning bus twenty miles away in Anniston. I saw burning crosses and burned churches. I knew little and feared much. Those images from the news are as much a part of my southern heritage as long humid summers, bird dogs under the front porch, the wafting smell of pine and the haunting sounds of a whippoorwill at dusk.

There has been a lot of talk about heritage lately. Though our southern history is deep and complex we tend to cling to and glorify the charming and romantic images of the south while we gloss over or ignore the more heinous ones. However, history is not a flower garden where we are allowed to select the most beautiful blossoms to grace our table when company is coming. History is everything from the past, all of it. Our past unfortunately includes the truth of slavery and cruelty, mistreatment and systematic legal racism. We are not afforded the luxury of selecting only a few scenes from our storied history to set on display when we speak of our heritage.

Each time we embrace the soft, romantic notions of the old south we are pricked by the thorns of cruelty inflicted upon countless human beings. When we evoke images of Spanish moss drifting in the moonlight we must not forget there have been human silhouettes hanging from those same branches in the night sky. When we chuckle about Jack Daniels and Jim Beam as cousins who find there way into our family stories we must not forget how Jim Crow and George Wallace also played a role. When we think of southern women and speak with admiration for the character Scarlett O’Hara we must not forget the very real women named Harriett Tubman, Sojourner Truth, and Mary McLeod Bethune. When we speak of the innocence of a southern childhood let us not forget Denise McNair, Carole Robertson, Addie Mae Collins, and Cynthia Wesley who had their own cut short. When we wave a flag and speak of valor and courage and honor we must not forget Rosa Parks and Martin Luther King and Fred L. Shuttlesworth and Medgar Evers who risked everything to ensure the human rights of our neighbors.

Our southern heritage is not rooted in a symbol emblazoned on a piece of cloth clipped to a chain and run up a pole. It isn’t an icon to flaunt in the faces of those oppressed by the attitudes, behaviors and policies of previous generations. We cannot gloss over the fact that one group of humans believed themselves more worthy than another group of humans and made their existence miserable at best. This truth is part of our history. So as we have conversations about our southern heritage we must remember this ugliness IS part of our history and all of it is brought forth in symbols of the past. Nothing is exempt. Any symbol from the past brings with it the best and the worst of our history. Let us recognize this is our collective southern heritage. As such the very symbol some hold up to honor their ancestors is an affront to the loss and pain and indignities suffered by the ancestors of their neighbors. Any symbol of our heritage should represent all of us and give each of us something to be proud of.

Let us pause and consider what we hope to bring forward, what we hope to represent us as southern people. What shared attributes can all southerners take pride in. What would we lift up and hold on to? What is worthy of continuation in future generations? The heritage I want to bring forward is a tradition of caring, of lifting up those in need and offering them food and prayers and support. It is tradition of music and praise, of family and friends, a tradition of community. This part of southern heritage is evident on front porches, in hospital rooms, and in a neighbor’s garden. It emerges when a house burns, when a child is sick, when a church needs a new roof, or when the high school band needs new uniforms. It is in the act of caring for others. It is a way of being, a manner of living, and an attitude of gratefulness. It is reflected in dialect and conversation, story and song, in “bless your heart” and “lawd have mercy” and “well, I never.”

If the roots of your heritage run deep and spread out into the rural south you are likely to find a plow and a pulpit, an outhouse and moonshine still, a hand dug well, and a chimney built of stones taken from fields plowed by a man walking behind a mule. You will likely find folks who ate what they planted or hunted, and built the houses that sheltered their families. You are likely to find folks who helped a neighbor bring in a crop or build a barn or change a tire.

The confederate flag has become so divisive that there is no clear message it can evoke in ALL people. Regardless of what it may mean to some, it has become a flagrant banner of racism and hatred and arrogance that calls up the worst of our past. At best that prevents old wounds from healing, and at worst it continues to inflict new ones. Many southern folk lift verses from the bible to justify their attitudes and behaviors. Here’s a verse to consider: “If your right hand causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away! It is better to lose one of your members than to have your whole body go into hell.” (Matthew 5:30). If you are a southerner, one who holds dear the best of our collective heritage this flag is “your right hand.” Clinging to it while knowing that it evokes pain and images of the worst of our history is a deliberate act that perpetuates the attitude of supremacy of one group.

No flag holds the essence of what is good about being southern. That is within us. The best of what it means to be southern is in our behavior toward others, in our kindness and caring. If pressed for a symbol of the south it would as likely be a magnolia blossom as anything, or perhaps a glass of sweet tea with beads of condensation swelling up on the sides.

We must move forward.

In recent weeks we have seen confederate flags coming down from flagpoles and being pulled from license plates and store shelves. This symbolic gesture did not come as the result of a single action. Rather, the cold callous killing of nine human beings engaged in a bible study group was the final blow in a long history of mistreatment. A young man invited in to worship ended the lives of the very people who embraced him in the spirit of kindness and love. And had you or I been there with a neighbor or friend that night we would likely be dead as well.

Let us remember those nine human beings rocked their babies. They went to work with us and paid their mortgage payments. They sent their children to school just as we do each day. They gathered for holidays and sang happy birthday to loved ones. They made ice cream on the Fourth of July. They worshipped together. Those nine people lived among us. They were our neighbors… our brothers… our sisters. They ARE us.

And as difficult as it may be to accept, this young man also walked among us. He attended our schools. He shopped in the same grocery stores. He ate hamburgers and fries in the booth next to us. He nodded when he passed us on the street and waved as he drove through the intersection. He IS us.

WE are ONE. Even with all our differences, the essence of our shared humanity, that which makes any of us human, is present within all of us. Behaviors, beliefs, and attitudes certainly run the gamut, but the essence of humanity is within each of us. We are members of one human family. Let us be humane and lift what is best in our shared humanity.

The people of Charleston, including the families of the nine who were betrayed and murdered, have demonstrated the best of our humanity. We witnessed the power of grace and dignity and love. This is the best of our southern heritage: family, community, caring, grace. May each of us take a lesson, shed our old skin and emerge with our essential humanity intact and ready to move forward.

“In all things be kind and truthful. Cause no intentional harm.”—Lester Laminack


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