Yule Ramblings #15: The Lucent One

The year is 2005. I walk into her Kindergarten class at St. Mary School. I cross the primary-colored threshold, and step into the carpeted classroom: finger-painted art projects line the walls, an oversized calendar with velcroed numbers and complementary weather chart, a row of windows feature an inspirational phrase which appears backward from my vantage point. I peer across the wooden table islands, each perimeter dotted with five-year-old neatly-groomed heads, sitting in molded resin knee-high chairs. The tot-sized students return the friendly eye-contact, hands resting in front of them, just below their laminated name tags.

They greet me politely, surprisingly knowing who I am. Class: Good afternooooooon, Britt. Mrs. D. Who is Britt? Class: She's your daaaaaaaughter! They proceed to sing their ABC's forward and then backward, recite their numbers 1-10 in Italian, and then spell their names in sign language. After which, my mom leads me to a section of her chalkboard, littered with headshots of current events figures.

Mrs. D.: OK, everyone. Now let's test her.

Arg. I'm just paying a quick visit, Mom! I didn't expect to be walking into an examination.

She motions toward an elf-like man. He's adorably charming, yet seemingly clueless. I imagine this Cheshire cat holds fairy dust in his hands.

Me: That's the president. (I say this confidently.) Mrs. D.: Yes, but what's his name? Me: President George W. Bush. (I squint with disdain at the formality.) No celebration for me. Clearly that should have been an easy one. My answer is approved as I am leveled-up to the next big grin. A royal blue dry-erase marker doubles as her pointer as she dabs it around the mishmash of identification photos. She taps Michael Jackson. She thumps Prince Charles. She drums upon Brad Pitt.

Correct, moving on... Correct, moving on... Correct, moving on...

Wow. I guess I do know my stuff.

Next, the the capped marker lands on the lapel of a pleased-looking woman with a firmly sculpted 1960's chin-flipped bob. Her blindingly-white teeth and apple-red lipstick are the same color combo as the American flag stripes in the photo's background.

"That's... Condoleezza Rice?" I half say/half guess. "In what world would a Kindergartener know this person?" I think to myself myself. The whole class corrects me in sing-song unison: "It's-DOCTOR-Condoleeeeeezza-Rice!"

Only my mom's class would be so brazen as catch a visitor on a technicality like that.

They take over. Thank, gosh. A moment of mercy. Tony Blair. Jacques Chirac. Vicente Fox. Vladimir Putin.

Now, prior to my visit, my mom issued warning that her students were remarkably intelligent. But not just this group: all of her classes have had capabilities well past normal expectations. She believes in her students' potential. My mother was honored with Fayette County's Educator of the Year for Private/Parochial School two years prior. The Uniontown Herald Standard mentioned that her Kindergarten students can count to 100 in four languages, name the 43 (at the time) presidents and identify numerous world leaders. "All educators have a great obligation to their students," she is quoted as saying.

In 2011, she'd claim the title again. Except, this time, for Early Childhood Education. Fawning, teary-eyed parents, coworkers, and bosses backed and supported her nominations.

Now, with more than 35 years of teaching under her belt, she has had the opportunity to watch many of her students move on to higher learning, start families of their own, and excel within their chosen fields. She swells with pride when seeing her former students claim the title of Commander and Chief of their own lives.

She follows her former students' stories. She continues to cheer them on.

At the 2011 awards banquet in Nemacolin, she was gifted this Swarovski crystal snowflake from Joyce's Jewelers. Afterward, she passed it along to me.

(Cue the paradox -->) This is simply my fanciest ornament.

Swarovski, no matter the season, teleports me to chilly Austria, where it is manufactured. Tactile perfection. Touch the man-made gem with your fingertips, and you can literally feel the facets.

The snowflake symbolizes individual perfection. A Zen proverbs reminds us that "a snowflake never falls in the wrong place." (Unfortunately, "snowflake" has developed a media-driven negative connotation in recent years, but to me, I think of nature's exquisite artwork.) The white satin ribbon hints of innocence. The clear-coloring signifies purity.

Depending whereabouts this jewel lands on my tree each year, she amplifies the brilliant colors of her temporary neighbors.

I acknowledge the deeper connection between this particular ornament and my mother: Her sharpness, her strength, her ability to reflect the light of others right back at them.

Sometimes I ponder individual merit in life. (Disclaimer: Similar to the ornament, I believe the following viewpoint is another gift from my mother.) I pan across a public space and hone in on one person, and I'll wonder what they are doing, should be doing and could be doing, according to their natural gifts and universal purpose. Do they realize their potential? Well, I'll believe in them. It's the least I can do.

It's what I was taught to do.

It's what I want to do!

My mom is a teacher... and a great one, at that. She's been called to a life of building an educational foundation for others. She could have pursued many other professions: a lawyer, a politician, a screenplay writer. But she chose to walk the pedantic path because she nothing makes her happier than inspiring young children.

Fast forward to present day: I recently taught our pup, Luna, how to offer a handshake. Her independent nature means that she struggles with new tricks, so I have to figuratively "dangle the carrot" and literally tap the back of her left front leg to get her to raise her paw. Oh, well, baby steps. However, as a Dog Mum brimming with delight, I decided to show my son what Luna had learned.

My unimpressed five-year-old watches me, then says, "It's good, but a little contrived." WTF? Eww. I want to flick him in the middle of his forehead.

I blame my mom for his sass... as I silently credit her for his vocabulary. Addendum: I really, really very much wanted to call this article "The Flaky One." Cause it's a snowflake? Get it? But the title seemed a bit misleading. I didn't want people to think I was calling my mom the flake. She's totally not. She's about as astute as they come :)