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Is pencil poking and a little whack the conditions that merit a suspension from elementary school? Is this mutual combat? It hardly compared to a member of the Bloods and a member of the Crypts having a showdown behind the gym at lunchtime. There sat the suspension papers and nothing seemed so clear cut anymore.

Clearly, there was a disconnect between the two versions, so in the spirit of cooperative discipline I sat them down together in an effort to reach the truth. “Keith, would you share with me one more time what happened in the class today with Dara.” Over the years I had learned that the consistency of truth always wins. Those students who were fudging reality nearly always had a hard time remembering the facts when asked to repeat them. Only the toughest of the tough kids could lie as if it were the truth. Keith’s story remained consistent, “I poked her with my pencil and she hit me.”

Dara exploded with an excitement that I had not yet seen. Her eyes doubled in size, her expression spread across her face and she popped out of her seat as if it had a spring installed in it. “Mrs. Boles, wait wait…” Dara loudly exclaimed with an insistence that cried with desperation. “Principal Boles, listen to meeeeeee!” she whaled. “I have the better, gooder version of the truth!”

I took a deep breath to keep myself from bursting into laughter. I glanced at the suspension papers that still sat on my desk and knew that they would be heading straight for the shredder.

Composed and internally laughing hysterically, I stoically asked Dara to tell me her “…better, gooder version of the truth…”

I shredded and I laughed and laughed. I think even Mr. Potato Head was chuckling.

One of those secrets that are probably best not known outside the internal arena of elementary education is the way children can sometimes be described in order to compartmentalize the right information with the right child....basically, a step in the sanity scale to keep it all straight. It isn't meant to hurt or to stereotype, rather it is to not let all of the information run together in your head creating a disastrous and messy chunk of mud that we try to call to a brain. For example, if a little guy comes to school every day and cries, he will then be (at least temporarily) known as "The crier", and to further share if a student is hitting another child, then he would probably be called "The hitter" and so forth. I know we shouldn't have labeled kids, but believe me it was done in the most pure and sincere form of humor, which helped us get through the not so funny aspects of the challenges and pain that some children face. We had "The pooper", "The pee-er", "The pincher", "The kicker", and no doubt a few more that have been lost in the mud swamp that tries to remind me is my brain.

Samantha was my "Cookie Girl". No less than several times a month, Samantha would show up at my door with pictures she had colored at home, cookies she had baked with her Mom or some other token to let me know that she thought I was pretty special. Petite, blond and perfectly groomed every day with the crispest uniforms and artistically, well balanced, blond pigtails, her blue eyes were filled with a sweet spirit that conveyed an innocence that was genuine. Principals aren't supposed to have favorites, but the reality is that even principals are human and some kiddos are just more adorable, more likable, and more approachable. In an effort to hide my preferences as best as I could, I was well aware that Samantha was one of my favorite students and it wasn't just because she made a great chocolate chip cookie. I remember one Saturday I had run to the grocery store and was in one of those outfits and state of disrepair that I deeply hoped I wouldn't run into anyone I knew. My shirt was ill-fitted, my pants were hardly fit to paint the house in much less to go to the grocery store, and my hair was owned by a large clip so that it didn't sprawl all over my face. No make up...no fancy shoes....an attire not worthy of even riding in my car was my unfortunate choice of the day. So, as I leaned over to find the freshest tomatoes in my tattered and not so lovely attire, I felt this wallop of two small arms wrapped around my knees. Stunned, I caught myself from falling and looked down to see that Samantha had discovered that even her Principal went to the grocery store. Yes. we human principals ate food too. I was just glad in my non-made up and "What Not To Wear" garb I hadn't scared the poor child away. Samantha loved me almost as much as I cared about her regardless of how I looked. Years later, I can still feel her sweet arms around my knees.

Each year, one of the routines that was an expected task of my job was to complete the evaluation process on all of my teachers. I was one of the lucky ones because I had such a terrific staff and this was yet another opportunity for me to not only tell them how terrific they were, but more specifically to show them why. Ms. T was certainly one of the favorite teachers of our parents and students. Ms. T, was a young, energetic and an eye for every detail kind of educator--the one we all want for our children. She deeply cared about every one of her students and took their successes and failures as if they were her own. So, there I sat trying to fit my body into a primary grade desk. Do you remember what a primary chair looks like? A masterpiece of physics with blue plastic backs and bottoms, they measure about twelve inches off the ground and have a complete surface area of about 10" by 10" for an derriere. My derriere hadn't seen 10" in a long time and sitting on that chair was a real step toward torture. With my 4 inch heels, my knees only had 8 inches in which to support my legs from the bottom of the seat to the ground--now, think about that one. Finally, giving up that my rear was simply too large and my legs were too long, I found a bigger chair and dragged it into the room so the formal observation could begin. Finally, I was ready with pen and paper in hand and legs happily outstretched.

Ms. T began her warm up exercise and just as I expected the classroom was full of kids who were raising their hands, faces with smiles and an eagerness that I envied. Samantha, sitting close to the front of the room in her pristine uniform had a face full of energy and a look that said "I want to raise my hand but....". The land of but was a place where none of us want our children to dwell and sadly, it was a frequent destination for Samantha. The lesson continued and the children responding to Ms. T moved with their dry erase slates to the floor. Ms. T moved about knowing just when to restart the next part of the activity. It was like art and science to watch her teach. She placed her hand on Samantha and slightly louder than a whisper, "Just give it a try, ok? I know you can do it!" and with those blue eyes, Samantha looked up and desperately wanted to please Ms. T more than anything else on Earth. Picture 24, 3rd graders talking, exchanging ideas and writing on boards--the organized chaos was delightful. The brightness in Samantha's eyes were a little less vibrant and amidst the liveliness of the class, I realized I was at the somewhat unfortunate angle to see that Samantha was struggling to join in.

Her eyes wandered, her face became more stoic and intense and her dry erase marker were at a standstill. Then, I was encouraged that her pen was moving. Continuing to watch her, I saw that she was writing the letters and words that she could see on someone another student's slate. Stunned, saddened, I could see that my cookie girl had come close to perfecting the art of being who we wanted her to be. Those artistic pigtails, that perfectly groomed uniform and that sweet spirit were of a little girl who was dealing with a greater challenge than any of us had known. She was not cheating, she was surviving, just the way we wanted her to. If the game is to look pretty, be sweet and bring presents and spew back the answer the teacher wants, then everyone is ok...everyone is happy even if what we were seeing wasn't real.

Samantha...such a sweetheart and in my moment of realization knew that we had created this wonderful school that this little girl was willing to go to such great lengths to fit her round peg into the square openings that other children filled so easily.

Some people deceive by choice and some like Samantha simply made choices to survive so that all we noticed were the artistically balanced pigtails, pristine uniforms and yes, the chocolate chip cookies.

A new day and a new challenge--to look beyond cookies and pigtails.

As a high school principal, when students misbehave and teachers feel the situation warrants further attention, then the chairs that line the administration hallway become filled with those who have been exiled from the classroom. The “exilation” (I know I just made that word up because it fits so well!) could be anything from a teacher being upset because ‘Susie’ didn’t bring her pencil to class to one student assaulting another. Being a high principal or assistant principal is much like being an Emergency Room physician or nurse---the constant need to reprioritize which situation is most urgent is often the constant of the day. Maybe they should call it fire fighting instead of administration. Of course, you can imagine the teacher who sent the kiddo to the office for being so ill prepared as to not have a pencil would be the very one who claimed lack of support from the infamous ‘front office’—have to love the kind of people who live on the planet called Clueless. I had lived in a bit of a war zone as principal of an inner-city school that was known for its tough clientele. Suspensions, behavior modification programs and expulsions were an unfortunate way of life toward making the campus safe and a bit more sane.

So, some years later I sat in my middle class elementary school with my first discipline situation headed to my office. A phone call had alerted me that Dara and Keith were on their way and had been having difficulty in class that had resulted in one student hitting another. O.k., this was clear-cut. In high school any physical exchange was an automatic suspension regardless of who started it—easy enough…suspend them. I had done it hundreds of times before and would have no problem doing it again. I wanted my message to be fierce and firm to the students, parents and faculty of my school that no violence would be tolerated…not on my watch.

Conversely, that fierce and firm stance was not exactly reflected in the way I had chosen to decorate my office. As a woman with what some call an ‘eye for style’ I had opted to create a warm, comfortable office with big overstuffed chairs, a rug, child oriented artwork, a basket filled with children’s books and even a small area for their younger siblings to play with toys like Mr. Potato Head. I wanted that same approachability I talked about with the gate to be present the minute someone walked into my office.

I kept reminding myself that I was seeking qualities such as warm, approachable yet firm and fierce—no doubt an interesting mix and as one of my mentors described me as the administrator with the velvet hammer. Now, I sit with a velvet hammer yet, this time with Mr. Potato Head peaking his face out of a basket staring at me. At least I wasn’t dealing with the Bloods and the Crypts and all that went with it.

With velvet hammer in hand (metaphorically speaking), the now timid, worried and clearly afraid Dara and Keith arrived. I asked Keith to take a seat outside of my office and instructed Dara to come on in. Dara, a precocious 1st grader who with her braided pigtails, crisp uniform, and small frame cautiously entered my office. Her eyes looked around as if she was expecting it to look like a jail cell and after her glance around the room she seem to relax. Of course, I wasn’t so sure I wanted her to relax and wondered if my décor choices were on the right track. There sat Dara waiting for me to scold her. Her small body consumed by the comfy, yet adult sized chair.

“Dara, tell me what happened with Keith.” I asked her with a calm tone even though the suspension paperwork was sitting on my desk. I just needed her to admit what she had done, so I could sign the papers, call her parents, send her home and get on with my day.

“Principal Boles…” the sound of this of course made me feel like the Queen of a kingdom, but I managed to stay focused. “…I, I was just doing my work and Keith wouldn’t leave me alone. I asked him and I asked him and he just kept bothering me.”

I listened intently for the part where she would tell me she hit him.

She looked at me with an inquisitive look as if the story was finished. “O.k., I think to myself…how do you ask a 6 year old if they clobbered somebody without making them cry?”

“Dara, is there anything else you think I should know about what happened today?”

She replied that there wasn’t anything left to tell other than he bugged her. Of course, that paperwork was still sitting there and without her admission, this was not going to be as clear-cut as I had first thought.

Dara and Keith exchanged chairs and now Keith was sitting in front of me. Keith, a stocky, Leave it to Beaver looking child was a far more willing conversationalist quickly shared that he was poking Dara with his pencil and she turned around and hit him. 5 seconds and he had told the whole story. Succinct, honest and simple.

Is pencil poking and a little whack the conditions that merit a suspension from elementary school? Is this mutual combat? It hardly compared to a member of the Bloods and a member of the Crypts having a showdown behind the gym at lunchtime. There sat the suspension papers and nothing seemed so clear cut anymore.

Clearly, there was a disconnect between the two versions, so in the spirit of cooperative discipline I sat them down together in an effort to reach the truth. “Keith, would you share with me one more time what happened in the class today with Dara.” Over the years I had learned that the consistency of truth always wins. Those students who were fudging reality nearly always had a hard time remembering the facts when asked to repeat them. Only the toughest of the tough kids could lie as if it were the truth. Keith’s story remained consistent, “I poked her with my pencil and she hit me.”

Dara exploded with an excitement that I had not yet seen. Her eyes doubled in size, her expression spread across her face and she popped out of her seat as if it had a spring installed in it. “Mrs. Boles, wait wait…” Dara loudly exclaimed with an insistence that cried with desperation. “Principal Boles, listen to meeeeeee!” she whaled.

(Tune back in on Wednesday for the conclusion...:))

(More aptly described as the metamorphosis of the fears of a high school principal who switched to elementary.)

Preface--After nearly 30 years as an educator of high school students, I was excited at the prospect of opening my own elementary school. I had been among the guilty that had felt that “if only” such and such had been done in the early years, maybe the result in the teen years would be much different. I had been given the priceless gift of crafting an elementary school with the beliefs; parameters and practices that would create what I hoped would be a very special place for children to learn.

Here I stood on my first day as an elementary school principal feeling pretty insecure as to what I was suppose to do. I had already admitted my fears to my faculty and I had total faith in their abilities, which made my own elementary inadequacies a little less horrifying. In my effort to have a real relationship with my families and especially my students, I decided that the desk would not be my best friend anymore. I was ready with my new clothes, my new school and my new role. So, where do I stand to greet my students on that first day and the days to follow? Where does an elementary principal stand? In high school, I found that the nature of adolescent years created isolation within the circles of friends and rarely did that include the principal. I wanted to make sure that I was approachable…that I was warm, friendly, and at least on the surface, confident even if my knees were wobbling from the inside out.

The Gate—yes, that should be the place where my feet (and wobbly knees) are planted. I could greet the kids and help them feel a little more comfortable as they came to their new school. I wanted to breed confidence in the parents (if they only knew how ill equipped I felt). So, yes the gate it is. Positioning just in front of the gate, the families started to arrive on that unnerving first day. I welcomed the faces that arrived. In my new red, silk suit the kinders only slightly towered above my hemline. I realized that my somewhat towering, 5 ft 7 in. frame, high heels and expensive suit were probably not my best choice for those who were not yet 3 feet tall. Nonetheless, I smiled and squatted to the best my knees allowed to look them eye to eye as a gesture toward recognizing their faces, learning their names and laying the groundwork for building a relationship as their principal and friend.

Already crying before he had even met me was Jack. Jack, slight in frame and eyes proportionately bigger that what his face could barely brave. He was timid, clearly terrified and being dragged to school while clinging to his mother’s leg. If he only knew I wanted to be clinging to my mother’s leg too. I could completely identify with his fear. Jack’s mother persevered and dragging him through the gate kept trying to cheer him on by telling him how much fun the playground would be and how nice the other children would treat him. No such luck, the tears could have filled the water fountain for the week. The bell rang. Whew, the gate pressure was off.

I went into my office and removed what proved to a ridiculous suit coat and momentarily gave my feet a break by setting the stylish heels aside. A quiet moment was but a few minutes before a teacher called. “Jack just can’t calm down.” O.k.—I say to myself, “What am I suppose to do with this crying child?” High school kids cry, but they just want a pass to the bathroom or they go see the counselor. “That’s it, call the counselor. “ Defer the situation and watch I think to myself.

“Ring, ring” but no answer. No deferring today. I walked to the classroom and the teacher’s eyes met mine with an anxiousness that I knew she needed relief from Jack’s distress. With the miserable heels back on, I knelt down in order to have direct eye contact with Jack. With no clue as to what I should do, I asked him “Jack, you look like you are a good helper.” The sobbing started to diminish slightly. “Would you like to be my helper for a little while?” The sobbing had now turned into a whimper. “O.k., I can see I am getting somewhere I thought to myself.” I took the leap and put my hand out there and then and there I knew my life was going to be different as Jack trustingly placed his hand in mine. Those over-sized eyes looked at me with willingness and even more importantly a need to trust someone who would diminish his fear. I had never expected that with such a simple gesture, my fears also became a bit more manageable. Even my knees felt better. He stopped crying and I even felt a little fearless. I can do this and for at least today, I didn’t scare him away.

Instincts amaze me. Thanks Jack for putting your hand in mine and ultimately making me feel a little more brave.

My daughter convinced me I ought to do this. Melissa...you are a 'nudger' for me...thus, I am nudged into writing. Something I have always thought I would do...should do...wanted to do...now, I have the time and I think something worthy of saying.

Now, what do I say that interest someone other than myself?

I hope to use this blog to share some thoughts...ideas...opinions that I have had throughout my career and life. I have watched kids accomplish amazing things and I have also unfortunately watched them stoop to such levels that my heart ached or my frustration felt like it belonged on a universe that couldn't be reversed.

I hope you will tolerate my random style as I identify my blog style.

I hope to share insights about what it felt like to watch what we do to our kids and a few things I learned along the way.

I hope to hear what you think.

I hope to hear about your experiences.

I named my Blog Lunch Box Thoughts from Julie because of all the years I watched my little kiddos in my school who had parents who cared enough to write them a lunch box love note--I hope to expand this further as I become blog able. Kids deserve love, tenderness, kindness and parents with integrity...whether a lunch box love note or some other gesture of their affection...kids deserve to be the center of the universe for just a little while.

Forgive my lack of blogging etiquette as I am sure there is one and in time I will learn the language--the rules...the way. I love to learn new things, so why not a new challenge?

Thanks sweetie pie Melissa for the nudge.

Lunch Box Thoughts from Julie Blog #2 coming soon.

Julie