Follow up: A Letter to the Boss

Dear Fresh Direct General Manager,

My faith in humanity is renewed.

When I sent my note yesterday letting you know about your exemplary employee helping my sons and me, I didn't need or necessarily expect a response. But you called me directly. You thanked me for letting you know what had happened, and you assured me you would recognize the employee directly. And, you said this: "You're a mom with two young kids, right? I'm giving you a $50 Fresh Direct gift certificate. I want you to get yourself some flowers and something nice for your kids."

Wow.

You see, I feel things have gone a bit awry lately. The news is bombarding us with images of bigotry, separation, fear, and intolerance. And perhaps because I'm exuding it myself, I feel a tension on the street. People seem suspicious, wary of each other. Weary too. People seem to have less energy to be respectful and generous. But what happened the other day when your employee helped us made me remember something. Respect and generosity often take hardly any time. And not a whole lot of extra energy. But they have the power to recharge us all in powerful and surprising ways. Because of a small moment, I am vowing to be more generous and respectful to those around me. I'm going to step out of myself a little bit and consider how I can be of greater service. Yes, it's easy to get bogged down in my own burdens. I'm pushing a stroller with two small children and a mountain of stuff! How can I stop to help anyone? People should help me. And yet. Your employee was pushing a cart with a mountain of stuff and no doubt was doing it on a deadline. But he stopped. He helped. I won't forget that.

And so did you. You stopped. You picked up the phone. You made a generous moment into a Very Big Deal. Thank you.

Anna Cockerille (and sons)

A Letter to the Guy Who Rescued Us

Dear Fresh Direct Guy Who Was Delivering Groceries in our Lobby,

Yesterday, I was trapped. I was trapped in the tiny lift in my lobby trying to get my giant stroller and two boys outside. You were there. You were delivering a huge amount of groceries, which you were sorting and preparing to haul upstairs. You clearly had a lot on your plate. You could have glanced at us, then glanced away and rushed about your business, as so many do when they see us coming. But you didn't. 

Instead, you stopped what you were doing, and you came over to help us. You called security. Unfortunately, they were rude to you. They informed you quite impatiently that the lift is for physically impaired persons. I guess they assumed you wanted to use it to deliver the groceries. I suspect part of their rudeness was because you are young. Or perhaps because you are a delivery person. Or, let's go there, because you are African American. Their rudeness made me sad and embarrassed and angry. I could see you were angry too, but you didn't leave. You continued trying to help us, and you stayed with us until the door suddenly, miraculously became unstuck. You reminded me of what a long way a little bit of kindness goes.

You are a hero. I want my sons to be like you.

Thank you.

Anna Cockerille (and babies)

A Letter to My Son's Music Teacher

A Letter to My Son's Music Teacher

For years, I have been the teacher, working not for thanks of course, but appreciating thanks when it comes all the same. Now, my son is two, and I am the parent, thanking the teacher.

For everything you do, thank you. You come to music class each day, fully prepared and infectiously enthusiastic. You wear a love of music on your sleeve. The children cannot help but feel this. You go above and beyond to include everyone and invite them into the joy you feel for this art form. You play your heart out, even when the audience is less than focused.

You may not know what a difference you are making in my son's life. Here are just a few of the things he does, all day long, because of your class:

• Plays his toy guitar with the raucous energy of Eddie Van Halen mixed with Slash mixed with Jimmy Hendrix. 
• Dances, sings, and claps to songs you have song and says your name after all of them. 
• Says, "Friday, music class" over and over. And over. 

From the bottom of our hearts, thank you. Your influence is far reaching and incredibly appreciated. 

With Great Respect, 

The Cockerilles 

A Letter to My Sick Son

A Letter to My Sick Son

Dear Son,

My little guy. When I woke up this morning, here is what I saw. Your eyes were sealed nearly shut. Your nose was a runny disaster. You were drenched in sweat. Here is what I felt. My heart plummeting to my knees. Tears in my eyes. An overwhelming desire to do anything to help you feel better.

But then, I saw this. You jumped up and down in your bed. You smiled a tremendous smile. You yelled, "Mommy!" just as you always do. I wrapped my arms around you and we played. Then, here is what I felt. Along with the overwhelming desire to help you feel better, I felt extreme gratitude and awe for  your strength, your courage, and your constant, enduring joy.

I love you.

Your Mommy

A Letter to My Former Student

A Letter to My Former Student

Dear Juan Carlos,

I am so sorry.

I am sorry I made you move your desk to the corner of the room, with your back to the class. You still turned around and joined in, cracked jokes, told us what you thought, whether we asked or not. I am sorry I told you over and over to be quiet, wait your turn, sit still.

You see, I was a brand new teacher. I didn't know how to encourage your voice. I didn't know it wasn't okay to shame a student into behaving.

And now, I have two sons. They are still babies, but one day they will go to school. I hope their teachers know how important it is for them to move. I hope their teachers value their contributions, no matter how frequent or how unsolicited they are.

The truth is, you were always one of my favorites.

I'll bet you are out there now, killing it.

Your Teacher,

Ms. Anna

For the End of the School Year

We have come full circle 

We are back where we began 

In a place of forgiveness 

Charity, joy, and humor. 

In the thick of things 

We forgot we could laugh 

We got petty 

Angry, frustrated, and tired. 

The days were endless soldiers 

Lined up and marching ahead 

I'm not making a difference we thought. 

I'll never get these children ready. 

But on one of the cold endless days

We saw glimmers of what was coming. 

New skills once so intangible 

Now within grasp. 

We stoked those embers 

Gave them little bits of oxygen 

Fuel, and space to grow. 

We hoped, and carried on. 

Finally the glimmers became shining lights,

The embers flames. 

And now we see the children fully 

Who we loved into being. 

We are ready to let them go. 

They are exactly the same 

As when they came 

Yet so different. 

And so with charity, joy, and humor,

In a place of forgiveness, 

We are back where we began. 

We have come full circle

And we are ready to say goodbye. 

I'm Partying with Dick Allington and Katie Wood Ray. No Big Deal. Just Another Saturday Night.

Amanda Hartman and I are making our way to the Ritz Carlton on Canal Street, James and the baby in tow. My clothes feel sticky in the swampy New Orleans heat. It's been raining all day, and I try to avoid stepping in the puddles with my little work flats. We walk up to the main entrance, and getting out of a cab just at that moment are Mary Ehrenworth and Chris Lehman. I feel like we are in a gang. RWP is in the house. 

We make our way through the Ritz together, entering one lavish space after the next. We travel up stairs and through passageways until we arrive at our gathering.

It's a virtual who's who of the literacy world. Our corner of the literacy world, that is. There's Ellin Keene, hobnobbing with a Heinemann VP. Over there is Richard Allington, talking to a senior editor. Amanda strikes up a conversation with Katie Wood Ray, who has recently come on board at Heinemann. Amanda tells a story about how, years ago, she would go to every workshop Katie gave, even if Amanda had already seen it. I think to myself that I still feel like that, the eager young teacher sitting in the front row, thrilled that someone is finally speaking my language. 

So here I am, in this room with these authors I have idolized and tried to emulate for years. I feel like I don't really belong. After all, I no longer work full-time at the Reading and Writing Project. I only co-wrote one book with Heinemann. People don't know me. But yet, here I am.