Clubs

Maybe it’s because I was an only child for so long.  Or because my parents divorced in the 1970’s when it wasn’t so common to have a stepdad or weekends in another town.  I know, I bet it was because I had a hippie mom who recycled before global warming was even a thing and made wall hangings to sell at art fairs instead of going to P.T.A. meetings or Bridge Club.  Perhaps it’s because I had an overbite and naturally curly hair.  Who knows?  I can’t pinpoint the reason why I wasn’t like the other kids at school, but I’ve spent a lifetime not “fitting in,”  not belonging.  I think this curse of being an “outsider,” created in me my childhood fascination with clubs, especially exclusive, top-secret clubs.

The closet in my childhood room was small but big ENOUGH to create my first clubhouse. My friend, Michelle, and I would drag in a few blankets and snacks.  We’d spend a lot of time creating the sign to post on the outside of the closet door, a sign identifying our “club” and a warning for others to stay out.  Funny thing was that no one was going to see this sign unless they broke into our house.  Our child minds did not even consider the senselessness of the signage.  It was all very important and official at the time.  I think we even generated a list of rules for members and the necessary steps for joining “our club.”  It was thrilling to imagine all the kids in the neighborhood, lining up and clamoring to become part of our “Closet Club.”  Alas, this was not how the club experience would unfold.  Eventually, we’d get bored or too hot and cramped in the little closet, abandoning this venture for Barbies or time on the swings outside.

Now I’m an adult and busy with all the responsibilities of being a mom and a teacher, however I haven’t totally abandoned my need for belonging, my desire to be a part of an exclusive group.  Six years ago I started a Writer’s Club at our school.  The club is a place for kids to come who love to write; it’s a place for kids who know writing is an art and for kids who have a story to tell.  Even though anyone is welcome at anytime, we’ve become a tight-knit group of about 12 kids grades 6-8 who attend every meeting.  I provide the snacks, the classroom space, and a structure.  They share stories and poems, sometimes drawings and artwork.  And we listen.  Real listening–not the typical classroom listening that requires constant monitoring and reminders.  The kids remember what each shared at the previous meeting and beg for updates or the reading of a next chapter.  It’s beautiful to hear them encourage and inspire each other.

As I sit back and look out at these kids hunched over their Chromebooks typing away and talking about possible character names, I feel content–like I belong, like we all belong.  And I do belong right here, nodding and tilting my head as I listen more closely to a part of the story Morgan wants me to hear.  We belong together as we sit in stunned silence when Grace finishes reading; her words had us mesmorized.  I belong with this sweet group who has to be told it’s four o’clock, time to head out because their rides are waiting.

My journey to “fit in,” to feel a part of a group ends where it started…in the classroom. How fitting.