Where is the green sheep?
by Alyisha wasilewski
I’ve always been the black sheep of the family.
My mother was a cheerleader with perfect Farrah Fawcett hair. Her classmates scrawled adoring messages to her in her high school yearbook, addressed to “Trish the Dish”; friends wrote about plans to “party” over the summer and acquaintances revealed secret crushes (I used to pore over these missives when I was growing up, imagining a similar future for myself as one of the “popular” kids). My father was a blue-eyed pretty boy, also sporting perfect Farah Fawcett hair.
They met in Confirmation class. I’m sure the Catholic priest who presided over their education would have something damning to say about his role, their path, and good intentions. I was born when my mother was still a teenager and my father was barely twenty. I had a full head of dark, black hair (which later fell out and grew back in blonde but just as thick): my “wool.”
My parents divorced when I was two and my mother remarried two years later. My stepfather, who fell in love with my mom when they were twelve (they still have a “secret” handshake), became an important fixture in my life. He was a cop (now a homicide detective) with a shiny badge on his chest and his feet planted firmly on the ground. We lived happily in my grandparents’ house.
When the house would suddenly get quiet, it didn’t mean that I was up to no good. It meant that my parents could find their little, woolly beast tucked away in her room. They’d find me silently pondering the pages of my favorite books: There’s a Nightmare in my Closet by Mercer Mayer; Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day by Judith Viorst; Ernie’s Big Mess: A Sesame Street Reader; and my illustrated, full-color Children’s Dictionary.
It all started with my grandfather. He’d sit me on his lap every day and we’d read the newspaper together. It wasn’t your typical picture book experience but I loved the bonding ritual, sitting close and listening to the timbre of his voice. Sadly, he passed away when I was four. But he made such an impact.
It all started with my grandfather. He’d sit me on his lap every day and we’d read the newspaper together. It wasn’t your typical picture book experience but I loved the bonding ritual, sitting close and listening to the timbre of his voice. Sadly, he passed away when I was four. But he made such an impact.
Though my parents weren’t readers themselves, they always encouraged my reading.
In my early years, I didn’t have much guidance when choosing reading material. I don’t have fond memories of The Cat in the Hat or The Very Hungry Caterpillar. Dr. Seuss and Eric Carle were not household names. We rarely visited the library. When I started reading chapter books, no one steered me toward Little House on the Prairie. I didn’t read Anne of Green Gables until my late-twenties (at which time, I immediately fell in love). Instead, I’d walk down to the neighborhood discount store, Building 19, with a fistful of dollar bills (my mother's bartending tips), and grab whatever was cheap. I became obsessed with The Baby-Sitters Club (including Baby-Sitters Little Sister) and Goosebumps. Because there were so many titles in the series (over 200 in each), I could always find one I hadn’t yet read on the shelves. I never became that “popular” kid that my mother’s yearbook called out for me to be. I always had lots of friends, and I "dated" my first "boyfriend" in second-grade (I traded him my cheese stick at snack time for the privilege of being called his fiancée). But I also had braces, glasses, and twelve books in my backpack at all times.
At this stage, I “fill[ed] in the gaps with... “temporary” reading...build[ing] skill and confidence” while awaiting a formal introduction to “award winners” (Vardell, 2019, p.23) with unknowingly-bated breath. Mrs. Lee, my 4th grade teacher, provided this introduction.
Mrs. Lee was big on creativity & imagination. She appointed Epcot the Dragon as our class mascot. He stood guard over us during Creative Writing time, confident that we'd produce gems for him to add to his hoard. Mrs. Lee read Literature aloud to us for inspiration: The Indian in the Cupboard by Lynne Reid Banks; The Cay by Theodore Taylor, complete with a Caribbean accent (which today would be acknowledged as “problematic” but we didn’t know that in the early 90’s); and, best of all, Bridge to Terabithia by Katherine Paterson. I became totally immersed in Jess & Leslie’s imagined kingdom. I learned all about the importance of play, art, and loyalty. I learned that a book could move you to tears. This is still one of my favorite books of all-time. I got my first tattoo a few years ago; my tattoo artist helped me design a botanical wreath, comprised of all the natural beauty found in the Terabithian forest (pine boughs, crab apple blossoms, & cardinals' feathers).
Mrs. Lee was big on creativity & imagination. She appointed Epcot the Dragon as our class mascot. He stood guard over us during Creative Writing time, confident that we'd produce gems for him to add to his hoard. Mrs. Lee read Literature aloud to us for inspiration: The Indian in the Cupboard by Lynne Reid Banks; The Cay by Theodore Taylor, complete with a Caribbean accent (which today would be acknowledged as “problematic” but we didn’t know that in the early 90’s); and, best of all, Bridge to Terabithia by Katherine Paterson. I became totally immersed in Jess & Leslie’s imagined kingdom. I learned all about the importance of play, art, and loyalty. I learned that a book could move you to tears. This is still one of my favorite books of all-time. I got my first tattoo a few years ago; my tattoo artist helped me design a botanical wreath, comprised of all the natural beauty found in the Terabithian forest (pine boughs, crab apple blossoms, & cardinals' feathers).
My love of all literature (not just Bridge to Terabithia) continued long after I left Mrs. Lee’s classroom. I went on to earn a Bachelor’s degree in English Literature (the first in my immediate family to attend college) and now I’m an aspiring Children’s Librarian.
But how did it happen when my parents weren’t readers?
Through multiple literacies.
My parents may not have been bookworms but they were always exposing me to the power of story. My mother wasn’t just a cheerleader; she was a dancer. She enrolled me in dance at the tender age of 4 and went on to teach Ballroom Dancing classes herself, with dreams of opening up her own studio.
But how did it happen when my parents weren’t readers?
Through multiple literacies.
My parents may not have been bookworms but they were always exposing me to the power of story. My mother wasn’t just a cheerleader; she was a dancer. She enrolled me in dance at the tender age of 4 and went on to teach Ballroom Dancing classes herself, with dreams of opening up her own studio.
Later in life, she’s discovered a love of poetry & has aspirations of writing a romance novel.
My stepdad is always singing, making up ridiculous, incorrect (& therefore more imaginative) lyrics to popular songs. At my wedding, I surprised him with a compilation of these oft mis-sung tunes & we busted a move (or fifty).
My stepdad is always singing, making up ridiculous, incorrect (& therefore more imaginative) lyrics to popular songs. At my wedding, I surprised him with a compilation of these oft mis-sung tunes & we busted a move (or fifty).
My grandmother was a Jitterbug champion (who once had drinks with Dean Martin!). She sang me a bedtime song every night, which she wrote just for me.
My family has its own invented language. Is something broken but you don’t know what's causing the problem? Oh, that pesky part would be the doomifachi rectivator. Did someone hiccup loudly & unexpectedly? It’s not their fault; it came from the shmemina. It’s utter nonsense to anyone outside of our circle but to us it makes perfect sense.
I’m beginning to see that this “black sheep” narrative that I’ve always told doesn’t exactly fit. I have a close relationship with my family: my mother, my stepfather, and my younger brothers (who ride motorcycles, plumb, weld, watch sports, and play the drums & guitar). The members of my family aren't just one-dimensional caricatures of themselves (“cheerleader”, “cop”, “plumber”); they’re a raucous, rowdy, & complex flock.
My family has its own invented language. Is something broken but you don’t know what's causing the problem? Oh, that pesky part would be the doomifachi rectivator. Did someone hiccup loudly & unexpectedly? It’s not their fault; it came from the shmemina. It’s utter nonsense to anyone outside of our circle but to us it makes perfect sense.
I’m beginning to see that this “black sheep” narrative that I’ve always told doesn’t exactly fit. I have a close relationship with my family: my mother, my stepfather, and my younger brothers (who ride motorcycles, plumb, weld, watch sports, and play the drums & guitar). The members of my family aren't just one-dimensional caricatures of themselves (“cheerleader”, “cop”, “plumber”); they’re a raucous, rowdy, & complex flock.
They might "baa" a little more loudly than I do, and I might be using slightly different wool...but all of us are spinning the same yarns. We share our stories.
This common thread has been there all along. I just needed a “broader and more inclusive understanding of literacy, even multiple literacies” (Vardell, 2019, p.6) to see it. I’m starting to realize that I'm not a black sheep, after-all. I'm really more of a gray sheep. And I’ve always wanted to dye my tips purple. Or maybe green. It might be time.
Nothing is just one thing. Not sheep. Not people. Not colors. Not literacy. As Whitman wrote, we “contain multitudes.”
This common thread has been there all along. I just needed a “broader and more inclusive understanding of literacy, even multiple literacies” (Vardell, 2019, p.6) to see it. I’m starting to realize that I'm not a black sheep, after-all. I'm really more of a gray sheep. And I’ve always wanted to dye my tips purple. Or maybe green. It might be time.
Nothing is just one thing. Not sheep. Not people. Not colors. Not literacy. As Whitman wrote, we “contain multitudes.”
Resources
Vardell, S.M. (2019). Children's literature in action: A librarian's guide (3rd ed.). Santa Barbara, CA: Libraries Unlimited.
Whitman, Walt. (1855). Song of myself.
Vardell, S.M. (2019). Children's literature in action: A librarian's guide (3rd ed.). Santa Barbara, CA: Libraries Unlimited.
Whitman, Walt. (1855). Song of myself.