A middle-school teacher's greatest gifts during the holiday season

From Saturday's Briefing:

Toward the end of my third-grade year, I noticed that peers were giving gifts to our teacher, and in return, later that day, she would give them a handwritten thank-you note on scented paper.

I wanted in on that action.

We were living with my grandparents at the time, my mom down on her luck, and I didn't want to ask an adult to take me shopping to spend money we didn't have.

So, I swiped a magnet from Gramma's refrigerator, wrapped it in tissue paper and delivered it to my teacher. At the end of that day, I received the coveted thank-you note.

Of course, petty theft and dishonesty are no way to show someone you care, but I didn't quite grasp that dichotomy at the time. I also didn't understand — and didn't fully realize until I was a teacher myself — that the best gifts of teaching aren't wrapped, can't be placed on a desk or under the Christmas tree. The best gifts, and sometimes the most unexpected, are received daily, the byproduct of interacting with children.

Some days those gifts include high-fives, smiles, light-bulb moments and deep conversation. Every day with children offers the opportunity to learn something new.

Teaching is the kind of career that engenders constant discovery — and not just because of the content we're delivering. (Though I am fortunate to have a job that requires a working knowledge of Greek mythology, time travel theories and the roots of machismo.) Teachers constantly learn from their students.

How else would I know about PewDiePie? He's the ridiculously nicknamed YouTuber from Sweden who was born the same year I graduated high school and has more than 77 million online subscribers.

In fact, how else would I know what a "YouTuber" is? It wasn't until I started teaching that I learned it is one of the most coveted future careers of the adolescent set. (I always advise my wannabe YouTubers to have a backup plan in place.)

These children teach me how our world is changing. At the end of our persuasive writing unit, my seventh-graders wrote letters to be mailed the old-fashioned way. Almost none of them knew how to address an envelope — or were even certain where to place the stamp. They didn't understand the difference between a street address and a P.O. box. They were fuzzy on the necessity of a ZIP code.

They've never known life without email, a concept that fascinates me and forces me to consider which customs and behaviors will eventually disappear altogether.

Their reliance on technology doesn't preclude their humanity, though. These young people have earnest concerns about the world's problems. This school year, my students have identified and defined societal challenges — racism, famine, poverty, lack of education for girls worldwide, gender inequality, endangered animals, cancer, drug use, climate change — and brainstormed solutions.

When they write about themselves and their world — our world — they are sharing the kind of intangible gifts that make working with children so rewarding. Our young people are paying attention, and they're not waiting until they're grown up to tackle tough issues.

Lovely (and delicious!) cookie
from a student this year

The families I serve are thoughtful and generous. I am thankful for every single box of chocolate, gift card and coffee mug that I received from students before winter break. When I count my blessings as a teacher, though, it's those students themselves that I place at the top of my list.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. She can be reached at tyradamm@gmail.com.

Here's what Christmas really means as I get older

From Saturday's Briefing:

As we age, our perceptions and expectations of Christmas — at least the secular Christmas — change.

I'm decades beyond making a list and judging the holiday's success based on how closely my actual gifts match the list.

I've moved past the idea of creating a picture-perfect Christmas, as defined by magazines and social media as an expertly decked-out house, exquisitely decorated (and homemade, of course) cookies, children in coordinating clothes every day of December, and annual visits to at least one parade, one performance of The Nutcracker, one breakfast with Santa and one nighttime tour of a fabulous neighborhood.

I'm still attempting to make Christmas magic happen for my children, though they themselves are less consumed by the magic and more interested in time with friends and family, hot cocoa as often as possible and Christmas movies in the family room.

I have officially reached the stage where Christmas means community.

Two days after Thanksgiving, my sister's family and my family jumped into the holiday season with a free outdoor concert in McKinney. Ray Benson and his stalwart band, Asleep at the Wheel, crooned Christmas songs and some favorite Western swing tunes. The crowd sang along, with rousing renditions of "Route 66" and "Miles and Miles of Texas."

Most of the fans were strangers, but we felt like a community, joined together by admiration for the same artists, singing the same lyrics, creating similar memories to pile atop our own individual memories of live music and Christmas festivals and cool nights under the stars.

A couple of weeks later, Cooper, Katie and I attended the Christmas Spectacular at the Star, a glitzy outdoor show at the Ford Center in Frisco, repeated every Friday and Saturday night this month. This production wasn't exactly my style, with synthesized music, dancing Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders, fireworks and animated lights creating images on the towering Christmas tree.

But the crowd loved it.

The appeal for me was not so much the over-the-top production but instead folks gathering to celebrate and children looking in awe in every direction — a gathered community of neighbors near and far.

The next night we gathered in our church sanctuary, singing carols and listening to meaningful arrangements from choirs and instrumentalists.

The service ended with "Silent Night," the quintessential Christmas hymn that celebrates 200 years this season. The sanctuary lights dimmed, and each of us held a candle, lit by our neighbor, and sang the cherished lyrics with hushed wonder.

We were surrounded by our chosen community.

Those candles in the darkness, lit by one flame and then spread among hundreds, offer hope. It's the kind of comfort I'm especially seeking these days, following the suicide of a young man in our neighborhood, a senior in high school and classmate of my son.

He played in the orchestra.

He was loved and adored by family members, friends and teachers.

He was a member of a community that misses him dearly.

On the last Monday night in November, about 200 people huddled in a park pavilion to remember him. We heard stories about his life, we listened to his favorite classic rock song, and we lit candles in his memory.

We were reminded that each of us are a light in the darkness.

That we need one another.

That we are never alone.

My Christmas wish is that everyone takes stock and gives thanks for the community that they have — and that everyone reaches out to someone who feels like they have no one.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. She can be reached at tyradamm@gmail.com.