rituals for the new now

Every morning, my one-eyed cat Zelda climbs onto the bed purring fiercely and nudges her face against mine. For an hour we play a combative game: I pull her squishy body against me & try to sleep a bit more and she pretends to nuzzle while really seeking my bare skin to bite. I've thought this was about her hunger but no matter who feeds her, she only comes for me and my shoulder (or hand or arm, sometimes chin or eyebrow). I've decided Zelda, whom I named after the writer Fitzgerald, is my muse. A feisty, aggravating, literally biting muse but one that will get me out of bed and into daylight.

I like to think, especially when faced with this isolating crisis, that routines will bring me what I need - consistency, stability, predictability. But they can only do that if properly recognized and named for their intentions. For most of my almost-52 years I've tried to establish routines that will make me somehow Better; I've always been on the verge of being someone More Stylish, More Confident, More Fit, Cuter - An Artist, A Writer, Someone Who Can Follow A Basic Schedule. It has worked occasionally - I did graduate from high school and college and got married. I've also finally developed a sort-of system of trying to plan daily meals, though this is loosely defined and it always includes at least one night for takeout. But what was the real point of all that organized angst? 

I've been thinking that my approach to routines in daily life has been mostly seeing them as necessary but punitive tasks, and no one likes to constantly face punishment (conversations about BDSM aside). It might be more a matter of semantics but I'm starting to feel like if I call what I want to do with & for myself "rituals," I'll be more likely to embrace the changes. Already I light a candle at my desk when I'm serious about getting work done; I make sure my kettle is programmed before I go to bed because then I envision my morning reading & writing time without waiting for tea to brew; I ride my stationary bike less for the exercise and more for the joy of listening to podcasts + recording the distances in a weekly journal.

My August ritual used to be celebrating my birthday with something indulgent each day while also refocusing attention on school prep; for decades I have loved both things in a way that filled my being with joy & gratitude & a sense of purpose. That tilted a bit last year when I thought I was done with teaching, though I found a similar feeling in becoming a docent. I'm realizing that the New Now and absence of my former teacher/docent ritual has depleted me; it's become harder to embrace joy; I feel thankful for life only in a more general way, and my purpose seems nebulous. I've moved some things into the classroom I won't be able to use for at least a couple of months due to pandemic concerns and I have precarious stacks of history books around my house to read & use for lessons, yet everything still feels unmoored. I've been trying to establish routines for organizing but the world is in such a state that organization seems futile. 

I can't allow that feeling to linger though, because that would mean surrendering and a Leo/Virgo is nothing if not tenacious (see also: stubborn, obsessive, bossy, and/or controlling). 

So, I'll take Zelda's morning ritual with me as a call to rise and get back into this odd new world. 

Excuse the bite marks. 

 

re-recalled, with a side of queer eye wisdom

I was having a pretty good non-school school year, exploring a new life in which I sometimes struggled to explain what I "do" when not preparing to be a museum docent or volunteering to answer phones for public radio drives & local film festivals (not technically retired, not exactly switching careers, sometimes writing but not really "a writer"...). Overall satisfying though.

The ephemera from my former classroom that I couldn't bear to give away to students or leave for other teachers or take to Goodwill I arranged in the library at my school where I spent a couple of days each week organizing & checking out books, making posters for monthly themes & Renegades in history, helping design mini-lessons for Advocacy classes. I got to chat with kids before school and during lunch about what to read, how to revise poems, the importance of alone time, ways to deal with friends who weren't behaving like friends anymore; it was a lot of the parts of teaching I loved the most. I even attended staff meetings and offered useful input about some of the students I had taught before.

During my unstructured days, I went to art education trainings, wrote poetry, baked, made some collages, started metal stamping, and watched all of the Queer Eye episodes with utter tear-filled joy. What a life.

Yet. As much as I appreciated Last Year Me for recognizing her need to step away from a literal lifetime of teaching to explore A New Identity, I could not stop talking about how I had worked & connected with "my students." Every conversation seemed to veer into the land of dealing with people, trying to understand, empathize, and help. The more Queer Eye I watched, the more I felt like they [Karamo] were speaking directly at me - do I really know myself? What do I want in life?

As this year rolled on and into a pandemic, I found myself reflecting more on those questions. I relished learning to give tours at the art museum, though I also actually liked not being expected to leave my house. But other than making scones to leave on neighbors' doorsteps and/or eat in front of the TV, or constantly revising poems or stressing over my Submittable bio & cover letter, I spent the distancing time reading and thinking. I planned imaginary lessons. I wondered if my principal or colleagues would allow me to "guest teach" a few times. I felt a little sheepish about asking to go back after having cleaned out everything and made pronouncements about Moving On. But this is when I started to really listen to the Queer Eye guys [Karamo] - the past is the past, we decide what to do with it and how we go forward, it doesn't matter what other people think of us, it is okay to ask for help, it's necessary to take care of ourselves. I asked.

So here I am, getting ready to go back to my school, into a different classroom, to teach US History for two quarters; I'll still be able to give museum tours during my off-time plus write some poetry now & then. My days are now spent more on reading about the people who have been left out of textbooks + designing lessons to open students' eyes to the nation we have wrought, and hopefully send them out to create a new order.

I'm also watching every Queer Eye episode again. While eating scones.

a calling recalled

This week, I submitted my resignation from teaching.

I can't remember not wanting to be a teacher. I was an only child for nine years, playing School most of that time with a makeshift classroom of stuffed animals arranged in relentlessly neat rows, each assigned a name in an old ledger from my grandpa's business. Occasionally I roped my younger cousin into joining me but only as a student, never the teacher. If he thinks of those days fondly, he's being kind; I was a rigid taskmaster in my early days, assigning him (and the hostage toys) leftover handouts my former-teacher uncle gave me in an old briefcase. I also remember conjuring infractions to punish him for, as I hadn't yet learned the art of positive behavior reinforcement. Later, I divided my time between torturing my cousin with math & spelling worksheets and preparing 'lessons' for my baby sister, using Sesame Street, Mr. Rogers, and Captain Kangaroo as inspiration. As I got older and better at interacting with others not as a tyrant, I found myself seeking out other broader, more finessed ways of sharing information I learned from my constant reading and TV-watching.

All through real school, my favorite parts of the day were staring at cute boys, reading, and writing (order may vary); on the best days, I helped cute boys with their reading and writing. The one time I skipped class in high school was to finish an English paper due later that day. I admired most of my teachers, especially the English teachers, and those I didn't served as examples of What Not To Do when I got their job. I also babysat a lot and spent most of that time reading to and interacting with the kids before watching TV and eating snacks; I felt like I was a natural.

In college I fell in love with Thirtysomething and the idea of becoming an Advertising Executive (never mind that I was unclear on what that actually meant), but really I was only in love with the cool houses and wardrobes that apparently came with working as an Advertising Executive (maybe?). Teaching was still in my periphery but I knew it wouldn't pay well and in the late '80s, making money was The Goal. In my junior year, an honest professor mentioned that anyone not willing to sell every awful product being sold would never make it in advertising; I dropped the class and promptly enrolled in the School of Education. I relished the Literature classes directed at future teachers; I tutored other students in writing; I spent time working at the campus preschool and babysitting for graduate students. During student teaching, I surprised myself with instinctual moves like bonding with an otherwise difficult kid through our mutual love of football, and gently redirecting the teen who earnestly asked me to prom. I also incorporated Wayne's World and an SNL skit into lessons. Rock star.

I cherish the highlights of my time in classrooms: from the middle school where I designed curricula from scratch and helped 8th graders plan community projects to the GED prep work in a group home with adjudicated youth to the substitute teaching where I perfected my Love & Logic techniques, to these past 12 years at my favorite place outside of my own home. Despite the sometimes long hours and occasional emotional beatings, I continually felt called to teaching.

Until this year. When I signed my intent to return last spring, toward the end of my sabbatical, I didn't think twice. Why wouldn't I go back? I had gladly dedicated most of that time off to my daughter and she was graduating; I'd pursued some Fun Things but none of them had specifically offered me a new career. I put my classroom back together, planned some fresh lessons for different classes, made connections with my students, as usual. Yet, it felt different. My boy continued his monthly chemotherapy treatments; my girl marched alone in football games 450 miles away; I kept comparing my hours of preparing lessons to the hours I'd spent volunteering with homeless youth and at film festivals and with public radio pledge drives, and I longed for that freedom to use my time as I wanted. And, I realized, as I needed.

I knew what I was accepting when I chose to be a teacher. I have loved even the hardest, most mentally trying moments of all of my experiences as an educator. I consider every instance a gem in my crown - I couldn't have become the wife, mother, friend, or woman I am without having absorbed the digs and disappointments along with the praise for and pride in my classroom time.

It is strange now to be at the half-century point of my life deciding to change direction, to alter my identity, to become Something Else. More than strange to not even be able to name the Something Else I'm becoming - I might write, I might be a professional volunteer, I might be the substitute teacher some people love and others think is weird. Yet all of these things feel more acceptable than staying in a position where I ought to be uplifting but am instead feeling like a slow drain of inspiration & joy.

I hope that those coming into my place are feeling how I did for a couple of decades - excited about designing ways to engage sometimes-surly teens, energetic in their desire to instill a love of learning - and that they are open to embracing the unknowns of classroom life, the demands of loving other people's children, the challenges of balancing dedication to teaching with necessary self-care.

I don't think I failed, but I am exhausted and ready to move on.
Here's to a new calling.

relating in retrospect

As a teacher and mom, I know I'm expected to remind people that nothing is impossible. If I were a motivational speaker or Oprah or an abnormally perky optimist like I'm pretty sure Reese Witherspoon is, I'd point out how the word even says I'M POSSIBLE! I want to punch myself for just typing that.

The thing is though, some stuff is impossible and I think it's important that we face it in order to properly deal with it. I'm not talking about complicated tasks that seem despairingly unlikely - eradicating hunger, exacting world peace, having a million dollars to do with as I please, living in a pineapple under the sea, meeting/marrying Michael Fassbender...I mean something like time travel. Specifically, being able to return to my own teen world and help myself make different choices. This is impossible not only because no one that I know of has perfected a time machine yet, but mainly because what teenage person would ever listen to a grown-up's advice, even if she claimed to have come from the future?

I've found myself in a strange place lately [hello again, middle age, you fucking creeper]. I'm trying to go about my business, aging and contemplating my purpose and letting go of my children as they become adults, but I keep stumbling across these thoughts & memories that make me question what I even know about myself. And if I don't know myself, how do I help guide other people with any credibility? I believe myself to be content with how my life has been but then I fall into a pit of What If and start to retrace my steps - they usually go back to my foolish freshman year of college when I squandered 99% of my opportunities to be a better person (the 1% is miraculously not burning bridges with some classmates whom I still consider good friends and they seem to feel the same). So I try to get inside my own 18-year-old mind but memories are unreliably altered by age & perspective, and reading those loopy-cursive journal entries is so embarrassing; I cannot connect Now Me to Then Me other than generically recalling the events. Everything she wrote seems silly and shallow - I know that's because I'm looking at it through the eyes of a 49-year-old old person, but when I try to imagine asking her to think deeper, to understand why she's doing what she did, I'm at a loss. Why am I unable to relate to my own younger self? I remember feeling so mature, so capable of accomplishing whatever I wanted (though I can tell I had no idea what I really wanted...why??), so almost-sure of myself (disappointment with my hair is a lifelong theme); at the same time I also know I was far more insecure than I let on even in my private writings. I start to feel sad for Then Me and that's when I wonder about the time travel thing - if I could go back, what could I tell her that might inspire her? Would I just drop in as Future Me a la Kyle Reese (with a different end purpose, of course) or simply pose as a naturally occurring adult on campus whose wisdom is somehow welcomed? But then, I didn't listen to my smart best friend/roommate nor my cute Michael J. Fox-lookalike grad student advisor when they tried telling me how to not fuck up, so why pay attention to the righteous old weird mom-lady? And, I ultimately don't want her to drastically change her life because I am happy with how my life has turned out - if Then Me didn't flunk out and spend a year away from university, I probably wouldn't have met my man and had my kids and felt so strongly about helping other teens find their way.

So, what do I really want from this exercise?

I wish Then Me had made more meaningful connections with people, including herself; I wish she would realize how smart & funny & capable she really was - not based on what others told her but because she shut up the loud mean voices in her head and listened to the quieter gentle ones that matter most; I wish she could get comfortable sooner with her body and treat it kindly, with respect; I wish she liked herself more then, because it's been nice for the past handful of years, finally.

There is a paradox here - the past doesn't define me, but it does shape me. I am here only because of where I've been, yet I lament how I spent my time there. Maybe that all makes the now even better though...

Have I just accomplished the impossible?

me today

With Mark Wahlberg and the spirit of Adam Yauch, in my classroom trying to catch up + get ready for Monday. 

I love my job teaching teenagers, but 'love' is a funny word. In our Poetry class, we call it taboo; instead of telling, show what love looks like. Feels like. Smells, tastes, sounds like. 

So. 

This is what my love looks like : a bulletin board next to my desk filled with handsome men and thoughtful quotes and notes from students, and an old laundry receipt from Washy Washy in Singapore; I bring what makes me smile, sigh, wistfully remember and pin it to my periphery for inspiration and joy and relief. My love also looks like tables arranged for seeing each other, a raised eyebrow, hands in the air, faces awake with thinking or furrowed with disagreement or blank with confusion trying to be alleviated. Sometimes it looks like eyelids fighting sleep because that's how life is, for all of us. 

This is what my love feels like : the shaggy velour pillow against my back in the desk chair, the push of tacks and squeeze of binder clips, a swipe of Lip Rescue, the smooth glide of Flair pens on papers, tension fading in a student's shoulder, breath catching in my throat during a discussion, the empty-building concrete cold that settles in my fingers and under my socks on days like today.

My love smells woody like pencil shavings, floor cleaner sharp, deliciously acrid like playing school in 5th grade with markers that made me lightheaded, Tropical Sorbet spray when the paper mill stench stretches up the hill, and meadow gardeny when I slather on hand cream at the beginning and end of every day. 

Love that tastes like black tea sometimes hot and sometimes lukewarm, fast lunches, secret chocolates in my desk drawer & stale emergency crackers in another, salty smoked almonds for sharing. 

And this love sounds like my IHeartRadio New Order station (Van Halen on Fridays), the daily grind of a pencil sharpener, a whirring projector, scraping chairs and teenage voices negotiating for seats, maybe loud, maybe quiet from the edges, powerful words put into powerful sentences, "Good morning, Mrs. Spencer" and "Bye, Mrs. Spencer, have a nice day."

I love my job.

bucking up

I do not jest when I say there are days that I awaken desperate to do anything other than teach teenagers. Some days I stay in bed until the last possible ridiculous moment; I groggily consider what I could do from the comfort of my pajamas that would pay for a few summer nights in NYC; I mentally map out our budget and decide where I could scrimp to account for a few thousand less. But I always trudge downstairs, make some tea, eat cake if I'm lucky, nag my kids into semi-meaningful conversation while they have breakfast, and imagine telling my principal (who also, mercifully & thankfully, is a friend) that I cannot do my job anymore. First, in my imaginary scenario, I see her jaw set in a way that makes me want to run, and then I see her squinting, trying to listen to my reasons. Which are, honestly, stupid.

Managing my time is hard.
Coming up with interesting, relevant, useful lessons is hard.
Going to meetings is hard.
Filling out paperwork is hard.
I want to do something easier.

I never get to the place where I articulate these things because scary principal friend just thinking about them while I shower and blow dry my hair and do my makeup remind me that they are truly stupid. Of course my job is hard - I am helping new people navigate the world in meaningful ways. Yet that includes my own people, the ones I birthed and am raising but somehow inexplicably still do dumb things amidst the cool things. Plus I want to spend time with my husband, that isn't always centered around wine & The Walking Dead after the kids are in bed (though these moments are golden, yo). And I have friends whom I'd also like to see occasionally for a few hours, without having to compromise lesson plans or meeting notes or grading.

So yes, all of the parts of my job make living life hard - as do many parts of many people's jobs. I think it's a sign that something is truly worth doing if it is difficult and we do it anyway, with pride; if we care enough to put in the time it takes to make our jobs satisfying to ourselves and meaningful to others, that is valuable.

And here's the cool thing about those few days when I wake up in a state like this: At least one student somehow rocks my teacher world within a few hours. I've found an anonymous note saying my hair & smiley faces are awesome and that the writer admires my wit. A very reluctant/borderline contentious poetry student got engrossed in putting together a presentation of his Where I'm From poem, asking excitedly if he could use as background the picture of his house he got from Google Earth. A quiet girl made a point of telling me Technology is now her favorite class because I'm teaching it. Another girl whom I had reprimanded for stirring up drama later brought me a Keep Calm button for my bulletin board.

Then today, this exchange happened with a boy who loves the Philadelphia Eagles:

Him - Hey! The Cowboys won yesterday! [pause] I watched the game; I think the Giants are pretty crappy.

Me - I KNOW! It was a terrible game, but it was a win. Now we're tied with the Eagles' record!

Him - Yeah.

Me - But I wore green today, just for you. [I wear black if my team loses]

Him - Oh, and I'm wearing blue! Cool!

....then we have to start class, but that. It's exactly why I get out of bed, and forget about the stupid stuff.

emerging from the dark ages

I'm pretending that it's taken me awhile to write a new post because, before this one, I had 1066 posts and it was pretty exciting to be at that number. For you non-history geeks, the year 1066 is considered a major turning point in England's history; it felt like this 1067th post should be as significant at the Battle of Hastings. But as tumultuous as teaching high school can be, I doubt it really compares to the start of the Middle Ages.

This full moon week began with me feeling a bit dejected by my students' unrelenting cries of "Reading is boring!" and "How is this important to REAL LIFE?" and "Whyyyyyyy do we have a quiz on a MONDAY?!?" Maybe that is how King Harold II felt when Halley's Comet ominously appeared over England and William the Conqueror began marching into his country...Anyway. I trudged on, reading aloud and leading kids not too reluctantly through reasonably thoughtful discussions of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.

Then, because I had another quiz scheduled for today, there came a storm of sadness from students planning Senior Skip Day impromptu family trips to the beach. There would be no taking the quiz early or later if they did not have an official doctor's note excusing them, per our school policy; every day can be Skip Day after June 15, young people. Gnashing of teeth and roaring laments ensued, much like the war cries of British and Norman soldiers, I'm sure. Yet I stood my ground.

This morning I found 2/3 of my students at school, ready for the quiz. I had cupcakes for all of them, and hearty thanks for valuing our time together. It was a fine day.

Keep calm and carry on, indeed.

sound & fury

Living this day of my life:

• Spent lunch time in my classroom with a former student preparing to leave for college this weekend. He tried hard to look all "I've got it handled" while his pacing said "I'm nervous," then when we were parting he blurted out, "It's terrifying." I told him I know. And that's what makes it the best move he's ever made. [He has my cell number; we'll keep in touch.]
• Spent an hour after school visiting with a couple of 2010 graduates who kept marveling at how much easier life was in high school. I did not say "duh." I was only a little bit smug. I assured them we know they couldn't help but be self-absorbed know-it-alls; they are forgiven and all is forgotten. [Sort of.]
• Spent 2 1/2 hours in the corner of a cramped conference room listening to a first read-through of Macbeth the Scottish play by some pretty extraordinary local thespians. There were some laughs amidst the professional approach, the Lady Macbeth chilled even in this very raw rehearsal, then the previously unassuming Macduff brought a haunted reverence to the table with his anguish upon hearing of the murder of his family [oh, SPOILER ALERT for those not in the know but really, get thee to a production]. Afterward, one of the actors read a piece he had written reflecting on the value & need for theater in such sad & despairing times as we've experienced lately in our nation; it was beautiful in its intimacy and conviction, and I told him so.

I sometimes feel, as most of us do, that what I'm 'doing' in my life is of little consequence - when people are starving & hurting & killing, when cities are destroyed, when governments are indifferent, when so many things seem far more significant than a group of teenagers struggling through a poem or a play - but the simple truth is, everything matters in its own way. Everything has the power to affect change, if only in perspective. And for something to matter it needs to be noticed.

So I notice.

heroism

Every year, our Advocacy classes spend four days before winter break putting together creative & thoughtful & school-appropriate recycled art masterpieces on a particular theme to display for community members and district office workers to admire. This activity serves to keep our students' minds off the excitement (or unfortunate dread) of the impending holidays, give us all a sense of frantic camaraderie, and remind people outside our building, and some inside, how brilliant kids can be.

This year we decided on the theme of Famous Renegades, making sure whomever we chose represented our school motto: Be Kind, Be Proud, Be Fearless. Each class came up with a different idea - ours was Robin Hood, other classes went with classic historical figures (Sir Isaac Newton, Gandhi) and modern leaders (Steve Jobs, Mandela), one group crafted a bust of a vibrant classmate while another made a mobile characterizing our principal, who has led our school since developing it a decade ago. As always, we marveled at the clever divergences that serve to highlight our collective ingeniousness.

By lunchtime we had all heard the horrifying news of the elementary school shooting. There are no words to make sense of such actions; we quietly, gently went on.

At the end of the day, our principal forwarded this message from the deputy superintendant:

Mrs. Holmes,

I learned about the shooting this morning in Connecticut and was really struggling to make sense of this world. When I walked from my office to Hayes, I couldn't stop thinking about the heartache in that community. As I started to look at the art created in Hayes my spirit was rejuvenated by the community demonstrated in each of the advisory presentations. Each one was unique and captured the idea of heroism perfectly. I loved that they recognized heroes on a global level and also heroes within the walls of Hayes. Thanks to you and your staff for creating a community of hope and learning at Hayes.
Sincerely,
Jeff


If only we could spread this across the country.

job description

Today I wrapped up teaching One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest to a few dozen high school seniors for the second time. And it occurs to me, with only a touch of guilt, that the most satisfying part of this unit is getting the majority of my students to hate the movie.

Here is what I tell them at the beginning of the book, and again each time I show a short clip [there are at least 3 periods during the quarter when mutiny is imminent because I only let them see 10-15 minutes of the movie at a time, to begin with]: "I am not saying the movie is bad. Standing alone, it is entertaining. Jack Nicholson is indeed a BRILLIANT ACTOR. But the movie should have been given a different title."

I read most of the novel aloud (please revisit it sometime to marvel at what kind of language I use in my classroom, then imagine the impact that has on teenage people; next, understand fully why I have at least one glass of wine every evening). After the first 20 pages or so, I show the opening of the film and, following a mini Jack Nicholson-lovefest, they do appreciate that the movie is going to be vastly different simply because it lacks Chief's narrative perspective. We continue reading, getting to know the characters and talking about why the story is an important one to hear. We talk about whether McMurphy is a troublemaker or a renegade [and what is the difference, anyway?]. Note: Our school mascot is a Renegade; we generate a lot of interesting discussion at this point about how some people in our tiny town tend to see us and - hey - are some of us like McMurphy? Weird.

By the time I've read through the beautiful, magical fishing trip in the book and then show that skimpy, brash, pointless scene, most of my students are disgusted with the change in focus & tone. They miss Chief's metaphorical hallucinations; they don't like that the movie McMurphy calls the men 'loonies' and 'nuts' and 'crazies;' they're offended by the absence of key characters & storylines; they aren't feeling terrified by Nurse Ratched, just annoyed.

We are all emotionally spent when we finish the novel - from following and worrying over Mack's transformation, from deciphering Chief's 'truths' even if they never happened, from growing unexpectedly closer to these damaged fictional people. Then we finish the movie. I listen to the gasps and groans from my students as they watch the film wrap up without addressing the points that our class decided were necessary for a story about courage and strength and redemption.

When the lights come up, it is silent for a beat. Then the comments & questions explode: "I can't believe they had McMurphy come back at night, and no one saw him." "Did they really skip the ENTIRE PART about the men checking out?" "It doesn't make any sense that Nurse Ratched could talk." "That. Was totally sh*tty." "Why did they make it a completely different story?"

Like they actually read, and paid attention, and learned stuff, and cared.

Brings a tear to my Renegade teacher eye.

give it up

My wildly ambitious intention was to write a blog post every day (seriously?) about the gifts I receive and give. I have coerced my Advocacy class into thinking about how they give & receive gifts each day during December; my thought is that this moves people to be mindful about positive moments in their days, to start noticing what kinds of delightfulness swirls around them even if most of their lives are nonsensical and perhaps generally crummy. Not to diminish the awfulness that might be present, but to remind everyone that regardless of the same old sh*t, there is usually something worth giving a little thanks for, even if it is as simple as sunshine on a 40 degree morning or a few cookies in the middle of a food-free day. Some of my students have such horrible lives that I often feel a little ridiculous asking them to acknowledge small favors, but honestly - what good does it do anyone to dwell on the garbage when you're a kid and have no say in most of the insanity of your existence? Why not focus on the pleasant stuff - especially what they can create & control- at least for 30 minutes of the day?

So. It was nice to hear on Thursday that many of my kids could list ways of giving non-materially: offering compliments, smiling, holding doors, giving advice, sharing a table at lunch, writing poems or singing songs or making music in the hallway. If I weren't a trained & highly skilled professional, I would have fallen on the floor and wept for their selfless, youthful beauty & optimism. Many of these children (teenagers are, truly, still children, people) live with unemployed parents, single and struggling moms & dads, parents who suffer addictions or diseases (or both), and occasionally well-meaning but tired or clueless grandparents and even great-grandparents; some know abuse most of us cannot and would rather not fathom; some have changed homes in one decade more times than most adults have ever considered; they do not think twice about selling, purchasing, or using one or more drugs to get by; they desperately want to grow up and be "successful" but have no idea how to do so in real life, legally.

I printed calendars for them to record the gifts they give & receive this month. I do not tell them that what I consider a gift given is my assertion that they are invaluable members of this world; I also do not mention that a gift to me is their presence in my classroom every. single. day. For now, it is enough that we greet each other sincerely every morning and that they feel smart raising their hands to answer a question in history class.

Those are things worth giving, and getting.

Happy holidays ~ pass it on.

perception versus reality

It took awhile for me to get hired at my school partly because it was intentionally small and thus had a smaller budget in the district. But it also took awhile because I was the only substitute teacher who would willingly (eagerly, lovingly) take jobs there whenever they called. When my principal pointed out this fact after I once again begged (in an entirely professional way of course) for a classroom of my own, I was taken aback. What teacher takes him or herself seriously as an educator yet refuses to work with a particular group of kids?

Intellectually, I can understand how the general public might think that an alternative high school attracts disrespectful slackers. I can even understand that some people might be concerned that the halls of such a place are filled with juvenile delinquents. It is an easy trap to fall into because why wouldn't a kid be able to just make it through regular high school? How hard can it be to just go, do, graduate? Those of us who have made it out of adolescence and are now comfortably ensconced in the routine of our Grown-Up lifestyle filled with more significant issues than who is wearing what when and ohmyGodWHY tend to forget how hard all of that feels in the grand scheme of Nothing Else to Worry About. I get it.

But TEACHERS holding these anxious attitudes? It stuns me every time. Every time I mention to another teacher in our district where I work and see tension in a jaw or a raised eyebrow or, from the bold, hear a sniff before "Really? How do you like it THERE?" as if I've been sentenced to our school as punishment. Stunned. And supremely sad. They are missing something special.

I love our school. Sometimes we do have disrespectful slackers [though most people refer to them as 'typical teenagers']; sometimes we have juveniles who qualify as delinquent. But what we have 100% of the time are young people who are trying to make their way in the world around a variety of obstacles that spring up at any given moment. They might struggle with schoolwork and they might out-genius most of the teachers; they could be stunning artists or breathtaking musicians or cunning scientists or simply open, eager minds. Perhaps they have authority issues but they might also be waiting for an adult to treat them with respect. Many have little or no support in their homes (if they have homes), but handfuls do come in with concerned and loving families who will do whatever they can to help us help them.

Regardless of their circumstances, they are children and we are teachers; our job is to show love even when it feels difficult and offer assistance even when we're not sure what they need.

I am proud of our kids - whether graduation comes after five years instead of four, whether they end up finishing with us or not, whether they go to college or enter the military or get jobs & start families; no matter in what order they decide to do any of these things. They have chosen us, our school, for awhile, and we are honored.

17 syllable philosophy

life feels difficult?

jokers try to hold you back?

excel, go beyond.



gloomy with a chance of hopeful

I love being a teacher.

Love.

Truly.

But sometimes it feels so hard I can't help but imagine hopping a sleeper train to New York, pretending to be a fascinating incognito famous author writing poems about the scenery and short stories about the passengers while drinking wine and eating cheese, bread, & chocolate all the way across the country, where I will find a funky studio apartment to share with a Mad Menesque lover and send artsy postcards from.

Or, driving into Portland and shopping for six hours before collapsing at a Happy Hour bar with the new Chuck Palahniuk book and my iPod blasting Fountains of Wayne.

Teaching is not hard like laborious - sometimes I come up with a new way of approaching a skill or topic on the fly because what I've planned isn't working, but that doesn't make me sweat (usually). I don't pull muscles (unless I clumsily climb on a chair to make a point) or find myself short of breath (except for when I crisscross the computer lab 45 times in 90 minutes). And honestly, that would be about the only exercise I get so it would be welcomed. And these are the parts I handle pretty easily.

Hard like: After I have concocted 33 multiple-intelligence-friendly ways to say "Please use your time wisely because today is your last day to work on this assignment in class" including Pig Latin and animated PowerPoint slides (from atop a chair), at least six students will act dumbfounded and/or outraged when I ask for the assignment the next day.

Hard like: When I hand out sticky notes while explaining OUT LOUD IN ENGLISH their purpose, each individual student will ask me What is this for?

Hard like: I have had intelligent discussions with every one of my students and know for a fact that every one of them is capable of thoughtful analysis and synthesis of some sort, yet when I read a passage from a novel and ask specific questions about that exact passage within 40 seconds of reading it, I am met with blank stares. Sometimes sighs. Occasionally groans, as if I am expecting the impossible from their teenage brains.

I want to stab myself. Multiple times, every day.

But then. The most unlikely kid in the world - the one who announced loudly and with glee that he most certainly would NOT be doing homework over the long weekend thankyouverymuch - e-mails his research paper from home Sunday night then asks first thing Monday morning if I got it. Yes, thank you, it looks like you did quite a bit of work. He tells me he was up until 3 a.m. Wow. And, he read the novel but didn't finish all the questions, just 12 (out of 13). Wow again, impressive. Yeah, he says. It felt really good to do all of that work, actually.

Love.

fortitude

In a departure from my recent melancholic posts about the end of the school year and letting go of beloved students, I offer this Sensational Haiku:

teaching is hard work

but doing it without booze

is the real challenge

fool hearted

Cleaning instead of crying
Dusting every surface including those no one sees unless they're moving out
Scrubbing sinks and cursing at toilet bowls
Instead of sobbing
Over the loss of children I didn't birth
haven't known more than a handful of years
children who've never lived in my home or even seen
My house
Children who are no longer children, really.

Why
invite people into your
roomlifeworldmindheart
Only to send them away
Without you?

Because
someone might come alive out there
someone might send a note
someone might come back
Someday

And because
my house will get cleaner
Every June

the good things

I am in a spinning crazy place, as is typical for the end of the school year. There are always Seniors panicking about graduating (or not) and Freshmen slowing down to a comatose pre-summer state while I attempt to design even more engaging lessons & activities to keep interest inside the classroom on these waning [usually sunny] days of June. Then there is the completion & sale of our yearbook, planning a talent show, preparing for the Senior banquet and the all-school picnic. Plus I am helping to organize my 25th high school reunion in August, getting everything ready for our London trip in July, and arranging for my girl's 11th birthday party at the end of June. Oh, and trying to keep track of my family: band + orchestra + drama + appointments + laundry + dinners + sweeping + miscellaneous Very Important Activities. This all takes a toll on my psyche, my feet, and my hair & makeup; I end up forgetting to eat all day, having headaches every afternoon, crabbing at my kids for doing kid-appropriate things, and falling asleep before completing one intelligent sentence with my man. Or even watching a single episode of True Blood.

I need to stand still, eat something, take a deep breath, and remember the simple good stuff that survives this outbreak of insanity. Such as:

1. Hugs from my kids when I come in the door after school
2. The sun being out even through downpours the past two days
3. My fabulous-looking High Maintenance red toenails
4. My man who never fails to pamper me with fancy food, drink, underwear & shoes when I most need them
5. LiveWire! tomorrow night and writing workshop with Lizz Winstead on Sunday
6. Students (teenagers!) who ask how I am every day. And bump knuckles with me.
7. Being invited to stop at an old classmate's house for lunch & conversation
8. Supercute & practical $9.99-at-Goodwill green Wilson Leather purse
9. My new chic carry-on bag for the London trip
10. Girlfriends who come for tea & talk and pretend not to notice my grimy floors
11. Online crossword puzzles I can always finish

I've noticed these little blessings are so much sweeter when I recall them at the end of a crampy, cranky, headachy, angst-filled week. I suppose tomorrow night's cocktails are going to move me to tears. And June 22nd promises to be a riot of relief.

Bring it.

challenged

Two of our students chose to bring Challenge Day to our school as their Senior Project. If you're not familiar with the project, it is a way to build community amongst teens and the adults in their lives - to bring people together by talking about experiences and sharing understanding. Trained individuals run the event during which strong issues & emotions are often revealed. It is supposed to be powerful & moving.

I love my job and this school. I love my students; I look forward to talking with them and getting to know them. I even enjoy seeing them outside of the classroom.
I would rather not, however, break down and cry around them. So while I was being the encouraging educator and supporting our Seniors, I was feeling increasingly concerned about how I personally might handle the day.

A lot of students, who clearly know me better than I like to admit, teased me beforehand about potentially being made to actually cry (I have, sadly, been asked a few times if I EVER cry; apparently I am *that* steely-looking). I gave them my best eyebrow raise, resisted punching them, and said I would try getting all my sobs out privately the night before so nobody would have to be subjected to it at Challenge Day. In reality, I took lots of deep breaths and kept a reserve of non-sad thoughts on tap (memories of boring teachers, irritating ex-boyfriends, times I got speeding tickets, etc).

The best moment of the morning came when a facilitator gaily mentioned that it is good for people's health to give at least 12 hugs every day. AT LEAST 12. I could not hide my mixed feelings of incredulity & horror at this thought and when I looked left, one of my Seniors was giggling at me; he popped over to hug me during the next session.

My first share was to explain that I frequently feel guilty about having had no major problems in my life - I have never been beaten, told I'm stupid, or kicked out of my home; I have no addictions nor does anyone I've lived with; nobody I've been extremely close to has died suddenly or violently; I've not gone hungry, been homeless, or truly feared for my life. I do not want any of this to happen to me but the more I work with kids who have dealt with these things before their 18th birthday, the more I wish I could just take that piece on for them. It is not that I don't believe these kids can handle what they've been through, that they can't survive - they have, so far. But so many struggle with traumas they just should not have to.

We did an activity called "Cross the Line" in which the facilitator announced various ordeals people face and those who had experienced them walked across a line then turned toward the rest of the group. The last call was for people to cross if they had ever been a child. The number of my students who stayed behind broke my heart. Keeps on breaking my heart.

In the end, the event was fine. Better than fine - magical. People talked about real thoughts & feelings; everyone followed directions, participated, opened up, listened. Kids hoped for the closeness to continue; one asked that we move the lunchroom tables at our school together so everyone can sit closer, like a family.

I cried, for the things these kids have been through and are still facing, and for the things they've missed. About the possibility that my own children might someday endure similar trials. But I also felt relieved, because they can all now trust that there is someone near them to offer love & support, no matter what.

Plus I got - and gave - some really good hugs.

power tripster

I marveled today at how, after a week of sassy teens behaving as though the end of the quarter was at hand (it was), many students will do what I ask when I least expect it.

Imagine the range of possible responses at the disposal of high schoolers when a teacher says "Please do _________ before you ________." I work amongst them and even though I know most days they begrudgingly appreciate me, I also realize they feel safe enough to say "F*ck this, I'm out of here" or, more respectfully, "Yeah, no. I'll just sit here until class is over."

Today, the last day of the quarter, I had multiple students ask to leave class with friends (to which I responded "I need you to be here instead"), play music with a different teacher ("Make sure you finish the assignments on the board before you go"), or opt out of critiquing classmates' work ("It's a participation grade; please be attentive and give constructive feedback"). In every circumstance, my students complied. There was a little bit of whining (they're teenagers, not saints) but each kid did what I asked. They sat in my room, finished required work, were engaged with their classmates in a positive way.

I'm not letting this go to my head though. Monday I'm back with the Seniors who roll their eyes at me so often I have to keep asking if they're having seizures.

It was fun while it lasted.

thankful: direction

sometimes life feels hard

changing minds, making choices

keep moving forward

I am thankful for my occasionally difficult job, for my persevering students, and for haiku.