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.

let me write a thank you on my palm

Welcome Morning


There is joy

in all:

in the hair I brush each morning,

in the Cannon towel, newly washed,

that I rub my body with each morning,

in the chapel of eggs I cook

each morning,

in the outcry from the kettle

that heats my coffee

each morning,

in the spoon and the chair

that cry "hello there, Anne"

each morning,

in the godhead of the table

that I set my silver, plate, cup upon

each morning.



All this is God,

right here in my pea-green house

each morning

and I mean,

though often forget,

to give thanks,

to faint down by the kitchen table

in a prayer of rejoicing

as the holy birds at the kitchen window

peck into their marriage of seeds.



So while I think of it,

let me paint a thank-you on my palm

for this God, this laughter of the morning,

lest it go unspoken.



The Joy that isn't shared, I've heard,

dies young.

                                       ~ Anne Sexton

I am so thankful for my place at my school, with these kids. Let me paint a thank-you on my palm...

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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.

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.

mrs manners

Yesterday I took my best friend's son to his sophomore orientation at the gigantic neighborhood high school. I knew it was going to be crowded but I thought, naively, that there would be a smooth organization to guide us through. Because THAT'S HOW I WOULD DO IT. I forget others are not as anal uptight efficient & prepared as I am.

I intuitively got in line to pay for his ASB card & yearbook figuring those things would be most useful in completing the other mysterious tasks ahead. After about 20 minutes of waiting, I was nearly to the front when I noticed a young man skirting the side of the now much longer line. He headed his cute blond Hollister self right up to where I was standing and smiled; I smiled back and stepped closer to the Wait Here sign. He wavered as he realized I was clearly not allowing him to cut in front of me, and it was then I noticed his mom behind him. When I met her eyes she murmured in a laughably unconvincing way, "Honey, we can't just cut in front of all these people..." And here is where I failed. I failed the three sweet boys who were behind me during the 20 minute wait, I failed High School Musical hopeful & his fool mother, and I failed any young people within earshot because all I could allow myself to do was give a slight nod and tight smile before moving a step forward to save my own spot. What I really wanted to do was what I ended up doing 90 minutes later, after another longer wait.

The last thing for my friend's son to do was pick up his textbooks. I didn't quite understand the logic in giving teenagers big expensive books to take home (and lose in their summer-fevered bedrooms) two weeks before they actually need them but apparently it makes sense to the school, and the boy had found a darling young woman to stand in line with so we stayed. And stayed. After 20 minutes, we were standing in the same linoleum squares we'd started in. When I looked toward the head of the line, it was amoeba-like by the one open window to the book room; people seemed to be moving in & out of that area with no regard for the rest of us. I was still stinging from the earlier incident and growing weary of so many teen bodies OMGing around me so I took a position at the front, memorizing the faces of those legitimately waiting there.

All was fine [though excrutiatingly slow]  for nearly a half an hour during which there was some measurable movement; calculating about 3 minutes per student, I was 15 minutes from freedom. Suddenly, two giggling girls popped in front of my guy & his friends. As fast as a mom-dressed ninja, I slid forward and announced, "Oh no, this is not going to work out. We've been waiting 45 minutes in this line. Please go to the end." The group of kids nearest these two froze but one of the line-cutters looked right at me with fierce sass: "I have to leave, like, right now." I told her so did I along with the rest of the people in line - please head on back to the end. Big sigh, bigger eye roll, a bit of a stomp. But away she (and her chagrined friend) went. Everyone exhaled around the empty space they left and a few looked sideways at me with - admiration? Fear? Mortification for whomever I was escorting? I tried smiling as if to say "All good now, carry on!" but I imagine I looked a bit more hysterical suburbanite than beneficent citizen.

And then we went to the mall where I did not scold anyone, surprisingly.

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

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.

tiny tragedies

Teaching high school seniors is difficult because they are at once somewhat mature and therefore potentially more aware of the importance of Education while also weary of school and the idea that they still have to be there for 9 more months.

The class I am in charge of now for the first time ever is English 12, which requires them - in the next 9 weeks - to research a topic they are presumably interested in, form an opinion about it, write a persuasive paper, and get started on a project related to that topic. Helping students come up with something they are interested in might seem simple and possibly fun but let me tell you, with many it is akin to offering assistance with selecting a method of execution.

One of my students is a girl who listed "being funny" when I asked everyone to write down skills they have or want to develop. I thought that was brilliant and told her so, only to have her respond "No it's not, it's stupid. I didn't know what to write because I'm not good at anything." Wow. I'm no psychologist but that seems to me a pretty blatant signal of Low Self-Esteem. So I tried the reassurance tactic - from what I've seen in class and the hall so far, people do think she's funny, and that's a skill. No it's not. Okay, what would you like to be good at? I don't know. Nothing. I don't care. Hmmm. We'll talk later then.

Last week, after three (dramatic, angst-filled) topic changes, I came back to Funny with this girl - I told her she reminds me of Janeane Garofalo [true] and she might look into doing research about women in comedy, AND I could possibly get her connected to a very funny local female comic writer/performer for a project [hopefully true]. Though I could see her trying to hide it, there was a spark of interest in her eyes. She spent the rest of the class period taking notes from Internet articles about funny women throughout history; I spent the rest of class helping other students and feeling slightly smug.

The next day she announced that topic was not going to work for her and, in fact, she might just quit school because she'd never figure anything out and it was all too hard. These are the times that try teachers' souls.

what if

As I was driving to my school yesterday, I noticed a young man jogging along the road. Before you start composing your cougar-themed comments, read on.

This young man caught my eye because everything about him at a glance reminded me of a former student. Everything except the running for sport. Our kid was a skater and a saunterer; occasionally he could be bothered to hacky with friends or play Frisbee in P.E., but generally he was surly and stationary. In the space of a few moments - the time it took to drive past the jogger and realize he was not our student - I started to wonder about how changed people might be as adults if they had chosen different activities as kids.

From what we know about our student, there are a lot of reasons he started down his path of inactivity and troubling [generally inactive] hobbies. I often say there is no excuse for bad behavior but there are reasons that we should try to understand, and so we at our school tried to understand where he was coming from - essentially abandoned by a mother who later tried making amends through inappropriate gifts, and raised by an emotionally distant father who never appeared for meetings and seemed irritated when I called to tell him about his son's fine work in poetry. With this kind of unstable, untrustworthy childhood as a backdrop, it would be difficult for a teen to make wise choices; we do the best we can at school to help guide kids, but it's hard to compete with apathetic parents & unsupervised free time.

Other students of ours have gotten pregnant, run away from home, committed crimes, attempted suicide. These are choices - though for some kids it doesn't seem that way because their circumstances are so unbearable. When a teenager has become a parent or lived on the streets or survived incarceration or cheated death, activities like prom and art shows and writing contests and cooking classes can seem ridiculously simple, even meaningless. Yet despite heavy circumstances, life is still going on; we have to keep reminding them, and offering variety.

On a less dramatic note, I think of my own teen years and the kinds of things I chose to (and not to) do. For the most part I was low-key [reading, writing, watching TV, going to movies], but I know some of my decisions were based on how I thought my parents might react; I often would rather decline invitations than get involved in often-convoluted discussions with them about who/what/where/when/why. While I think I turned out pretty well, I do wonder who I might be if I had joined the volleyball team or campaigned for student council or pursued concert band or applied to be one of those rollerskating goddesses.

This student I thought I saw did graduate this year with his class. And before that, he let himself teach some classmates to play hacky sack and even started an informal chess club despite having told me two years ago that those things were stupid. So maybe there is no need to stop and ask what if, and just keep moving forward.

behind my steely reserve

Yesterday we held our graduation ceremony and for the third year, I had the privilege of reading the graduates' names as they crossed the stage. It is the perfect task for me because a) my OCD is highly valued as I belabor exactly how to pronounce each syllable correctly and b) I cherish that moment when I meet each kid's eyes and smile, and c) it is a position where I am not in line to hug them. And I only say this because while I understand the importance of showing emotions, I am desperately afraid of being out of control once mine start peeking out. People who know me well appreciate that I am not an indiscriminate hugger. I only do it when I truly feel inspired, kind of like when I only ask how someone is doing if I really care. If a student initiates a hug I am happy to reciprocate, but I have to steel myself against crying because I know once it starts it won't stop for a long uncomfortable time. Which would ruin my whole reading-names gig, and then I'd cry about that too. So I like standing at the side of the stage, out of graduates' line of sight, where I can beam at them as they walk past but stay composed for the next name.

Yesterday, the young Anakin graduated with his class. Teachers are not supposed to have favorites, and really I wouldn't call this kid a "favorite" in the dictionary definition of the word; some days my head throbbed after merely trying to greet him, sometimes I was grateful he was absent, often I just nodded my head and refused to argue with him. But in the grand arena of my teaching career, I'm not looking for favorites. I am most fulfilled by overcoming challenges, building relationships, illuminating new paths even if I can't make kids walk them. This boy challenged me almost hourly during the last three years I've known him (every few minutes when he was in one of my classes). But he begrudgingly allowed me to keep trying to build a relationship, he occasionally seemed to listen when I offered suggestions. And he hugged me before he walked off the stage yesterday. (I did not fall apart. On the outside)

The hardest part of teaching, for me, is not coming up with engaging lessons or managing the classroom or even dealing with difficult behavior. The hardest part is letting go of our students, not knowing what they're doing for six hours each day, and hoping they believe we love them and are available whenever they need us.

may i have this dance?

Our Renegades held their first prom last weekend, which the students planned & delivered with little intervention from us old people teachers. We were so proud of them - they were working with a shoestring budget and secondhand facility but creatively rounded up volunteers, supplies, and services, providing a memorable Night of Dreams for 70 attendees.


Everything's better with glitter

Slam dunk decor

Our resident Kurt loves all things bargain couture - he rivals me at finding amazing treasures at thrift & antique stores. He announced he would be wearing a 'vintage' tux, which my colleague & I envisioned as something out of Guys and Dolls.
He arrived instead in Miami Vice chic, circa 1989. Loved it.

The best part for us is that our kids truly reveled in putting this event together, not worrying about the fact that the "regular" high school held their prom at the Portland Art Museum and that most of those students bought high-end dresses, rented limousines, and ate extravagant dinners beforehand. We loved watching our Renegades use their resources as best they could (student & principal-shared outfits, teacher-produced tickets, parent-provided snacks & punch, counselor-donated photography + DJ, advisor-procured Farmers Market flowers), keeping the cost at $5 per person and enjoying every minute.

my funny valentines

I ordered my Advocacy students to write haiku Valentines to staff this week, to encourage loving attitudes. (I am writing a little poem for each of them, as well).

I am compelled to share the most brilliant & touching ones.

For our Science teacher from Hong Kong, who has a delightful, friendly delivery ~

Mr. Liu I love
Because he is great, ok?
Yes indeed, stay tuned.

For one of our English teachers who resembles a cross between Eddie Vedder & Jesus ~

Harvey with your hair
Like locks of golden awesome
Makes me feel alright

To "whoever" ~

Hayes is where it's at
Tom & H run this place, yo
This school is legit.

To our principal ~

H- is a Badass

She runs this awesome school, yo

She lays down the law.

and

I call you my mom

Because you look out for me

Thank you again, H-.

To our security guy ~

Tom is a Badass
I think I can still take him
We should throw some blows

For me ~

STOP staring at ME
I won't take my iPod out
So don't stare at me.

and

Sweetly humorous
radically chill, always
Smart, educated


I'm a little jealous that I wasn't called a "Badass" but the last one was written by a relatively new student who I haven't been sure I'd connected with yet; that feels pretty good. And the iPod kid, he does take it out when I stare at him.

I hope at least some of your declarations of love are this potent.