How to change a life

This week marks the end of another school year, and I’m not sad.  It hasn’t been the greatest year of my career; I’ve grown immeasurably as a leader and a teacher, and I’ve gotten a clearer vision of what I want for myself in my future, but I’ve struggled with frustrations about the nature of my work, sometimes feeling stuck or downright discouraged when I felt like I cared a whole lot more than my kids.

It always seems that when I’m faced with these dark moments that I experience these flashes of brilliance and I’m reminded why I’m in education.  Because teachers really do change lives.  We don’t always know we’re doing it, and if we’re asked, we might say that we hadn’t made a difference for anyone.  But beyond what is expressed on all of the cheesy inspirational images on Facebook about all the good teachers do, we really do change lives.

Stu started teaching four years ago with a very challenging assignment: he was given two sections of Dropout Prevention (I’m not sure if that was the course title, but it was something like that) and three sections of English I.  Those were dark days for Stu.  I tried the best I could to help him (as much as he would allow) but he struggled to keep the interest of those students, to manage their behaviors, to connect with them and help them to achieve.  He tried to use techniques and strategies he had learned in his eduction courses and in his internship with gifted students at the middle school, but one strategy after another failed, and Stu was left to feel useless and stressed.  At the end of the year, he insisted that his schedule change because he had such a hard time with it.  Stu would never say that he made a difference for any of the kids in that class, but on Monday he received a note from a student he taught in English I that year.  She said: “I wanted to thank you personally for helping me enroll in honors and advanced classes, because without having done that I may not be going to USF now.”  Stu hadn’t been in contact with her at all in the years in between, but this student recognized that his involvement in her education changed the trajectory of her life.

Last week, I had visits from two of my favorite students (I know I’m not supposed to have favorites, but I can’t help it).  One student, Lauren, was in town to visit family before spending her summer working at an internship in DC and then heading off to NYU in August for law school.  I’m sorry, Lauren, if you’re reading this because I’m about to tell your story.  I taught Lauren as a freshman, sophomore, and senior in my first ever AP Literature class.  I knew she was something special from the day she walked into my classroom, and she has never proven me wrong.  Lauren was valedictorian of her senior class and attended Emory University where she did even more remarkable things.  I nearly peed my pants when Lauren announced that she had been accepted into Harvard Law School (cue Perfect Day lyrics here).  Ultimately, Lauren recently interviewed for, and earned, a very prestigious scholarship to NYU law school.  In fact, she interviewed in DC with Justice Clarence Thomas in his offices.  At the Supreme Court.  You know, because that’s normal.

Such a remarkable young woman seems like she can do all things on her own.  But Lauren has never let me forget how thankful she was to have had me for the majority of her English courses in high school.  I helped Lauren on her way (honestly though, she would have done brilliantly in anyone’s English classes; I’m just glad I was lucky enough to teach her).

It isn’t just teachers who make this kind of impact.  Our parents or children, our families and friends, our bosses or coworkers, our pastors, the random girl you speak to on a two-hour flight, all have the potential to make a difference.  If we let them.  And we have the potential to make a difference for anyone we come into contact with if we’re engaged enough to recognize the opportunity.


An open letter to my students, on your graduation day

My Facebook feed has shown little other than caps and gowns in the last month.  Many, many former students graduated from college in the last few weeks, and today many Cobras will become alumni.

Let’s face it: this year has been interesting.  New expectations of teachers in our school district — that we work in professional learning communities, that we align our teaching to the Common Core standards, that we demonstrate effective teaching through observations — well, your teachers have been more stressed than normal this year.  And you all know how well I deal with stress.  I was out so many days for various professional development activities, all with the hope that I would be a better teacher as a result; that seemed a bit counterintuitive, hm?

I’ve taught so many types of students this year.  Some of you made me nuts from the first day of school, challenging every word that came out of my mouth.  I managed to make some (many?) of you cry.  I’ve had near shouting matches with some of you in the hallway outside of my classroom.  Some of you hate me (although, I don’t think that those of you who hate me will actually read this).  Some of you don’t think I’m not worth listening to, while some of you think too highly of me.

You are a resilient, determined, snarky, spirited group.  Some of you have experienced more pain in 18 years than I have in 35.  Some of you are gifted, as thinkers, writers, or workers, above anything that I’m capable of.  Some of you make me want to cry for all the growth I’ve seen in the last four years.  You make me want to work harder and be better for you.

To the class of 2014, I couldn’t be more proud to have taught you.  Thank you for a year that caused me to grow, professionally and personally, above anything I could have expected.  Thank you for challenging me to be a better teacher.  Thank you for your words of encouragement.  Thank you for working hard.

Getting an education

In 2006, when Stu started working on his undergrad again at PHCC and I started at Saint Leo, I had a sort of vague idea that I might, one day, want to leave the classroom to become an administrator.  I was brand new at Hudson, only teaching my second semester of classes when I was applying for graduate school.  I barely knew what it meant to be an administrator, but I probably thought I could do it easily.  I remember seeing my peers taking the classes and completing the projects required of the masters program, thinking that I could very successfully do the work they were being assigned.  So I entered the Masters in Education Leadership program at Saint Leo University.

I kept pace with Stu; as he was toiling away at the tedious prerequisites in math and science, I was taking one class at a time.  When he transferred his credits to Saint Leo, and started his Bachelors in Education program in earnest, driving to Saint Leo two or three nights a week on top of a full-time job and homework for several online classes, I plodded along as well, taking more classes online so I wasn’t out of the house any more than necessary.  We had Cari, after all, and she was still in daycare.

For those who knew us then, our family must have looked very scholarly, as if this intellectual pursuit was something so noble and pure.  We would stay after hours at school to complete our school assignments before picking up Cari.  Then I would take Cari home while Stu drove to Saint Leo for his three-hour classes, and I would grade papers at the kitchen table while Cari hung out in the other room.  Stu would finish up classes and nearly fall asleep on the long drive home along 52 because there isn’t anything to look at on 52 except cows and trees.  We managed this while serving as class sponsors and chaperones, attending football games on Friday nights or conducting fundraisers on Saturdays.  But the truth of our experience wasn’t nearly so noble.  When we were both in classes, Stu and I would bicker constantly, we really sucked as parents, and we allowed TV to parent Cari while we finished homework.  I have a sharp memory from this time: one Wednesday night, the night when discussions were due in every single class EVER, Stu sat in the bedroom struggling to complete an assignment, and I sat in the living room struggling to complete an assignment, while Cari cried and screamed hysterically from the bedroom.  I was certainly crying, too, blinking through my tears to focus my vision on a stupid, ridiculous, pointless, and meaningless discussion post before 11:59 so I could get the credit.

But in May 2010, at the same ceremony, Stu earned his bachelors degree in education, and I earned my masters degree in education leadership.  It was one of the proudest moments of my life.

Working through my masters program while my husband earned his bachelors revealed to me so much about what education really looks like for some people.  I thought, in my naiveté, that everyone’s college experience should be like mine.  I went to Mary Washington College, which I’ve mentioned here before, and experienced college in a stereotypical, but not very realistic, way.  I lived in the dorms for all four years.  I huddled into the library, pouring over thick, stinky books for obscure commentaries.  I wrote papers until the sun came up.  I worked impossibly hard, and I had the opportunity to delve deeply into Dickinson, Shakespeare, and Milton.  To this day I cannot recreate the level of analysis I was able to achieve in those days.  Lord, I was self-important!  But I never worked a job during college other than as a resident assistant or English Department assistant.  My only serious relationships were with my roommates and friends; I didn’t date seriously, and certainly didn’t have a child.  I had no idea what many, many others experience in getting their education.  But as a grown up, I was able to understand that just making it through was an accomplishment worthy of great praise, and one hell of a big party.

I consider myself lucky to have had both experiences: the stereotypical college experience and the adult learning experience.  As a stereotypical college student, I learned how to really, really work at something, content so challenging that I had to pick through it to understand every. single. word.  I learned how to speak with other smart people without making myself look like an idiot.  I learned how to operate under deadlines.  I learned how to BS like a pro, when necessary, and I learned that sometimes BS wasn’t going to cut it.  But as an adult going back to school, I learned to balance priorities that really count.  I learned how to support my husband selflessly.  I learned that sometimes Cari needs to see me work at something so she gets how important it is for her to work at something, too.  I learned that sometimes just getting something done was worth celebrating.  And I learned how to work impossibly hard, even when a million distractions are rattling around in my head fighting for attention.

So it isn’t only the content of my masters program that I will use one day as an administrator.  I will also use the grit and determination that I picked up while writing discussion posts while tears blurred my vision and my daughter cried in the other room.

Bad teacher

It seems that there are new stories every day about teachers making bad choices.  This morning, while Stu and I finished packing for our upcoming trip to Orlando with students for the Florida Scholastic Press Association convention, I heard a news story about a teacher who had been filmed in class screaming at a student and was being fired.  Captain Jeffrey Daughtry, a math teacher at a Sarasota military academy, was filmed for 18 seconds berating a student, shouting “Open your mouth again and you will die.”  This story comes only a few days after a Polk County teacher was arrested and subsequently fired for having sex with a student, and the Pasco county PLACE supervisor who was found in possession of thousands of images of child pornography.  Ugh.

It makes me so angry when teachers, or, at least, the very narrow population of *really* bad teachers, make us all look bad with their actions.  The thought of one of my peers taking advantage of her position of authority over a student makes me feel ill.  But sitting in the car with the two students I was charged with driving to Orlando, listening to them complain about their teachers, I realized that it’s not just the *really* bad teachers that are making teachers look bad.  It’s the teachers who don’t care, who don’t do the work necessary to be good at the job, who are impatient, who are rude, who are lazy.  I spent a lot of the trip trying to shed some light on how teachers think.  I told these girls that there are plenty of kids who don’t like me, and plenty of days when I don’t feel like working as hard as is necessary, and I’m not always very nice to kids.  I was attempting to explain away some of the complaints that they have about teachers.  But I know that I beat myself up over these infractions.  I strive to be better, to write better lessons, to grade student work more quickly, to be kind even when a kid has made me crazy.  The worst damage to my profession doesn’t come from the few serious offenders, but the more pervasive threat of teachers who can’t be bothered.

On the other hand, in this age of very prevalent social media, teachers often find themselves as digital stars.  Daughtry, a veteran, was fired for a rant that was captured on video, but claims that those 18 seconds don’t represent who he is.  I have to confess that I’m not proud of every 18 seconds that happen in my classroom.  Anything, taken out of context, might be construed as inappropriate, offensive, even damaging to a student’s self-esteem.  We’re encouraged to allow our students to use their cell phones and other technology in the classroom, but those same cell phones are used to capture moments that we don’t necessarily plan or approve.  Also, we’re human.  Kids are human.  By nature of our humanity, we are regularly in conflict with one another.  Can you remember how you treated your parents growing up?  Can you remember a time when your parents lashed out at you?  Yeah, that happens in the classroom.  Teachers see our students at least one hour every day for more than 180 school days.  It is inevitable that teachers will come into conflict with their students.  That’s good teaching.  If we allowed students to do whatever they want, our classrooms would be chaos.  But in order to maintain control, we must exert authority, authority that is occasionally frustrating to students.

I’m not condoning nor condemning Daughtry’s rant.  I just know that if I were in the same situation, I would hope for a certain amount of grace before administration and the community judged my behavior.  I also hope that I have earned enough respect from my students that they refrain from filming me, even in my silly, goofy, and awkward moments when it is most tempting.

Land of Confusion

As a teacher, I’m pretty metacognitive about my own education.  I can recall, with painful clarity, some of my most memorable experiences in classes in elementary school, high school, and college (yes, I left out middle school…  I think I’ve blocked all of that out).

For example, when I was in fourth grade, I went to school one day close to Christmas with a tightness in my belly that I recognize now, even though I didn’t recognize it then.  My mom and I had spent the night before making shortbread cookies and watching White Christmas, the very best Christmas movie EVER.  The next morning, I went to school without much warning that I didn’t feel well except that my pants felt too tight.  Every single pair of pants.  I wasn’t in the classroom long before I felt sick.  Epically sick.  I ran for the classroom door on my way to the bathroom but I didn’t make it, vomiting spectacularly all over the floor of the hallway, where students were still milling about on their way to class and teachers were chatting, unaware that a student was going to go all Linda Blair on them.  The teacher from the room across the hall was an innocent victim (later, when I was waiting for my mom to come get me, I overheard her whispering to the front office secretary that she would need coverage for the rest of the day so she could change her clothes).  I realized that I wasn’t going to make to the bathroom down the hall, so I ran back into the classroom to be sick into the classroom sink.  But I didn’t make it there, either.  I threw up on Tamika Logan’s jacket.  Sorry, Tamika.  My classmates didn’t come into the classroom that morning, but the PE teacher was sent to me from the front office to escort me down to the clinic, which she did at arm’s length.  I wanted to tell her that I was done throwing up, that she didn’t need to worry about me getting her multi-colored track suit dirty.  Isn’t it funny how clear some memories are?  Also, doesn’t it feel like I talk about vomit a lot in this blog?

In high school, I had an incredible teacher, Mr. Majeske.  He was my English 9 GT teacher and my AP US Government teacher, so he had the unique opportunity to teach me twice in high school.  (I’ve had that opportunity, too, and I’m grateful for it.  Sometimes teaching ninth graders is enough to make you lose all hope in humanity, so to see that ninth graders become rational, tolerable human beings, well, it’s a relief).  Mr. Majeske is perhaps the most obsessive compulsive person I’ve ever met.  He always kept three writing implements on his desk: a red pen, a blue pen, and a pencil.  And he would order them alphabetically.  Anyways, when I was a senior, he assigned a senior research paper on a governmental issue.  I chose the line item veto.  Among his many provisos, a stipulation that required students to be on time to class the day the paper was due.  If a student was late, Mr. Majeske wouldn’t take the paper.  Of course, I worked my tail off on that paper and barely slept the night before it was due.  It also happened that I signed up to present my paper the day it was due.  I printed a copy of my paper and assembled the manilla folder Mr. Majeske required for submissions, then printed a second copy of the paper to deliver my presentation from but somehow forgot the second copy at home in a rush to get to school early.  Thank goodness I planned to get to school early because that left me time to make a copy in the library before class.  I made it to class with just moments to spare.  My friend Beney, number four in the class and already admitted to UPenn, wasn’t so lucky.  Mr. Majeske had to write a letter to the university to explain why Beney’s grade went from an A to a D for the third quarter.

Then in college, I took the science class required by my liberal arts college, Rocks for Jocks Geology.  I don’t know why I thought Geology was the best choice for me…  I guess it was the least of the evils (by evils, I mean biology, chemistry, and physics… those were the only science classes offered at Mary Washington).  For weeks, I attended lectures and 8 am labs, never really making the very necessary effort to learn material that was so foreign to me; I was bored and hated that I was wasting space in my schedule for something dumb.  But I managed to do well enough.  When I sat for the final, I knew I needed to perform well or I couldn’t earn above a C, so I studied, even getting help from my science major roommates.  I sat, confidently answering multiple choice questions and the essay question, even finishing early, before all but one student in the lecture hall classroom.  Walking to the lectern, I practically preened with pride at my accomplishment, not noticing the dubious looks from my classmates as I turned in my test and walked out, an hour and a half after I started.  It wasn’t until I got home and spoke to my friends in the class that I realized that there were three required essays and I had only completed one.  Hysteria ensued.  I called my professor urgently, emailed, left a note for him at his office, stalker style.  By the time he finally contacted me, I was resolved to my inevitable failure on the exam.  I hadn’t guessed wrong…  He wouldn’t let me retake the test.  Ah well.  I ended up passing the class with a C, I believe.

Despite the apparent drama in these stories, I had a pretty awesome educational experience.  I love learning, even when I was young, and valued my teachers (most of them, anyway).  It seems obvious that I would enter the education profession with the hope of providing similar (positive) experiences for my students.  Of course, I’ve probably provided similarly terrifying experiences, too.  That comes with the territory.

What experiences do you have from school?  Was there a class that you dreaded more than the others?

This blog post was written as a response to the Daily Prompt: Land of Confusion.