I Wrote

Past tense.

I see things every day that are worthy of a smile, an extra thought, a pen and paper. I see famous buildings, famous bridges, famous people. I see store fronts with things I'll never afford and breathtaking apartments and gum on the sidewalk; I ignore subway performers and solicitors and people who bump my shoulder. I always make sure to sit where I can take in the view as I ride the Q train over the Manhattan Bridge. I see the Statue of Liberty, the Brooklyn Bridge, the Freedom Tower, the skyline. I think how lucky I am. I think I should write about this - but it's been done before. It's been done better.

The words weave their way through my head. I see them sprawled out before me. They seem prolific and meaningful or funny and whimsical - either way worthy of a read. I stop to consider how they'll seem to the few who may actually read them. The words distort and diminish, become frivolous and stupid. Writer's block. Self doubt. And shame. Have my words always seemed like this? Did I lean too hard on the quality of my characters? They wrote for me. They made me better. Or was it that place? A community so devoid of excitement that the people themselves are what you notice.

This city full of writers and artists and individuals. That place full of history, hardship, risk and reward. The risk here has already been taken. I jumped. I left. I rejoiced and regretted. Now I just wonder - my words having fallen into the chasm between Mississippi and New York, between my kids and these kids, between who I was then, who I am now, and who I thought I'd be by now.

Nostalgia

I found this old draft tonight... total accident. Here it is.

~

I knew this time would come, but even as I made one of my final drives home today, it still seemed far away. We talked about it, my friends and I, as early as freshman year. "It's going to suck when we leave each other... good thing it's far off." But the time has finally arrived. One of us has taken the first step. She's achieved what I hope to in the next couple of months. She's moving to New York... she found a job that provides the perfect intersection of finance and fashion. Dream job. We had to celebrate.

We chose one of our favorite restaurants - the fairly tacky, fairly typical, very low-key Casa Mexicana. We've spent six years of weeknights, weekends, and Cinco de Mayos there. We know the waiters by name and even (attempt to) converse with them in Spanish because, for some reason, they think our Spanish is passable, and sorry, Sra. Morris... my Spanish is far less than passable. It all started freshman year when one of the servers approached our table, winked at me, and in a near-growl asked, "Te quieres, mi amorrrrr?" That was all it took. We were customers for life. Tonight it felt like time had never passed.

"Large cheese dip?"

"Si."

"Margarita... rocks... salt?"

*Smile and nod*

~

...That's where it stopped. For whatever reason, I stopped writing.

It made me smile this evening, the bittersweet nostalgia. The only reason I happened upon it is because I thought about reposting this one... written at exactly this time last year. As predicted, the answer to its final pondering is yes.

I also thought about sending this one to my best friend. It was written with her in mind, and she needs a little perspective right now. She needs a little laughter. She needs to know that nostalgia is wonderful, but only in small doses. She needs to know that what she's doing matters.

It's funny how life works - all of its lessons and circles, large and small. I feel blessed that at 24 I can at least appreciate some of them. A buried blog post, a full-circle moment, a realized dream.

Karma

As I approached my car this morning, my eyes were drawn away from the glaring crater in my driver's side door. For a moment, I was able to forget the scrapes and dents that trace the length of my poor little car, and ignore the fact that the doors no longer close all the way. My eyes focused instead on a purple envelope pinned under the windshield wiper, "Dre" written in familiar handwriting on the front. Guilt instantly collected, solid in my gut. I knew who the card was from. I knew I didn't deserve it.

Last night, at dinner over Mexican food with three of my best friends, I was not nice. I was impatient and exhausted, drained by two days of frustration and stress. I snapped at my friends and failed to enjoy their company. During a discussion of what they were giving up for Lent, I asked leading questions that implied my disapproval of their choices. "Did you choose that for personal gain or religious sacrifice?" I prodded with  accusing eyes, acknowledging their answers with little more than an indifferent nod. I asked very few questions about C's Fashion Week internship and even fewer about the others' impending job changes. Walking out I felt ashamed, but I said nothing, simply wanting to get home and go to sleep.

That's why the guilt formed so quickly. I didn't deserve a card. I didn't deserve anything but a swift kick.

After prying open my door and settling in for my morning commute, I opened the envelope to find a black and white card which featured a kitten, adorable even to this feline hater. It had bandages wrapped around its head, chin, and limbs. It peered at me with sad eyes, but all I could do was smile back, my own eyes watering. The card felt thick in my hands, causing the knot of guilt to move from my stomach to my throat. I blinked to focus on the words written by my best friend, holding her money in my other hand and driving with my knee. Her words turned my watering eyes into streaming tears, making me a complete driving hazard - a bad decision considering Monday's events.

I racked my brain trying to figure out why my best friend and her boyfriend had done something so nice. I thought I had been pretty calm about the situation, making sure not to show that I was stressed. I opted not to talk about it when they tried to press me or offer their sympathy. I told them that things happen. That's what insurance is for. I had expressed frustration that I'd caused a wreck, but I had joked about the fact that I'm always bragging about my driving skills. "I guess it's karma," I laughed. "That's what I get for bragging."

Recalling that conversation made me even more perplexed. Karma? I have no good karma coming my way. I used it all up a couple of months ago. I'm sure of it. Plus... I was a jerk last night. Surely I don't deserve this.


I've always believed that karma is real, but in that moment I began to question it. Good things happen to bad people all the time and vice versa. We always seem shocked when it happens the "wrong" way, yet we jump to give karma the credit when it fits. Maybe there's no rhyme or reason for why good and bad things happen to bad and good people. Maybe it's all a crap shoot or maybe it's all part of a pre-designed plan in which we're supposed to learn certain lessons at certain stages of life. For now, I'm choosing the latter. The last couple days have taught me, or rather reminded me, of a number of lessons, and maybe that's all I'm supposed to take out of this. Forget that piggy bank full of karma points because mine was undoubtedly bone dry. I'm just blessed enough to have amazing friends, and aware enough to heed the world's advice. Check your blind spot. Be nice to your friends. Do nice things because it feels good.

On Bullying

Today my students finished presenting their Writing Modes Projects. To begin the unit, I told them to pick anything as a topic because I wanted them to write about something they loved. I wanted them to get excited about writing, so the only requirement was that they take their topic and use it to write three short essays: one narrative, one persuasive, and one informative. The final product was to be a presentation where they shared all three with the class.

One of the last presentations of the day was by a girl who I haven't really gotten to know this year. She's quiet and painfully shy. She has fiery red hair and her cheeks seem to match its shade anytime I approach her for conversation. It's hard to tell whether she likes school, my class, or even me... but for Christmas she did give me a bookmark, homemade out of a popsicle stick and puff paint. Her project topic: bullying.

As she approached the front of the room, I noticed my heart beating a little faster, my cheeks surely matching hers shade for shade with each step. She's in a class with some of the school's worst behavior problems - a group of kids to whom I'm constantly saying, "be nice." This in itself would've made me nervous enough... but the fact that she'd chosen bullying as her topic, the fact that I'd read her rough drafts, made me question if I was cruel to allow her to share in front of this group.

Her back faced the room and her shoulders slouched as she sat her presentation board on the table up front. She pulled back the right flap to reveal the word "gossip" written in big bubble letters. My glare had to stifle snickers throughout the room. The rest of the board featured similar words, a set of big red lips out of which spewed various hostilities, and of course, her essays.

"I'll read my narrative first," she said, eyes focused on the floor.

"OK! Go ahead, honey!" It sounded hollow and meaningless. A meager attempt to soften the ensuing blow.

Here is what she read:
I was entering my new school with a chilling breeze when I froze still in the front door. I was greeted with a warm air brushing against my arm. That would be the last warmth I felt.


My first day they called me names and said no one loved me. That stuck with me for a while in my mind. Some of the snobby pretty girls said I'm weird and ugly. They also said I don't belong in their school. The rest of the school year I didn't feel important. For the years to come, in my depressing, dark, cold soul, I heard K and his gang of friends along with the girls who talked behind my back, wishing desperately I'd disappear. 


I ignored them whenever it was time to go outside - my time to escape the torment inside. I dashed to the fantasy of my dreams, the playground on top of a steep hill. It was simply the place where every child wanted to go. One day I was walking alone thinking of what crazy things I would do when I got home, when all of a sudden people pummeled me with rocks. A while later when it was time to go, they pushed and shoved like I wasn't there. I just told myself that bullies wanted to get in fights with me because they thought I was too nice.


For a few seconds, I, like the rest of the class, was frozen. I looked down to find my hands folded in nervous tension, knuckles white, her grading rubric blank. I couldn't write anything. Her eyes still had not left the sheet of paper in her shaking hands. I took a reluctant glance at the faces of her audience. A couple of them, literally, had dropped jaws. A few of the less mature ones tried to find the eyes of their buddies in hopes they could share a laugh. Nothing of the sort happened. One brave kid began to clap.

I winked at her and said, "All right. That was excellent, S. Which one will you read next?"

Her next two essays were equally as impressive - the informative aptly explained the different methods and effects of bullying. For her persuasive, I was proud that she chose to be more creative than simply arguing that bullying should stop. She offered various bullying solutions specific to our school.

When I finally brought myself to fill out her rubric, I found it difficult to write anything at all, let alone any constructive criticism. I wanted to be proud of her vivid language, but critique the essay's shaky transitions. I wanted to commend her on her use of "live" verbs but caution her against switching tenses. It all seemed so trivial. She had written something from her heart, something from her own inner diary, and she had read it in front of a room that would make any confident adult at least a little nervous.

Instead of writing a grade at the bottom of her rubric, I wrote, "Come see me." When I handed it to her, I assured her that it was for a good reason, but as usual she simply turned red and offered only the shadow of a grin.

To be honest, I have no idea what I'll say to her. I've already put a 100 in the grade book, because even though her essays weren't perfect, they were lightyears better than her peers'. What I really want to do is make sure she's OK. I want to make sure those things don't happen at this new school, and I want to tell her how proud she made me, that I know how hard it must have been to get up and share such personal information. What's odd is how nervous I am to have that conversation. I'm suddenly intimidated by a twelve-year-old who exudes such wisdom. I'm afraid she'll see through my shallow attempt to check on her now... after she had to slap me across the face with her struggle. I'm also afraid it's too late to make anything better for her.

A Change of (Valentine's Day) Heart

I thought about writing the obligatory single girl rant about Valentine's Day, but I think that's overdone. When it comes to being a love skeptic, I'm of the first class variety. So yes, I'm also one of those people who thinks that V-Day is a day created by Hallmark and Hershey's - a money-making ploy aimed at teenage lovers and twenty-somethings who are faking it. I've always thought that Valentine's Day was probably viewed to be pointless by those who are truly in love, because to them, isn't every day February 14th? Or do relationships like that even exist at all...? So you see my inner dilemma: I'm at the same time a hopeless romantic and a jaded skeptic. But we're a dime a dozen, I'm sure.

For the last couple years, I've done my best to ignore these couple of weeks in mid-February, throwing myself into all things devoid of romance. I've avoided the candy and card aisles at the store, read mystery novels, and chosen action movies instead of romantic comedies. I've joked about the fact that flowers and teddy bears will not be coming my way, and I've really, truly been fine with that. Really.

So today when I checked the mail and found, among bank statements and junk, a pink envelope addressed to me, the possibility that it was a Valentine's Day card did not even cross my mind. But then I realized I've done nothing to deserve a thank you note and my birthday is five months away... maybe it's S's wedding invitation. All of these thoughts occurred to me in the 10 second gap between seeing that envelope and registering the familiar, shaky handwriting scrawled on the front.

I grinned as I slit the seal with my pinky and pulled out a card which displayed a pink heart wrapped in flowers. It said simply, "Happy Valentine's Day." Inside I found a one dollar bill and a small window decal made of pastel flowers, and in that same familiar handwriting, it said, "Happy Valentine's Day Punkin. I love you, Nana."

Now... here's the point at which some of you will choose to take pity on the poor single girl who will get nothing but a card, a dollar, and a sticker from her Nana for Valentine's Day. But hopefully those who know me well can imagine how broad my smile became as I held that dainty sticker in one hand, the dollar in the other. You may also know that it sent my thoughts spinning in a million different directions as I considered any number of symbolic implications. I wondered if, despite my vocal condemnation of this holiday, I would've been happier to receive flowers from a boyfriend. That thought was quickly replaced with the knowledge that my reaction to flowers would've likely been an over-analysis in itself, complete with thoughts like, "Why can't you think to send these on a random Tuesday in May?" or "I hope you didn't overpay for these because they can charge extra this time of year."

But I soon steadied myself and chose to put aside that unbalanced stream of thoughts, choosing to focus instead on how lucky I was to have received anything... especially from someone who had not done it out of obligation or to prove some kind of superficial love. Sure, she contributed a couple bucks to the Valentine's Day machine, but maybe that's ok if it's done for the right reasons. Maybe when the day comes that I get a card from someone besides my grandmother, I'll remember today and take it a little easier on the guy who sends it. 

Impassioned

Today was an awesome day. The kids were damn near perfect. I was able to joke around and keep things light while they worked (and boy were they really working!) on their projects. I called students up one-by-one to conference and check their progress. At some point during first period I began fist bumping each child as they walked away, saying, "BOOM!" if they had all their materials. This obviously sparked some head-shaking and laughter. 

My honors class requested that I play music while they worked and, deciding that they'd earned it, I obliged and turned on Michael Jackson.

In an attempt to rouse 6th period out of their Friday afternoon stupor, I repeatedly slammed my Nerf basketball into the floor, allowing it to bounce high before catching it in any number of goofy ways while yelling, "Wake up!" Luckily it worked. 

On my drive home, I tried to pinpoint the cause of my good mood. I've been in a slump lately. I've dreaded work. I've been short on patience. My lessons have been flat despite my best efforts to energize the kids. I'm sure some of that is caused by the time of year... but I'm fully aware that a lot of it has been my attitude, my frustration with my own inability to get the kids to produce really good writing. The state writing assessment is sixteen school days from Monday, and I'm afraid they peaked too soon. We're all burned out and I've been at a loss. The real problem has been that I can't seem to explain exactly what I want out of their writing... So for today's lesson I decided to show them. In a desperate attempt to prove that I felt their pain, I decided to show them that we could turn any topic into a detailed narrative. I sat up front with my computer and asked them to choose a random topic. They came up with "Clark's"... a gas station on the corner that serves fried chicken. Ugh.

"Ok!" I said trying to hide my displeasure. "Let's write a narrative. Remember... 'live' verbs and sensory details!" I began typing.

The bell on the door rattled against the glass as I swung it open and slid in to escape the cold. My fingers were numb and I could barely feel my toes, but it was worth the walk down to Clark’s gas station. As I approached the glowing case of chicken, the feeling gradually reentered my limbs and excitement took over. My mouth was watering in anticipation.

My feet glided across the grease-coated tile floor as I licked my lips and glanced at the menu. The lady behind the counter had her hand on her hip as she barked, “What do you want?”

“Chicken...” I said as I pointed. She poked the tongs under the glass, snatched two pieces of savory, spicy chicken tenders and dropped them into the bag. Grease quickly began to seep through the white paper, but that only made me hungrier. 

When I exited through Clark’s glass door again, I barely noticed the cold that had so plagued me a few minutes prior. I was too busy gorging myself with that delectable delicacy.

Now, I know this isn't exactly a fabulous piece of writing... but as the cursor sat there blinking, silence blanketed the room, and my heart raced in nervous anticipation. Then I heard a "Woah..."

"See? We can make anything vivid!"

"No... you type FAST, Miss B!"

The class burst out in laughter...

"On the real though... that was awesome! We can do that!" said another student.

A relieved smile spread across my face. It was like inspiration had plastered itself across the board before their eyes. Light bulbs appeared and pencils furiously scratched across paper. I took a risk and probably broke some rules in terms of "good instruction." But that risk flipped this gloomy February Friday on its head and put all of us in an irreversibly good mood. It gave me a shot in the arm that my coffee cup has been failing to provide as of late, and most importantly, it helped my kids produce some really awesome writing today. Let's just hope it lasts through the weekend.

Sometimes I Forget

They laugh at my jokes and kindly oblige when I say, "Give me your eyes." They complete their assignments and read their books. They correct their grammar when I furrow my brow and they say, "Yes, ma'am," when I refuse to respond to, "Yeah." Of course some misbehave... they're pubescent teenagers after all. But for the most part, my kids are shockingly wonderful, shockingly normal.

Sometimes I forget.

I forget that S's mom is never home so her brother cooks her dinner - but only when he's not in juvenile hall. I forget that M goes home to a single-wide trailer that houses four families, a drug-addicted mother, and a slew of small children that she cares for and feeds. I forget that L lost her mom to a car wreck and J lost her dad to a gunshot... but she's considered lucky because at least she knew him... I forget that K watched both of her parents die in the same year or that N was raped by an uncle. I block out reminders that E gets abused or that A has been wearing the same faded uniform for two years. 

I forget all of these things until a child snaps at me out of the blue or refuses to accept my one-on-one attention during class. I forget until someone lashes out at a classmate in the lunchroom and then looks at me, eyes watering, body shaking. I forget until I send a kid out to the hallway to calmly discuss her attitude... and I get nothing but more attitude. Because as my blood boils and I try to steady my own frustration, I feel those reminders nagging at the back of my conscience, prodding me to be more understanding, to try a different approach. I don't like yelling and I'm fairly certain that they've learned to block it out anyway. I'm fairly certain they get enough of that at home, but they don't respond to reasoning either. I'm fairly certain they haven't been exposed to the skill. 

I often wonder what they're thinking. I've tried to ask but I usually get walls. Are they thinking that I couldn't possibly understand and that I should just leave them alone? Are they begging for someone to notice what they're going through and to just ask one more time if they're OK? Or am I simply getting all worked up over cases of middle school moodiness?

Regardless of the reason, how do I tell a child she should be concerned about her 17 average in my class when she's facing a reality that I could never imagine? How do I tell a boy that selling drugs is the wrong choice when every man he looks up to is telling him otherwise? How do I tell a student who is two grade levels behind that dropping out is not his best option when his father is at home contradicting my every word?

I wish there were an easy explanation. I wish there were a class I could take that would teach me how to help the students who need it the most. Not the ones whose test scores we need because they're on the verge of proficiency. I want to know how you convince a child that a bubble map is worthy of their time - more worthy than raising their younger siblings or avoiding conflict at home. I want to know how to sell the idea that school really is the way out. 

If I could figure out a way to do that, I'd do this job forever.  

Sometimes Cliches Feel Good

It's sad really... the things we take for granted. But before I get there...

I woke up yesterday morning to stinging eyes and a blurry halo wrapped around the screen of my phone. Any level of light created an intense burning and watering, so I clumsily fumbled for my glasses and tried to focus on my own bloodshot eyes in the mirror. Hoping the sting would wear off, I ratcheted the shower on, closed my eyes, and let the water stream over my face. Unfortunately it didn't help, but with the lights dimmed and my eyes squinting, I managed to get myself looking presentable.

As I got to school, tears welled uncontrollably, but I shamelessly took my duty post in the main hallway, ready to greet every little face. Despite my efforts, the bright lights became nearly unbearable (and I became self-conscious), so I sought relief just inside the darkened gym.

To my extreme dismay, one of my coworkers was standing there as well... talking to my assistant principal.

"Morning," I said as I pretended to look for a student, a meager attempt to hide my eyes.

"What's wrong with you?" asked my coworker.

"Uhhh... I don't know. Some... eye... thing...."

Now the principal chimed in. "Are you crying?"

"Oh no! Definitely not." I managed an awkward chuckle. "I don't know... they're just stinging." This was humiliating.

"I think you should go get that checked out. You do not look good. We'll work on getting a sub."

"No no... It'll wear off."

"Don't worry about it."

I politely nodded and told them I'd go prepare things so I could leave. I took a route that allowed me to avoid student contact, but soon they came funneling in for homeroom. Of course there were comments. Some seemed concerned. More seemed intrigued... probably hoping there was some juicy reason I may have been crying. I should've made up a fantastic story but I didn't have the energy.

While I wouldn't have admitted it then, the substitute brought with him a huge wave of relief. I picked up my bag, bid my students farewell, and quickly made my way out.

~

Later yesterday evening, when my $100 eye drops began to take effect, I started thinking about how little I really appreciate my sense of sight. It's something I don't think about, yet it's certainly the one sense I would prefer to keep if I had to choose.

I started thinking about the things I see every day, some of which I've come to loathe. Brake lights on the way to work. School buses making frequent stops on the two lane country road I take to school. Eyes rolling in response to my so-called nerdy tendencies. Shirts untucked, shoes untied, pants unbelted, and hair unkempt. I loathe my bedside clock that seems to scream at me in the waning hours of the night, "It's time to go to sleep! You're going to hate me even more in the morning!" I loathe the blue cloth seats in my new hybrid and that zit on my chin that just won't go away. I hate the sight of run-on sentences and sloppy handwriting and misused homophones. I hate the look of my glasses - the ones that solidified my "nerdy rep" today... but how dare I turn my nose up at the very thing that helps me see all those things I'm blessed to see?

Like a light bulb moment in a twelve-year-old's eyes. Or my little sister's smile on Christmas morning. I understand that these things sound nauseatingly cliche. I suppose they're nauseatingly cliche until you can't see them anymore. I suppose I could complain about an eye infection that will be gone by tomorrow. But instead I think I'll choose to be thankful for it... because while I spent most of yesterday keeping my eyes tightly closed, maybe it was meant to open them to some of the things I've been taking for granted. (How's that for a cliche?)

Is We Poor?

It was one of those moments. You know, the ones you immediately want back?  I was standing at the front of my classroom, arms folded, right leg curled behind me, foot propped against the wall - frozen.

We were talking about The Hunger Games and how we might draw parallels between that society and ours. I explained that, in the book, the residents of the wealthier districts have been raised to succeed. Their whole lives they've been trained and prepared to win, and while the poorer districts are expected to compete with them, it's unfair because they haven't had the same opportunities. They have had to spend their lives struggling to survive rather than preparing to excel.

I paused for a moment to allow the concept to simmer. I watched their faces to see if any light bulbs turned on. A hand shot up in the air.

"Ms. B..." she seemed afraid to proceed. "Is we poor?"

That's when I froze. My face must have revealed some distress because she immediately corrected herself in an apologetic tone... "Are we poor?" I barely noticed.


Of course you're poor. We're in Northern Mississippi. In fact we're in one of the poorest counties in Northern Mississippi - the poorest state in America. Dammit. How did I not see this coming?

I pursed my lips and pondered how to respond. "Why would you think that?"

"I don't know..." another one chimed in. "We go to public school?"

"I went to a public school. Do you think I'm poor?"

"Psh. We know you ain't poor, Ms. B." Okay, there was my second misstep. 


"So then that can't be an indicator. Why else would you think you're poor?"


No response. I carried on. Carefully but not really taking enough time to consider my words. I was being suffocated by the awkwardness of the moment. My palms began to sweat. I unfolded my arms and stood erect - a definite contrast from my previously relaxed body language.

"Poor looks different to everybody. It's all relative. Someone who lives in a city might look at us and immediately think we're poor because we live in the country. But we can look at Memphis and think the exact opposite. You're all here with clothing on your backs, books in your hands, and houses to go home to. I don't think that's poor."

The truth was that I had already told them they were at a disadvantage. I told them that The Hunger Games districts were just like our states - the poorer ones always have been and always will be at a disadvantage. The truth was that even though I had gone to a public school, I was obviously much better prepared to battle my peers from other states - especially Mississippi. I was contradicting myself and praying they wouldn't notice. How unfair.

I wanted the moment back. I immediately knew what I should have said, but it would now seem disingenuous if I backtracked and rephrased. I should have told them that poor was a state of mind. I should have told them that in so many ways they were so much richer than my own public school classmates. I should have told them that 'rich' and 'poor' have so many meanings, the least of which having anything to do with money. As was later pointed out to me by a coworker, I should have told them about the devastating poverty I saw in India - toddlers crawling on street corners, digging for food in heaps of trash.

I said none of this. I did nothing to enlighten my students. I absolutely and utterly blew a teachable moment. Those are the moments we live for as teachers. The moments when we get to stray from the plan and really connect with our kids. And that's my problem really... I can easily plan another way to recreate that discussion and say what I want to say. But will it seem forced and thus fall on deaf ears? Probably.

Color

He said, "A black man would never do that... that's a white man thing."

I cocked my head, unsure as to whether a grin was soon to appear on his face, indicating that this was a joke. The grin never came.

"Excuse me?" I said in my least aggressive tone, a grin now on my face.

"No offense, Coach... I just know I would never do something that low-down, and neither would any other black man. That's a white man thing."

"How can you say that? That's racist."

"I'm not trying to be racist now... it's just the truth."

"You're making a blanket statement about two whole races. You can't do that!"

We went back and forth for a while as we stood at our usual positions in the cafeteria. I am the lone female and the lone caucasian in our little group which consists of the Athletic Director, one of my own MTC classmates, and the school janitor.

I looked to the other two for some support, but of course I got none. I was outnumbered and battling a man who was our boss. But I trudged on.

"You're not personally offending me. It just frustrates me to know that if I had said that statement in reverse, you would have been downright livid."

"No I wouldn't," he said. "I thought we were closer than that."

"Well then you're a rare bird down here," I laughed.

At that our conversation went in a different direction. We began talking, ironically, in more generalities. We talked about Southerners versus Northerners. Blacks versus whites. And how race relations and tensions are so much different "down here." By the time my class was ready to leave the lunchroom, we had reached less hostile ground and parted ways smiling as usual. I was still perturbed.

~

When my class got to the part of our journey where we walk through the gym, I heard one of my students poke fun at a kindergartener who was participating in PE.

"Haha that white girl just fell!"

I stopped dead in my tracks, jerked my head in her direction, and paused waiting for the right words. She immediately cowered.

"What does her race have to do with it?" My voice was stern.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean for it to come out like that."

"Answer my question."

"Nothing," she said as she looked at her feet.

~

I sat through two basketball games and nearly all four quarters of the third before I said a single word to the referees - an impressive feat considering how poorly they'd been doing their job. We were in a hostile gym at our rival Holly Springs. With 12 seconds left, one of our boys made a 3-pointer to put us within two points. The head coach immediately called and received a timeout, but I watched the clock wind down five more seconds before it actually stopped. As I looked to the referee to see if he noticed, I caught him signaling to the clock operator that the previous shot had actually been a two. Our fans went wild in protest.

At this point I couldn't help myself. As our team was huddled around, strategizing on how to get a steal and a quick two... ok, now a three due to the poor call, I walked over to the ref.

"Sir, there should be an extra 5 seconds left on the clock."

"Sit down!" he yelled.

"Wow... no need to be disrespectful. I'm just trying to have a conversation. They didn't stop the clock when you blew your whistle."

"You ain't even a coach! Sit your ass down!"

"I'm the assistant coach. Don't talk to me like that," I was unable to control the anger in my voice.

As I turned to walk back towards the bench, I heard his whistle and a roar from the crowd. I swiveled on my heel in time to see him form an animated "T" with his hands. I was astonished. I looked at him, jaw dropped. He simply smiled at me, then turned and cited "unsportsmanlike conduct" to the bookkeeper. 

Needless to say, that was the nail in our coffin. We had no chance to score 4 points in 5 seconds. I felt terrible.

After the game, one of our head coach's friends walked up to me and asked what happened. As I told him, he just kept shaking his head. 

"These refs really don't like you, B"

"Ha... I've noticed. It's just sad because that hurt no one but the kids..."

"You know what their problem is, don't you?

I was afraid to hear it... this couldn't possibly come up three times in one day.

"You're white. Not only that... you're young, not from around here, and white. You ain't never gonna win that battle."

~

Driving home from the game, my hands shook in anger, embarrassment, and indignant disbelief. I've noticed the racial tension down here before. I noticed as early as the fall semester of my freshman year when a fellow athlete refused to stop calling me "white girl." In the years since then, I've grown to accept my position as an outsider who "just doesn't understand" the way things work down here. I've done my best to break down the ugly walls that cripple my students' interactions and friendships, but today I began to wonder if I was a fool for thinking I could. I wondered if I was a fool for thinking people had stopped viewing me a privileged white Northerner - a name given to me by a fellow teacher. I mentally slapped myself across the face. It was half-scold, half-wake up call. Nothing has changed. I was foolish to think it had. And sadly, it makes me question some of my student relationships. When they've grown up in this environment, can I really get mad at the occasional racist comment? Do I have any right?

People Are Good

As I sat and read, I felt my usually open heart begin to morph into something ugly and hostile. I punched the mouse as it hovered over the "reply" icon and began furiously typing. I listed the history of the situation. I reminded the person on the other end that I had in fact never asked for the car which was given as a graduation present. I recounted how I've said thank you and tried to return it several times, and that I begged him not to take out a loan at the end of the lease... a loan that put the car so upside down that it could never recover. I ranted about how unfair it is that the situation, while I had done nothing to ask for or cause it, was now falling into my lap the night before I was supposed to return to Mississippi. I explained that I could neither afford the exorbitant payment of $350 per month, nor was I in a position to return the car and buy myself a new one. In response to his final line, the line that cut through me, evoking feelings all too familiar and long repressed, I agreed that it would be better if we no longer communicated. 

No closing, no name, just a blinking cursor and emptiness. A bitter end to a fifteen year relationship.

I didn't send it.

I've learned before that acting jaded and cynical for the sake of proving a point does nothing but make things worse. I've come to pride myself in my ability to minimize tough situations and the people who cause them, so I decided to sleep on it, to give my more reasonable side a chance.

I woke up this morning with new found conviction. I knew that if I lived on a tight budget and found the right deal, I could make it work, return the car, and get a new one. I could rid myself of the negativity and never look back. Of course I can't afford a different car. Of course it's not an ideal time. I wanted to get back two days before going back to school, catch up on work, laundry, sleep... I wanted to save as much money as I could this semester - before I become potentially jobless in May. But what would life be if everything went the way we wanted?

I spent the day battling snow, icy roads, and slimy car salesmen. I was praying that one of them would understand my situation and give me a good deal. No such luck. 

By 5:00 we were running out of time, so we decided to suspend our search and resume in the morning. Besides, we had plans to exchange Christmas gifts with a friend. As I sat in the passenger seat on the way to our friend's house, I rested my chin in the palm of my hand, stared out the window, and fought back tears, totally defeated. I wasn't in the mood to give someone a Christmas gift. I wanted to go home, curl into a ball, and wake up tomorrow ready to return to Mississippi. So much for ridding myself of negativity. 

When the car search came up in conversation, I explained evenly that I just couldn't pull the trigger on anything I'd found. "It's a big decision," I said. "I'm sure I'll find something if I'm supposed to. It will all work out."

"Yes it will," she said as she winked. 

Immediately she got up to walk into her bedroom. When she emerged a minute later, she held out her fist and insisted that I take the money she held in her hand.

Of course I refused. I refused and refused and refused some more. 

"I'm not like that," I explained. "I can afford it, I just didn't find anything today!"

"I didn't ask you if you could afford it. I know you can. But I want to do this. Don't ruin my blessing. One day I may not be able to do things like this."

I couldn't hold it back. Tears welled up in my eyes. The emotion of the last 24 hours had caught up to me and as I smiled through the tears, continuing to shake my head, she stuffed the money in my pocket. 

"Don't insult me," she said. "I want you to be safe. I want you to have something nice. You deserve it. Just take the money, dammit!"

We went back and forth for several more minutes. Eventually I realized it was a battle I wasn't going to win.

"Forget about it," she said. "I want you to take it and never think about it again. This is my blessing."

To say that I felt foolish would be an understatement. I had dreaded going over there. I had been throwing myself a silent pity party in the car, forgetting my ambition from this morning, forgetting the power of my own strength, but more importantly forgetting the power of people, the power of this world. 

Our friend has no idea how much she did for me tonight. She did more than provide a down payment and peace of mind. She cancelled out my own cynicism and threw any excuse to be jaded out the window. But more importantly she renewed my faith in people, in the innate and irrefutable goodness of people. 

New Beginnings

A couple weeks before winter break, I entered my room after school to find a neatly folded sheet of paper on my otherwise tidy desk. Bleeding through the notebook paper I could see "Ms. B" written in cursive with fine point Sharpie. Immediately intrigued, I unfolded and began reading. Here is what it said:

Ms. B,
I really enjoy reading your website every week. It's really good. I like how you make your reader feel like we're there because that's what we're working on in class with our senses and stuff. Please don't be mad that we found it. The only reason we knew you had a website was because we heard about it from another 7th grade friend.

I really think you did the right thing with A and C's note. I hope you don't figure out who this is by the handwriting like you did with theirs. But I think you're right about Mississippi and the sex education stuff. It would be great if we had more teachers who cared like that.

Love,
Your seventh grade student

PS. Please don't be mad.

In going back now, I suppose I can find a way to be flattered. In reading it for the first time though, fear crept into every corner of my body. My legs began to go numb the way they do when you narrowly avoid a car wreck. My moist finger tips stuck to the paper as I sat down in my chair, eyes still glued to the words. I wasn't sure at first if the note was serious or not. It almost seemed sarcastic, and considering my less than flattering analysis of my administration in said "website," I was mortified - even scared for my job. I began thinking of how reckless it had been for me to put such things out for public consumption. Of course my students found it. All you have to do is Google my name and up pops Teacher Corps and a link to my blog. If seventh graders were reading it, was my administration?

I got up to begin straightening desks. My hands shook as I erased the board and swept the floor. My heart was racing to the point that even those menial tasks made me winded. I must have looked disturbed because when my friend Mr. Gioia walked in he immediately asked what was wrong. I handed him the note and as he read, he smiled.

"This is adorable!"

"What?!"

"Seriously... didn't this make you smile?"

"Uh no... it wasn't a positive blog... a kid used the word 'sex' in a note... to me... oh my God..."

Whether I agreed with him or not, his perspective began to put me at ease. I can tell you now that nothing has happened as a result of that blog (or that note), but in the weeks that followed, I couldn't bring myself to write a new one. That part of my daily (ok sometimes weekly) routine suddenly brought feelings of nausea stemming from some irrational fear that I had inadvertently attached bad karma to anything I typed... and that I may have gotten myself fired.

Now that my fear has subsided, I've regained the desire to blog. I was sad to abandon my old one. If it had been up to me, I would've kept it, but admittedly it had gotten a little old to constantly write about school - after all, it already consumes most of waking seconds. It's going to feel good to start a blog that's for me... no requirements from grad school... no worries about who will read it and what they will think. This one's for me, and hopefully the occasional reader will get, at the very least, a new perspective.

So as I ring in the new year, I've included my favorites from the old blog, while turning over a new leaf with the new one, vowing to release my daily musings and ponderings - whether they're school related or not.

Blog Assignment: Describe Your Experience So Far

How can you ask me what my experience has been like so far? How can you expect me to put into words - 400 words - an experience that has literally transformed who I am as a person, as a woman, as a daughter, sister, friend? I wish I could. I really do... for my sake. I wish I could put it into a nice little package. I would tie a bow around it and let you send it out to Teacher Corps recruits, because as much as I’ve complained on Saturdays or awoken on Monday mornings wishing I had an easier job, I wouldn’t trade this “experience” for anything. I wish I could do it justice.

I’ve become more caring and empathetic. I’ve gone from judgmental to more judgmental to totally accepting. I’ve distanced myself from old ideals while passionately seeking out new ones.  I’ve nearly drowned myself in stress and worry but filled my oxygen tank with little victories and laughter. And that’s all in one day.

Friday, December 2nd... Part II

In going back and reading my last post, I became a little irritated with myself. The blog ended up reading more like a story centered around me, and that was not my intention. My true intention, which hopefully shone through towards the end, was to express my frustration with my school administration - or really the system at large - and their constant failure to show the kind of compassion necessary to serve our children... especially our troubled children... which should be the goal, right?

Sadly, the fight on Friday was not my only source of frustration and not the only example that illustrates why I get so angry. But for the story to completely make sense, I have to go back to a month ago when I found a folded sheet of paper lying on the floor after school. Even at first glance, it was clearly a student note. Most times I don't even read them, but my curiosity got the best of me on that day. I unfolded the paper and immediately my jaw dropped. There, in familiar handwriting complete with small tittle hearts, was a conversation between two girls. The conversation was of such explicit nature that simply typing it now would make me feel immensely uncomfortable. They talked of sexual desires, accomplishments, and ponderings. They congratulated each other in text message abbreviations that I couldn't follow. My stomach was in knots. I recognized the handwriting but I just couldn't place the girls who owned it. I had to figure out who they were. I had to talk to them and explain the harm in such actions.

My gut was telling me they were students of mine from last year, so I strode down to an eighth grade classroom and asked for writing samples for the girls who I suspected. None of the teachers were able to provide them. For a couple days I stayed on the trail, but as I got busier and the situation grew smaller in my rearview mirror, I forgot about it.

Fast forward to Thursday of this week. During the last few minutes of school, one of the eighth grade students in my yearbook class walked up and handed me a note. I have no idea why she gave it to me. I had simply been standing by my desk talking with a couple of students. I didn't immediately unfold the note, but when I did my heart sank. I recognized the handwriting immediately.

"Is this your handwriting?" I asked as casually as possible.

"Yes, ma'am. I'm in a fight with C right now. We wrote it during first period."

"So this other handwriting is C's?"

"Yes ma'am... ain't you gonna read it?"

"Why do you want me to read it?" The bell rang to dismiss the students and she was distracted. She followed the crowd out of my room, letting me off the hook.

Before going out to bus duty, I dug frantically through my desk to find the note from a month ago. The handwriting was a perfect match. Rereading the note, being able to put faces and personalities to the words, I again found my stomach in knots.

Now here is where I went wrong: I should have called the two girls into my room, maybe the next day during planning. Instead, I took the notes to my two female assistant principals, thinking they would be the best to handle it. I expressed my concern and explained that I was not hoping to get the girls in trouble, but that I felt it was a matter serious enough to be handled by the administration. I assumed it was the only way to really reach the girls.

After school on Friday, I asked one of the principals how their conversation had gone.

"They were embarrassed," she said in a dismissive, high-pitched tone.

I paused, waiting for her to elaborate. But she didn't.

"I'm sure," I said. "What did you say to them?"

She immediately snapped back. "We don't have to disclose everything to you. There are some things we just don't need to share."

Again, like I had earlier that day, I turned and walked away without saying a word.

Ignore the fact that I felt embarrassed. Ignore the fact that I felt disrespected. Ignore the fact that it had been a short three hours prior that the same principal mocked my approach to the fight. Ignore the fact that I have approached her only a handful of times ever for requests concerning students. Ignore the fact that I was downright livid at her, at the situation, at my own poor judgement. The real issue is that we have students who deserve more than they're getting.

Mississippi is still one of the only states that does not teach sex education. Juxtapose that with our nation-leading teen pregnancy rate, and you get a puzzle so maddening it will make you want to throw something. Our kids have no idea how dangerous, how life-altering their actions can be, and on the few occasions when we, as teachers and administrators, actually get an opportunity to teach them something... we blow it.  What's perhaps even more disappointing is that those of us who actually wish to do something good, something different, are treated like lepers. And the only ones who truly suffer are the kids.

Fat Lip

I sat at the end of the lunch table talking to another teacher. The cafeteria was getting louder than I normally permit, but it's Friday. I decided to ignore it and let them enjoy their free time. Bad decision.

The just-a-little-too-loud volume quickly turned to shouting. I turned around to see fists flying, aimed at a boy curled up in a ball on the floor. In the time it took me to sprint the length of the lunch table and weave between spectators, the boy on the floor had gotten to his feet, bringing the flailing fists to eye level just as I arrived. Thinking only of ending the fight immediately, I flew face first into a barrage of aimless blows. I quickly grabbed one boy's arms, pinning him against the wall while another teacher tended to the other. I firmly directed my student to the corner, freeing some time for me to compose myself and calm the rest of my class down. Turning back to the boy in the corner, I noticed that his hands were still clenched in fists, his chest was heaving up and down, and tears were streaming down his face.

My anger was instantly replaced with empathy. It's starting to get ridiculous, honestly... the naivete of it all... how I always stand up for the bad kids. I'm probably crippling them.

I checked my lip for blood as I walked towards him, pointing to the exterior door through which I wanted him to exit. When we got outside I put my hand on his shoulder.

"Breathe... you're alright... slower... just breathe. Walk with me and tell me what happened." He looked me square in the eye.

"I'm sorry, Ms. B. He just started talking about my mama. She has problems, you know. He started it this morning and I tried to ignore it, but finally I just had to do something. She's kind of overweight. Everyone knows that. But he didn't have to keep talking about it."

I was heartbroken. I was looking at a kid who had really been trying hard this year. He's always had a bad reputation, but this year we've been making strides. I fought my colleagues to get him nominated for October Student of the Month and eventually I had to convince the principal. The look on his face was priceless when they announced his nomination over the loud speaker. Now it was ruined. Fighting is an automatic nine day suspension from school. I'm praying that today doesn't propel him back into the kid he was last year.

When we arrived at the office, I told him to stand outside while I debriefed the assistant principals.

"You love those bad kids, don't you!" one of them said mockingly.

I chewed on my bottom lip, considering how to respond. "I guess I do. I just don't want his reputation to affect his punishment. He's been doing really well"

They laughed and looked away. "Eventually you'll learn, Buccilla. These kids don't change. They've got you fooled."

I walked out without saying a word. I looked at my student standing against the wall and coached him on how to handle himself when he got called in. I of course reminded him that he was wrong. He should have brought the issue to me instead of resorting to violence. But I also told him to handle himself like a man when he went in the office. "Be sure to apologize before you say anything else. Say 'yes ma'am' and 'no ma'am.' Tell them exactly what happened. Take all emotion out of your tone."

Walking away I wondered if the principals were right. I've certainly questioned whether I'm naive in my approach to "the bad kids." Maybe I'm not doing them any favors. Maybe it means nothing that they behave in my class if they still misbehave everywhere else. Maybe the dysfunction runs too deep for one teacher to break it. But among all those 'maybes' there is one surety: I'd rather try to help them and get a million fat lips along the way than watch them fall victim to a complacent system that's clearly failing them.

Handshake

"It's your first chance to make an impression," my mother said while locking her eyes on mine. I didn't dare look away from her piercing blue gaze. "Shake my hand."

I gave it a try, attempting to mimic what I had seen from adults and in movies. Even her tiny, bony hand swallowed mine. I looked down at the floor, embarrassed.

"Look at me," she coached. "You don't want to seem weak. Grip my hand hard and look me in the eye." We practiced for a few more minutes until I got the pressure just right. Don't grip too hard. Don't grip too soft. Give it one good, firm shake and let go. Maintain eye contact. Smile.

That routine quickly became ingrained in my habits. In my younger years, I often caught adults off guard by extending my hand and engaging them in strong eye contact and a firm handshake. It was second nature to me. It was something I was expected to do, or else. But as I ventured out into the world, I often realized how lucky I was to have been taught such things. I'm constantly shocked by the poor manners I see out of my peers, and endlessly frustrated by the same from my students. Please. Thank you. Pardon me. Nice to meet you. They seem to have been lost, sucked into a black hole somewhere between Hip Hop and Facebook.

Today I was reminded of this downward trend even as one of my sweetest students stayed after school for tutoring. About half way through, a fellow MTC teacher walked into my room to give me two books we had been discussing. Before we began a conversation about the books, I asked him if he knew my student.

"No I don't!" Mr. Gioia exclaimed as he extended his hand. "Nice to meet you, D!"

The handshake was pathetic.

"Well that wasn't a very good handshake," Mr. Gioia said. "Try again. You gotta really give it a firm grip."

Neither of them could see me, but I was beaming. I've talked to D before about his life outside of school. He has been mostly raised by his mother, a Mexican immigrant who did not graduate high school and speaks little English. He has a stepfather who is scarcely present. D is a wonderful kid. He asks to stay for tutoring almost everyday and he's polite to everyone. But until today, no one had taught him how to give a good handshake. When I try to make small talk with him he usually stares at the ground and grinds the toe of his shoe into the floor. I've tried to politely coax him into looking at me as we're talking, but I guess I had never shaken his hand. I'm ashamed.

So tomorrow it's my goal to shake every student's hand as they walk through my door. They're going to hate it and I'll probably get sick, but if one of my best seventh graders didn't have that skill, I'm sure there are more who need the same lesson. It will be my way of paying it forward... one germy little handshake at a time.

No Place Like Home

Clenching my coffee mug to warm my hands and wishing I could just shoot the caffeine straight into my veins, I tried to put on a happy face as I resumed my daily routine of greeting the little angels before homeroom. I passed a fellow teacher who said good morning, but my reciprocation apparently wasn't jolly enough because she immediately eyed me asking, "Break too short?"

Being the Southern assimilationist that I've become, I flashed a grin and even managed a chuckle. "Isn't it always?" Ugh. Quit being a pleaser. 

My mind jumped back to that break that was of course too short. I'd just spent five days back up north, back home, where if you don't want to say hi to someone, you don't have to. Back up north where a simple nod of your head or tip of your coffee cup is a signal that you're amiable enough, but you're not inviting conversation. Back up north where schools.... then I'm distracted. 

At first I thought I was hallucinating or maybe I just mixed up the shades of red in my mind. It was probably just an Ole Miss sweatshirt. Those are common down here. A red "O" on a grey sweatshirt... of course it's Ole Miss. But then I see him. Brutus. He's dancing under red block letters that spell Ohio State. His oversized, buckeye-shaped head wields a smile large enough to swallow itself. His elbows point outward as if saying, "Yipee! Everything is so much fun here in Columbus, Ohio... where our pants are grey and our skies are grey-er!"

I can deal with the icy, miserable drizzle that arrives about this time of year and sticks around until, oh... April. I can deal with it because there's something beautiful about it, right? In the evening, when the air is cutting and the rain turns to sleet, we Ohioans retreat to our warm and cozy homes, our frosted windows letting only the warm flicker of a crackling fire show through. Wiping away the frost would reveal a perfect little Midwestern family huddled around the dinner table, exchanging laughs and stories about their perfect little lives in their perfect little suburban schools, with their perfect little classmates and their stress-free teachers who get to teach what they want, how they want. Six more months. Six more months and you're there! Wait... three more weeks. Just get to winter break first. Two weeks of narrative essays. I'll enjoy that. Then exam week will be a breeze.

"Hiii Miss Beeee!" The little voice seemed to come from miles away. Sucked back to reality, I put on a big smile and replied with my usual, "Good morning, Little One."

I couldn't take the risk of seeing that sweatshirt again. A dull, faded beacon of what I was missing back home - all the good things I remember wrapped up in Brutus's toothy smile. I know that in these last six years I've grossly romanticized my home state. Everything I loathed about it in high school has been wiped away by what I love... or think I love. Reality has been replaced by a painting on a postcard - not even a photo - but something completely fictional like a painting with frosted windows and glowing fires. I understand that this is unhealthy but also probably natural. I also realize that it was magnified this morning by the fact that it was the Monday after a break... and by that damn sweatshirt. 

Stop being ridiculous. Eyes off the sweatshirt. Check dress code instead.

"Tuck that shirt in.... Those are jeans, not navy blue khakis.... Take those orange socks off.... Tuck that shirt in.... Tie your shoes.... Tuck that shirt in.... Spit your gum out.... Tuck that shirt in...."

I wonder if one day I'll be able to romanticize this.

Blog Assignment: Why Join Teacher Corps?

Here we go. Another cliche yet compulsory blog. Why should someone join the Mississippi Teacher Corps? Luckily I have experience with this speech lately because I convinced my two best friends to apply. I was elated upon their acceptance a couple weeks ago, but the more I thought about it, the more little twinges of guilt started nagging at the back of my conscience. Behind every hard sell I gave them, there is a darker truth that they'll have to discover in their own way. But I promised them it's worth it.

Hard sell number one: It's a free Master's.
Anyone who says they weren't motivated to apply to this program because of the Master's is lying. Of course it's appealing and of course it's something in which we all take pride. But here's the other side of it: If the degree is the only reason you commit to these two years, you won't make it. When you have a thirteen-year-old curse at you, or when you break up a fight between your favorite students, or when a kid you really thought had a chance gets expelled, you won't be thinking about that degree. When your alarm goes off two hours after you stopped planning tomorrow's lesson, that degree won't provide you with any caffeine. If you make it through the two years, complete with Saturday classes from 8 to 5 plus a full-time job, then and only then will you reap the rewards of the degree.

Hard sell number two: You'll meet some amazing people.
It's true. I've met some truly amazing people over this last year and a half. My classmates are easily some of the most intelligent, thoughtful, and genuine human beings I've been blessed to meet. They care about their students. They've shown me new perspectives. We've kept each other smiling even on those January Saturdays when the guys' faces grow scruffy and the girls' hair looks like it hasn't been washed in days. The other side? You'll drift away from those you have now. You won't talk to your family as much because all they want to hear about is your new job and your fun classes - all you'll want to talk about is nothing. Your friends won't understand your new schedule or your blase attitude towards topics you used to spend hours discussing. I'm not saying that your MTC classmates will replace your friends. You will eventually strike a balance. Your friends will get used to the new you and your family will always be there.

Hard sell number three: Do something that matters.
Ok there's really not a downside to this other than the fact that on most days, you won't think anything you've done matters. The kids will complain about the workload but that's only because they're used to subpar teachers. They'll fight your rules at first but that'll change when they realize you have them because you care. Your principal will complain about first year teachers but eventually he or she will realize that you're better than the alternative. You'll have kids disrespect you, yell at you, refuse to do your assignments, and fail to grasp the material. But what matters is that you keep coming back. They're not used to that and if you accomplish nothing more than showing those kids that someone cares about them, about their education, then you've accomplished something that matters. So when I say that the degree won't wake you up in the morning or console you when you feel stomped on, the little victories you experience every day will.

Hard sell number four: Change yourself.
I'm absolutely not the person I was a year and a half ago. And that's a good thing. It's not that I was a bad person... none of us were or we wouldn't still be here. But this experience will change you; it'll make you think more critically about this country's problems, about life, about people. It'll make you more compassionate for those from a background different than your own. It will teach you how to manage time and stress in a way that makes your worries in college seem laughable. You'll come out of it with so much more than an impressive resume complete with a Master's degree and two years of experience in a tough school. You'll come out of it as a better version of yourself, equipped to keep growing, keep thinking, keep helping. You will have built life-long relationships with people you never would have befriended otherwise, and at the very least, you'll have some really fantastic stories to tell your grandkids.

“The present is never our goal; the past and present are our means; the future alone is our goal. Thus, we never live but we hope to live, and always hoping to be happy, it is inevitable that we will never be so.”

It's that time of year. No... not the holidays. It's that time when teachers get to work when it's dark and leave when it's darker. Last year we were warned about this time of year. They told us our students would start testing the boundaries a little more, they'd get a little lazier... we'd get a little lazier. So after a Monday-Tuesday combination that drained me mentally and indecisive weather that's draining me physically, I took the day off.

I woke up to the incessant blaring of an alarm that even I can't oversleep. I let my hand slam the snooze button - a practice I repeat at least five times every morning - and the siren was pleasantly replaced by the sound of rain pounding the roof. Decision made. I rolled over, squinting through eyes dried by contacts I failed to take out the night before, and texted my principal. Guilt immediately washed over me. I wasn't too sick to go into school and, having started a new unit on Monday, it probably wasn't great timing. But there was that grade level meeting I wasn't prepared for.. and that baby shower after school for a teacher I don't really know... and basketball practice until 5:30... and an away game tomorrow... I let the sound of the rain take back over. I turned on my side, rolled myself up into a ball, and didn't open my eyes again until 9:30 when the rain had subsided and sunlight leaked in through the blinds.

I've always said it would be a waste to miss a day of work to do nothing. I've said I'd rather go to school on the verge of death than spend a day getting further behind for no good reason. I've missed school to go home to Ohio. I've missed school for workshops. I've missed school to go see Bill Clinton in the Grove. But never to do nothing.

I climbed out of bed and opened my closet door planning to grab some clothes and head to the coffee shop. I had planned on sitting there all day reading, curled up in a comfy leather chair, observing the comings and goings of college kids and business professionals... reminding myself what this town used to be like when I was able to frequent it during the week. Instead my eyes dropped to the floor, zeroing in on a basket overflowing with laundry I was too busy do over the weekend. I stuffed stray shirt sleeves and pant legs into the sides and lugged it downstairs. After I started the first load (and it would come to take 3) I walked into the kitchen deciding to make breakfast. The kitchen was a disaster zone. I guess I'll clean.


By 11:30 I had made the kitchen sparkle, I had mopped, I had scrubbed the half bathroom, dusted the bookshelf, folded a load of laundry and had two more going. My friend texted me asking why she saw my car still parked when she drove by this morning. We decided to grab lunch at the Greek restaurant we used to enjoy before practice in college. Sitting there in sweat pants with my hair in a messy bun - the ultimate deja vu - we laughed about the conversations we used have during lunch... I don't want to go to practice... We're gonna get our butts kicked... I can't stand out there for 4 hours and do drills again today... I can't wait until I have a normal day job... Dude, we used to have it so good!


I hung around the house for the rest of the day. I folded the rest of my laundry and made a small dent in the book I've been trying to read for weeks. I didn't open my computer and I kept myself from thinking about school. I know that when I go back tomorrow I'll be greeted with a messy classroom that the substitute didn't bother to manage and the frustrations I felt on Monday and Tuesday will not have disappeared. But what will be different is how I approach those frustrations. I realized while sitting at lunch that I have recently been entering dangerous territory. I've been thinking more and more about what my next step will be. I've been obsessing over my future and reminiscing about my past. Occasionally I do small things to enjoy the present, but I really don't appreciate things as much as I should. I guess it's unfair to say that I missed a day of school for nothing. I got a clean house and a much needed reality check out of it. So today I'm thankful for rain pattering on the roof, Greek food, laundry, and Pascal. 

Hard or Soft?

So far this year I've been preaching to myself that I need to work harder at drawing soft lines with my difficult students. Last year I unwittingly escalated countless situations because I thought it was important for me to appear strong, unwavering, authoritative. Needless to say, some kids just don't respond to that. Some kids have personalities just as strong as mine, and consequently we found ourselves engaged in a never-ending battle of "who will have the last word?" While I was afraid of revealing myself as a weak first year teacher in front of students who were waiting to pounce at the first sign of vulnerability, my middle schoolers seemed equally as motivated to save face. I've gotten a lot better at diffusing these situations. In fact I generally have a much healthier and mutually respectful relationship with even my most difficult students... but today I found myself reluctantly wading back into hostile waters, and I had to resist my urge to revert back to the old Miss B.

As I walked into 6th period, the last academic period of the day, I found students leaning into the aisles, laughing with their neighbors, and completely disregarding the Bellringer I had on the board. I folded my arms, leaned against the door frame, and dropped my jaw in faux-shock. This successfully produced some grins as the noise ceased and they took out their binders. To my extreme pleasure I even heard a "Shhh! We're sorry, Ms. B."

If only it were always that easy.

One student remained standing, showing no urgency to sit down, to open her binder, or to even acknowledge that I was present. Last year I would have immediately taken this as a personal attack. I would have assumed the class was ready to line up behind the lone rebel in an all out effort to overthrow the dictator. I would have called her out by name and firmly told her to sit down.

Today I simply said, "You have five minutes to finish the question on the board. I also need to see your journal entries and assignments from yesterday out on your desks."

The lone rebel still stood.

Still leaning against the door I said, "S, you don't need to stand to do any of those things."

After a grueling few seconds of silence, she nonchalantly glanced over her shoulder and gave a high pitched, "K!"

More seconds ticked by... she still stood and by this point all eyes were on me to see how I would react.

"S?" I said.

Again a few seconds... "Huh?"

She knows how I feel about "huh."

Forcing a smile, I asked her to come talk to me. She hadn't done anything overtly disrespectful and this was pretty out of character for her, so I witheld my impulse to let her have it. When we were mostly out of earshot, I mustered my calmest tone and asked her what was going on. She shrugged her shoulders, kicked out her hip, and looked at the ceiling. I told her she knew what she was doing, and regardless of what had motivated such behavior, she needed to tread lightly for the rest of class and we could talk about the root of the problem later.

She made it through class - a ghastly boring lesson on sentence structure that I honestly just hadn't put enough time into planning. She volunteered to go to the board, she didn't shout out, she seemed to really be understanding the content.

When it came time for me to explain their assignment for the day, I did the first part with them and then paused, asking them all to "give me their eyes." I told them I knew the assignment would initially seem difficult, but all they had to do was break it down into pieces they knew. They had to write a story where each sentence had a requirement. For example, begin with a complex sentence that contains an adverb clause. They knew each piece, now all they had to do was put the pieces together. I told them not to immediately raise their hand to say anything like, "This is too hard!" or "But I don't get it!" I promised them that if they thought through it for a minute it would click, and if it didn't, that was the point at which I would be more than happy to come help.

S's hand had been up the whole time I said this. When I was finished, I looked at her and nodded, indicating that she could ask her question.

"I don't get this," she said with a tone louder than was needed to reach me standing 5 feet away.

"What did I just say?"

"I don't know."

One of her classmates repeated it for her.

"So you ain't gonna help me?!"

"That's not what I said. I said sit and think about it, and if you do so, I think it will come together. You did a great job with it a few minutes ago... it's no different now."

She slumped in her chair, slammed down her pencil, and (I kid you not) stuck out her bottom lip.

Again... last year I would have confronted this immediately. Today I ignored it. I circulated the room for about 10 minutes and eventually made it back to her desk. Crouching down, I told her it was clear to me that she just wasn't trying. She barely responded. I trudged on telling her she could come to my room 7th period and I would gladly help her, but first I needed to see evidence of some effort on her paper.

When she showed up 7th period, the attitude was still present and she had nothing on her paper. After coaching her through the first sentence more than I probably should have, she was clearly ready to give up. The second sentence in the story was supposed to be a compound sentence - two independent clauses joined by the coordinating conjunction of her choice.

"Let's start with just one simple sentence," I said. "Who is your main character? Make him the subject."

Nothing.

"S, you gave me a half dozen simple sentences earlier. I know you can do this. I'm not going to give you the answers -- If you're not going to try, you're wasting our time."

Nothing.

At this point my blood was boiling. I scrambled for ways I could next approach her. I knew that if it went any further, I might actually lose my cool. I chose to wait her out.

Nothing.

"If you're not going to try, you can go back to Ms. K's class now."

She got up, gathered her belongings, and peacefully walked out of the room. She'll show up to class tomorrow without her homework finished and she'll most likely blame me. This is the first time I can say that I honestly don't know how I could have handled the situation differently... usually I can look back and see each of my missteps along the way. Maybe there's something going on outside of school that I can't control. I've tried drawing hard lines with students like her and today I drew a softer line than my best judgement said I should, but what am I supposed to do when neither works?