College Edition: Just A Number

     I found myself reflecting on calculus recently when one of you told me that class was going to put a big dent in your GPA. Now me thinking about math is a scary thought, especially calculus. This was a class I took over two semesters in college because my professor thought that it would "better suit me to take it that way." Translation: You're not smart enough to handle it in one semester. Let's break it up over two. My response in hindsight: How lucky am I? For, calculus made an English major out of me, and helped me to appreciate every single paper I wrote in college. I simply was not made for derrivatives. And, quite frankly, derivatives were not made for me. Give me the trochaic rhythm of a poem or character archetypes or even a conjunctive adverb any day, though, and I felt right at home. But I digress. Simply put, calculus was my nemesis in college. It put a dent in my GPA. I worked for every single grade I earned those two semesters, went to extra help session upon extra help session, but the numbers still didn't work out--on my exams and in my GPA.

     Yet, I know now that it's just a number. My GPA--not a 4.0 for the first time in my life--was just a number. The score on most of my calculus exams--far lower than a highway speed limit--was just a number. And numbers don't define us. We matter far more than any test score. Let me repeat that: We matter more than any test score. At the time, I didn't realize this. I went home that first semester from college with my laundry, probably a few extra pounds because the dining hall at the University of Richmond was pretty good, a GPA that was lower than what I was used to, and a destroyed pride for not getting straight A's for the first time in my 13-year academic career.

     I remember telling my parents about college--about how I held my own in the poetry seminar I was enrolled in that semester where I was the lone freshman among upperclassmen. I remember telling them about the people I had met when just a few short months ago I had been dropped off in a place of 3000 students knowing not a soul. I remember telling them about the volunteer work I was doing in a program called Carver Promise. I went each week to Carver Elementary School in the City of Richmond and mentored a second grader named Rashad. Rashad is probably around 30 years old now, and I still have the letter he wrote Santa that year:

It took a long time for me to help him compose that letter, and it was, by far, the most gratifying thing I had done that semester at college. For the first time in a long time, I volunteered not because it would look good on a resume or application, not because my parents persuaded me it was a good idea, but because I wanted to volunteer. I wanted to make someone else's life better. And it felt good to be a part of this organization. I certainly was more than just a number.

     So, my first reaction when one of you was telling me about the hardships of calculus was that number doesn't define you. Ironically, the next day at school, we had a guest speaker in an assembly at Atlee who said the very same thing: "You are worth more than a test grade." I smiled at the thought. Here this 24 year-old probably was getting paid a far greater salary than I do to give advice to teenagers about their lives, and I (closer to twice this young man's age) gave someone the same advice for free. And again, I reminded myself, that I am not just a number. My salary does not define my self worth any more than my calculus score defined me. That semester, my calculus grade did not prevent me from anything in life except maybe sleep. Today, my salary does not prevent me from anything in life except maybe a trip to Hawaii and retirement in my near future. Yet, I'm okay with that because a number does not define me. I am not just a number.

       So, as you sit down to study for your exams after your first semester from college or if you're reading this and are a student who is more seasoned in taking college exams, or if you are one of my current students reading this who is stressed by the inordinate amount of work you have to do before break, please know that while grades are important, they are not everything. Numbers don't define who you are. After all, they're just numbers. Calculus is just numbers. And numbers can't be used to describe and define you, but words--words can. And so my choice to be an English teacher is finally validated twenty years later in that idea that numbers don't define us, but words most certainly do.

     Good luck on your upcoming exams! Congratulations on finishing your first semester at college. I know that you're busy, but please come back and visit me in Room 211. It's missed you...and so have I.

Moving Towards the Fire

    You cannot be more loyal to your fears than you are to your futures.

That line is still resonating with me. I heard it at the NCTE conference last week from author Brendan Kiely, when he was discussing his novel he co-authored with Jason Reynolds, All American Boys. I wrote it down immediately, almost as if I knew a blog would resurrect from the line. And somehow it did.

    I think about the fears I have had in my life. Some are fears I no longer experience like watching Michael Jackson's "Thriller" music video when I was a kid and calculus class (Sorry, math teachers. Calculus never clicked with me. It was one of those classes that made me appreciate every paper I wrote in college as an English major, though). Other fears still exist: spiders. (There's irony there considering I am a UR graduate). I fear emojis will make us stop talking entirely and that I will disappoint the people important to me. Every time I hit the "publish" button on this blog, I am afraid--afraid that my words aren't good enough or that no one will read them. I fear dogs (I'm working on that one thanks to the dog walk sponsored by Atlee DECA and Emerging Leaders where I was able to pet over a dozen dogs).

My adult fears also consist of the Dorito shell at Taco Bell, my cell phone taking over my life, and raising kids in today's world. Bigotry, bullying, and racism never being eradicated truly frighten me as well.

     Yet, we can't survive by standing outside of what we fear. We need to move towards the fire. We have to take risks. We have to face what we are most afraid of in life. I'd like to be able to tell you that I did take the Dorito shell at Taco Bell head on and that it wasn't so bad. I'd love to be able to write that somehow I no longer care what other people think, that I don't care if I disappoint others. Yet, these fears are real in my life, extentions of who I am as a person. So what do I do? I start to move towards the fire. I've learned it's okay to be uncomfortable in situations. Sometimes it's better  not to do what is easiest but what feels right even if that is unsettling or fearful.

     This idea really resonated with me about twenty years ago when I was searching for my first teaching job. The summer after I graduated college, I had been on thirteen interviews. Somehow at each interview, I just didn't "fit the part." Frustrated, as it was now one week before school was to begin, I called the director of Human Resources in Henrico County. I had been told to regularly check in with the Human Resources Department so they would know my name. They knew my name. "Ms. Nagle," the director of Human Resources said, "I told you if I had a job for you, I would call you." She seemed exasperated by my call. And I made a choice in that moment. I could have said thank you and hung up the phone, but something told me not to do that. So, this shy, nonconfrontational want-to-be teacher did something brave and completely out of character.

     "I don't think you understand," I said. "This is not a 5 year commitment or something I will leave in the near future. Actually, this is not a job to me; it's a lifetime profession. More than anything in life, I really want to teach."  My hands were shaking and so was my voice. The speech was far from eloquent like that of Atticus Finch when he defended Tom Robinson on the stand in To Kill a Mockingbird, but it was sincere and honest and brave. She curtly said she understood and hung up the phone. About ten minutes later, I received a phone call from Human Resources. They had set up another interview for me. That next day, I landed my first teaching job. I put my future far ahead of my fears that day, and it changed my future and more importantly, my outlook on life.

     I think about what life would have been like had I not said what I did. Would I have given up on finding a teaching job? Think about all of the things I would have missed out on if that happened. I wouldn't have seen you sample 30 new books at our Book Tasting and respond to one another in reading those books.

I witness you stand your ground on a daily basis. To think of all of the intense moments I would have missed out on in my classroom.

One of the best things I witnessed this past month happened in my TOK classes, where you never shy away from making a difference; you collectively brought in 500 cans to feed the hungry this Thanksgiving.

While these might not encompass your fears, they demonstrate the idea of moving towards the fire, of living life in a way that matters. And to think I would have bypassed all of it had I not advocated for myself in that phone call twenty years ago. To think what would have happened had the director of Human Resources not known my name.

      In the country music song "Standing Outside the Fire," Garth Brooks croons, "Life is not tried; it is merely survived if you're standing outside the fire." Somehow that song lyric keeps popping into my head as I write this blog. So this is my challenge to you this month. Find one thing you are afraid of, and look that fear in the eye. Figure out a way of moving towards the fire. Do not let your fears control who you are. Find the words to be brave. And know if you're looking for me this month, I may not be working on conquering that Dorito shell yet, but I will take the first step at grappling with my fears as I move towards the fire and hit the "publish" button on this blog.

Gratitude: Lessons from My Roll-top Desk

I have an old desk in my house with lots of compartments. It is one of those old-fashioned roll-top desks that has all sorts of places for mail and paperclips and pens. When I first married my husband, he brought this piece of furniture into our marriage. I didn't want it; it had chipped paint, looked its age, and didn't really fit with any of our decor. Yet, it was his grandmother's desk. So, it stayed and now serves as a metaphor for my life--how I tend to compartmentalize everything. Everything in my life has a place, a time; each hour is marked with barely a moment to relax. What kind of life is that? you may ask. A life that is filled. A life of gratitude. I am grateful for my life--this crazy life where some days I race in circles, forgetting to defrost the chicken I want to make for dinner and copy the poem I want to teach but one that is filled with people and emotions and splendor.

I am grateful.

I am grateful I am a mother despite the fact that sometimes I feel like I am an unpaid uber driver for my kids. I take them places--so many places--dance rehearsal, gymnastics, baseball practice, friend’s houses, to Taco Bell (very unwillingly and forever putting up a fight, I might add), to the movies and the library. Yet I am grateful. For every minute I spend with my kids in the car, I’m able to talk to them and listen to their music and glance at them growing up so quickly from the rearview mirror. Just as objects in the rearview mirror might appear closer than they seem, my uber driving brings us closer together.

I am grateful.

I am grateful I am a runner. I run to be alone and hear myself think. I listen to Michael Jackson or the Beatles or sometimes even something mellow like the Eagles or Coldplay. Every step is one closer to mental clarity. Some of my best lesson plans have been developed while I was pounding the pavement at 5:30 a.m. and so have I attempted to solve the problems of the world. I thought of my 1% better idea on a run. Most of my blogs were written in my head as I near mile 3 or 4 of a longer run.  I am grateful--grateful for my sturdy legs and persistence and the time to fill my lungs with air and think.

I am grateful.

I am grateful I am a reader. I get lost in a good book, so lost that I sometimes forget it is past midnight on a school night. In a really good book, the characters become real people to me to the point that I dread having to say goodbye. The same feeling I experience every year when another class graduates.

I am grateful.

I am grateful I am a writer. I’m grateful words come easily to me (most of the time)...grateful that I have a medium to write them, to put them together, to use them to help others see that they matter or are important.

I am grateful.

I am grateful I am a listener. I may not be the best teacher, but people know I can listen. And I do. Always. At 2:43 in the morning or at 5 in the afternoon over a cup of hot tea, I listen to the words of a friend.

I am grateful.

I am grateful I am a laugher. I laugh every day even on the bad days. This weekend in St. Louis we called an Uber to take us to a restaurant for dinner. We stood on a street corner across from our hotel, waiting for the Uber driver to navigate his way to us. He finally did after more minutes than we wanted to wait. By the time the driver showed up, we were impatient, frustrated, and hungry. We got in the car, and somehow, without us even knowing, this restaurant was literally around the corner. I laughed. We ubered (if that is a verb) around the corner. Yet, I am grateful for that moment and all the small moments in my life that might seem idiotic or frutrating but also are ones that give me a chance to laugh.

I am grateful….for my roles in life. For the fact that of all of the compartments intersect somehow in gratitude. Yet there is one role I have not mentioned that I have been in for twenty years.

I am a teacher. I shuffle papers back and forth. I read college essays. I talk to kids about the frustrations in their lives. I try to make sense of a teenager’s language. Honestly, I don’t understand it all. Emojis are foreign to me as is texting language like ttyl and smh. Yet, I am grateful for every day I spend in the classroom. I am grateful to teach with the colleagues I do, whose creativity, compassion, and sense of humor inspire me so much on a daily basis. This year, I have the opportunity to collaborate in my TOK class, something I have been wanting to do for years. I am so grateful for this collaboration I get to do on a regular basis.

And I am grateful for you. My students. You are bright and funny and utterly creative. You think outside of the box, and you are not afraid to tell me how you really feel. You’re honest and truthful and inclusive. You may forget to capitalize the letter “I” and your love of memes far outweighs your love of books, but still I am grateful. I am grateful to spend 90 minutes with you every other day. I am grateful for every moment you make me laugh and even the ones that bring me to tears.

I am grateful.

I am grateful that as I close the lid to cover my roll top desk, my life has so many intricacies, so many compartments, so many roles.

I will always be grateful.

#AtleeStrong: Hug Harder. Live Kinder

     When I coached track at Godwin High School many years ago, the other head coach I worked with used to give out "happy hugs." Whenever a kid on our team was down or frustrated or annoyed, he would look them in the eye and ask, "Do you need a happy hug?" The kid would inevitably roll his eyes, as a smile crept into the corners of his mouth. A hug was never exchanged, but the idea of one simply transformed a bad attitude.

      I am a hugger. I always have been affectionate in that way. I imagine a good hug--one that lasts longer than a second and does not feel obligatory--is similar to the way other people feel about handshakes. A firm handshake conveys confidence and someone who is certain of the world around him. A strong hug demonstrates kindness, compassion, and is a way to show people they matter. This past week, I've given out a lot of hugs. Some were tight embraces where the other person didn't want to let go. So I kept holding on until they did. Some were awkward, as I am much shorter than most people and had to stand on my tiptoes. Some were given because I didn't know what to say. A hug just seemed like the right thing at the moment. One young man turned to his mom after I hugged him and said, "She knows how to give a good hug!" Yes, I'm good for something. I promise. Each  hug was my way of saying to others that they mattered. Yet, each hug also told me that I mattered.

     We don't take enough time out of our day to tell other people this. For most of my teaching career, I know I didn't tell the students sitting in front of me those words. I thought I showed them that through my passion for teaching or my desire to listen to what was going on in their world, but how many times have I honestly sat down and told someone in my life they matter to me? How many times have I told them they were important? While I may think as a teacher I am showing this to my students through my actions, I don't think I always have had the courage to say those two words: YOU MATTER.

    It can be nervewracking to tell someone they matter to you. What if you look foolish? What if they laugh? What if they are not ready to be serious at that moment? What if they don't feel the same way about you? So imagine what it is like to tell 30 students they matter. Last year was the first year I recall saying those specific words; afterwards, my class embraced me with a very claustrophobic group hug, yet it changed things between me and my students for the better.

     Quite often I find it is easier to talk about someone else than to speak directly to them. Our world is becoming more and more about screen time--communicating with others through texts and tweets instead of face to face contact. No hug can be conveyed through a text message, though. Even a hug emoji doesn't provide the same feeling. We've become so concerned with the number of followers and rewtweets and likes we garner, yet what is most important is the person behind those likes and retweets. We need to show others they matter, and we need to do this through our kindness. Kindness is not a knee jerk reaction; it is an everyday reaction. I grew up knowing that kindness was just something you did like brushing your teeth and looking both ways when you cross the street. It was not an option. You weren't kind for any bonus points or rewards or recognition. It didn't even matter if no one caught you in the middle of your kind act. For, sometimes the best acts of kindness are the quiet acts that no one knows about.

     I know I try to use this blog to write about what we are doing in room 211, but this month, that is going to have to take a back seat; instead, I want to show you the kindness I've seen around Atlee High School and emphasize the need to continue to show others they matter through kindness.

      Last month I wrote about my junior Theory of Knowledge students painting inspirational rocks and hiding them at Cool Spring Elementary School. The seniors were inspired by such an activity and took a field trip on a weekend to Pearson's Corner Elementary School just to hide their kindness rocks they made.

       Inspired by Lee Davis High School teacher, Brandon Farrar, I also encouraged my senior TOK class to thank two people for something small in their lives. We called this a lollipop moment based on the TED talk by Drew Dudley called "Everyday Leadership." I noticed some of my students were a bit apprehensive about this assignment, so the next day in class I gave them 24 lollipop moments, thanking each individual student. Many reflected later that this was one of the most beneficial assignments they had received.

     Kindness existed in small things like a student writing me a letter this past week and another bringing me an unsweet iced tea from McDonald's because she knew that I needed the caffeine to finish my grading. (She was 100% correct).

     I've witnessed kindness in CAS (Creativity, Activity, Service) service projects of many of my students. One student raised over $500 for the Wounded Warrior Project through a benefit tennis tournament. Another collected several boxes of books for Memorial Regional Hospital's patients. Two other students spent the past two months coaching my son and his teammates at Atlee Little League. All acts of kindness are ones that demonstrated to others that they are important, that they matter.

      This week, kindness existed in Sepp Shirey asking me to wear his jersey to the last home football game (one of the greatest honors I have received as an educator) and then watching him score his 80 yard touchdown as the Varina players cheered him on. I watched that moment live with tears running down my face because I knew what an accomplishment that was for Sepp. Yet, what I didn't realize until I watched the video that has been played all over social media including the Today Show and Inside Edition, that the Varina players clapped their hands as they led Sepp to his touchdown. It was their idea to lead Sepp to victory.They chose to cheer him on. The ultimate example of kindness.

     And I have seen the Raider Nation come together this week in response to tragedy. I watched as people seemed to be a little more kind and compassionate. People seemed to check in on one another. Students looked me in the eye and asked me how I was doing. I sat in the library to talk to students I didn't even know, as they told me about marching band and being new to Atlee and how much they disliked To Kill a Mockingbird (That last one I still don't understand, but I'll be kind and let it go). Students walked in my room just for a hug, not needing any words, which probably was a good thing because I didn't have the right words to say.

     Ultimately, I've learned this week to love longer. Live kinder. Hug harder. Tell others they matter. You Matter. All 148 of you that I teach this year. All of those I taught last year and the year before that. All of those who I have ever taught. You will always matter. Don't be afraid to tell one another how you feel. Hug Harder. Live kinder. #AtleeStrong #WeAreAtlee

#WhyIWrite

I wrote  my first rant in the eighth grade. It was in the form of a poem. We had to title it "I Hate" and list all of the things we hated. I remember struggling with this; I've never been a complainer let alone a hater. The final line was a direct result of my teacher's tongue-in-cheek sense of humor: "But Other Than That, I'm Not Picky."

In high school, I wrote notes to friends, folded up in intricate triangles that assumed the role of Fort Knox if you were attempting to open them. They were passed surrepitiously in class, begging to be opened when the teacher was not looking.

I wrote about my very first days in the classroom--how I lacked confidence but lived on caffeine, how I was barely swimming above water and how I just so very much wanted to change the world. I forgot that year just to try to change the 18 kids in that classroom. My goals were far too big. They still are.

I wrote about a car accident I experienced the year after I graduated college that almost killed me. The shards of glass that were in my mouth, the roll of the car three times across lanes of traffic, and my shoes that landed in the back seat of my car--all captured in a leather bound journal.

I wrote my first love letter to my husband. I gave it to him the day we got married.

I wrote a poem when I miscarried two of my babies. And another when we lost my father-in-law unexpectedly within that same week. The grief that poured out hit the paper with tear-stained emotion and a choked up sense of sadness that only could be described in words.

I wrote a heart on my children's palms the first day they went to kindergarten so they could remember I was always with them. I wrote countless notes on slips of paper, tucking them neatly into my children's lunch boxes. Lunchtime smiles.

I write letters every year to thank people important to me or to tell people they matter. People need to hear those things. Letter writing is a dying art, but one we need to continue to breathe life into. There is nothing better than receiving a letter in the mail, handwritten from someone you know. I save any letter anyone writes me. This box is 19 years of letters from students--some of the best gifts I have ever been given.

I write a blog. I attempt to give my students some glimpse into my chaotic whirlwind I call a life--my life.

I write texts--unaccompanied by emojis.

I have always been a writer. From the moment I was able to communicate and put words together, I have found them powerful. For me, I could always write what I wanted to say, even at times when I wasn't able to vocalize it. Last year, I vowed to make writing a regular part of my life. I started to wake up with sentences in my head. One night, I awoke at 2 a.m. and wrote an entire blog. Words began to creep into my mind when I was running, when I was serving as a taxi driver for my kids, when I was lying on the couch reading with my daughter, when I was cooking dinner. Words started to surround me, and I surrendered to their poise, elegance, beauty, and passion.

So why do I write?  On this National Day on Writing, I write because I am human. I write to understand humanity. I write because it is the one thing that brings us closer together as humans. Words bind us. They connect us in a way that we can't be connected otherwise. If you've ever been so kind to take the time to read my words--in a blog, an email, a letter, a text, on a napkin, or folded into an intricate triangle and passed to you in a high school class--know I chose my words carefully. Know that the words connected us; they always will connect us.  I write and never will stop writing, never stop dreaming, never stop growing, never stop believing in the absolute power of the written word.

College Edition: When You're Here, You're Family

     I remember feeling like a guest in my own home when I would come home from college. There suddenly were rules. My mom had cleaned and rearragned my things in my room. My brother and sister were different; they seemed closer. My mom would cook my favorite meals for no fancy occasion at all.  It's strange feeling like a guest in your own home.

     If I can be honest, I'm beginning to hate seeing my former students with visitor's nametags. Don't get me wrong, I LOVE that you are all coming back; it's the yellow visitor's tag that I hate. It puts a barrier between things. It's like how I felt in college all over again; you are a guest in your own home. You were once a part of room 211, but now, suddenly, you have to wear a yellow rectanglular sticker to return to my room. You once came in full of energy or complaints about all of the work you had or tired because you stayed up all night finishing some IA or annotations that were due, but now you're different. Things are different. You're coming into a room where the seats already are filled. It's a bit unnerving for me if I can be totally honest. I've had numerous visits over the past few weeks, as more and more colleges are having Fall Break. One student even got stuck in my classroom for a good 30 minutes due to a non-emergency safety drill. And I have been grateful for every visit--every single one.

There is a huge part of me who would give away every material possession I own just to have one more seminar with all of you. Truly. I love the students who are now a part of my room. If you currently are a student in my classroom reading this, please know it's an honor every single day I get to teach you. Yet, as a teacher, the hardest thing I have to do is say goodbye every year to a group of students. So, when those students return, donning the yellow rectanglular badges to deem they are a visitor at Atlee, I have mixed emotions. I love having them back, but at the same time, I hate having to send them off once again.

      As more and more of you have graced me with your presence, I want to reflect on what I've learned from talking to you:

1. You've changed. It's like you're wiser and smarter and like there's some hidden secret about high school that you now possess.  I love it. It's almost as if you've crossed the line to understanding exactly why your teachers taught you certain things or made you write a certain way now. You get what high school is all about. You understand what should be stressful and what doesn't really matter after all (even though it seemed way too important when you were in high school).

2. I've also seen you seize opportunities that never could be afforded to you in high school. One of you is in a drone making club. If that is not more perfect for who you are, I don't know what is! Many of you are playing intramural sports including things like sailing. You've already earned yourself internships. The opportunities you have in college far exceed what you could do in high school. So, as much as I continuously long for one last seminar, I know that it is important for you to have these new opportunities.

3. You're more mature these days. I watched as the students in one of my classes were joking around, and one of you just rolled your eyes at me. I knew exactly what you meant by your eye roll; ironically, just a few short months ago, you were in those seats joking around with me. I single handedly gave you the eye roll--the same one that I think you now understand.

4. You have time management. The years of procrastination, the staying up nights before to finish your extended essays....I think you somehow understand how to prioritize. Maybe it's because college affords you such a different schedule. You no longer have to be a "morning" person by default. You have time in the day to study, to call home, to text your former English/TOK teacher, to play ultimate frisbee on the lawn. Regardless, I loved listening to how you now have prioritized your time.

5. There's nothing you can't handle. You've proven that to me by the way you describe your classes. You've proven it to me by what you've told me about the clubs at your school and your roommates and your professors who don't grade as easily as you would like them to grade. You've proven that to me in some of the college papers you've sent me to read. I'm proud of you for that; I always will be.

      Fourteen years ago, the Olive Garden launched an advertising campaign with the slogan, "When you're here, you're family." I always have loved that idea of having a place where any time you entered, you felt like family.

The t.v. show Cheers that aired when I was in high school and went off the air the year I graduated had the same kind of feel; it was the place "where you want to go where everybody knows your name." The lyrics to the opening theme song have always stayed with me:
                                         

I like to hope my classroom is like that for all of you--your home, the place where everyone knows your name. So, please continue to visit 211. Wear those bright yellow rectangular visitor badges and know that despite the fact that they may place a barrier between us because you don't get to stay (and I have to sadly say goodbye all over again), you are always a part of room 211; you are always welcome home. My door will be open, you will never be a guest, and I always will be excited to have you back.

Do You Hear What I Hear?--Finding Value in Listening

     Have you ever listened--I mean really listened--to the sounds around you? I sometimes step outside at night to listen to the sounds of my neighborhood--the hum of the cars skidding over the railroad tracks that run behind my house. The gentle rhythm of the cicaidas. A dog barking in the distance behind my neighbors' wooden fence. Listening always slows things down for me. I suddenly become aware of so much of my surroundings.

     I've learned in life that there are listeners and there are talkers. One of the first things I've ever noticed about my husband and his family is how it's hard to get a word in edgewise. They like to talk, leaving the listening up to others. My huband and his sister are the most fun to watch, as they battle in a tour de force that just might resemble a Civil War battle when it comes to talking wars. Someone eventually surrenders while the other inundates the air with words. With my more timid personality, I always have had a hard time trying to compete to speak. So, I remain quiet much of the time. I listen.

     I've always been a listener. In high school when they handed out senior superlatives--most of which were humorous and gently poking fun at members of my class--I received Best Listener.

I have this face that screams, "Tell me your story. I'll listen to every word. I won't judge, and I won't tell anyone else." It's not easy sometimes to feel like you don't have a voice. Yet, sometimes I view my role of secret keeper as far more important than the person who tells them. Most of the time I find value in being all ears.

      There really is something valuable about this skill of listening. And it's something I don't think we do enough of in this world. I'm guilty of it, too. My kids will be saying something to me, and I'll be doing something I deem "important" at the moment, and all of the sudden their words are just words--floating in the air void of meaning and understanding. "Are you even listenng to me?" one of them will say, and I quickly try to repeat what my subconscious has heard. My husband gets the same treatment sometimes. This weekend when he was droning on about Aaron Judge and the Yankees' chances, I know I did not hear all of the words and am grateful there wasn't a quiz following our conversation.

     A friend of mine recently posted this image on Facebook.

The Dalai Lama's words are so important. We've got to listen to learn something new. This past month as the school year began, I have made a conscious effort to listen. Here's what I've been listening to and what I've learned:

      First, I listened to a former student as he challenged me upon his graduation to incorporate the song "Wish You Were Here" into one of my lessons. I found this idea amusing at first; I will be honest. I have used music in the classroom in the past, but how in the world would Pink Floyd fit into one of my lessons? I listened to the words of the song that I had heard so many times before, but this time I really listened. And then it hit me. The song became an introduction to literary analysis in my IB English 11 class. We analyzed one line of the song and gradually deciphered meaning from the entire passage. And this became my opening message for you,  my students: Not to be a lost soul swimming in a fishbowl year after year. I encouraged you to try something new, to set new goals. You listened; this phrase has crept up into your writing and your attitudes. And I learned that perhaps we as teachers don't have all of the ideas and answers. We need to listen to the challenges our students throw at us sometimes.

     The most recent project, called "Humans of Atlee" required you to interview someone at Atlee and listen to their story. In collaborating with Mr. Leise's graphic design students who will create a design around your writing, we will continue to demonstrate true communication skills. This idea of really listening to someone's story is not something we always stop to do. I've talked to many of you who have been inspired by the people you've interviewed and who learned something new in these stories.

      Theory of Knowledge has also been a class where I learn far more by listening than talking. That class lends itself to listening to ideas and formulating opinions and maybe even reforming those opinions sometimes. The current senior TOK class has spent the past month studying history as an Area of Knowledge. In doing so, perhaps the most profound lesson was our Socratic seminar discussing what happened in Charlottesville this summer. I watched as people who usually are quiet in seminars had their voices heard and people who speak quite regularly were able to listen. I listened to the differing opinions around the room, and I marveled that the classroom could be a place for people of your age to express such opinions. So often I feel like we stifle our ideas because we are afraid of what others will think. This was not the situation on that day discussing Charlottesville--a day we may not have agreed but one where we did listen to each other.

      Just last week the junior TOK class painted rocks with inspirational messages as an introduction to CAS (Creativity, Activity, Service). We walked over to Cool Spring Elementary School (taking the long route) to leave our mark (or rocks) for the students there to find. As I listened to the sounds of the voices of you on that walk, there was an energy that inspired me. Later that evening, Dr. Brown, the principal at Cool Spring ES, sent me an email thanking us for bringing joy and inspiration to the Dolphins. I couldn't help but think of the power of listening in this situation. These young kids were inspired by our messages. These young kids just might have a better day because of a painted rock they found on their school grounds. These young kids are listening.

     We need to continue to listen to one another instead of constantly wanting our voices to be heard. Sometimes, it's in the listening where we learn the most. This Saturday, I had the honor of attending everyone's favorite 9th grade Pre-Bac teacher Ms. Shivers' wedding.

As my husband and I sat at a table with no one we knew, I started thinking about this idea of listening to others. I started thinking about how the people closest to us were at one point strangers in our lives. That idea is pretty amazing if you think about it. As I listened to the gentleman next to me--a complete stranger--talk about growing up in Atlanta (something this native New Yorker definitely could not relate to), I realized I have a lot to learn about people and can only do that by listening. I realized how we can impact a complete stranger just by listening to his story.

     As I allow this blog post to come to an end, I want to reflect a bit on what happened in my classroom last year. Back in February, I spent a day out of my regular instruction promoting to my students the idea of living your life one percent better than the day before. What I thought was going to be just another lesson that didn't mean a whole lot turned into something vastly different. My students listened. And gradually, they changed. And so when I presented this same idea to you this year, I have marveled at the number of you who have already written about it or talked to me about the idea. It's simple really. Do something--just one thing--better than the day before. I challenge you this month to allow that one thing to be to listen to one another. I challenge you to let your voices be heard but also take the time to listen before you respond. Listen to the sounds of each other's voices to car horns to good music. Listen to the strangers you meet in this world instead of being dialed into your phone or avoiding making eye contact with others. I think about the sounds that I hear on a daily basis: the high pitched voices of my children, fire trucks speeding down New Ashcake Road, the sound of the keyboard, the crack of the baseball bat at Atlee Little League, laughter, my phone indicating a new text has come through, students engrossed in heated discussion, the music of the Beatles, Dr. Wheeler's confident voice on the morning announcements, the sounds of the last bell on a Friday, new words that only teenagers seem to know and speak, the alarm at 5:20 am as I pull myself out of bed, the student who just needs someone to talk to. No matter how much everyone around me continues to talk, I will be listening--always listening, always learning.