You Had Me At Hello: Reflections As I Begin My 19th Year of Teaching

     As I head back to my classroom on Monday, I can't help but think of the iconic line from the 1996 movie Jerry Maguire: "You had me at hello." At the time of seeing that movie, I was puzzled. How could someone feel so connected to another human being with just the simple word hello? I remember watching Renee Zellweger undoubtedly join Tom Cruise with his goldfish in hand and leave the business world as she knew it to begin anew. How could she let that simple word hello lead her to the decision to quit her job?

I tend to wear my emotions on my sleeve, but I understand that others aren't always so quick to open up, especially at the word hello. Sometimes it's just difficult to make a connection with others. When you think about it, life is all about connections. We have connecting flights; we often connect the dots between things. We experience bad connections on our phones, computers, etc. We attempt to "get connected" through social media (although I may argue those aren't always real connections, but that's a topic for another blog). I've seen people hired or achieve things because of the connections they have. Life is about making connections, and as I prepare to head back into the classroom on Monday, I am reminded of this idea, the connections I have, and the ones I hopefully will be fortunate enough to make this school year.

      People often ask me why I teach. The simple answer--connections. I enjoy the relationships I can make with people. I love the fist bump from the student who initiates that as he walks into my classroom. I love when a student emails me an article that has to do with something we are discussing in class. I even have learned to appreciate the high five from the teacher across the hall once he learned to lower his hand to my height level. I am inspired by learning new things from my students--words that never would have been in my vocabulary, emojis that I never would have used (Okay, poor example. I rarely use emojis). I love sharing ideas with my colleagues. And I love re-connections--those moments in life when that failed connection picks back up again. Recently, one of my former students told me that he doesn't ever say goodbye in life. "It's a small world, and you never know when people will pop back up," he wrote to me. That really resonated with me; today I want to tell you about some of those reconnections and how small the world of no goodbyes really is.

     Two years ago, I was on the dance floor at my husband's cousin's wedding at the Homestead. I suddenly felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to find a young man with a smile on his face. "Mrs. Pace?" he asked. I stumbled through the rolodex of student names in the back of my head to remember his.

     "Davis?" I asked. He beamed, proud that I had remembered his name. I beamed, proud I located the correct rolodex file. I had taught this young man over 15 years ago. I remembered he played baseball at Mills Godwin High School. He remembered I played music in my class to teach grammar. I was so glad to have made the reconnection.

    I always tell students that the hardest thing about being a teacher is knowing I might not ever see my students again once they graduate. So, coincidental reconnections always make me happy. In 2007, my daughter Katie was born at St. Mary's Hospital. After her birth, the nurse in the operating room pulled down her mask. "Hi Mrs. Pace," she said. Kathleen. Kathleen was a student I taught many years prior, another appearance of a student recurring in my life.

     Last week, I led a professional development session and was walking around answering questions and getting to know the teachers in the room. I came to a table of three teachers, and one of them looked at me and said, "You were my English teacher in 1999." Caitlin. What a fortunate reconnection, especially knowing that a former student became an English teacher.

And then there's Kyle. When I taught him, Kyle was disrespectful in class. He put up a big front, rarely letting me or anyone else in. Several years ago, I had a knock on my classroom door--Kyle. The image of the boy I had remembered was replaced by a young man in a military uniform. He started by telling me that he returned to apologize for the way he acted in my class and that he appreciated what I did for him as his teacher. This was certainly a reconnection I will never forget. And maybe that former student was right in never saying goodbye; life has a way of enabling us to connect with the people we need when we need them most. 

     Last year, was the first time in my teaching career I questioned why I taught. It was an unsettling feeling.  I had never felt this way before; teaching had been my dream job since I was playing school in my basement as a seven year-old. It is my passion, and somehow, I saw that passion slipping through my fingers. Don't get me wrong. I have had plenty of bad days in the classroom. My colleagues in my first year of teaching certainly can attest to plenty of my tears of frustration. More recent colleagues have also witnessed the tears. Yet, this feeling was different. I never questioned why I had taught before. I was overwhelmed by the expectations of this profession in a way I had never experienced. I felt suffocated; I was drowning. You know when you’re swimming underwater and you open your eyes and can see the surface of the water, barely out of reach? You push off the bottom of the pool floor and dive up to the top, resurfacing as the water splashes across your face? I couldn’t even see the water’s surface. I kept sinking deeper and deeper to the bottom of the pool, being sucked down by the drain I was petrified of as a little kid. So, I did the only thing I knew to do--I put a smile on my face and kept teaching. I decided not to let anyone know the uncertainty I was feeling.

I went through a good portion of last year feeling that way. It’s been the first time in a long time that I didn’t feel like I was making an impact. I wrote college recommendation after recommendation (almost 50 to be exact), I served on countless committees, I edited college essays, I graded more papers than I want to think about, but I didn’t feel like any of it mattered anymore. Why did I feel this way? I had stopped making connections. I began to let the hard parts of this job consume me. I existed on this island that was purely my own self-pity. I didn't let anyone in, and once I finally did, it was almost too late.

I somehow finally turned to a colleague for help. She perhaps found herself in the wrong place at the wrong time, but she didn't avoid me or ignore me. She listened. She connected with me. And what she helped me to notice is the importance of making connections. To that one colleague who got me to see again why I love my job--I can't thank you enough. Because of you, I started to talk to other colleagues more, and I started to pay attention to my students--really pay attention to them. And my attitude transformed entirely.



About halfway through last year I made a conscious effort to really connect with the people who spent time in four classes in my room over the past four years. I watched my students--students I had taught since they were freshmen--grow into kind human beings. Through their words and actions, they showed me what matters in life--and taught me that I matter. What they accomplished last year to me was awe inspiring, and it didn't center around a grade or a test score. It centered around being better people than they were the day before. By the end of the year, I didn't want my students to leave room 211. I considered barricading the door, but I thought most of them would easily get past my five foot one self. I considered failing all of them, but I try not to let failure be an option in my classroom. So, I said goodbye--a goodbye that was not easy nor pretty. They came to my house for breakfast on graduation day.

Some of them sent me pictures of themselves before they headed to college. Some of those pictures were really sad ones like the dog on top of packed clothes or a packed trunk with the caption to mimic an earlier blog of mine: "A Comforter, Shampoo, and a Whole Lot of Stuff."

I even got a video of a college dorm room all set up and another of one of my students studying. While I will miss these students not being a part of room 211, I know I will always have the ability to make connections. And it was these connections with students that resurrected my love for teaching.

Yet, it wasn't just the students who enabled me to find the joy of this profession. My colleagues did as well. I remember the first time I heard the term "Raider Nation." It was at the opening faculty meeting when I first came to Atlee. I never had heard a school referenced as a "nation" before and found that an interesting choice of words. Yet, that's the perfect word for all of you. As a faculty, we are one nation--one group of people who make connections with 14-18 year-olds on a daily basis. We connect with their frustrations, their struggles, their work ethics or lack thereof, their affection for their iPhones, their fidget spinners and water bottle flips (Yes, that was so last year. I'm sure there's some new thing that awaits our rooms this year). We are compassionate about our subjects but even more compassionate about each other and our students. We take care of one another. We are connected in a way that no one else can deny. We are the Raider Nation.

     Every time I feel like I want to give up on teaching I will remember Davis. Kathleen.
Caitlin. Kyle. I will remember the connections I am able to make in room 211. I will remember my students from last year--the ones who I almost missed out on because of my lackluster attitude for a few months when I was busy questioning why I teach. I will remember that one particular colleague who listened to me unconditionally to show me the impact connections can have. I will remember my colleagues of the Raider Nation. 

     I head back to the Raider Nation on Monday.  I won't wish the days away this year. I won't be hoping June can't come fast enough--even on the hard days. (Please remind me of this statement if I start to complain or grow frustrated or overwhelmed). It's not always easy to return to school after a restful summer of freedom and pool-side reading, especially one that is directly preceeded by a trip to the beach. 

     Yet, this year, I have a different attitude because of the connections I know I can make. This year I return to school proud to be a teacher and a part of the Raider Nation. This year more than ever, I begin with a renewed sense of optimism, ready for the 149 students I will teach in year 19. Realistically I know every lesson will not be perfect. Realistically I know every student will not be engaged in every word I have to say. Yet, I know if I work hard enough, I can make the same connections I have made with past students--those from nineteen years ago and others from this past year.

      So, as I make my way down Cool Spring Road and turn onto Atlee Station on Monday morning, I will think about former students and my colleagues and how they helped me see the potential to make connections in something that to me is not just a job or even a profession but a passion. While I didn't realize it at first, you had me at hello.

Goodbye Unsweet Tea, Books, and The Beatles: Life Outside of My Comfort Zone in Week 9

     As a 42 year-old, I'm comfortable where I am in life. I know what I like and what gets under my skin. I love a good glass of unsweet tea, cooking Italian food, and nothing beats a run when my legs feel twice as long as they really are. A good book always pleases me as does listening to good music--the Beatles. But I digress. For all of the things that make me comfortable when walking around in my shoes, I probably have experienced an equal number of things that make me uncomfortable. One in particular I am thinking of occurred six years ago.

     Six years ago, the butterflies wouldn't settle. You know the feeling where your stomach feels like it is being separated from the rest of your insides as that flutter perpetually persists? There was nothing that I could do that morning to calm my nerves. I tried drinking a diet Coke (which I never do in the morning), but the caffeine didn't work. I tried taking a deep breath, but the butterflies still were dancing a fierce waltz. I had done this for a dozen years before; why was the first day of school so hard this year? For one, I was teaching IB English for the first time. I knew going into it that these students were so incredibly smart yet sometimes judgmental of new teachers. At least that's what I had been told. I don't remember my lesson that day, but I do remember a boy in the back of my classroom with his hand raised before I even started. "Yes?" I asked him.

     "How long have you taught IB English?" he asked, arrogantly. It was the kind of question that I could tell he already knew the answer to.

      "There's a first time for everything. This is my first at IB," I stated meekly. And there were the butterflies. My lack of confidence propelled me backwards. I didn't know how I would face those kids the next day and the day after that when they clearly had no faith in a teacher who had never taught the course. I was uncomfortable.

     Yet, that year, I learned that sometimes we need to take a step oustide of our comfort zones. If we never take chances, if we are always comfortable with where we are and what we're doing, we will never see change and progress and growth. In a poem by T.S. Eliot called, "The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock," Eliot writes, "Do I dare? Do I dare disturb the universe?" Later in the poem, he talks about measuring his life in coffee spoons. In other words, do we go about our daily lives making a large impact in what we do or do we just go along with the monotony of life--the coffee spoons? That first year of teaching IB English was a challenge for me, but I grew as a teacher in doing so because I dared to disturb the universe, because I stepped out of my comfort zone. For those of you in that first class (who incidentally are rising seniors in college), I hope I did you justice and prepared you well! And to the bold young man who asked about my tenure in teaching IB, I applaud you now. That took courage to ask me that; I didn't like the question at the time, but I so appreciate it now.

     The past few weeks I've had to remind myself of this idea of stepping outside of my comfort zone. I recently was asked to participate in a video to be shown for our opening school convocation. If any of you know me well, I can't stand being the center of attention. The mere mention of my name in a crowd makes me uncomfortable. It always has. I watch people receive awards with confidence or truly enjoy the spotlight, but I would rather just be another brick in the wall, another face in the crowd. It's not that I don't want to be awarded; I'm just better at focusing attention on others. I've always been shy--painfully shy years ago. I've actually done a lot to overcome that. Our world teaches us to always be front and center and in the spotlight. I watch so many people comfortable there. I'm just not. I never will be. I found myself in the spotlight more often than not this year for various reasons (I even have a fat head of myself from Mr. AHS thanks to one of you to remind me of that feeling).
 

The spotlight will always make me more than uncomfortable. So, when I was asked to do this video, I was hesitant--not only because it is a video that the entire school division would see but because I had to sing in the video. Honestly, I love to sing...in the shower, at home, in my car with the windows rolled down, but singing in public on a video that every teacher, administrator, school board member in Hanover County would see is not my style. I did it, though. And while I bribed the communications specialist to edit me out of every shot, I am proud for doing something that made me more than uncomfortable. I learned that one of my strengths in this whole thing is that I may not have a voice but I do have a sense of humor. My face hurt from laughing when we filmed that video. And I'm sure it will be bright red when I have to actually watch it among my Atlee colleagues in a week.

     I also found myself courageously in an online writing course last weekend. I've never taken an online course, but I signed up for this one willingly; I have had this lifelong dream to publish my writing one day and was hoping this course could be a catalyst for that goal that still sounds more like a farfetched dream than a reality. It was one of those courses where I watched a live stream of the teacher in the course, and on the side was a panel where the students in the course could discuss information and share writing. My shyness really made this a challenge at reaching out to others online who I didn't know just to share my writing. It put me in a vulnerable position. I watched as instant "friends" were made and Twitter handles were shared. Some students in the course had already written their novels. Some wrote poetry. I was the only English teacher-want-to-be writer. Yet what I got from that class was an affirmation to keep writing even when it's hard or makes me feel vulnerable. I also have so many ideas for my classes this year. Get ready to write if you are headed my way!

       Perhaps the day that put me most out of my comfort zone, though, was the day spent at King's Dominion. I'm not a large fan of amusement parks. There are usually too many people, the lines are too long, and then there are the roller coasters. For twelve years, I've happily avoided roller coasters and watched my kids on the small, kid-friendly rides, occasionally going on the carousel with them. Yet this year, everyone was over 48 inches--tall enough to ride the roller coasters. I panicked. I really did. At first I thought I would be the mom who took pictures and held everyone's stuff while my husband and three kids braved the coasters, but Katie looked at me and said, "Mom, are you coming?" And I realized that there's going to be a point in time when my kids don't want to ride a roller coaster with me. Time is of the essence, and if I don't make these memories with my kids now, there aren't going to be any opportunities for memories later. So, I begrudgingingly got on the Rebel Yell to start. I didn't feel like a rebel when I got on, and I certainly didn't feel like one when I got off. I rode many more coasters that day...the Stunt Coaster, the Woodstock Express (which, by the way, for a kids' roller coaster was terrifying), the Grizzly (in the dark, which was petrifying). My kids had no idea I was scared. I was far away from my safe zone, and maybe I would have not felt my heart racing for hours on end had I just taken the pictures and held their stuff, but I am glad I did get on those roller coasters. It taught me that sometimes everything you've ever wanted is outside of your comfort zone. I found a connection with my kids. I found happiness. I found my sense of humor these past few weeks and now have a music video on my resume. I found affirmation to keep writing.

     


Each time, I stepped out of my comfort zone, I did grow as a person, though. These experiences the past two weeks were no different....the music video, the writing course, even riding roller coasters put me in more of a spotlight than I prefer. Yet, the experiences also connected me more with people.

     In the musical Rent, my favorite song is "Seasons of Love." The lyrics begin 

Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes
How do you measure - measure a year?
In daylights - in sunsets
In midnights - in cups of coffee
In inches - in miles
In laughter - in strife


The song continues to say we should measure a year in love. Truly, I am in love with this idea of weighing our experiences by the love we share with others. In thinking about this, I would be remiss this week not to comment on what happened in Charlottesville recently.  The attrocities of violence, racism, and injustice are horrifying. I am not one to often take a political stand (another thing that makes me uncomfotable) but this issue isn't quite political; it's human. It's a situation that should not exist in 2017 or any time for that matter, and one that makes me more than uncomfortable. What if we had the courage to love? Imagine who we would be. And so, I can only find myself resorting back to my comfort zone of my friends, the Beatles: "All you need is love. Love is all you need." And that's how I will try to measure my life.

     So I leave you with this: How do you want to measure your life? Do you want to measure the 525,600 minutes of the year in daylights? In sunsets? As T.S. Eliot poetically states in coffee spoons? Or  Do you want to disturb the universe and step out of your comfort zone?  Recently I put my unsweet tea and Beatles music aside. I was far from my comfort zone in that music video, online writing course, and on those roller coasters. And as I did so, I was reminded of Shakespeare's line from A Midsummer Night's Dream: 

"Though she be little, she is fierce."

That's how I want to be remembered--the one who is fierce, who does disturb the universe, who dares to do something that scares her more often than not, who steps outside of her comfort zone every once and awhile, who measures her life in moments of love. It's a new world every time I step out of that comfort zone, but I have no regrets and know I can always come home to a book, a glass of unsweet tea, and the Beatles. They will always be waiting, but memories and experiences often will not.

A Comforter, Shampoo, and Fear: Remembering What I Took to College in Week 8

     This blog is dedicated to anyone headed off to college this month--especially my former students of the Class of 2017. Some of you are leaving this week (today); some within a few weeks. Know I am proud of you. I will always be proud!

     I remember the car was filled to the brim when I went away to college. My dad is good at so many things, and I am sure from the looks of the picture below that my dad's "packing system" was unparalleled to none. I don't really remember how that empty car suddenly transformed into 18 years of life packed into one place, or where my brother, sister, and I sat. Yet, somehow we packed everything in and found a way for the five of us to get to Richmond. .

 (August 1993)

(My Dad and I right before I left for college).

I felt like we had all of Costco in our van. We were never members of the megastore conglomorate, but weeks before I headed off to college, my mom took me there as her friend's guest to shop for "the essentials." Quite honestly, I felt like I was taking more to college than I would ever need. What I needed was courage. I needed friends. I needed grit and determination. I needed self-confidence.I needed to know how to balance a checkbook and make a long distance phone call (real struggles in the world before on-line banking and cell phones). Yet, as we made our way down the driveway, headed seven hours south to the University of Richmond, I went with none of those things in tow...Only a comforter, sheets, and shampoo bottles that would last me all four years of college if you want my honest opinion.

    I knew no one at the University of Richmond. Displaced from the North, I suddenly found myself among southern accents and barbecue that was vastly different from the way my family used the word. The cafeteria's inclination to fry everything (including things like okra--a vegetable I had never heard of before coming to Richmond) was unsettling. So was the idea that I was on my own. You see, when I think back on it, I'm not sure I was ready to be independent. I loved spending time with my family; I was a homebody.  I was close to my teachers; some even attended my graduation party. Everything in college was big and new and so vastly different than the world from which I came. When I said goodbye to my family, I didn't want to look back. I knew I couldn't turn around just to see them get smaller and smaller down the road until the now empty mini van disappeared in the distance. I didn't want that to be the last image of them in my head until I saw them again over Fall Break. So, I walked straight ahead into my dorm without looking back. I went to my room and turned on the radio. To give you perspective on how far technology has come, my radio was one of those giant boom boxes. Picture John Cusack in the movie Say Anything (Please tell me you've seen that 80's flick) when he plays Peter Gabriel's "In Your Eyes" below the love of his life's window with the giant boombox suspended in the air over his head. That's the kind of boombox I had in college.

The first song I heard on the radio was an R&B song called "Ooh Child." The lyrics blared from the boom box:"Ooh child, things are gonna get easier. Ooh child, things will get brighther." I started to cry. For those of you who know what I'm like at goodbyes (aka if you witnessed my emotions at your graduation,Class of 2017), you know I don't have an easy time. This experience was no different.

      When I think about it, the biggest thing I brought to college along with my comforter and shampoo bottles was fear...fear of not making friends, of not fitting in, of classes being too hard, of not connecting with professors, of missing home, of getting lost on campus, of not feeling like myself, of dropping my tray in the dining hall (I never did that, but I did spill scalding hot chocolate all over my lap once and screamed so loudly the entire football team stopped eating to look my way). I left high school with feelings of pride swirled with hope, dreams, and passion. I was the kid who was friends with everyone in high school. I had the respect of my teachers. I could walk down the hallway and know I belonged. But amidst the comforter and bulk shampoo, I brought fear--packed into my suitcase so that you had to sit on top of it to close it. Fear wedged its way out slowly, though, creeping in all aspects of my initial college life. This summer I stumbled upon a box of old memories, including my college ID. This photograph was taken during freshman orientation. I look at it and see the fear in my eyes. You may not see it, but I know it's there, accompanying my more youthful face.

The main thing I was afraid of? I was afraid to fail. Who was going to be there to catch me if I did? Who would show me how to brush it off or tell me to keep going despite the mistake? All of my life, I lived in this padded room. Yes, I made plenty of mistakes, but for every mistake, I had a cushioned landing. Someone was there to protect me, defend me, forgive me. What if college wasn't like that now that I was on my own?

     Recently, I read a book entitled If You Find This Letter by Hannah Brencher that had a line in it about failure that really resonated with me: "Fear has been hoisting failure up into that one Dirty Dancing swan-dive move for years" (195). I had the visual image in my head of my fear lifting up all of my failures just like Patrick Swayze lifted Jennifer Grey in the air in that iconic movie scene.

I needed to let it go, and after a month or so of adjusting to my new college "world," that's exactly what I did.

      I wish I knew not to be so hard on myself when I entered college. I wish I knew not to put unnecessary pressures on myself, not to be afraid to fail. And I wish I had a teacher tell me it's okay to fail when I was eighteen years old. Trust me, I would have listened. All of my failures have made me stronger. All of my failures have made me who I am today. Bottom line: If there's one thing I could tell you before you head to college, it's this. It's okay to fail. You will do it more times than you will want to admit, but I can promise you every time it will make you stronger and better.

     When I became a teacher twenty years ago, as an idealist I had big plans to change the world. I was going to solve every teenager's problem and heal any heartache they experienced. My students were going to leave my classroom as better writers and readers. They were going to listen to everything I had to say. Somehow I envisioned them adoring every book I taught. After all, what's not to like in Chronicle of a Death Foretold or the poetry of Langston Hughes? Yet, if you look at what I've done over an 18-year teaching career, I would certainly be deemed a failure more often than not. Yes, I have helped students through problems, and yes, maybe some of you would tell me I helped you to write or that Lord of the Flies wasn't so bad after all. Yet, there are large numbers who don't see things that way and never will, and that's okay. Ultimately I've learned that my students don't always hang on to my every word. It's a humbling thing, this teaching profession.  I've learned I can't help everyone even though I still try to and no matter what I do, there are some people who are never going to love To Kill a Mockingbird (insert sad emoji here).  I'm one who tries every day to make a difference, to live 1% better. I may not always succeed; I may fall more often than stand up, but I keep standing up, and that's what matters.

     So, own your failures. Don't make excuses. There might not be anyone to catch you when you fall this time; you've got to figure out that for yourself. Yet there comes a time in your life where you don't need that cushion; you don't need that padded room to allow your failures to fall upon. Now is that time to continue to stand up after you fall.  In college, you will grow and change and work hard and study and stay up late (okay, I think you already do that) and meet new people. High school will start to feel like a million miles away some days. There's no more tardy table and dress code and set lunch times and classes from 8:30 until 3:30. Make good choices and take responsibility for your actions. And know more than anything, you have so much to offer the world. Know that new experiences help you grow. New experiences help you acquire courage and demonstrate grit. New experiences help you learn how to balance your checkbook.

    After writing all of this, I realized that maybe my words are wasted. After all, I taught some of the most bright and confident young people I know who probably don't have the fears and insecurities at 18 that I had. So here's the final thing I want to tell you that might apply. If you listen to anything I've written in this blog, this is what I want you to know: I need you to remember the difference you make in this world. I need you to remember the lesson I taught thirty of you this year one February day in my TOK class--that you can work to make yourself 1% better than the day before. When you do that, you change the world--even if it is one grain of sand at a time. And the people I watched walk across that stage at graduation this year are the people who are going off to college to change the world. Finally and most importantly, I need you to know that you matter. You will always matter to me. As a teacher, I never stop thinking about my students--where they are, what they're doing, who they're becoming. So as you pack your car and drive away from your homes, remember to leave your fears behind. Bring your confidence and your desire to make a difference and your oversized shampoo bottles. Hug your family. Call your parents. Let your former English/TOK teacher know how you're doing every so often. Spread your wings. Soar high. Whether I taught you once or in four different classes, I will always be proud, so very proud that you were my students, that I was your teacher.

No Words in Week 7

     "You really don't know how to write."

     Those seven words hovered in the air over my head in a lingering cloud of smoke.

     "Excuse me?" I said.

      "You really don't know how to write," my professor stated, this time, emphasizing the word really more than necessary. He was emotionless and cold.

     The words stung like the vile hydrogen peroxide my mom used to pour over my scrapes as a kid. I remember telling that professor that I wanted to be a teacher--an English teacher--a writing teacher. His eyes widened, and he grabbed a book off of his bookshelf--Strunk and White's Elements of Style. I politely accepted it and backed out of his small, pipe tobacco-smelling office, vowing never to return to office hours again. His words hurt and my dream of being a writing teacher was somehow decimated within a matter of minutes--within a matter of words.

     Somewhere between that moment and my sophomore year, I had another professor who validated my writing. Instead of handing me a text to read, he helped me; he taught me how to write. I am grateful for the lessons of Dr. Essid; I always will be. He is the reason I am passionately teaching writing today, and he is the reason why I am writing myself. In both instances, I realized the power our words have on our mental states, on our levels of confidence, on our relationships. I never did set foot in that freshman English professor's office again. There was a break in our communication because of how his words destroyed me. Seven simple words forced me to lose complete confidence the rest of that semester. I considered abandoning a teaching career. Seven simple words led me to believe that maybe my dream of being an English teacher was completely farfetched. Seven simple words lowered my self-esteem to a point where I didn't think I could ever recover.

     Words have this power that exudes from their every letter. I once had someone tell me that reading a racial slur in a book was just "words." It didn't mean a thing. I just can't see it this way. Words can hurt no matter if they are written or spoken. They exist and bear meaning from the moment they are strung together, constructed, or mouthed out loud. They can be twisted and manipulated. We let them spill out of us. Sometimes we regret them and want to eat our words. But most importantly, words can validate a person or situation. I never understand when someone says, "I have no words" or "there are no words" or "words cannot express..." In my world, there are always words.

     Honestly, I've always loved them. I love how you can join words that you never imagined together. For example, Zora Neale Hurston's sentence in Their Eyes Were Watching God "Something fell off the shelf inside of her" is pure poetry. As is the Beatles' lyric "There's no where you can be that isn't where you're meant to be." And I still say I'm having "a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day" when that does happen simply because those words have stuck with me since I read that childhood book.

 

 I love the power words can have. We can say just the right thing at the right moment. Words can make us laugh and words can bring us to tears. I love the irony words can employ; I adore puns, especially "pace" puns, and how some words simultaneously can have two totally different meanings. I know I experienced that with the Class of 2017 this past year with one particular word. I will always use the word dank to describe my basement growing up, never a meme. (Incidentally, I found out this week that VA Tech actually has a Dank Memes Club. I now have heard everything!) Words have helped me at times when I had nothing else to turn to. I have every letter, every card, every email my students have ever written me reaffirming my teaching. They're tucked away in a bag; there's no order to them, but every now and then, I take one out and read it and the power of those words comes rushing over me, flooding my memories and emotions.One of my favorite writers and poets, Maya Angelou, said that words "get on the walls, they get in your wallpaper, they get in your rugs and your upholstery and your clothes. And, finally, into you." There is no denying our words are powerful and impact us as humans.

     When I was in high school, I constantly kept a box of notecards. I would write notes to friends, to teachers, even to my parents. I have always believed I could change attitudes with words. I could make others feel validated. We all need validation in our lives. We all need that one person who believes in us, who tells us that we matter. I've made it my life's mission to use my words in that way. So, if you have ever received an email from me where I tell you how I feel, if you have ever received a note or a text or even a message on Remind where I'm checking on you or complimenting you, it's because I believe in the power of words and more importantly, I believe that you matter. I write notes constantly. I'm sincere in my words. Recently, I wrote close to a dozen letters to my friend's daughter going off to college for the first time. I sealed them in a box, labeling each one. There are letters for her to open when she's having a bad day, when she feels homesick, when she is at the top of her game. I haven't given it to her yet, but my hope is the words empower her and validate her.

      Unfortunately, this week that power of words somehow wilted. In a weak moment, my kids got me to agree to see The Emoji Movie. In a post I wrote earlier this year, "Texting, Colleges, and the Importance of Standing Out," I stated candidly about how I feel about emojis. Those feelings have not dissipated. So, I knew going into this movie that it would be painful. The movie began with the words, "The world is so fast paced sometimes, there's no time for words. That's where we come in--emojis." I almost cried in the theatre. What kind of world do we live in where there is no time for words? No time for words?

The first emoji was actually created when I was seven years old in 1982 by Scott Fahlman, a computer scientist at Carnegie Mellon University. He wanted to create something to mark the conversations these computer scientists were having with one another that were not so serious. He hit the colon, hyphen, and parenthesis to demonstrate the humor of the statements he was writing:   :-). This was before the internet exploded into every corner of our homes, before texting, even before modern conveniences like the microwave and voice mail. His "emoji" had function, yet, as I receive texts and emails from others, I'm finding more and more of them rely soley on pictures instead of words, and they become, in turn, purposeless. Yesterday alone, I recevied texts in the form of two eye-rolling emojis, five thumbs up emojis, twelve smiley faces, and three heart emojis. No words were attached. It scares me to think that perhaps we will live in a world without words one day. That vision that the Beatles sang about in "Across the Universe" when they said, "Words are flowing out like endless rain into a paper cup. They slither while they pass. They slip away across the universe" seems all too close to the reality of a world where words will slip away across the universe and escape us.

     Words should dictate our lives. I can remember the very first words my kids ever said. I countlessly said, "Use your words," when they were little and were crying instead of trying to tell me how they felt. I have a journal just for beautiful sentences I have read where the words are selected and strung together so pefectly. I've always been one who hated charades; I just want to express it in words. This week, I found myself playing walkie talkie tag with my kids. It requires careful communication of words. My kids initially struggled in giving clues as to where they were hiding, leading me on somewhat of a wild goose chase. I blame the society in which we live for that. We're being taught to not communicate as often and effectively or maybe it's just that we've learned how to communicate too efficiently. I'm afraid we are not using our words anymore.

So often we walk past one another without even saying hello. I see it happen more often than not. I say hello to someone who is texting or scrolling through Facebook or Twitter on his phone and my words don't even register. I don't want you to think this is a blog that is anti-technology. That is far from the truth. Yet, I don't think we use our technology for good as much as we can. The words we post on social media could truly make a difference. Instead, quite often they create tension. It becomes about how many likes we have or friends we can post to our profiles and who follows us and what we've had for dinner. Words are our legacy; they are how we will be remembered.  Ultimately, words can change us. They can make us long for the idea of being a better person. They can make us sit straight up in bed and tear at our hearts, leaving us with raw emotions of vulnerability, but they also can raise us up and make us believe in ourselves in a way that no emoji, no photograph, nothing else on Earth really can.

     One evening this week, my daughter asked if we could go for a bike ride in the neighborhood. I faithfully run each morning somewhere between 6 and7:30 a.m. There are people outside, but that night, espeically, there were so many people walking their dogs, running, riding bikes. It was like a whole new world to me. Katie and I rode leisurely, talking the entire time. We took a few loops around the neighborhood, and as we passed a couple, the woman stopped me and said, "Good for you. It's so nice to see you both talking non-stop. You've passed us twice already and haven't stopped talking." I felt strange to get a pat on the back for talking to my daughter. Yet, to some, words are at a high commodity, as so many of us are busy and overscheduled we don't make time for them.

     My goal in life is to keep using my words. I will keep writing, keep teaching you--my students--how much words matter. I will validate others with their ultimate superpowers. I will continue to text with the inate cleverness of words as opposed to relying on the often powerless emoji. For those of you who don't believe in the power of words, for those of you who have never tried to validate others by what you say or write, for those of you who never notice the beauty of sentences linked together, for those of you who resort to texting with just emojis void of any words, for my professor who told me I didn't know how to write, I shake my head and still don't understand. I...well...I simply have no words.  :-)