#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.