Learning How to Be Me In Time: How I Struggle Connecting

     The best teacher I ever had was my seventh grade science teacher. She made a cell out of jello for us to eat (and learn the parts of the cell) and dressed in a full body skeleton costume when we were learning human anatomy. This might not seem like a big deal, but she also was the only teacher who took me outside of the classroom the day after my grandmother died to make sure I was doing okay. All of these things were done in a traditional education system where all desks faced forward and worksheets were passed down the rows. While most of my teachers asked us to memorize facts and read aloud from the textbook, Miss Lewis--a first year teacher--was on the cutting edge of education. She still is teaching today, and I can imagine she only continues to inspire with age. Miss Lewis made a connection with me--with all of us--in a way that very few other teachers did. And she did it by being herself. She had her own style of teaching that no one else could match.

My seventh grade teacher, Miss Lewis, on her wedding day

     I want to be that teacher--the teacher who works hard to instruct her students in her own style. I try not to get caught up in what's "trending" in education; I try to bring relevant experiences to my classroom that I think will help connect with students.  Yet this is not always easy to do in a world where things go out of style faster than I can write about them. Recently, I have been worried that I wasn't connecting with you, my students--that we didn't quite understand each other. I'll let you in on a little secret and tell you that I have had to Google so many of the popular culture references you write about in your work and include in your presentations more often than not. Today I heard  one  you sadly announce that Netflix was cancelling the show, Friends. While this means very little to me as I don't have much time to watch t.v., the first thing I thought of is that this was something that connected my generation to yours. This was something you could talk about that I actually understood. Years from now, my future students won't ever have that connection.

     I constantly try to connect with you by discussing content in relevant terms of today. This month we wrote open letters to the characters from A Streetcar Named Desire and created videos mimicking tv broadcasts like Meet the Press to discuss Zora Neale Hurston's Their Eyes Were Watching God. 

To continue to make my teaching relevant, I also present you, my seniors, with a daily meme. In doing so, I hope it will bring a common understanding to the twenty-plus years that separate us. Let me explain how drastically wrong I was.  Every day I receive a grade from you that doesn't even scratch the surface of a C. "That's just pictures with words," you tell me. "It might be relevant to the topic we're studying, but it's not current." I've learned that cat memes and memes from The Office are no longer funny (maybe they never were funny) and that I should no longer use the traditional "meme font." Memes seem to trend for a week or even a few days in your world, not the months (or years) of existence in which I use them. My favorite comment from you is "That's not a meme." I receive that one regularly as you smile and throw out a D+. These may be some of the lowest grades I've ever received in school, by the way, and they've somewhat damaged my confidence in believing I could connect with my students. Yet, every day I continue to try. Every day, like Miss Lewis, I will attempt to put on the skeleton costume. And for that, I thank you.

     Ultimately, I'm okay with the low grades and the disconnect because I've learned something about myself as a teacher through all of this. Maybe the disconnect is what keeps you interested. In much the same way that Miss Lewis intrigued us by wearing that full body skeleton suit in a school full of worksheets, maybe I need to continue to do "me." And maybe the "me" is that teacher who doesn't quite know the popular culture references you're talking about and who thinks memes about The Office are still funny. Maybe the "me" is the teacher who watched Friends the first time around because she is from the generation when the show originated. Maybe that teacher is the one who listens to the Beatles and likes unsweet tea and still refuses to use an emoji when texting.

      I think that's what I most want to tell you in this blog. This is going to sound cliche, but it's really quite simple. Don't be afraid to be yourself. Don't try to please other people to the point that you lose yourself in the process. Don't fear you won't connect with others because you're different or you think they won't understand you. Instead, make connections with others by showing them who YOU are. Be yourself. Even if you find yourself far different from others--or there seems to be a large disconnect--continue to be YOU.

     If you take one look at my classroom, you can deduce that I am a fan of the Beatles. I was not alive in their prime, but I grew up listening to their music. In one of my favorite songs, "All You Need is Love," Paul McCartney and John Lennon sing, "Nothing you can do, but you can learn how to be you in time." That lyric says everything to me about the importance of being ourselves.

I often think back to Miss Lewis walking into class in that skeleton costume. She didn't care if she looked ridiculous. She didn't care what we thought. She didn't care that no other teacher in that school was teaching like she was. She knew this was going to peak our interest. And it did. After all, I'm writing about it thirty-one years later.

       I genuinely hope my classroom is a place where you feel like you can be "you." I loved what I saw when we did a silent Socratic seminar at the start of our study of Their Eyes Were Watching God. I witnessed unique and individual thought and a sense of humor.

And seniors, your math projects and ways of thinking during that unit truly showed me a lot about who you are. Do you remember the class where you "invented" a whole new number system--a conversation that occupied all of flex block (and even into your math class later that day)? You are unique thinkers; not every high school student would think about things that way. Continue to embrace who you are.

     That was how I planned to end my blog until today happened. Today I walked into class with my meme projected on the board, and you gave me an A. After all of my worries of feeling disconnected, today I got it right. Tomorrow I will probably be back to mediocrity, but it made me think and believe that somewhere in all of this, I still have the capability of  connecting with you. To speak metaphorically, in a world full of worksheets, I still plan to wear the skeleton costume.You might have to continue to explain cultural references to me, but I'm going to continue to connect--in my own way--and learn how to be me in time.

Get Vaccinated: Create Your Own Opportunities

                                                     "There's no crying in baseball!"

     I was reminded of that iconic line from the movie A League of Their Own when I was watching my son's little league baseball game recently. Two boys at two separate times left the field in tears. One pitched for the first time and grew upset that the other team scored five runs that inning. The second struck out and subsequently ended the game without allowing the two boys on base to score. Both times there were tears. Both times I listened to the coach give a motivational speech to get the nine year-olds to rally.

     "Look at me," I heard the coach say as the boy buried his head into the crux of his arm. "Look at me!" The boy finally obliged "When I pitched for the first time, I hit a kid in the arm and broke his arm. I broke a kid's arm. You pitched strikes. I broke a kid's arm. Think about that." The nine year-old eventually was smiling, but it took a lot of motivation including a story about a broken arm (which I wasn't sure was entirely true) to get him there. This moment served as a catalyst for me in thinking about how we all are motivated, about how I motivate the students in my classroom, and how I, myself, am motivated.

     Somehow everywhere I turned this month, someone was talking to me about motivation. A former student sent me an article by a sportswriter, Jared Carrabis, who covers the Boston Red Sox. The article discussed how Carrabis worked his way up to covering the World Series winning team. He wrote about his motivation to get to the top even when those around him doubted his abilities. While I am not a Red Sox fan, and it was a tough article to swallow four days prior to their World Series win, I read it to its entirety and was motivated because a student I taught five years ago thought enough to send it my way, as he knew I would like the message behind it. And he was right; in that article, Carrabis wrote, "I tell everyone to create their own opportunities." That's what I thought about this month as I explored this idea of motivation. Create your own opportunities.

       And then I faced a question I have never been asked in twenty years of teaching and one I felt tongue tied in answering. It was a question not even Google could answer. "Mrs. Pace, in your long experience as a teacher, have you seen a lot of cases of senioritis? I don't know how to get motivated." The student asked this question in all seriousness with intention, curious as to how he could change the lack of motivation he was experiencing this year. I found myself at a loss of words. I've taught seniors the past seven years, and every year I see students who seem not to be as motivated as the years before, as if some kind of disease is paralyzing them. And maybe it is. I've seen seniors desire that graduation date in October, and I've even seen juniors try to do what they can just to get by. School sometimes seems like it's a rite of passage, a hoop to jump through in order to get to what we really want. I wish I had some kind of cure for the lack of motivation. I wish there is something I could say that would bring back that drive. I had nothing. No story of a broken arm when pitching could motivate these seniors. No story of how I stayed motivated when I was in high school twenty-five years ago could motivate them either. I felt like I was failing them as a teacher, and the group who stood around me was still waiting for an answer.

       I'm still not sure how to answer that question, and quite frankly, I don't remember what I said. I'm not sure how I motivate my students. I'm not sure how I get you to smile when you're in my room and enjoy writing or reading (although I'm aware that some of you never do enjoy either one), but I'm motivated every day to try. I have ninety days to teach you what I am most passionate about. Ninety days. When you look at it like that, it's not a very long time. So, instead of wishing the days away, appreciate where you are in the moment. Find some reason to embrace the life you are currently living, not the one you will live next year or the year after that. Create your own opportunities.

      Think of what you've accomplished in this past month alone. Juniors, you've completed your first major writing assignment (along with many other smaller ones) in IB English. You re-enacted the iconic "Stellaaaaah!" scene from A Streetcar Named Desire. Cumulatively you read or are reading 257 books this quarter.

Seniors, you've explored math as an area of knowledge in TOK. You turned in drafts of your extended essays. You partnered with a first grade class at Pearson's Corner Elementary School to motivate those kids to read and love reading. Those kids are counting on you and your encouragement; they are motivated by you.

       So, I suppose the only thing I can tell anyone who feels unmotivated or who is impaled by the symptoms of senioritis is to get vaccinated by creating your own opportunities. Find something to hold onto and breathe life into. Maybe that's your biology homework. Maybe it's the work you do in inspiring young kids. Maybe it's your commitment to marching band or football or DECA.

     I don't often stray from the classic rock I listen to, but the lyrics of "Whatever It Takes" by Imagine Dragons have been circulating in my head recently: "Don't wanna be the parenthetical, hypothetical / Working hard on something that I'm proud of."

As the song suggests, find something to be proud of and make it your own. Change your mindset. Don't be a parenthetical or a side note or a hypothetical idea that wonders what would happen if you tried. Instead...try. Don't waste a moment and if you do, be sure at least it's memorable among friends. Get Vaccinated: create your own opportunities.  After all, there's no crying in baseball.

Taking Life Less Seriously

     My husband and my son Jack are the resident funny guys in our house. Jack's been telling knock knock jokes since the age of two and often keeps me laughing at even the most desperate moments. I remember the first joke he told:

                              Jack: Knock knock
                              Me: Who's there?
                              Jack: Ken
                              Me: Ken who?
                              Jack: Can I come in? It's freezing out here!

As he said the punchline, he folded his arms and pretended to shiver as our entire dinner table erupted in laughter. That night, I sat at dinner stunned that a two year-old could possess the intelligence to tell a joke in the proper cadence. At his two year-old doctor's visit, he told the pediatrician the same joke. She was so impressed that she made him tell it to all of the nurses. I later learned from my daughter that he was no boy genius-turned-comedian--that he learned that joke from watching Yo Gabba Gabba on t.v. Today his sense of humor has matured, and he still keeps me on my toes, making me smile at the times when I probably need to the most. Jack's sense of humor, like my husband's, often balances my seriousness in our house. It's always been this way. My husband and Jack see the humor in any situation while I will honestly admit that I stress or worry or sometimes take things a little too seriously.

     As serious as I can be sometimes, I suppose I was always taught to have a sense of humor. My grandmother used to sit with us at her kitchen table and say, "Let's laugh." We all would crack up over nothing in particular. Every time I find myself getting too serious about something, I think of the lady who always welcomed laughter into my life.

     Laughter is something I've learned is important to take with me into the classroom. I don't like a quiet classroom, and if my students can laugh and have fun even for a short period of time, I find it to be a successful class. I've learned to develop a thick skin and a sense of humor most days of teaching just to keep up with the teenagers who enter Room 211. I'm far from perfect at this, but I always try to maintain a sense of humor. Years ago when I was a young teacher and track coach, I was frustrated at the athletes I was coaching who seemed to be lazily completing a workout around the track. I usually was the quiet coach who pulled kids aside to get them to do what I wanted, but the lackluster performance in this workout had me all worked up. "Pick up the pace, NOW!" I yelled. Moments later, a group of runners came charging at me, picking me up into the air and running me around the track. I wanted to yell more, but I just had to laugh as I called for them to put me down.

     Last year, upon studying The Crucible by Arthur Miller, I was explaining to my class that the female characters in the play were called Goody in a similar way that we place Mrs. in front of a woman's name today. My class started to affectionately (or at least I think the intention was affectionately done) call me "Goody Pace." It somehow shortened itself to Goody and somehow has been another reminder of the importance of maintaining a sense of humor.

     Just a few days ago, I found this sense of humor tested when a student's parent decorated my house with JMU gear as JMU geared up to play UR in football. While she made the resident funny guys in my house very happy (they are JMU fans), as a Richmond alum, I had a hard time soaking in all of the gold and purple adorning my tree. It was yet another reminder to maintain a sense of humor.

       A sense of humor. I think that's what I want you to think about this month now that you have a month of this school year under your belts. Juniors, you've already been forced to do new things in English class. I've asked you to write differently, begging you to give up the three-pronged thesis for good. I've tested your oral presentation skills by having you do literary presentations. Some of you have created videos using the green screen in our classroom. I've asked you to use technology in different ways and even record your own voices as you try to comment for eight minutes on a poem. These are not easy tasks, and it might take some time before you master them. If you've noticed, I haven't assigned you any long, formal writing assignments yet. I want to give you the tools you need to pursue those--one being a sense of humor.

 Seniors, fall is busy, and by now I'm sure you've realized that the myth of senior year being easy is far from true.You have college essays to write and applications to complete. Yet, you come into Theory of Knowledge every day keeping me on my toes. After all, you were the ones who affectionately gave me my nickname Goody. I've asked you to try a new app, Flipgrid, as a way to reintroduce yourselves to the class as well as discuss psychological experiments.

   

 You wrote letters welcoming new students to Atlee. Yet, what excited me the most was the day I walked into class, and you had set the table, saying "Welcome to our family dinner." You had drawn plates and food on our dry erase tables, showing me that yes, I still need to maintain a sense of humor. Somehow you created an environment that sadly often goes to the wayside in the typical American home these days. The environment you created around that "dinner table" brought back memories of the family dinner when I heard my son's first joke--a true reminder of the need not to take life so seriously.

      And the B4 class who spent over four hours with me during the tornado experience--I probably need to thank you most of all. Every time I wanted to complain, I looked around at what was happening in that classroom. You were making the best of the situation. You were talking and playing games (when we were not ducking and covering, that is). You showed me the importance of remaining calm in a situation. Thank you for showing me a sense of humor was the most necessary item to possess in that classroom that day. Please don't take offense to this, but I hope we won't have any more four hour classes together anytime soon!

     So that's what I encourage you to do this month. Sit down and laugh. Find the humor in the situation no matter what kind of stress you are experiencing. Life's too short to be taken too seriously. I may never be the resident funny guy in my house, but I've learned to let things go sometimes, and I know I'm better for it. Even if it does mean I have to be called "Goody," am picked up around the track, and have some new purple lawn decorations, I'm still laughing. I always will be.

A Job I Get To Do: Reflections After Two Decades of Teaching

     Several years ago at a family wedding, as I found myself gathered around a table with aunts, uncles, and cousins I don't often get to see, my cousin Ryan started to talk about his job as a music agent. Ryan lives in New York City and is living the "dream." He meets famous people on a daily basis--big stars who walk the red carpet in Hollywood and sing in swanky New York City concert venues. He spoke of his job with a twinkle in his eye and a look of utter awe, "I can't believe I get to do what I do every single day," he said.

       I smiled and said, "And I can't believe I get to do what I do every day, too." Everyone sitting at the table laughed at my comment, thinking it was laced in wit and sarcasm. After all, how can teaching teenagers ever compare to my cousin's job as a music agent, dealing with music legends? As my mom continued to ask Ryan what musicians he had met, I wished someone would ask me about my students--what their interests are, what their sense of humor is like, how smart they are, how their quirks entertain me. I wished that someone realized how serious I was that I get to do what I do every single day.

          After all, teaching is not a job I have to do but one I get to do.

      I've tried to maintain this attitude in all that I do. In doing so, I realized that the things I would be quick to complain about are suddenly not really worthy of complaint anymore--even when there's a sink full of dishes waiting just for me, even in my job as an unpaid Uber driver for my kids, even in the moments when that unpaid Uber driving leads us to their restaurant of choice--Taco Bell.

       And I guess that's what I want you to think about as you begin this school year. Think about what you get to do this year, not what you have to do. School doesn't have to be a chore or a hoop to jump through or even a rite of passage. Become educated just for the sake of learning, not for what it's going to get you later in life. It will get you places--I promise.

So here's what I hope you get to do in Room 211 this year:

1.  I hope you work hard. Try your best.   Know that it's okay to make mistakes. That's where true learning occurs. I want you to read the books and write and rewrite generously.  Approach things with grit and determination, with passion and desire. Don't just show up; be fully present.

2. I want you to connect with others in the room. Like any classroom, my classroom is a community. In order to be a part of the community, you need to talk with one another. I remember observing a class a long time ago, and the students didn't even know one another's names...and it was May. Get to know one another. Reach out to that kid sitting by himself. Be kind.

3. Get to know me. Know that I am an Beatles fan, but they are not the only band who makes the hairs on my arms stand up when I hear their music. Know that in my eyes, there is nothing more powerful than a handwritten note or a good book or a smile and that most of my ideas for lessons are done on my daily 5:20 a.m. runs (Yes, I do get up that early).

4. I hope you are happy. Know that success is directly derived from happiness. Talk to me if you are stressed or overwhelmed. Know that happiness can't be found; it's in you.

5. I hope you live one percent better than the day before. Two years ago, I introduced this idea to my students--a class of 30 seniors who I wanted to motivate to be better, kinder people. This changed them for the better and more importantly, it changed the way I look at my job as a teacher. Since then, that's been my goal. Yes, I want to make all of you stronger readers and writers, but I also want to help make you better people.

       As you begin the school year know how very much you matter, how serious I will take my job, and how very excited I am to be your teacher. Allow 211 to be a home to you at Atlee. I've been doing this job for twenty years now. Two decades.

 1997, my first year teaching

 2018, twenty years later

 So much has changed in those two decades (Although by the pictures above, I still have continued to talk with my hands). Students are more involved and have greater expectations placed on them. They collaborate so much more and are challenged to think critically and be creative. Cell phones have gone from not being allowed except for at lunch to being used as tools in the classroom.

     This year, I have the amazing opportunity to teach in a new classroom--a Classroom of the Future. Thanks to a grant from the Hanover Education Foundation and its Executive Director Margaret Hill, my classroom has dry erase tables that can be reconfigured differently depending on what we are doing. I have a class set of laptops. There is a green screen for video projects and ten iPads. As my students, you will be able to collaborate and experience a twenty-first century learning experience.

While all of this will change the dynamic of my classroom for the better this year, one thing still remains constant: the love I have for teaching and how very passionate I am to get to do this job every day.  Know I make the choice every day to get to teach you. It never is something I have to do. As you start the 2018-2019 school year, I hope you ask yourself what you will get to do this year and then figure out what you have to do to get there.  For those of you entering Room 211 for the first time, welcome! For those of you I taught last year, thanks for returning for more! Remember I believe in you and want to help you grow as a reader and writer and person.  Remember that you matter and are the reason why I get to teach every single day.




 

A Comforter, Shampoo, and Fear: What I took to College

  This blog is dedicated to anyone headed off to college this month--especially my former students of the Class of 2018. 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 brighter." I started to cry. For those of you who know what I'm like at goodbyes, 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?

      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.

     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 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. Remember I will always be proud, so very proud that you were my students, that I was your teacher.

I Just Wanted to Be Popular: Reflections from the Ferris Wheel

     I just wanted to be popular. 

    That was a constant thought when I was in eighth grade. I was at Marjorie Post Park, lacing up my ice skates with my friends when a group of the "popular girls" walked in. One of them invited me to skate with their group, and while I didn't leave my group of friends I came to skate with, I was more than flattered to be approached by the "in" crowd of my grade. In high school, this desire to be "popular" seemed to morph. While I matured a bit and didn't care about being part of the popular crowd as much, I wanted to be accepted by as many groups as possible. So, I became everyone's friend. And while that may seem admirable, it never enabled me to have a friend who knew my greatest fears and insecurities, a friend who knew my favorite candy was M&Ms and that in the fifth grade I was asked by my chorus teacher  to mouth the line of a song because I was off key. I feared being judged so much that I just tried to let everyone accept me.

     I just wanted to be popular.

       Fast forward to adult life, and I still grapple with the idea of popularity. When I first started teaching twenty years ago, I was not confident in my lesson plans and knowledge. I looked at the way I taught and noticed it was far different from the veterans I was teaching with who could just open the book and teach. I was reading and rereading; I was writing excessive comments on student papers. I was planning for hours at a time. I was teaching grammar with song lyrics and creating iMovies to introduce the books my students were reading. I don't know if I was judged by other teachers, but I do remember feeling so isolated because of my nontraditional teaching methods, and even though I stood by those methods, I just wanted acceptance among my colleagues. I also craved the acceptance of my students; instead of being concerned whether or not they were truly learning the material, I tended to focus on how much they liked my class. That was important to me (and still is to an extent) because I know that if my students don't buy in to what I am teaching, they become far harder to teach. Yet, I also have learned over time that desire to be liked and accepted shouldn't be the greatest focus of my classroom.

     Recently, I've been thinking about this idea of popularity and how easy it is to measure our own self worth against others. It's also easy to judge. I see it all of the time: We judge everything from what others post on social media to what food someone else is eating to what our friends are wearing. Our desire for acceptance runs deep as does our aptitude to criticize. I try not to do either of those things, but it's not always easy.

     This summer, I have spent a fair amount of time riding roller coasters at King's Dominion. I hate roller coasters. I keep my eyes closed and my hands gripped so tight that my knuckles are the palest shade of white. Why do I ride them? I know they make my kids happy, and while I might be embarrassed to admit it, I want them to have a mom who is willing to experience things with them. In other words, similar to my eighth grade self, I care about what they think of me. So when I finally confessed to my family that my favorite ride in the park is not the roller coaster but  the ferris wheel, laughter erupted. "That's the slowest adult ride in the park, Mom," my son teased.  To me, though, the ferris wheel is majestic. At night, as the spokes light up, flashing bright white lights into the night sky, there is nothing more beautiful in the park.  It slowly lets people on and off, ascending to the top until you sit for a little while, looking down at the entire park, soaking it all in.
       (Images three different nights on the ferris wheel at King's Dominion)

Last week, I forced my kids to go on the ferris wheel at night with me. They complained the entire time in line and then when we got on the ride, they whined about how slow it was. That is, until we got to the top. I glanced across the cart as one of their little mouths formed a circle and a gasp.
 "It's so pretty up here at night, Mom," my daughter Katie said.
  
"I still like roller coasters, but this is cool," Jack admitted. I sat with them and appreciated our view of the "Eiffel Tower," relishing in the moment that I don't always have to be the mom who rides roller coasters.

     I'll close by reflecting on a song lyric from "Already Gone" by one of my favorite classic rock bands, the Eagles:
                                                    
How much this lyric has resonated with me this summer. For much of my life, I felt like I was chained to what was popular, what looked right, what everyone else thought was the best idea. We're constantly being judged about not being smart enough, good enough. My own kids even judged me for liking the ferris wheel.

Let's stop judging one another. 

When a tragedy happened this year in the Raider Nation, I walked back to my desk one morning, and there was a note from a student that read, "You are enough." I had seen that phrase a lot, yet no one had ever said those words to me.

You are enough.

It doesn't matter what is popular or right--just that you are enough. This summer I realized I had the key at the top of that ferris wheel all along; I don't have to be chained by what others deem as right or fun or acceptable. I've come a long way from the girl who just wanted to be popular in eighth grade. I now am the person who tries to be worth knowing, not well known. I am someone who works hard not to judge or criticize. And I am someone who will always, always ride the ferris wheel, pondering life at the top as she does. 

Into the Great Wide Open: My Struggle As A Risk-taker

     Let me begin by clarifying: I am not a nature girl by any means. I don't mind being outside, but sleeping there is not my idea of optimal conditions. Bugs. Hiking. Sweat--all are unchartered territory for me. I'm much more comfortable with sand between my toes, a book in hand, sipping on a diet Coke or unsweet tea.

     Yet, somehow, many of my life events have centered on the outdoors. I got engaged while hiking. My husband popped the question at the top of the mountain. I am surprised I didn't fall down the mountain when we descended, as I was in such shock by the entire event that I kept looking down at the ring on my finger. Even a diamond ring could not make me a nature girl, though.

    So when I went to the mountains this summer because my husband is directing a sports camp and my children are attending different camp sessions there,  I planned on reading my book on the porch under the ceiling fan and watching my kids...well...be kids on the campground. The area is pretty remote. There is no WiFi for making phone calls, texting, or even for me to troll Twitter. So what did I do?

I unplugged.

I read my 400-page book.

I swatted more bugs than I wanted, defending myself from the relentless mosquitoes. I'd like to think I won that battle, but the bites on my legs say otherwise.

I also found myself on a hike with my eight year-old son on the very same trail where my husband proposed. It was the first time that I was "in charge" of the hike. All other times I had been hiking, someone else was more experienced and led the way. I definitely was nervous to direct Jack on the hike. Yet, let's be honest; for those of you who know my eight year-old son, Jack probably did more of the directing.

Regardless, I took a risk. I knew I would dislike the hike and the bugs and the sweat that came once the impending sun broke through the leaves of the trees, but I also knew I was making my son happy. In hindsight, I realized perhaps trying something "risky" will stretch me as a person. I also saw some beautiful sights in nature along the way. Perhaps this will be the summer I become a true risk-taker.

     At the start of last school year, I presented my IB students in TOK with the IB learner profile. I asked students what characteristic (inquirers, knowledgeable, thinkers, communicators, principled, open-minded, caring, risk-takers, balanced, reflective) of the IB learner profile do they most embody and least embody. We discuss to get to know one another. Last year, I admitted that I am not a risk taker by any sense of the definition. I like being comfortable with my surroundings and tend to be afraid to take risks. Yet, this weekend, not only did I hike with my son as the pilot of the operation, but I also hiked on very rugged terrain with my entire family in a separate excursion.

     At one point, we were climbing up the rocky terrain, my husband reached out his hand to help me. Yet, in my stubbornness, I wanted to prove that I didn't need his help. After all, I had hiked with my son by myself the day before; I didn't need a hand....until I found myself slipping down the mountain of rocks. I tried to brace myself as to not get dirty (remember a non-outdoors girl would never get herself dirty), but the rocks were too slippery. I grabbed hold of my husband's hand, and he pulled me up, gingerly helping me regain my balance. Yet, unlike the person I was at the start of last school year, this time, I was a risk-taker--but one who also knows it's okay to ask for help.

     How did this happen? Every time I found myself comfortable with where I was, I set out to do something different, to take a chance. I became a little more vulnerable in doing so, but I also found that my confidence grew. I watched people in my life--mainly my students--take risks with great ease. This year I thought about what was holding me back--was it that I was worried about what others would think? Yes. Was it that I was afraid? Yes. Do I still worry? Absolutely. Am I still afraid? At times. Yet, I know I never would have hiked that mountain had I not consciously worked on this during the year.

     One of the biggest risks I took this year was in the way I taught writing. It was not intentional, but I started to notice students getting burned out by turning in analytical paper after analytical paper. It was like they were on a rinse and repeat wash cycle that could not be broken; in turn, their writing became stale and boring to read. So, I decided to teach more skill based writing through creative writing prompts and exercises. For example, when I wanted to teach students the art of embedding quotations, I had them create a project modeled after Humans of New York. When I wanted them to learn voice in writing and its importance, they wrote open letters to the characters in A Streetcar Named Desire. I brought music back in my classroom to teach writing mini lessons. We analyzed the apologies of Matt Lauer and Harvey Weinstein to teach compare/contrast writing. I took risks all year long by doing many things in a rather unconventional manner, and after reading evaluations from my students, they seem to have seen the value in many of the assignments. I will continue to take such risks and hopefully reap the rewards. In turn, I started to see my students taking risks with the way they played with language in their writing, but the sentences they constructed, by the way they analyzed and thought about a piece of writing. Their analytical writing had voice that spoke so loudly at times there's no way I couldn't stay awake, and their final college essays were far more risky and creative than the safe essays I was used to reading. 

     I guess the point I want to reiterate is to find that one trait on your learner profile that you know needs work. Commit to that. Resolve to do things one percent better each day. And maybe, just maybe, you'll see changes. I'm still far from a nature girl, but I learned to appreciate the world around me through the risks I've taken. I even found myself riding an upside down roller coaster with my son at King's Dominion this week. I kept my eyes closed and screamed the entire time. Perhaps next time I will resolve to keep my eyes wide open, but for now, I'm satisfied with the risks I've taken. 

 In one of Tom Petty's songs, "Into the Great Wide Open," he writes,

                                                     

That song pretty much sums up my experience as a risk-taker. While I would not claim rebel status, and I certainly like to think I have a clue, I've gone into the great wide open. I've seen the skies of blue. I've tried new things in my classroom. I've climbed mountains. I've taken risks.

Class Dismissed: Don't You Forget About Me

 I am a product of the 1980's. With that came big hair, breakdancing while watching Michael Jackson's music videos on MTV, neon colored clothes, and iconic movies that people still can relate to today. I admit I never had the big hair, but I learned to breakdance with the best of them (although was far from a breakdancing sensation) and watched movies like The Breakfast Club more times than I want to admit. That movie was the classic film of the eighties where five high school students spend an entire day in detention. They were total strangers with nothing in common except each other. Yet, by the end of the day, they bared their souls, discovering they had far more in common with one another than they imagined.

  Would this happen in today's society? Would people genuinely talk about their lives or would they stay on their phones, trolling social media, on-line shoe shopping, or playing video games? Would they open up to one another? The lesson learned in The Breakfast Club is that we're all really the same after all. The big realization is that the five students learn they're not really who people think they are; they've actually had more similar experiences and there's nothing that will stop them from continuing to relate to one another. In the final lines of the movie, the narrator states, "You see us as you want to see us--in the simplest terms, in the most convenient definitions. But what we found out is that each one of us is a brain and an athlete and a basket case and a princess." In other words, despite our differences, all of us like the feel of a warm bed or the sound of a good song. All of us have probably driven faster than the speed limit and feel good when we taste success. All of us could use a little more sleep and a lot less stress. 

     I can't help but think that my own classroom--Room 211--is a little bit like The Breakfast Club. We all may come from different backgrounds, have different strengths, we may not like the same music (despite my attempts to get you to appreciate the Beatles) or approach life the same way, yet we are all in room 211 and after 10 months, there's a bond that's formed that no one can take away from us. In one week, we'll go our separate ways. This class will never be together as a "class" again despite B4's plea to "Keep B4 together forever" that is written on my dry erase board. And despite our different paths we will take, we are the same. We're all pretty similar if you think about it. And when you figure this out after spending ten months with the same group of people, it's hard to say goodbye. 

      I've always hated goodbyes. For some reason, goodbyes take me a long time--to do and get over. Every time I leave my parents' house, I cry before I even head down the driveway. The five hour gap in distance is just too long.  And while most people are thrilled for the end of the school year, I always have a hard time at this point in the year. When you spend ten months with a group of people, goodbyes are inevitably hard. In fact, more than any other aspect of my job, goodbyes are by far the hardest thing about it. What if those students I just spent the past ten months shaping never return? Why do I have to start over and begin anew?

     All of my life I've been saying goodbye, though.  To high school. To the old car with far too many miles on it. To my flip phone. Those things--well most of them--I've never gone back to and my life has been changed drastically by what replaced it--college, a newer car, a "smarter" phone. With every goodbye comes welcoming something or someone else. Goodbye pregnancy, hello little one.  Goodbye students in June, hello students in September.

     You'd think after nineteen years of doing this, I'd be used to it. It would be routine. Yet every year it gets harder and harder to say goodbye. Every year I'm renewed by the fact that kids seventeen and eighteen years old can make a difference in my world. So, at this point in the school year, I'm reminded of  the end of The Breakfast Club. When the five students in detention have to say goodbye to one another and return to their worlds, the song "Don't You Forget About Me" is sounded as hugs are exchanged and looks shared. I'm here to tell you, I won't forget about you....

A1: You were the class I worried about most at the beginning of the year. No one talked when prompted--and not only that, you didn't talk to each other when not prompted. And somehow, you are the class who mastered the Socratic seminar beautifully. You are the class who brought each other breakfast for weeks just to be kind--You literally formed your own little breakfast club and bond, I suppose. You are simply great people.

   

A2: You are my fun-loving class. You never seem stressed, always have a good time in class or say something to make me laugh. You are honest and thrive in your own environment. From the start, you could work well with one another. You simply are great people.

A3: You were the very first class of the writing center. I'm so proud of the work we did in room 214 this year. You essentially learned how to run your own business while simultaneously giving me an education on important aspects of Atlee. I wouldn't trade my lunches A3 with you for the world! You simply are great people

B2: You are my most serious class. Your trial on Frankenstein was so intense that it lasted more than one day. You have the most questions and the most in-depth analysis of those questions. You keep me on my toes in a good way and have stretched me as a teacher. You simply are great people.

B4: I know you think I talked about your class' antics to my others the most, but that's because from day one you've impressed me. From the moment you wanted to take a class picture on day one, I knew I would like this class. Thank you for showing me that we can have fun in class and still get so much accomplished. From naming my bell to giving me my nickname "Goody," you made me a better teacher this year. You simply are great people.

 

And my seniors of A4: Some of you I have taught since you were freshmen. All of you have spent three classes in room 211. As I remind you often, that's an awful lot of Kelly Pace; I'm sorry. To say I'm proud of you is an understatement. I still am in denial that you all are about to walk across the stage of the Sigel Center in fifteen short days. I'll sit at your graduation as I sat at all of them I attended, wishing this wasn't goodbye. Thinking about where we've been and how far you've come. You all are great people.

Most recently, we took a service learning field trip together. The first part of the trip brought us to the Rise Against Hunger facility to pack 2500+ meals for those in need. I watched in awe as you worked diligently at whatever job you were assigned. I'm grateful this service project that four of you led enabled us to serve in the best capacity possible.

        

We then had the chance to go to Pearson's Corner Elementary School to meet the kids you've been writing and reading to over the SeeSaw app all semester. That moment was magical for myself and Mrs. Jenkins, their first grade teacher. To see the smiles--on both young and older kids--was inspiring and made me even more grateful for what I get to do on a daily basis. It also makes it even more difficult to say goodbye.

  

  

Yet, I can't stall any longer. It's just about time to say goodbye.

I'll end by telling you about another staple of my childhood--the nineties sitcom Boy Meets World. At the end of the series, the teacher Mr. Feeny states to his class, "Believe in yourselves. Dream. Try. Do good. I love you all. Class dismissed." He fights back tears as he looks at Cory Matthews and his classmates. In a similar fashion, I tearfully say goodbye to you, my wonderful students. Know you had me at hello when you first walked in 211, and you will change me forever as a teacher when you walk out for the last time this week. In life, while I hope you do well, I truly hope you do good. Be the change you want to be in the world. Live one percent better than the day before. Remember in this world we're far more similar than we think. Find the common ground with others. Dream. Try. Live a life you love. And know how much I have loved being your teacher. This week, I will say my final "Class dismissed." When I do, don't you forget about me; I surely will remember you.