The Best Is Yet To Come: My Word for 2021

     I have come to value the moments of beautiful irony in my life--not the moments that Alanis Morissette referenced in her hit song in the late nineties, but those moments whose hands are gripped tightly around me, trying to destroy everything in sight yet eventually make me stronger, happier, more resilient in life. When I was 23 years old during my second year of teaching, one such moment occurred; I was asked by my first principal, Mr. John McGinty, to coach the high school debate team.

    "Mr. McGinty, I know nothing about debate. I don't even like to argue." I found myself trying to find a reason or a way out while simultaneously desiring to make him proud.

  

  "You'll be great," he said, with the infamous twinkle in his eye and smile on his face that he constantly wore. As an eternal optimist, he really believed that; I, however, could only see the irony of it all: I am the peacemaker, the person who never takes a side and who was now going to spend hours after school with students who actually enjoyed disagreement. I agreed to Mr. McGinty's request because I respected him and didn't want to let him down, because it was easier to just say yes. I taught during the day, coached track after school, and then several times a week in the early evenings, I would meet with the debate team. I learned a lot about argument, too much about my weaknesses, and a great deal about being patient with teenagers who thought they knew everything (Truth be told, the members of that team did know a lot--definitely a lot more about debate than I did).

     Ultimately, this was a moment of beautiful irony. You see, I met my husband Chris through coaching debate. He coached at a neighboring school, and we started talking at a VHSL rules clinic for debate coaches early on in the year. At the time when Chris offered me a Sprite from the hospitality table, I had no idea that he actually was flirting with me. After all, who goes to a VHSL rules clinic for debate coaches to meet someone, especially the person you plan to spend the rest of your life with? Yet, that year as we spent many Saturdays together at debate tournaments, we got to know each other, and eventually, we began dating. Almost twenty years of marriage later, the rest is history and goes down as a moment of beautiful irony. 

    These moments of beautiful irony tend to creep up on us when we least expect them to. 2020 was no exception. Every year, I choose a word to serve as a goal for the new year. Last year, I chose the word "embrace" as my word of the year. Talk about moments of irony--I spent ten of the twelve months unable to embrace anyone due to Covid-19. Instead, I spent time disinfecting, wearing masks, and distancing six feet apart. I am a hugger. (I hate to argue, remember?)  I know many people struggling by the limitations of Covid-19; the hardest for me has been the lack of hugs. Yet, my word was not a complete failure despite its presumed irony. My goal last year was not just to physically embrace others but to embrace new situations. And that, I think, I actually did fulfill.

     Covid gave me a chance to reflect--a lot. Covid humbled me as a teacher. I don't know too many people who show up to work every day, working as hard as they can, even though they know that they are not going to do a good job or as good of a job as they do in a "normal" year. Teaching synchronously is definitely one of the hardest experiences I've had in teaching, but it's also humbling. I've tried new things this year from a basketball competition to eating outside with my students to embracing all sorts of microphones and video appearances. In my personal life, I've baked new recipes. I've run a half marathon virtually. I cut my son's hair (a never-again experience) and we've had a lot more family dinners. I'm not as afraid anymore to express what I think, especially in my writing. I've embraced a lot--we all have--and I'm stronger because of it. We all are. Talk about beautiful irony.

     So when I had to choose a word for this year, I was stumped. My word from last year--a seemingly epic failure of ironic proportions--actually became a way to live life. This year, I wanted a word that showed positivity and hope, one that would present a challenge for me and maybe a similar moment of beautiful irony. I went through words like rise, worth, shine, glitter, hope, grace, thrive, leap, smile, laugh, confidence, legacy, reach, but none seemed to be speaking out to me. So this year, I settled on "yet." You may be thinking, yet is hardly a word. Yes, this word is often overlooked, yet more frequently used than you think (See how I used it there?). Yet represents possibilities. Yet signifies eventually and at some future time. Yet means in addition. Yet changes a mindset. As a conjunction, yet blends sentences together to change the direction--to often create beautiful irony. 

    So for me, yet is the word I am embracing in 2021: 

     I haven't gotten a Covid-19 vaccine yet.

     Things may be challenging as a teacher, yet I am learning so much.

     I won't give up yet--on myself, on my students, on our society that is often plagued by polarized views.

     There are so many incredible moments--moments of beautiful irony--I have yet to see unless I allow myself to see them, allow myself to experience them, to laugh and grow with others.  

     

    I'm no longer a debate coach, yet I've learned to embrace some of the moments in life that might make me feel a little uncomfortable. Such moments have created a beautiful irony. I often think about what life would be like had I not said yes to Mr. McGinty's request to coach debate over twenty years ago. What a hand he indirectly has played in my life. What a moment of beautiful irony he created! (If I haven't said it yet, thank you, Mr. McGinty!)

     2020 brought us a world of frustration, of sorrow, a world without hugs and with a whole lot of distance. I miss my family and friends. I miss the casual smiles I see from strangers in the grocery store. I miss the hugs and high fives in my classroom. I've had friends and family who have struggled through this virus and some who are still struggling. Yet is the word that is going to pull us through in 2021. Yet is going to turn our "I can't" moments into "I can't yet." Yet is possibilities and growth. We may be struggling right now, however, the best is yet to come. And that, my friends, is beautiful irony.

Nine Photos to Capture 2020

I Didn't Sign Up for This

I didn't sign up for this. 

     That's what keeps coming to mind this year every time I put on a mask before I head into a public place, every time I unsuccessfully search for Clorox wipes on the grocery store shelves, every time I clean the desks in between classes, every time I start a zoom during my face to face class, or I look into that zoom and there are many black boxes instead of smiling students, every time I look at the room as students are spread apart and limited by lack of high fives and hugs, every time I have to revamp a lesson plan because it just can't be done the way we used to do things, every time I am muted or just can't get the technology right, every time I sit down to grade a set of essays because I'm teaching more students than I ever have in my teaching career.

No, I didn't sign up for this. 

None of us did. But here we are in the middle of a pandemic--teaching and learning and existing as best we can, doing all the things we never signed up for.

     There have been many moments in my life that I remember saying, I didn't sign up for this. I'm in high school, and my school counselor asks me to sit with a student named Meg. Meg was a social outcast; people made fun of her on a regular basis, she didn't have the finest hygiene habits, and often acted like she had a chip on her shoulder. I abandoned my friends so Meg could have one, and all she did was smirk, move her chair further away from me, and take out a paperback book to read. I didn't sign up for this. 

I'm a new parent caught in traffic on the Verrazano Bridge headed to New York with just 9 month-old Maggie in the car, and I somehow manage to get the stomach virus. I finally get off the bridge and vomit on the side of the road as Maggie is screaming in the back seat. How can I be an effective parent when I can't even take care of myself? I didn't sign up for this.

     I'm a teacher at a new school--Benedictine High School, an all-boys, Catholic military school. I'm in the middle of my teaching career, but nothing could have prepared me for teaching in an all-boys classroom. The boys come bounding into my classroom that first day--full of energy, familiar, joking and laughing. They all look the same to me: tiny beady eyes, clean haircuts and upper lips, creased pants, and shiny shoes greet me. They stand at attention as I walk to the front of the room, their shoulders stiff, as if boards are lodged inside their backs. I start my introduction, and they still remain standing at attention. Finally, after what seemed like the longest two minutes of my life, one Cadet whispers I need to tell them to be "at ease" so they can sit down. I'm a young woman in an all-boys school that seems more like a cross between a fraternity house and a small army than a classroom. I didn't sign up for this.

     So, as 2020 comes to an end in a few weeks, I've been thinking about life as we know it--a life I never signed up for, anticipated, or desired. I am working harder than I have in my twenty-two years in the classroom. So are you, my students. Yet, what you've learned is far more than what I could teach you or what a textbook ever could. You've learned flexibility. You've learned perseverance. You've learned how to appreciate the little things. You've learned the value of time. And I, too, have learned much of the same thing because you have helped me forget what I never signed up for and see the good.

     Sadly, there's no "full disclosure" statement that comes with living in a pandemic. Actually, there's no "full disclosure" statement when it comes to life. While I wish that every possibility you may face could be common knowledge before you experience it, sometimes we are forced with the reality that we just didn't sign up for this. And maybe that's okay. In the past four months, I've watched you handle difficult situations. You've navigated school virtually, Some of you quarantined and still managed to keep up. I've watched you have things you love ripped away from you--sitting across from each other at lunch, athletic events, pep rallies, the Rage Cage, homecoming. 

     This past month, in our TOK Class, I've witnessed you make the holidays happen for over forty kids in the Hanover Preschool Initiative at Henry Clay Elementary School. Many of you bought these students--students you never even met--gifts, and we spent a class block wrapping them (some of you now have another new skill).

Shopping for presents

A socially distant sword fight after wrapping

 I've watched you attempt new ways of writing and embrace everything I've thrown at you in the classroom--including playing basketball with a paper ball and even a John Lennon parody karaoke competition (my way of putting that big microphone in my room to good use).

You've helped me troubleshoot the best ways to teach synchronously. And when the internet went out this week, I watched you help me figure it all out because I didn't want to lose a moment of instruction.

     I've found myself becoming more and more reflective during this pandemic. For someone who naturally reflects on just about every moment of her daily life, that's a lot of reflecting. Yet, what I've thought about is sometimes the things we didn't sign up for, the things we are somehow "voluntold" to do, are the things where we learn from the most. Take that moment in high school when I had to sit with Meg, for example. I sat with her for a week straight, and she continued to smirk and read her book--until one day when she smiled. I got Meg to smile. That's what I'll remember.

     And I think about that moment being sick on the Verrazano Bridge. After finally reaching my destination, my daughter got to meet her great grandfather for the first time. I think that's more of what I will always remember than the fact that I was sick on that bridge. 

  And I think my years at Benedictine were the first years where I realized as a teacher that I can learn from my students.  Those boys taught me more about the kind of teacher that I wanted to be and made me a teacher I never thought I could be because they allowed me to fail, get back up, and try again. That's what I will remember.

We may not have signed up for any of this; life is hard; being an educator is hard; being a student in a pandemic is harder. So, as you come to the end of this year--a year where you wanted to shout from the rooftops, I didn't sign up for this--think about how you've grown, how you've changed, how far you've come. The sign up sheet may be long of things you never intentionally signed up for, but its rewards might be longer if we allow ourselves to see them.

Thoughts from the Chick-fil-A Drive Thru

       I rolled through the Chick-fil-A drive thru with tears in my eyes. The parking lot was crowded, but I knew from my students who work there that the line would move fast, and that once I paid for my food, I'd have it in five minutes with a "My pleasure" to follow. It was around 5:45 p.m., and I hadn't been home yet, staying after school for not one but two meetings--both virtual. I felt broken after teaching that day, thinking the day could have been better spent in bed in my pajamas. With no lesson plans done for the next day, I was entirely overwhelmed and did not think I could continue to teach in this pandemic. Unsustainable has been a word I often use to describe what I'm doing this school year, and I had just used that word to describe my experience in my last zoom meeting. Rarely am I negative, but as I pulled into Chick-fil-A, I was angry and frustrated and even hard on myself for not having the energy to cook dinner for my family. I composed myself, rolled down my window, and placed my order, but when I went to pay, I realized my purse was in my trunk. I proceeded to hold up the entire line in rush hour to retrieve my purse to pay for my food, and it was then as I got out of my car, I saw one of my students in the line next to me waving. Actually, her entire family was waving and saying hello. She was a reminder of why I do what I do. She was a reminder that I need to show myself forgiveness and not put so much pressure on myself, not worry about whether or not I am cut out to teach in a pandemic. After all, school is not about being the perfect teacher or even a good teacher. It's about building relationships with students and a classroom community. It's about helping one another in a world where sometimes everyone seems to be forging his own path.

     These days I feel like we place an inordinate amount of pressure on ourselves. There are social pressures of what others think. As a student, there's the pressure to earn good grades or do the right thing or be in an excessive amount of clubs and organizations. There's the pressure to get into college and be the best athletes, citizens, children, students, people we can. There's pressure from our social media feeds to the clothes we wear. Why do we have this internal clock that makes us think we constantly have to be working to be better than everyone else?  We compare ourselves to others on who has it harder, easier, who is smarter, funnier. Your uphill climb both ways in the snow will always outdo mine.  What if we stopped putting this pressure on others and ourselves?  What if we started rooting hard for each other instead of pulling each other down?   

      In 1993, George H.W. Bush wrote a letter to Bill Clinton when Clinton won the presidential election.  The letter talked about the office of the presidency, and Bush ended the letter to Clinton saying, "I'm rooting hard for you."   

 Every time I read that, I'm in awe at President Bush's words. Here were two political rivals who put aside differences to see the common good and encourage one another. I think that's something we need right now--encouragement. We need to be lifting each other up instead of pressuring one another on who's the funniest, the smartest, the most popular, the best athlete, the fastest. I have met people who often try to "one up" me. My hardest moment is never as hard as theirs. My greatest success can never compare to theirs. Let's stop doing that. Let's root hard for each other.

        So, here's what I'm rooting for: I'm rooting for you, my students. You are the 140 individuals who have shown me far more grit and resilience in this pandemic than any other group. You are the people I spend more time with on a daily basis. You are the people who never seem to complain, who keep going. Yet, I also see your stress. I also see the pressure you put on yourself to be the best or better than others. I see the pressure inside of you--even if you aren't competing with one another. It's easier said than done, but I think when we stop worrying about how we will succeed and start cheering each other on, some of that pressure is relieved. More importantly, some of that support of others is simply necessary while living in a pandemic.

     What I've learned from teaching in this pandemic is teachers and students are more united than they were before. We are in the trenches together--whether that be face to face struggling through the forward-facing rows and one-way hallways or whether that be on zoom as we long for far more of a connection than a screen. There's a level of grace this year that exists between teachers and students that I'm not so sure existed before--or at least I like to think so. In many years a disconnect can occur between teachers and students. What if I told you this year, I feel like we are on the same playing field? It's hard to teach in a pandemic; it's equally hard it learn in one. There's nothing easy about it so instead of putting pressure to be the people we were before this virus, what if we just gave ourselves and each other grace? What if we rooted for one another?  I see you, my students, constantly rooting hard for me--whether that be just checking on how my day is or helping me navigate three screens of technology or bringing me chocolate to get through the day.

     Likewise, I rooted for you quite often this past month. IB English students, you drafted and recorded podcasts about your Covid-19 experiences. They sounded so professional that my own children at home asked me what I was listening to. Perhaps one day you will look back and listen to your own experiences with pride of the resilience and grace you exhibited in living in a pandemic. I also witnessed you thinking outside the box in your analysis of Station Eleven. Perhaps I was cruel to ask you to read a book about a pandemic while we are living in one, but you never faltered or complained. Because this book is one without many teacher resources, most of the conversations and activities we've done with it have been from my own thinking. It's allowed all of us to think outside of the box and demonstrate far more creativity. I'm proud of the work you did. 

Six Degrees of Station Eleven projects

     And my TOK students, you set up and opened a mental health space for the entire school to use. You put ideas and research into this and despite the fact that we do not have goats or a bird bath like you asked for, you made this space a place for others to take a break. 

Raider Retreat Ribbon Cutting Ceremony

Seniors, you've done what I believe all good classrooms should do--you took time to know each other. While you may have spent up to twelve years in school together and were actually all together in TOK last year, you started having conversations with others in our classroom you don't regularly talk to. You resolved conflicts with one another. Yes, you have had some interesting discussions about the arts as an area of knowledge, but you've also gone beyond the curriculum to support one another. I hope you continue to do that.

"Family" Breakfast

     At the end of the day, if you can remember one thing in the middle of this pandemic, it's this: I'm rooting  hard for you. 

     So, promise me you'll stop putting pressure on yourselves and on each other. And I promise you I'll stop putting pressure on myself to be the teacher I was last year or to make you the perfect students. Remember, sometimes it's okay not to be okay. Sometimes it's okay to just go through the Chick-fil-A drive thru because like me, your moment of clarity  might be waiting for you there. And when you do have a day where you just want to put on pajamas and crawl back into bed, know I'll be rooting hard for you--always.

That Teacher: Serendipity and Clarity in the Middle of a Pandemic

    It was a cool Saturday morning when I recently decided to pound the pavement and go for a run. My runs have become a lot longer lately; that often happens when I have a lot on my mind. I was deep in thought that Saturday, as I started to head down one of the main streets of my neighborhood when I heard the cheering from a distance. There was a tall, thin woman in front of me, and I honestly thought the man standing in his driveway was calling out to her, until she passed, and he continued to cheer for me. Lately I've needed cheerleaders in my life, so I waved, smiled, and picked up my pace a little bit more. I'll take all of the encouragement I can get. After all, teaching in a pandemic has been less than desirable. 

     The start of this school year has not been like most I've known in the past. I keep thinking back to the kind of teacher I longed to be when I was seven years old, playing school in my basement. I keep thinking back to the teacher I desired to be in my first years of teaching. 

I wanted students (aka stuffed animals when I was seven) to like me, but more important, I wanted them to respect me.

I wanted to have innovative lessons where students collaborate. No one would sit in rows facing forward. We would be a community that I would have worked constantly to build.

I wanted to see smiles and hear sounds of laughter. Learning should be noisy and fun.

I wanted students to come into my room excited to learn. 

I wanted to be the teacher students asked to write letters of recommendation, came to when they were struggling, and hugged when they graduated.

I wanted to be the teacher who worked tirelessly at giving students the feedback they needed, not the feedback steeped in grades, but honest feedback about how they could improve in class.

I wanted to be so passionate about the book I was teaching so that students couldn't help but be passionate themselves.

I wanted to be a listener, a cheerleader, a disciplinarian, a mother, an inspiration.

This year, I am not that teacher.

This year, I am stressed. I have been overwhelmed more than usual. I have been hard on myself to be better. I have wanted the classroom I always imagined, but somehow seem to be falling flat. I've gotten stuck in a breakout room. I've had sound issues every single day to the point that I feel like I am a part of the Verizon "Can You Hear Me Now?" ad campaign from 2001-2011. 

Verizon "Can You Hear Me Now?" Ad Campaign

I am slow to grade papers even though I seem to be working every single night. Sometimes I'm so worried about how to even go about teaching my lesson that I forget the most important thing that's right in front of me. 

Yes, I am not that teacher I longed to be years ago. 

I keep trying to remind myself I am teaching in a pandemic. I am teaching both on zoom and face to face. Most days it takes twice as long to plan a lesson for a simple eighty-minute class. I started this year very closed-minded. Most nights, I woke up at 2:00 a.m., thinking about not being able to do this. I called what I was doing unsustainable. I silently questioned everything. I felt isolated, never really seeing my colleagues because somehow I can't even manage to get out in the hallway between classes; I am either setting up a zoom, cleaning laptops and desks, or just taking a deep breath. 

     It wasn't until two weeks ago, that I realized I was slipping into a teacher I never desired to be. It wasn't until Mr. Gardner, my assistant principal, stood outside of his friend's house in my neighborhood, cheering me on during my run that I was able to realize that school doesn't need another person complaining. My classroom doesn't need a tired, frustrated, anxious teacher. Rather, they need that teacher. They need the teacher who listens and who is excited and wants to come to school this year even though it is different, even though it is hard. For a few weeks I lost that feeling. I couldn't see past the fact that I had 140 students and that I was teaching four of my six classes synchronously. Every time another colleague complained, I thought to myself that I had it worse--that is, until Mr. Gardner cheered me on. Without even knowing it, he made me realize I needed to get out of wallowing in my self pity. Instead, I needed to cheer others on. I needed to laugh with my students and be a cheerleader for them as well as my colleagues. Mr. Gardner didn't take away my struggles of teaching during a pandemic. Every day is still hard, and I don't know a single teacher who is not struggling right now, but he did remind me that there will always be people cheering me on and that I need to do the same.

     I saw Mr. Gardner again on my run--about four  miles in. He was leaving the neighborhood and rolled down his window to continue to cheer me on. It's funny how sometimes in life people are placed there at the right moment, at the right time. Seeing Mr. Gardner on that run, not once but twice, was a moment of change for me. Everyone needs a Mr. Gardner cheering their race. I'm grateful my serendipitous moment happened just when I needed it. For, it made me realize how much I wanted to be the teacher I always dreamed of being, how much I wanted to be that teacher. 

     Sometimes we need to take a step back to realize what we have in front of us all along. I may not be good at zoom. Virtual students, you may be frustrated that you can't always hear me or that I forget to share my screen or turn up the sound. Face to face students, I'm struggling with the difficulty to teach the way I used to when we could gather around tables and high five our successes. Just know I am trying. That's all any of us can do. Somehow you've started this school year miles ahead of me; you never complain even though you are walking in one-way hallways and wearing masks 8 hours a day. And might I mention lunch--it's nothing like you've ever known it to be, yet you keep smiling. You've already done big things--our first practice commentary...setting up a mental health space that will open officially this month. 

Oral Commentary Practice

  

Mental Health Space opening soon!

So many of you check on me, some have even brought me Diet Coke, and others have expressed grace when I just can't get things right. You've shown me you can do hard things and that I, too, can do the same. 

    So when things get hard for you (because they will), take a deep breath and remember you are learning in a pandemic. You don't have to be perfect. My teaching this year will be far from that; there are things we just can't change about teaching and learning during this time. Most importantly, when things do get hard, remember that I'll keep pushing to be your cheerleader instead of complaining. I realized recently I actually don't have to be that teacher; I just need to be your teacher. And I promise I will no matter how hard it seems.

      So, Mr. Gardner, if you're reading, thank you. Without even knowing it, you saved this teacher this school year. And if you ever happen to be in my neck of the woods again, I'm out there at 8:00 a.m. most Saturdays running. I'll be listening for the encouragement. I promise to pass it along to others as well. After all, that's all any of us can really do.

A Letter to My New Students: How One Middle School Nickname Prompted Me to Give This Year a Chance

     I had an unfortunate nickname in eighth grade, as many thirteen year-olds tend to put labels on everything. It started when one boy in my class called me "Liberty Bell" because my hair--well, let's just say I had hair of epic proportions like many teenagers growing up in the eighties. Unfortunately, mine was so thick that it also stuck out in a bell shape. Sometimes the name was just shortened to "the Bell." Had I lived in a world with hair straighteners instead of extra large hairstyles of the eighties, maybe I would have avoided the loathsome nickname. I tended to just roll my eyes and smile when I was called "the Bell," because I didn't have a retort or any kind of retaliation in me and quite honestly, that just wasn't my style. Still, any time I heard it, I despised the nickname.

     No one called me that nickname in Ms. Coseglia's class, though. My eighth grade math teacher, Ms. Coseglia, meant business. She was maybe five feet tall, yet her presence reverberated throughout the entire room. She didn't put up with anyone's ridiculous antics or nicknames for that matter, and you always knew where you stood. She was tough but fair. She had a laugh that was infectious and a sense of humor paralleled to none. Her room was on the second floor of the school, right at the top of the stairs. I remember being a fifth and sixth grader, silently tiptoeing past her room in fear that she would find my movement down the hallway disruptive to her class. When I got past her room, I always breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn't until I was a student in her class that I realized she was not as scary as I thought she was. In fact, she was actually really kind. She looked out for her students and put them first. She taught math but so much more--values of kindness, compassion, and honesty. No one was a favorite in her class; everyone was. She was the teacher who taught me most of all that sometimes in life, we need to give things a chance.Sometimes we need to stop living so fearfully by tiptoeing past the classroom door. For had I never given Ms. Coseglia a chance, I may not have realized what an incredible teacher she was; I may not have realized my potential.

Ms. Coseglia and me, 1989

     THIS is my hope for you this school year. Whether you are starting school virtually or face to face, give this year a chance. This school year is going to be different. There are more rules in place for our safety. And every single rule seems to be revised and then revised again. All of the desks in our classroom are facing forward. That is terrifying to me; you will quickly learn that I hate to be the center of attention. There are arrows in the hallway for class changes and a paper-free pass system. Right now, there are no sports or after school activities. Everything feels a little out of place in this pandemic, like something is missing or somehow has been distorted. Yet, when you strip school down to what matters, it's there--teachers who care about you and your well-being and an excitement to be learning again.

      So here is my advice to you as you attempt to give this year a chance: 

1. Before you go to criticize or judge, take a step back and look at things from a wider perspective. 

2. Own your mistakes and learn from them.

3. Build your own character by building others up.

4. Know that you don't always have to be the loudest in the room to be heard.

5. Be kind--to yourself and others.

6. Know that sometimes you may be ahead. Sometimes you may be behind. It all evens out in the end.

7. Understand the value of hard work and that the answer can't always be Googled.

8. Don't compromise who you are.

9. Give yourself grace. No one should try to be perfect because no one is.

10. Always--this year more than ever--maintain a sense of humor...and wear your mask!

When you look back on your education, I hope you realize it's not the facts and awards and books, but it's the people around you that shaped you into who you are. I will always be grateful for teachers like Ms. Coseglia who shaped me into who I am today. Sadly, this past spring, Ms. Coseglia passed away. I will remember her for her tough love. She talked to us like we were human beings who mattered even though I'm sure our hormonal eighth grade selves drove her crazy. Ms. Coseglia made me feel valued and a lot less like a middle schooler in my awkward "Liberty Bell" years. I recently what found her message that she wrote in my eighth grade autograph book:

 I can't help but think that had I never given Ms. Coseglia a chance, she would not have written what she did, I would not have had a class block every day where I was able to safely avoid a nickname I loathed, and most importantly, I would not have grown as a student and a human being. It's a reminder to me of the need for me to embrace teaching in a pandemic no matter how much it might challenge me.

     One of my favorite spoken word poets is Sarah Kay. In her poem, "If I Should Have a Daughter," she writes, "This life will hit you, hard, in the face, wait for you to get back up so it can kick you in the stomach. But getting the wind knocked out of you is the only way to remind your lungs how much they like the taste of air."  This year is going to be hard. It's going to test us. I will be honest and tell you I am nervous to teach face to face and virtually at the same time. I'm worried I won't give you everything I usually would in my classroom under normal circumstances. I don't know how to teach without you collaborating closely with each other. To that end, I promise to try. I promise to give new ideas and opportunities a chance. I promise to continue to love what I do fiercely. I promise to remind my lungs how much they like the taste of air. I promise to help you see the good in the situation even when it's hard to find--especially when it's hard to find. Ms. Coseglia did that for me until I reached the day where I no longer tiptoed past her classroom, in fear that she would yell at me for disrupting her class. I may not like the way I have to teach due to this pandemic, but I love teaching. I have big dreams for all of you just like Ms. Coseglia did for her students. We can do all of the hard things together and keep reminding ourselves that when it gets hard, our lungs really do love the taste of air. 

Welcome to Room 211! Welcome to a year that will be anything but ordinary. 

     

     

     

A Comforter, Shampoo Bottles, and Fear: What I Took to College

 I wrote this blog four years ago, when my first group of IB TOK seniors headed off to college. I have continued to revise and share it each year because the sentiment still remains the same. Today's blog is dedicated to anyone headed off to college this month (or next)--especially my former students from the Class of 2020 who I am going to miss when I head back to Room 211 in a few weeks. 

     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 conglomerate, 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 and friends; 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 me well, you know I'm a pretty emotional person. 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 now all I could see was the fear I brought--packed into my suitcase so that you had to sit on top of it to close it. Fear wedged its way out slowly, creeping in all aspects of my initial college life. 

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. I know your college experience will be different than mine and perhaps, different from anyone else who previously went to college. After all, you're attending college in the middle of a pandemic. Some of your classes are virtual. Some schools have delayed semesters. Others have shortened them so you're home by Thanksgiving. No matter what your experience, 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 brightest and most confident young people I know who probably don't have the fears and insecurities at 18 that I had. You are the class who missed out on so much at the end of your high school experience, yet you didn't let that stop you or bring you down. You have grit and determination and the will to make lemonade out of lemons. 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, and  your mask. 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.

Who's Coming With Me?

     When I was in my first years of teaching, a parent came into my classroom for a parent/teacher conference and requested what seemed to me to be the impossible. The student was doing poorly in my class despite the fact that he was rather intelligent. Before I could talk about her son's academic performance in that conference, the mom looked me in the eye and said, "I need you to help me get my son off drugs." Sadly, I've been teaching too long to remember what I said to that parent, and I don't know if her son ever stopped using drugs. I do remember stammering through a response, I remember the parent crying, and I remember questioning that night if I had gotten into the right profession. I was practically a kid myself--twenty-two years old teaching seventeen year-olds. But even now with twenty-two more years of experience, I know I would struggle with that conversation even though I probably have more knowledge and expertise on how to answer it. For twenty-two years, I feel I have worked to make things that are seemingly impossible, possible.

I have been a book dealer--selling books every year to kids who have no desire to read them.

I have been a counselor--trying to dry the tears of a troubled teen because of a broken relationship or because of their latest math grade, or sadly, because of the tragic death of a classmate.

I've dealt with plagiarism, cheating, peer pressure, and bullying--sometimes all in the same class block.

Sometimes, I wake up in the middle of the night with a lesson plan idea or the solution to one of my student's problems. I find myself constantly thinking about my students and my classroom.

I have toed the line, hoping that a parent won't question my choice of literary text or the grade their child earned.

Because of the courses I teach, I have had deep conversations about racism and class and politics and the way we think. Not everyone even has these conversations as adults. I've had them with seventeen and eighteen year-olds.

I have learned the art of a selfie (sort of), chartered through the preference of using an emoji over words, explored TikTok, and listened to rap music because my students value those things.

I have written hundreds of letters of recommendation, trying to find the perfect words to describe my students to the colleges of their choice.

After twenty-two years, I have corrected more grammar errors than I'd like. I have graded thousands of essays; I have read enough literary analysis--both good and bad--to satisfy me for a lifetime. Yet, I'm still standing. (Elton John would be proud).

I have eaten lunch with students in my classroom because they don't want to deal with the social pressures of the cafeteria.

I give a presentation every single day, not worrying about public opinion. I performed a TikTok dance on stage at school and definitely worried about public opinion.

I've witnessed moments where I thought I'd never regain control of the room, wondering if I really did have control in the first place.

I've watched my students become teachers themselves.

I've smiled with tears in my eyes, as my students marched proudly across the stage at graduation, receiving that piece of paper that signifies thirteen years of learning and so much more.

I've seen students who hated to read find the right book; I've witnessed the weakest of writers finally find their words.

I've returned emails and texts over Remind late at night when I knew my students desperately needed an answer right at that moment.

I've opened my classroom early in the morning and stayed late into the afternoon because that one kid needed to talk or required more help.

I've been a cheerleader and a disciplinarian all in the same breath.

I've settled disputes, judged mock trials, helped with promposals, and picked out prom dresses. I've given advice on where my students should go for dinner before prom--in case you're wondering, never a chain.

I wear my emotions on my sleeve; I've cried in front of my students.

And I've laughed--Every. Single. Day.

     Anyone who is a teacher has had these experiences. They might not look the same as mine, but nevertheless, they've experienced the feelings these moments create. That's the beauty of teaching. I know there's been a lot of debate over how teachers feel about returning to school as of late. I'm not trying to advocate my opinion here (and believe me, I do have one); instead, I write this to remind others of just how powerful and beautiful this profession can be. I write this to remind people that this year is going to be hard on teachers, but let's face it; teaching is not easy. I write this to celebrate my profession because to me it is far more than a profession. It is a way of living. So no matter where I'll be teaching this school year--virtually or face to face--I'm still that teacher who is forever inspired by her students and who will work tirelessly to help them grow and learn. I'm still that teacher who loves what she does. I'm still that teacher who wants to make the impossible possible. That's what I vow to do this year--whether it be getting classes through virtual scenarios that just don't feel right or whether it be face to face with my students, hoping Covid-19 doesn't take over my classroom that really doesn't look and feel like my classroom, I know we can do this. Teachers, we can make the impossible possible.

     One of my favorite movie scenes is from the film Jerry Maguire. In the scene Jerry (Tom Cruise) is fired from his high paying job after writing a mission statement on the unethical nature of his profession as a sports agent. He holds a Ziploc bag with a goldfish in the air, yelling, "Who's coming with me? Who's coming with me?" to the entire office of onlookers.

I would imagine that moment was vulnerable for him, as this one feels for me right now. If you are a teacher, let's remember why we got into this profession in the first place. Let's remember the young child or teenager we once were. We needed our teachers to mold and change and help us grow. Likewise, our students need us. And more than ever, we need each other. This year, we can be the change. We can make the impossible possible.

Who's coming with me?

Using My Free Time For Good

     "What are you doing this summer?" I've been asked this question on more than one occasion recently, and I'm not sure how to answer it. To be honest, my summer has felt kind of purposeless. Vacations are different. I haven't spent my weeks at King's Dominion or the pool. I haven't made countless trips to Orkney Springs, where my husband typically directs a sports camp and where my kids rotate attending as campers. I have no swim meets to set up and manage during thunderstorms. My tutoring business is nonexistent because the SAT is suddenly not an important component of college admissions. I'm even finished my professional development. So, I've been trying to find an answer to that question, but more often than not, the search has been futile.

     It wasn't until I received a text from a student I taught several years ago that I figured out my response.  He had been asking me how I was, and I told him for the first time in a long time, I have a lot of free time on my hands and how weird it was. I didn't know what to do with the hours of my day. His response caught me off guard:

"Try to use your free time for good."

     He may not have realized this, but that text changed my summer. Things in my life often come full circle, and this was yet another one of those moments. I was receiving unsolicited advice from one of my former students--someone who years ago sat in my classroom where I gave him advice. And while I was not asking for advice at the time we were texting, he must have known I needed some. Somehow, I now had an answer to "What are you doing this summer?"

     While most people did a lot of reading and cooking and bread baking and Netflix binge watching during the beginning months of COVID-19, I worked harder than I usually do. I was worried about losing connections that I had worked so hard all year to build with my students, so I worked to hold onto those. I was nervous about my students not being ready for their IB assessments, so I worked hard to make them feel prepared. I was concerned that my dual enrollment seniors would be robbed of their college level writing instruction, so I made videos so that they understood the content and  expectations. I learned how to teach and exist in a virtual world--from conducting IB assessments to having a virtual graduation party for my seniors. I worked tirelessly to lift others up and remain positive. I helped  plan a graduation that was anything but traditional. So now that school is out, I look around and I have nothing on my agenda. The days seem so long. For the first time in my life, I have time, and I'm just not sure what to do with it. It's a change that has challenged me more than I thought it would.

     Yet, when I think about it, change has always been a common denominator in my life. I came into teaching on the cusp of change. SOL tests were in their inaugural phase during my first year in the classroom.  Most teaching was done with students sitting in rows. Grammar was taught out of a textbook with boring sentences and repetitive exercises. During my second year of teaching, my principal asked me to attend a conference with him on collaborative learning. That conference revolutionized my classroom; I started to have students work in groups--a practice that most teachers did not embrace at the time. Students sat at tables, actually looking at and talking to each other. I brought in song lyrics to teach grammar (much to the chagrin of some of my colleagues who thought I should be teaching traditionally out of the grammar textbook). As a teacher, I guess I've always learned the importance of adapting to change.

     I remember stepping onto the track for practice one afternoon when my athletes told me about what happened at Columbine High School. Those were the days long before social media, but one of the seniors had gone home before practice and found out about the school shooting. That day changed teaching in schools forever. So began the days of intruder drills and me pondering what I would do if a shooter tragically entered my classroom. Things I had never thought of as a teacher before all of the sudden were paramount. As a teacher, I had to learn adapt to change.

     I've watched the state of education change drastically over the past twenty-two years in the classroom. I've seen technology become a large part of education, as even the various platforms that I've had to use (Blackboard, Google Classroom, Schoology) have changed over the years. I've seen phones take over the classroom and have observed how social media has transformed the way students interact with each other. I've witnessed the change from not having every piece of information at my fingertips to a classroom where I'm not the key source of information in the room.  I actually remember a world of teaching when "google" was not a verb, when "Google" didn't exist at all. So, I keep reminding myself that as a teacher, I've had to learn to adapt to change.

     Recently, I feel like my social media feeds are inundated with two things--racial injustice in our country and why we should or should not return to school. Everyone seems to have an opinion. Sometimes the two subjects collide with each other, competing for my attention. Sometimes posts that are seemingly kind or about something entirely unrelated are suddenly hijacked to discuss someone's personal agenda whether that be about tearing down monuments or wearing a mask or heading back to school. And I guess I want to respond with this: Somehow in looking at everyone else's agendas, I found my own--to adapt to the changes our world is requiring of us by using my free time for good.

So what will I do with my free time this summer?

1. Embrace differences. I can't control what this pandemic has in store for us. I think the hardest thing through all of this is that we have no control. There are many moments--especially recently--where I have felt lost and purposeless.  I'm not sure what school will look like next year. Whether we are face to face or virtual, there is one thing I am sure of: I still will continue to work hard. I still will continue to make connections with my students. I still will learn to adapt to change. So, for now, I will start to think about some of the choices I will make in teaching my class under different circumstances. I have a pile of books to read because I know since our learning will probably be different, I need to choose just the right texts. So, I will use my free time to figure this out instead of worrying about the change to come or stress about the unknown. 

2. Continue conversations. I recognize as a white American, I still have a lot of learning to do when it comes to understanding racial issues. So, I will continue to educate myself. This week, I hosted my first antiracist book club which brought together many people from many different walks of my life as well as people I had never met before. The conversation was enriching and powerful. We need more of that. My free time will be spent having these important conversations in future book clubs as a means to do good.

3. Minimize how things impact me. It's so easy in life to sit and complain or criticize. It's so easy to think about how you personally are affected by what's going on in the world. My goal this month is to not be so insular in thinking about how this affects me; maybe step into others' shoes or see the positive in the world around me. The world is not easy right now. I want to hug others. I want our racial divide to dissipate. I want to see my parents. I want to go into a public place and not have to wear my mask. It's so easy to think about how life's current situation only benefits me, but I need to think  beyond that. Until then, I will adapt; I will wear the mask; I will forego the hugs; I will call my parents; I will listen to others.

      So while it might seem as if nothing is on my agenda because my online calendar app has not really been used much recently to schedule swim meets and vacations and lunches and professional development workshops, know I am doing a lot of work this summer. I am thinking about my relationships with others. I am pondering how we can exist in a world with less criticism and more compliments. I am figuring out how I can be the best teacher I possibly can for my future students who also are being forced to adapt to change. Know I'm figuring out how to continue to grow as the world changes, learning to teach in whatever way is necessary next school year. Those things might not be able to be scheduled on a calendar, but at least I now know what I'm doing this summer when asked the question. The answer is more clear than it ever has been: I'm using my free time for good.  

Hugs on Hold: End of the Year Reflections

     I am a hugger. I always have been affectionate in that way. I imagine a good hug--one that lasts longer than a second and does not feel obligatory--is similar to the way other people feel about handshakes. A firm handshake conveys confidence and someone who is certain of the world around him. A strong hug demonstrates kindness, compassion, and is a way to show people they matter. Over the past few months, I have missed the hugs. I've missed the tight embraces where the other person doesn't want to let go; so I hold on until they do. I've missed the awkward hugs that I often experience, as I am much shorter than most people and often have to stand on my tiptoes. I miss hugging someone because I just don't know what else to say. I miss hugging people to tell them that they matter.

     March 13, 2020 is a day that changed me as a teacher. That was the day I should have done so many things--but I failed. I should have stopped to talk to my colleagues more that day instead of rushing around like I always do. I should have checked on all of the students who usually need a kind word and those who don't ever expect or seem to need anything. I should have given out all of the books in my classroom so you had something to read over this long time. I should have hugged every single one of you one more time and told you how much I love being your teacher.

     Regret undoubtedly makes us human. It's one of those things that is easy to wear but rather difficult to take off. You try and try to unzip it, unbutton it, pull it over your head, but quite often it remains. The only way to remove it is to accept the lessons regret provides. So today, instead of allowing this pandemic to define me, instead of thinking about all that has been ripped away from us (including the hugs), instead of lamenting on the "should haves," I'm going to tell you, my students, what I should have told you almost three months ago and give you a virtual hug with my words.

     Juniors, you are undoubtedly one of the smartest groups I have taught in years. Every time I thought I was challenging you, I learned I could push you harder. You experienced my many mistakes in the classroom--moments when I stumbled over words, got the phrasing all wrong. A2 witnessed my first cup of coffee (disgusting, by the way, no matter how much cream you did add). You taught me my first TikTok dance and perfected my shoot (well, maybe mine's not so perfect). You discussed heavy topics like racism in today's society in such a mature, powerful way. You were readers--so many of you would linger a few minutes after class to talk books with me. You showed compassion during hard times by writing positive messages on my tables. You made me laugh with your "Joe mama" jokes, mock trial theatrics, and sarcasm. You posted quotes from The Office on my board daily and taught me what resilience truly is. Your performance on your IB oral commentaries truly amazed me. I usually don't get nervous for assessments of my students, but I'll admit, there was so much at stake for this one. I was not there with you face to face several days a week to guide you beforehand. Could I trust you to practice on your own? Were you ready? I know now that I didn't have to be standing in my classroom teaching you. No matter how difficult the time is--and we are in a global pandemic--you put in the work. You made it happen. And for that, I will always be grateful. Know that I wish I could have hugged each of you after that challenging assessment to tell you what a great job you did instead of smiling at you over zoom.

     And my seniors. How I wish I would have said thank you to you in person on March 13th. Thank you for entertaining me on a daily basis. Thank you for having a sense of humor and showing me the value in that. Thank you for teaching me that sometimes what I had planned to teach you might not be as important as what we really needed to be doing. Thank you for doing good. Yes, you did well on your assignments, but more importantly, you always chose to do good. You see the good in others and act on it. You stand up for what's right. You empower yourselves by empowering others. You didn't take a day after March 13th for granted. The work you turned in to me is not like the work I usually see from seniors who suffer through "senioritis" at the end of the year. Instead, many of you completed your IB CAS projects virtually. Some of you wrote 6-8 page research papers with complete virtual instruction. You battled through far more loss than any group could ever be expected to do, but you did it with grace and positivity. Thank you. Thank you for teaching me that what you have is far more important than what you lost. Thank you for helping me get through this time where we were stuck at home, longing to go back to school. Thank you for joining me on zoom, for making me laugh, for showing up randomly outside of my house on my birthday, for making me realize my job as a teacher is not about the grades or assessments; we found a world in this pandemic where relationships and feedback mattered far more than a GPA. That's powerful.

     As this school year comes to a close, know that the year we had may not seem ideal, but to me, it is a year that will always define me as a teacher--not because a global pandemic occurred, not because I taught virtually for the first time in 21 years of teaching, not because the seniors had a longer than usual senior skip day, but because for the first time, I know I don't need to be in my classroom to be a teacher; I don't need the dry erase board. I don't need to be summoned by bells and dodge the crowded hallways. I just need you--my students. Thank you for sticking by me through this. Thank you for reminding me you are the reason I do this every single day--whether we are looking into each other's homes over our computer screens or staring at each other in Room 211 face to face.

     Every year at graduation, one of the best experiences I have is watching my students walk across that stage to receive their diplomas--many students who have spent two years in my classroom receive that diploma as my eyes well up with tears (I'm not only a hugger but also a crier). There's a pride that is indescribable in that moment, as is the same experience when I hug them afterwards to say goodbye.

This year, for the past month I've been working on the graduation committee to rethink the way we can give the Class of 2020 the graduation that they deserve.

Next week, you may not be sitting with your entire class; only five family members will experience your moment with you. You won't sit through all of the speeches, anticipating that moment to walk across the stage. I won't be able to hug you, but know that I'll be standing there with the same pride I had for my previous students. Know how much your attitude and resilience have shaped me as a teacher these past few months. Realize how much you are capable of doing. Stop waiting for the right time to do things and go out and change the world for the better. The world needs your compassion, your kindness, your resilience, your intelligence, your strength right now. And hopefully, once you've seen what exists beyond Atlee High School, you'll come back to visit me in Room 211, where one day I can return all of my gratitude with a hug.  I'll put the hug on hold for now. Until then, know how proud I am of you; I always will be.