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.