Standing on the Shoulders of Giants

     When I was in the sixth grade, my teacher told us that most presidents don't really write their own speeches; they have speechwriters. I remember, at the time, feeling so disheartened, so cheated by this idea that their words were not their own. FDR may have uttered "The only thing we have to fear is fear itself," but he didn't write it? JFK may have inspired us with "If not us, who? If not now, when?" but he didn't pen those words himself? My twelve year-old mind just could not accept this. Yet, really, these presidents were not acting in deception as I thought, but rather, they were standing on the shoulders of giants. 

    That phrase was first written in a letter by Sir Isaac Newton when he wrote, "If I have seen further, it is by standing on the shoulders of giants." Often used in the scientific world to discuss progress and innovation, Newton's words still reign true today. We all have people who come before us, who inspire us, who make us better. In my first years of teaching I had a teacher named Mr. Svor who taught me everything he knew about being a classroom teacher. Mr. Svor was beloved by all of his students. He was creative in the classroom and talked to every kid in the hallway whether he knew them or not. He loved the Beatles and just about every cubic centimeter of his classroom was decorated. I also was lucky enough to be mentored by Mrs. Spanberger, who had more energy than I did, could grade an essay faster than anyone I knew, could recite the lines of The Crucible effortlessly, and who easily could relate to all of her students. These two teachers coupled with the ladies of the round table of the Godwin English Department became my mentors. They taught me to work hard and laugh harder. They solved problems around a bowl of popcorn. And they always looked out for me. I didn't realize it then, but they allowed me to stand on their shoulders. For years, I never believed I would be the kind of teachers they were. Now, I realize they were the expert educators who made me better, who made me the educator I am today. 

      So much of what we do in life can be fiercely competitive. I've seen it from who is the better mother among friends to who got the better grade in my classroom. My advice--don't be intimidated by the giants around you. Instead, thank them. Raise each other up. Work together. Don't worry about your class rank (As the cliche goes, you're more than a number). Don't compare yourself to anyone. Remember how far you've come and where you've progressed.

     This month, I've watched many of you stand on each other's shoulders. Composition Theory students, you've seen close to 200 students in our writing center. You are a well-oiled machine because you work together. You're not afraid to seek the advice of those who tutored in previous years. In my IB English class, you, too, have raised each other up. Your mock trial on Frankenstein showed a solid team effort. One of you even out-argued me as an attorney. I watched as some of you passed laptops back and forth to work as a team. TOK Seniors, what I witnessed this past month in fixing up the Raider Retreat is something I am not even sure I can put into words. You made that space ours again and had fun while doing so. As I watched teamwork unfold, I realized that without knowing it, you've given me your shoulders to stand on. Teaching in a pandemic is hard; I've been lucky to teach you for two years. Thank you for lifting me up when I am not sure I could stand. And TOK Juniors, when I asked you to write letters to your IB teachers, I never saw coming what happened next. Somehow, I missed one day of school, and you bonded over writing notes and appreciating me. I look at this picture, and it says everything about using each other to rise up to the occasion. 

TOK Juniors

IB English Mock Trial

IB English Mock Trial

IB English Mock Trial

TOK Seniors in the Raider Retreat

     The bottom line: everyone has a story. You never know what you might say or do to impact someone else. I'm not sure those teachers at Godwin High School have any idea of the impact they had on me long ago. I relate to students because of them. I have classroom management techniques because they showed me. And every so often, I relieve stress over a bowl of popcorn. They allowed me to stand on their shoulders. I saw farther and became better because of them. 

     Several years ago, one of my students expressed that he wanted to be Vice-President of the United States one day. "Can I be your speech writer?" I joked. He nodded in all seriousness, and what started as a quick retort from me became a lasting inside joke and somewhat of a solid plan. "This is going to be my retirement gig," I told him. "You'll be old enough to run for office when I am old enough to retire."  It only took a little over 30 years for the young twelve year-old who felt deceived as a child by presidential speech writers to realize the opportunity she could give someone else. So pay attention 12 years from now; I might stop blogging to write presidential speeches.

        My hope this month is you realize the value of those who come before you as well as see the potential you may have to elevate others. May you continue to inspire others and always thank the ones who square their shoulders on a daily basis so that you have a solid place to stand.

Best Day Ever

    Every time I hear the phrase, the speaker elongates the final word, and I question the validity of the entire statement. What made it better than yesterday to be deemed the best? What happened that was so utterly amazing that we have to shout it out so the world can hear, putting emphasis on every single word: "Best. Day. Ever!"? I looked up the origin of the phrase, and it actually dates back to 2006 when Spongebob Squarepants' voice actor Tom Kenny and Andy Paley composed the song. Never in a million years did I think I'd be quoting Spongebob Squarepants in my blog, but here we are. 

     In all honesty, I think we overuse the phrase. Someone gives us a gift, and we utter "Best day ever!" Your teacher doesn't give you homework and suddenly it's "Best day ever!" My own kids even say it when I come home with donuts or Italian ice from the grocery store. It's become a phrase that's common in our vernacular, something we say without always really meaning it. Best. Day. Ever. How could a day that seems so ordinary--one where the heat is still encircling us in October or the rain prevents us from going outside--be the best day? Aren't we over-reaching and exaggerating just a bit? Does it come off the tongue so easily because we are putting things in perspective? After all, we are living amidst a pandemic which seems to still wreak havoc everywhere we go. People are still getting sick from this virus, school is nothing like it used to be, and we hide our faces behind masks more often than not. So how can we simultaneously utter that phrase "Best day ever" when no day seems to be good, let alone the best? But maybe that's exactly what we need to do. Maybe that's what will change our perspective in a world that seems darker and more gray than usual. 

    I started to focus on the little things that I deemed "good" at the start of the school year. Life feels more manageable when I focus on the pavement in front of me during my runs, when I hold the steaming cup of tea in my hands and just be, when I listen--really listen to the student in front of me, the music blaring through my air pods, even the sound of the train running through my backyard. Best. Day. Ever. I started to recognize the little things that have been happening around me instead of focusing on the larger things I can't control. When someone asks me how this year is going, I typically respond with "It's a whole lot better than last year!" And it is. For one, I am not tied to a zoom trying to complete the ultimate balancing act of teaching both students in the room and those online. Yet, while things are better, I'll be perfectly honest; being an educator right now is not easy. Our jobs have been totally rearranged and some days seem utterly unrecognizable. But what if we focused on the moments that make us shout "Best. Day. Ever."? What if we found the good? I'm not suggesting that this is possible for every situation, and I'm certainly not naïve enough to look at the world through rose colored glasses even though I've been criticized for doing that from time to time. I've also read enough about toxic positivity to know that no matter how difficult, every situation cannot be looked at as positive.  I know that it's okay not to be okay. There are some days in this pandemic where I have to remind myself of that. What I'm suggesting is to validate the times that are challenging for you but also find those best-day-ever moments--as small as they may be right now. 

     So let me recount some of my best-day-ever moments I've experienced in our classroom this past month. Maybe it's my IB English students who were able to speak in their oral commentary practice far longer than I ever expected. Or perhaps it's my Composition Theory students who re-opened the Raider Writing Center this month. There's also been my Theory of Knowledge juniors who delivered snacks to all of the teachers last week and my Theory of Knowledge seniors who I get to spend 30 minutes outside with every single day eating lunch. It's little things like the notes my students leave each other on the dry erase tables or the student who is quiet and finally speaks up in a classroom Socratic seminar. It's the student who laughs at my corny joke or the ones who write a joke of the day that goes along with our studies of The Great Gatsby. It's watching the students in the rage cage cheer their hearts out or the members of the football team who listen to my message and actually take me seriously or the band perform on the field after a year-long hiatus. 

Ready to Open the Raider Writing Center

One of the many notes I find on my whiteboard tables

Delivering snacks to teachers

Practice Oral Commentaries

Outside with the Seniors

     This summer, Nike released a commercial called "Best Day Ever." In the commercial, Nike imagines a tomorrow where a young girl goes on her first run, where sports records are broken. It's a world where sneakers grow on trees, a marathon is run on Mars, and an athlete's mental health is valued. The commercial ends by saying, "Well done, tomorrow. Can't wait to see what's next." The first time I saw that commercial, I immediately googled it to watch it again. I felt empowered to look at things in a different way, to ask "what if" instead of dwell on what I can't. I felt the need to find those best-day-ever moments in my own life. 

     So this month, I encourage you to find your best-day-ever moments, too. Acknowledge what's bringing you down but also focus on what's making you rise to the top right now. And on those difficult days when the work just piles up or you just want to rip the mask off your face and go back to a school you remember before this pandemic ever took root, take a breath and focus on tomorrow. Focus on the one thing that is allowing you to take one step forward. Feel free to say it--Best. Day. Ever.--even if it is sorely overused. I never thought Spongebob Squarepants would bring me so much writing inspiration--especially after suffering through the second movie with my eight year-old son years ago. But maybe Spongebob wasn't so wrong after all. Maybe we need to just keep looking at those small moments, wrapping our arms around them so that we, too, can shout "Best day ever!" So that we, too, can acknowledge, "Well done tomorrow. Can't wait to see what's next."

The Solitary Snow Boot: How I Choose to Send Students Out into This World

      When I was in fourth grade, I went home one afternoon with only one of my snow boots on my feet. We had a fire drill late in the afternoon, right before we were about to be dismissed. I remember prior to the sound of the alarm, my teacher, Mrs. O'Donnell, asked us to put on our snow boots. I was in the middle of putting mine on when the fire alarm sounded. Mrs. O'Donnell--usually a force to be reckoned with who ran a no-nonsense kind of classroom--looked somewhat panicked and rushed us out the door. No one argued with Mrs. O'Donnell, so I certainly did not try to tell her that I hadn't finished putting on my boots. Instead, I grabbed my backpack and left with one snow boot and one regular shoe, attempting to walk through the snow and slush-covered sidewalks to my bus. There wasn't much snow on the ground, but enough to have gotten a call from Mr. Whitley if I did grow up in Mechanicsville. New York snow storms didn't elicit many days off, though. I remember getting on my bus and arriving home, and my mom questioning why I came home with only one snow boot and one shoe.

 My teacher had sent me out in the world with one snow boot.

 What kind of teacher lets that happen? 

     For years, I never thought of this story until I became a teacher myself. In my twenty-three years in the classroom, I regularly think about how I send my students out into the world. Are they smarter, kinder, more empathetic human beings because of my class? What did they learn from sitting with me for ninety days? Are they taking anything away? Or am I sending them out into the world with one snow boot to trudge through the snow and slush?

    Recently, one of my former students sent a photo of herself on her first day of college along with the message "I already am reading about Little Albert in one of my classes!" It may not seem very significant, but it was one of the best texts I've ever received from a student. She was actually learning about content in college that I had taught her in Theory of Knowledge; but more importantly, she thought enough to send me a first-day-of-school photo. That meant that over the two years I taught her, I sent her out into this world not only with content knowledge but also with a level of comfort that she could share her first moments of college classes with me. I've gotten several texts and emails like this over the past few years from students saying all of those discussion boards we did in Dual Enrollment actually helped and put them ahead in their college classes to the student who recently wrote about his English class saying, "Everything I learned from your class is applying here. We did so many annotations today, and I'm killing it." Every time I receive a message like that, I'm grateful that I prepared my students well, that I sent them out into the world wearing  two snow boots.

    Yet, what I've also learned as a teacher over time is that sometimes we have to send our students out with one snow boot. Maybe it's a moment where we need them to think on their own. Maybe it's a moment where we challenge our students and encourage them to do hard things. Maybe it's just our way of keeping our students safe. What I didn't know back when I was in fourth grade was that Mrs. O'Donnell was doing just that--keeping us safe. You see, there was some kind of dangerous situation in the boiler room of the school causing the fire alarm to sound, and we needed to evacuate immediately. I was better off  with one boot and exited school that way because my teacher prioritized my safety. I don't think I even thought about this situation until I became a teacher and wanted the same for my students. 

     So what kind of teacher sends her students out in the world with one snow boot? One named Mrs. O'Donnell--an incredible one. That year in fourth grade, I learned how to work hard; fourth grade meant learning about Long Island history and long division. Mrs. O'Donnell's no-nonsense attitude combined with her kindness and ability to put her students first are part of why I am the teacher I am today. 

Fourth grade me

    I guess that's what I want to relay to you, my students, this school year. I want you to know I'll do everything in my power to keep you safe in my classroom. I want you to know that I plan to challenge you and not give up on you so quickly. I'm not the teacher who has all the answers nor one who pretends she does--and that's okay. Sometimes we'll figure things out together. You'll learn to wear the solitary snow boot and think independently for yourself, but I'll also be there to support you when you need it most. I'll encourage you to work hard and understand it's okay to make mistakes; after all, that's where true learning happens. 

      I think the hard thing about being a student today is the expectations put on you. You are expected to be the best in school, outside of school, on the fields and the stage, in the community. You are expected to do hours of homework and maintain a job and volunteer all to get into a good college to better prepare your career. Yet, in watching students balance all of this like a Jenga game gone wrong, I can't help but question whether or not we are preparing you for the "real" world. What are we teaching you if we pile all of these expectations on who you are? How are we sending you out into the world? These are the questions that keep me up at night and ones which, unfortunately, I don't have an answer.

     My wish for you this year is simple:

May what you learn be great but the relationships you build be greater.

May you work hard in your classes but harder at being a good human being.

May you own your mistakes and learn from them. May you build character by building others up and may you always, always maintain a sense of humor.

May you understand the value of hard work and that the answer can't always be Googled.

May you know how excited I am to be your teacher, how much I can't wait to see the difference you make in my class and life.

 May you know that I plan to send you out into this world prepared, even if you happen to be wearing a solitary snow boot.

    Welcome to Room 211! Know how happy I am that you're here!

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

  I wrote this blog five 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--especially my former students from the Class of 2021 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 ever would 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 Venmo and 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 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 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 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. Yet, what your class takes to college is different than any other class who has come before you. You see, you have more grit than any group of students I've taught. You went to school in masks, some of you unfortunately had to master the art of the quarantine, and you dealt with so many milestones of your senior year ripped away from you due to Covid-19.  Yet, the way you reacted--the way you continued to stand when life was trying to bring you down--is going to take you so far as you begin your college experience. No matter what, 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 during 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. 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.

The Art of Saying Goodbye

      I'm one of those people who takes several hours to leave a place. I have to say goodbye to every last person I know. I linger because I don't like endings. I never have. There are only a few times in my life I wished away time--battling the chicken pox, the tantrum my daughter had in a restaurant when she was little, any trip I make to the dentist. For the most part, though, endings are hard for me and closure just doesn't come easy. I know that with every ending comes a new beginning, but the "lasts" are just difficult. That's always been one of the hardest things about raising my own kids. What if it's the last time they mispronounce "hamburger"? (My son called them "hamburgurgers" for a long time, and I thought it was the cutest thing). What if this is the last time you know he's going to wrap his little hand around my finger and hold it as we walk through the grocery story parking lot? Would it be any easier if I knew it was his last? I'm not so sure.

     We spend so long counting the days until June. We add up the assignments and the final units and the last projects. We measure our time from bell to bell, marking period to marking period. So, I'm not so sure why I am so sad when I knew this day was going to come the minute I started this school year. I go into each year of teaching knowing I have a finite number of days to make a difference, to teach you the content, to enjoy a snow day or two (hopefully) and a pep rally and a trip through the cafeteria lunch line. 

     The reality of it all is we can't go back to what we had before learning in a pandemic. There are things we learned this year that we can never unlearn. The way we understand school has drastically changed: I have the power to mute some of you every day despite the fact that I can't see your facial expressions when I do so because I stare into an abyss of black boxes on zoom. Simultaneously, I have often been made to feel powerless when I am muted and forget to turn on my mic. We walk in the direction of the arrows in the hallway and often collaborate with one another through a screen now instead of face to face. But we've learned flexibility and the art of balance and how to eat lunch in fifteen minutes and an awful lot of patience. For teachers like myself who have had to juggle students in the room and on zoom simultaneously, we learn that the line we walk is fine and that more often than not, one group is neglected even though that's never the intention. We learn to multitask more and sleep less. We fail but we keep getting back up. 

    One of the things I like most about teaching teenagers is the way you handle difficult situations. More people should take note of how you deal with things and perhaps there wouldn’t be so much stress, division, and hardship in our lives. You see, you have grit, perseverance, and a resilience that most adults I know do not possess. You don’t let much get you down--including learning in a pandemic. You complete multiple assignments a week--including IAs and tests with grace under pressure. You’re expected to do community service at a whim’s notice and simultaneously earn good grades and participate in an excess of extracurricular activities--all the while spending time with your family and friends. You went to school this year masked or behind a screen, the pep rallies and the spirit trains and the rage cages whisked from underneath your feet. Yet, you're still standing on solid ground.

Ironically, while I am terrible a goodbyes, I am ready to say goodbye to this year--to the masks and the social distancing and the zoom and room combo. But I'm honestly not ready to say goodbye to all of you. Truthfully, you haven't seen me at my best even though I am working harder than I ever have in my teaching career. I'm a teacher who is only still standing because you helped change her mindset. You see, there have been many moments this year when I wanted to give up on teaching. But I had some pretty decent role models. You're not afraid to challenge yourselves and take risks--whether that be to talk to the girl sitting six feet away from you or try something new in your writing or just surviving another day of hoping you would not be sent home to quarantine. I eventually found myself saying, "If they can learn successfully in a pandemic, I certainly can teach in one."

Thank you for embracing this year and for helping me view teaching in a pandemic from a different lens. For every time you made me laugh, for every time I was asked to unmute, for every mask we wore and every desk I cleaned and for every lunch outside and everything else in between--thank you. What I learned this year can never be erased. And while you may no longer be students in my classroom in a few short weeks, you will always be my students--the ones who made me stronger and better.

Saying goodbye is hard. Goodbyes make you stop and realize everything you've had. They make you think about the last time and how you wish it would linger just a little bit longer. I cry every year when the last student leaves my classroom at the end of the year, and I know I'll do the same this year. I get attached to the fact that you all are the future and that I had a part in shaping you but at the same time have to let you go. I get attached to your humor and your video game-playing, TikTok-loving ways. I get attached to the students who don't read the books as much as to the ones who do. So, yes, it's hard to say goodbye, and but what I'm realizing is perhaps, that's a good thing. It means we did something right this year--the year when everything seemed to be wrong. It means we had something that was worth saying goodbye to.

Confidence from a New York Deli Counter

      You haven't lived until you've had a sandwich from a New York delicatessen. The meat is piled high on top of your choice of bread (Growing up, I always went for a hard deli roll or a sesame seed bagel), so thick that you can barely wrap your mouth around the entire thing. Like pizza and bagels, deli sandwiches are a staple of New York and something I have not been able to replicate since I've been living in Virginia. When I was about ten years old, my mother would often send me into the deli to place an order while she waited in the car. She'd reach over the back seat of the car, holding a ten dollar bill, while I pleaded with her not to make me have to go inside. I wasn't even tall enough to see over the tall deli counter that encased salads, cold cuts, bagels, and sweets.

Finn's Deli in Massapequa, New York

 The store owner would peer over the edge of the counter, always looking down at my sister and me, smiling.  "What can I do for you guys?" he would ask, in his thick, New York accent. I hated placing our family's order at the deli. I was shy and felt so small next to the surrounding glass of the counter. It was a moment where I lacked confidence. 

     All of us have had those moments where we question what we're doing and our abilities to do so. I've been around teenagers long enough to know that high school is undoubtedly hard. We question our self worth, our ability, our intelligence. Some of us doubt that we will be able to score the goal or remember the formula. We worry about being liked, if we're funny, how we look in the photo we just posted to Instagram, if we have a decent ratio of followers to those we're following on social media. All of that comes down to confidence--confidence in ourselves and the world around us. 

     This year, I have suddenly resorted to that girl ordering sandwiches at the deli counter all over again. At one point, my confidence shattered so much that it became impossible to pick up the  fragments that spilled across the floor. For awhile, teaching in a pandemic changed my perception of the kind of teacher I am and could be. Teaching in a pandemic ruined my confidence so much that I actually couldn't find the words to write a blog last month. It's the first time in six years that I have missed a month of blogging for my students, but I didn't believe that what I would say would come out in the right way.  

     In a recent conversation I had with a member of HCPS senior staff, I hinted at the struggle of teaching this year. "I just don't feel like I'm getting any better at this," I said, referring to teaching both virtual and face to face students simultaneously. 

     "No one is good at it," she reminded me. So how do I exist in a world where where no one is successful? I remind myself daily of why I teach. I try something new even if I may fail or my students may not find my joke even remotely funny. I order a deli sandwich with confidence even though I'm trembling inside. That's what I've worked hard to do this year even though I don't always feel successful, even if the outcome isn't what it usually is. When I told one class about my lack of words for my blog, one  student said, "Just start with, 'I have no words,' and go from there. I did that once and ended up writing a whole page. You'll be surprised what you come up with."  Because of that student, I've found my words this month. Sometimes the confidence to do things is inside you; all you need to do is open your eyes and look for it.

     The past two months, I've had the privilege of watching the confidence of you, my students, soar. My Theory of Knowledge seniors, you turned in your final work, and your prescribed titles, in particular, were some of the best pieces of writing I've uploaded to IB since I've been teaching TOK. You went into these assessments confidently even though your education was rudely disrupted by Covid-19. You perservered even when it would have been easy to quietly mumble your deli order. And my IB English juniors, you just finished probably the longest unit on race I have taught in my twenty-two years as a teacher. You discussed the issue of racism, wrote about it, read several texts in book clubs, and did so with an air of confidence I haven't seen in all groups I have taught. Many are often afraid to embrace this unit, and quite honestly, this was one I considered skipping this year. How do you talk about a sensitive topic like race over a screen? How does it become meaningful? Yet, studying these issues are vital, as scary as they may be to have in the classroom, are vital. Thank you for approaching everything we did in this unit with grace, poise, and confidence. And my TOK Juniors, everything you do, you seem do do with an air of confidence--even if it's putting together more tables for the Raider Retreat without a single power tool--you allow nothing to slow you down.

Table construction for the Raider Retreat

     I now know what my mother was trying to do in sending me into that deli years ago. She was instilling in me a confidence that I would carry with me into the future. She was not just teaching me how to communicate with others; she was helping me shed my shy, unconfident skin. She was showing me that a lack of confidence shatters far more dreams and ideas than failure ever does. It might sound silly that I struggled to order a deli sandwich, but we all have our own battles--whether it be learning over a screen in a pandemic or teaching in one. Whether it be our worry about what others think or how much we know (or don't know) for our next chemistry test or trying to find the right words for a blog--we're all standing at that immense deli counter at some points in our lives. It's up to us to make that choice of whispering what we want or ordering confidently. 

    We have nine weeks left together in room 211 in a year that has been far more challenging for all of us than any other year of schooling. Let's continue to work hard, build each other up, and approach whatever life brings us with confidence. Let's not worry about the grade or how unsuccessful we may think we might be. Trust me. I've placed countless orders of oven roasted turkey, lettuce, tomato on a sesame seed bagel in my lifetime. It's always worth it when we have the confidence to approach whatever life brings us. And I, for one, am confident we can do this. 

Up Against Gravity: The Need for Validation

      When I was a junior in high school, I played a minor character named Charlotte Sowerberry in the play Oliver. In one scene, the stage directions of the play had me throwing a glass of water at another character's face who meddled with the business of all of the other characters on stage. Lisa, the girl who played that character, was a bit of a busy-body herself in "real" life. She always had an opinion. The role she played on stage was perfect for her, and many would have agreed she deserved every drop of the water I pretended to throw in her face. Of course, we used a small amount of water so she barely got wet--that is, except for one day. The day of "fun practice" was always a day or two before opening night. The directors, Miss White and Mr. Titone, wanted us to get the kinks out. We were silly, messed up lines on purpose, played pranks on each other, etc. Anything was fair game. The goal was to learn how to react in case something crazy happened during the actual show and to have a little fun in the process. Prior to the practice, many of my friends in the cast encouraged me to fill the glass up with water to throw in Lisa's face. "I can't do that," I said, thinking it would be so mean to get a glass of water in my face. Yet, pressure got the best of me, and I filled up that glass with water. When it came time for my line, I threw the water right in her face. Lisa gasped in shock and then started to laugh as water dripped down her face and mascara created lines that traveled from her eyes to her cheeks. Those looking on--including Miss White and Mr. Titone--laughed uncontrollably. "I didn't think you had that in you," Miss White told me afterwards. "I'm proud of you."

     Those simple words of validation made me feel good in the moment. Yet, when I think back on that moment, it was a pretty mean joke to play on someone. I'm not proud I did it at all. I suppose I threw that glass of water in Lisa's face to feel validated because so many in my friend circle told me it would be funny. Yet, in retrospect, it was the wrong kind of validation, as it was based on what others thought about me. I now would love to tell my seventeen year old self that we never should base our own  feelings on those of others to feel good about ourselves. In the right moment, everybody needs to feel validated in life, though. I read something recently that speaks to this: "You need that one person who comes up beside you and validates you, tells you you're not crazy and that they too want to fly away sometimes. Otherwise, you forget gravity is something you're supposed to go up against."  How many times have I found myself up against gravity and someone is there to validate my feelings, show acceptance to where I am? How many times have I done the same for others? 

     In this pandemic in particular, I have found validation numerous times in my classroom. I continuously solicit feedback from you, my students, not necessarily to feel validated but to keep me in check. After all, teaching in a pandemic is drastically different than anything I've done in my 22-year career.  I always appreciate the honesty I receive from each student survey; you often tell me what's not working (my microphone) or what you absolutely can't live without in my classroom (independent reading, games, and outside time when it's warmer). The most recent surveys greatly validated the effort I had put into every assignment until I got to those from my seniors. Now, keep in mind, this is my second year teaching you; we have a relationship that I would consider open with each other. You know how I feel about your writing, study habits, etc. I've written most of your letters of recommendation. This time, I definitely received a dose of honesty. While many seniors validated my teaching of Theory of Knowledge, some of them did not. In reading the surveys, I felt like I had let them down; I felt like I had failed my students. Perhaps, in a way, I felt like Lisa receiving that full glass of water in her face. It was a wake up call to see what really wasn't working in the class, to see that the experience I had given other seniors in the past six years was not present in theirs. I didn't know what to do or how to fix it aside from feeling terrible that I had let them down. So, I started by sending them a message apologizing. 

     What I received back was something I did not expect. Messages came from many of  my seniors: "You're teaching in a pandemic..." 

 "You're one of the few teachers who has a positive attitude."

 "You say hi to every student every day. I can say you're my only teacher that does that."

 Validation. I was not anticipating them to validate my feelings, but somehow they brought me up and raised my spirits to believe that I, in fact, could go up against gravity even if there were things I needed to change about the teaching in my classroom. Of course, their validation does not make their honesty go away. I still have things I need to work on in teaching in a pandemic. And that's okay. We all have things to work on every day. These students were able to validate the things that are working while also showing me what wasn't. In life we need to balance the truth with those moments of validation. 

     The need to be validated in a pandemic--whether we're teaching or learning  in it--is so necessary. We need to continue to build each other up; learning in a pandemic is just as hard as teaching in one. So, I want to end by validating you, my students. To the juniors, you made me most proud recently in your mock trial. Instead of saying that we couldn't do an assignment like this, you embraced it. So, when it came time to put Antigone on trial in our classroom, you made it happen whether you were an attorney virtually arguing your case on zoom or the bailiff swearing everyone in by emphasizing the word "truth." You brought levity to an intense book while simultaneously showing me learning could be fun--even in a pandemic. 

      And to my seniors, I think sometimes I forget how much you've lost--no spring sports last year, no junior prom, not a single senior pep rally, no senior section of the rage cage. I know sometimes I can be critical of your decreasing motivation otherwise known as "senioritis," but you have shown me so much grit and perseverance--more than any other class. You are making the best of a difficult situation. You've had the glass of water thrown in your face, but it doesn't matter. You're overcoming and surviving and succeeding and persevering. For that, I see you. I hear you. I validate you.

     Know that I intend to make changes in my classroom. After all, I sought feedback so that I could do just that. Honesty is a good thing even if it sometimes is hard to swallow. Yet, everyone also deserves to be validated. So, the next time you find someone else up against gravity, ask yourself what you can do to validate their feelings. The next time you go to throw that glass of water in the face of another, ask yourself if you are seeking validation for yourself for the right reasons. What I've learned recently from all of you is the value of honesty combined with validation is a beautiful thing. We may be up against gravity in this pandemic, but remember, we are never, ever alone.