Inspirational Red Socks

    My introduction to my sixth grade math teacher, Sister Mary El, occurred when I was in the fifth grade; she would come into my classroom, taunting my teacher Mrs. Supon about the New York Mets. Sister Mary El was a diehard Red Sox fan; Mrs. Supon adored the Mets. Sister Mary El's affinity for the Red Sox was considered an anomaly where I grew up in New York--especially when she had not one but two baseball teams to choose from. No one understood why she went against the grain. One day she came into our classroom wearing red knee socks, pulled all the way past her knees, dancing around the aisles. She wore the same socks (or perhaps she had several pairs) all week long, as the Boston Red Sox played the New York Mets in the 1986 World Series. She cheered for her team to a fault; she didn't back down or give up on them. That was the year I knew most of the Mets by name--Darryl Strawberry, Keith Hernandez, Lenny Dykstra, Gary Carter--but I didn't have a way to show my affection for my team like Sister Mary El did. To put it simply, I wanted to wear red socks just like her. Even when the Red Sox lost that year, Sister Mary El donned her red knee socks, not giving up on her team. 

      The next year, I learned so much about confidence from Sister Mary El when I finally landed myself in her math class. Every time we took a test, she would change our seats when she was ready to hand the test back. However, she had this unorthodox teaching practice of sitting us in order of our grade on the test. I always hoped to sit in the front row, where the students with the highest grades sat. That was not always the case, though. Had it been English class, I may have had a better track record. At the time, I thought it was a cruel reality, as the students with the lowest test scores were not only called out but were forced to sit in the back of the room. Yet, what I know now is that she gave all of us a goal to aspire to and confidence when we did land in that front row seat. And maybe there's something to be said for that. Like the way she believed in the Red Sox, she believed in us. She made us aspire to be better. She was proud of us.

    This month, more than anything, I want you to know I am proud of you. I am wearing the figurative red socks to cheer you on. Even if you feel like you're not winning the World Series known as school, I'm cheering for you, dancing down the aisles, and never giving up.  Life is not easy being a teenager. There are pressures coming from you in every direction. You are expected to maintain exceptional grades, complete hours of community service, play sports, join clubs and possess leadership roles in each of them. Some days I know it feels like you are in a giant Jenga game, trying to balance all of the blocks so nothing topples over. I've taught teenagers long enough to know that some days you're on top of the world. Other days, you just don't feel good enough.

     This month, I want you to know it's okay. Not everyone can sit in the front row and get the highest score on the test. It's okay. What I considered cruel as a twelve year-old, I now know was a method of motivation. You see, I studied extra hard for every math test after that first one. I wanted to move up where I sat. Other students did the same. And when you did move up, Sister Mary El cheered you on, making a big deal of where you sat. Sister Mary El taught me how to look the world straight in the eye. Even when her team lost--and the Red Sox lost the World Series after seven games and most notably, a 10-inning game won by the Mets in game 6 that year--she didn't give up on who they were. And I want to tell you, neither will I.

    Think about what you've accomplished this month. My IB English students composed digital compositons comparing Hamilton, Antigone, and the songs of John Lennon that were nothing short of incredible. Composition Theory students have tutored close to 400 students by now and are working on a research project that is college-level work. My TOK juniors are developing strong topics for their extended essay research, and TOK seniors have almost reached the finish line of IB assessments. What I need you to know more than anything is that you are more than a number. You are more than a grade. Those things don't define you. They never should.

IB English students collaborating

Composition Theory working on an advertising project

TOK Juniors researching their Extended Essay

                TOK Seniors planning their final essays

     What I learned from Sister Mary El is that sometimes we need to be serious, but other times, we just need to wear the red knee socks and hope for the best. Don't lose sight of who you are. Act as if what you do makes a difference--because it does. Sometimes we just are misunderstood. Honestly, I find very few people in life understand me. They don't understand why I don't like cheese, why I'd rather read a book than watch the movie, and why I struggle with conflict, emojis, and all things that bark. I'm misunderstood on a daily basis, and I'm okay with that. So as you go through life and feel that same kind of misunderstanding, know it is okay. I wish I could help everyone--including the colleges you are applying to, seniors--know how great you are, how smart you are, how utterly hardworking and creative you are. But what I can tell you is the advice I learned from reading Ralph Waldo Emerson in college: "To be great is to be misunderstood." Emerson goes on to describe a litany of people in his essay "Self-Reliance" who were misunderstood but went on to do amazing things. So if you're ever at a point when you feel misunderstood, when you're wearing the red knee socks in a sea of Mets fans, know perhaps it's because you're great. I hope you always see yourself that way, even on the days when it's difficult to. I know I do. 

I Just Want to Let You Know: My Word for 2022

     

     When I was in ninth grade, I learned to type from Mrs. H. She was a no-nonsense, strict teacher who rarely made time to smile.   Her classroom had posters of giant keyboards on the walls close to the ceiling. For those, I was grateful, as I spent most of my freshman year looking up, my head craned to make sure I typed just the right letter. You see, while I wanted to look down as I was typing, every keyboard was covered with wallpaper that fell over our hands as we were typing. The only place I could look for help was up. I imagine being a keyboarding teacher was frustrating until your students learned to type. I'm not sure how many words I can type per minute, but Mrs. H. would be proud of my skills today. However, there was one day where she certainly was not--the day I turned my head away from the posters near the ceiling. The girl sitting next to me wanted help with her computer, and I was trying to assist her quietly when Mrs. H. yelled at me. "I just want to let you know," she said, "I am the teacher here, not you." Embarrassed, I silently looked down at  my wallpaper-covered hands and continued to type. 

     Perhaps Mrs. H. was going through something I didn't know about; perhaps she hated teaching keyboarding. Perhaps I was the last straw; maybe four other students in the class before mine annoyed her, and I was the one who made her snap. I think this moment upset me so much because all of my life, while I was corrected when I was wrong, I was also praised when I was right. My mom celebrated all kinds of moments with banners hanging in our kitchen. Never did I receive any kind of praise from Mrs. H. In fact, I don't think she praised anyone.

Eight year-old me the summer of 1983

I admit in that moment in Mrs. H's class that I was not focused on my typing, but it was for a good reason--helping someone else. Whatever the reason that caused Mrs. H to yell at me, when I am  taken back to my days as an awkward ninth grader with braces, wobbly arms, and a stiff neck from looking up at that keyboard poster too much, I often think of that moment--that time and space where I felt misjudged and unworthy. 

First day of 9th grade--braces and a LOT of hair

     For the past several years, I have chosen a word to drive the new year. In 2017, I vowed to be all in. In 2018, I sought resolution. In 2019, I wanted to find and be the good. In 2020, ironically, I chose the word embrace. Little did I know that in a few short months any kind of physical embrace would be nonexistent. Last year, I chose the word yet to focus on all of the things I hadn't done yet, but somehow hoped I would. Since writing that blog, I have received a Covid-19 vaccine, I didn't give up on teaching despite how hard it is in a pandemic, and I embraced many moments of beautiful irony. This year, I choose the word space. This hardly seems like a word that is goal-oriented and opportunistic, and it's far from an action, but space will allow me to grow.  Imagine the newness a space can bring: In 1929, Virginia Woolf wrote about it in her book, A Room of One's Own. Her argument was in order for women to write, they just need money and a space to do so. Imagine the freedom she felt when she was granted that space. Imagine what any astronaut feels going to space. Space is opportunity. Space is possibility. It allows us time to breathe. 

     So much of 2021 was dictated by the word space. I spent every school day making sure my students were spaced three feet apart. We spent the better half of a year socially distancing from each other. About midway through last school year, one of my students noticed the stress I was feeling and recommended the app Headspace. While I have not made meditation a part of my daily routine in part because I have a hard time sitting still and being quiet, (perhaps Mrs. H. was right, after all), I've learned so often to take a deep breath, to give myself some space. So many things came out of living our lives in a pandemic, and while they all are not positive, we have learned resiliency and adaptation. I have binged more tv and read more books. In the past year, have logged almost 500 miles of runs and cooked over fifty new recipes. A hug has come to mean something. Most of all, I have grown to appreciate  the space I have learned to give  myself and others. 

     My goal for 2022 is to close the spaces that need closing and open the ones that need time to breathe. What things and people  can I make more space for in my life? Where do I need to close the gaps? Yesterday, Megan, one of my best friends from college, texted in our group chat her goal for the New Year was to "let them know." She tries to tell others--to let them know--when she sees them doing good things. That idea seems so simple, yet I think it's brilliant. Perhaps if we all lifted each other up, if we all told each other when we were proud or impressed or inspired, we would close the spaces that exist between others. And perhaps we would also be able to slow down ourselves--giving ourselves space--to truly notice the good.

     That idea of recognizing the good is definitely different from the ninth grade keyboarding classroom, where I found myself unworthy. I wish I had the chance to talk to Mrs. H after she yelled at me in front of the class. Instead, I spent the rest of the year in silence. If only she had let me know when she saw me doing something of value instead of something punitive. How might things have changed? Life is all about relationships. What we do with the spaces we place in between others, how we approach the spacebar of life is our choice. So, Mrs. H, I just want to let you know, I can type rather quickly because of you. You've taught me a skill that has always stayed with me long after quadratic equations and the periodic table escaped my brain. For that, I am grateful. This year, my hope is to give more space to myself and others, to always let them know. 

Happy New Year to my students and readers!