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!