A Comforter, Shampoo, and Fear: Remembering What I Took to College in Week 8

     This blog is dedicated to anyone headed off to college this month--especially my former students of the Class of 2017. Some of you are leaving this week (today); some within a few weeks. Know I am proud of you. I will always be proud!

     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 conglomorate, 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; 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 brighther." I started to cry. For those of you who know what I'm like at goodbyes (aka if you witnessed my emotions at your graduation,Class of 2017), you know I don't have an easy time. 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 amidst the comforter and bulk shampoo, I brought fear--packed into my suitcase so that you had to sit on top of it to close it. Fear wedged its way out slowly, though, creeping in all aspects of my initial college life. This summer I stumbled upon a box of old memories, including my college ID. This photograph was taken during freshman orientation. I look at it and see the fear in my eyes. You may not see it, but I know it's there, accompanying my more youthful face.

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?

     Recently, I read a book entitled If You Find This Letter by Hannah Brencher that had a line in it about failure that really resonated with me: "Fear has been hoisting failure up into that one Dirty Dancing swan-dive move for years" (195). I had the visual image in my head of my fear lifting up all of my failures just like Patrick Swayze lifted Jennifer Grey in the air in that iconic movie scene.

I needed to let it go, and after a month or so of adjusting to my new college "world," that's exactly what I did.

      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.

     When I became a teacher twenty years ago, as an idealist I had big plans to change the world. I was going to solve every teenager's problem and heal any heartache they experienced. My students were going to leave my classroom as better writers and readers. They were going to listen to everything I had to say. Somehow I envisioned them adoring every book I taught. After all, what's not to like in Chronicle of a Death Foretold or the poetry of Langston Hughes? Yet, if you look at what I've done over an 18-year teaching career, I would certainly be deemed a failure more often than not. Yes, I have helped students through problems, and yes, maybe some of you would tell me I helped you to write or that Lord of the Flies wasn't so bad after all. Yet, there are large numbers who don't see things that way and never will, and that's okay. Ultimately I've learned that my students don't always hang on to my every word. It's a humbling thing, this teaching profession.  I've learned I can't help everyone even though I still try to and no matter what I do, there are some people who are never going to love To Kill a Mockingbird (insert sad emoji here).  I'm one who tries every day to make a difference, to live 1% better. I may not always succeed; I may fall more often than stand up, but I keep standing up, and that's what matters.

     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. And 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 most bright and confident young people I know who probably don't have the fears and insecurities at 18 that I had. 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 remember the difference you make in this world. I need you to remember the lesson I taught thirty of you this year one February day in my TOK class--that you can work to make yourself 1% better than the day before. When you do that, you change the world--even if it is one grain of sand at a time. And the people I watched walk across that stage at graduation this year are the people who are going off to college to change the world. Finally and most importantly, 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. Whether I taught you once or in four different classes, I will always be proud, so very proud that you were my students, that I was your teacher.

No Words in Week 7

     "You really don't know how to write."

     Those seven words hovered in the air over my head in a lingering cloud of smoke.

     "Excuse me?" I said.

      "You really don't know how to write," my professor stated, this time, emphasizing the word really more than necessary. He was emotionless and cold.

     The words stung like the vile hydrogen peroxide my mom used to pour over my scrapes as a kid. I remember telling that professor that I wanted to be a teacher--an English teacher--a writing teacher. His eyes widened, and he grabbed a book off of his bookshelf--Strunk and White's Elements of Style. I politely accepted it and backed out of his small, pipe tobacco-smelling office, vowing never to return to office hours again. His words hurt and my dream of being a writing teacher was somehow decimated within a matter of minutes--within a matter of words.

     Somewhere between that moment and my sophomore year, I had another professor who validated my writing. Instead of handing me a text to read, he helped me; he taught me how to write. I am grateful for the lessons of Dr. Essid; I always will be. He is the reason I am passionately teaching writing today, and he is the reason why I am writing myself. In both instances, I realized the power our words have on our mental states, on our levels of confidence, on our relationships. I never did set foot in that freshman English professor's office again. There was a break in our communication because of how his words destroyed me. Seven simple words forced me to lose complete confidence the rest of that semester. I considered abandoning a teaching career. Seven simple words led me to believe that maybe my dream of being an English teacher was completely farfetched. Seven simple words lowered my self-esteem to a point where I didn't think I could ever recover.

     Words have this power that exudes from their every letter. I once had someone tell me that reading a racial slur in a book was just "words." It didn't mean a thing. I just can't see it this way. Words can hurt no matter if they are written or spoken. They exist and bear meaning from the moment they are strung together, constructed, or mouthed out loud. They can be twisted and manipulated. We let them spill out of us. Sometimes we regret them and want to eat our words. But most importantly, words can validate a person or situation. I never understand when someone says, "I have no words" or "there are no words" or "words cannot express..." In my world, there are always words.

     Honestly, I've always loved them. I love how you can join words that you never imagined together. For example, Zora Neale Hurston's sentence in Their Eyes Were Watching God "Something fell off the shelf inside of her" is pure poetry. As is the Beatles' lyric "There's no where you can be that isn't where you're meant to be." And I still say I'm having "a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day" when that does happen simply because those words have stuck with me since I read that childhood book.

 

 I love the power words can have. We can say just the right thing at the right moment. Words can make us laugh and words can bring us to tears. I love the irony words can employ; I adore puns, especially "pace" puns, and how some words simultaneously can have two totally different meanings. I know I experienced that with the Class of 2017 this past year with one particular word. I will always use the word dank to describe my basement growing up, never a meme. (Incidentally, I found out this week that VA Tech actually has a Dank Memes Club. I now have heard everything!) Words have helped me at times when I had nothing else to turn to. I have every letter, every card, every email my students have ever written me reaffirming my teaching. They're tucked away in a bag; there's no order to them, but every now and then, I take one out and read it and the power of those words comes rushing over me, flooding my memories and emotions.One of my favorite writers and poets, Maya Angelou, said that words "get on the walls, they get in your wallpaper, they get in your rugs and your upholstery and your clothes. And, finally, into you." There is no denying our words are powerful and impact us as humans.

     When I was in high school, I constantly kept a box of notecards. I would write notes to friends, to teachers, even to my parents. I have always believed I could change attitudes with words. I could make others feel validated. We all need validation in our lives. We all need that one person who believes in us, who tells us that we matter. I've made it my life's mission to use my words in that way. So, if you have ever received an email from me where I tell you how I feel, if you have ever received a note or a text or even a message on Remind where I'm checking on you or complimenting you, it's because I believe in the power of words and more importantly, I believe that you matter. I write notes constantly. I'm sincere in my words. Recently, I wrote close to a dozen letters to my friend's daughter going off to college for the first time. I sealed them in a box, labeling each one. There are letters for her to open when she's having a bad day, when she feels homesick, when she is at the top of her game. I haven't given it to her yet, but my hope is the words empower her and validate her.

      Unfortunately, this week that power of words somehow wilted. In a weak moment, my kids got me to agree to see The Emoji Movie. In a post I wrote earlier this year, "Texting, Colleges, and the Importance of Standing Out," I stated candidly about how I feel about emojis. Those feelings have not dissipated. So, I knew going into this movie that it would be painful. The movie began with the words, "The world is so fast paced sometimes, there's no time for words. That's where we come in--emojis." I almost cried in the theatre. What kind of world do we live in where there is no time for words? No time for words?

The first emoji was actually created when I was seven years old in 1982 by Scott Fahlman, a computer scientist at Carnegie Mellon University. He wanted to create something to mark the conversations these computer scientists were having with one another that were not so serious. He hit the colon, hyphen, and parenthesis to demonstrate the humor of the statements he was writing:   :-). This was before the internet exploded into every corner of our homes, before texting, even before modern conveniences like the microwave and voice mail. His "emoji" had function, yet, as I receive texts and emails from others, I'm finding more and more of them rely soley on pictures instead of words, and they become, in turn, purposeless. Yesterday alone, I recevied texts in the form of two eye-rolling emojis, five thumbs up emojis, twelve smiley faces, and three heart emojis. No words were attached. It scares me to think that perhaps we will live in a world without words one day. That vision that the Beatles sang about in "Across the Universe" when they said, "Words are flowing out like endless rain into a paper cup. They slither while they pass. They slip away across the universe" seems all too close to the reality of a world where words will slip away across the universe and escape us.

     Words should dictate our lives. I can remember the very first words my kids ever said. I countlessly said, "Use your words," when they were little and were crying instead of trying to tell me how they felt. I have a journal just for beautiful sentences I have read where the words are selected and strung together so pefectly. I've always been one who hated charades; I just want to express it in words. This week, I found myself playing walkie talkie tag with my kids. It requires careful communication of words. My kids initially struggled in giving clues as to where they were hiding, leading me on somewhat of a wild goose chase. I blame the society in which we live for that. We're being taught to not communicate as often and effectively or maybe it's just that we've learned how to communicate too efficiently. I'm afraid we are not using our words anymore.

So often we walk past one another without even saying hello. I see it happen more often than not. I say hello to someone who is texting or scrolling through Facebook or Twitter on his phone and my words don't even register. I don't want you to think this is a blog that is anti-technology. That is far from the truth. Yet, I don't think we use our technology for good as much as we can. The words we post on social media could truly make a difference. Instead, quite often they create tension. It becomes about how many likes we have or friends we can post to our profiles and who follows us and what we've had for dinner. Words are our legacy; they are how we will be remembered.  Ultimately, words can change us. They can make us long for the idea of being a better person. They can make us sit straight up in bed and tear at our hearts, leaving us with raw emotions of vulnerability, but they also can raise us up and make us believe in ourselves in a way that no emoji, no photograph, nothing else on Earth really can.

     One evening this week, my daughter asked if we could go for a bike ride in the neighborhood. I faithfully run each morning somewhere between 6 and7:30 a.m. There are people outside, but that night, espeically, there were so many people walking their dogs, running, riding bikes. It was like a whole new world to me. Katie and I rode leisurely, talking the entire time. We took a few loops around the neighborhood, and as we passed a couple, the woman stopped me and said, "Good for you. It's so nice to see you both talking non-stop. You've passed us twice already and haven't stopped talking." I felt strange to get a pat on the back for talking to my daughter. Yet, to some, words are at a high commodity, as so many of us are busy and overscheduled we don't make time for them.

     My goal in life is to keep using my words. I will keep writing, keep teaching you--my students--how much words matter. I will validate others with their ultimate superpowers. I will continue to text with the inate cleverness of words as opposed to relying on the often powerless emoji. For those of you who don't believe in the power of words, for those of you who have never tried to validate others by what you say or write, for those of you who never notice the beauty of sentences linked together, for those of you who resort to texting with just emojis void of any words, for my professor who told me I didn't know how to write, I shake my head and still don't understand. I...well...I simply have no words.  :-)

Summer Edition: No Regrets in Week 6

     I regret eating the chocolate cake. At the time, my eyes were bigger than my stomach, and I forgot about the healthy eating I regularly attempt. I regret not calling the people in my life I care about more than I do. I regret not taking a chance earlier in my teaching career to really connect with my students; so often I put up a wall in those first years of teaching. I regret not writing down my grandmother's recipes before she passed away and cutting my own bangs in high school. I regret not taking a walk through the neighborhood with the boy I had a crush on in high school because I was too shy and nervous to do so when he asked me. I regret not taking a single history class in college and not putting up more of a fight to kiss the Blarney Stone in Ireland when I was forced to get back on the tour bus. I regret not writing down every memory in raising my own kids. I don't remember some of the smaller moments anymore. Some days, I regret introducing sugar into their diets (like tonight when they had chocolate cake for dessert and couldn't settle down for bed. I suppose I will always regret the chocolate cake). Sometimes, I regret the things I say. This week I decided to write a list of the things in life I reget; honestly, the list could go on and on. Yet, despite the laundry list of regrets I seem to constantly be hanging up on my clothesline of life, I have recognized the need to live a life of no regrets. How can I have such a list and simultaneously also have no regrets? It's because for everything that happens to me, for every choice I make, every action I take, there is a lesson and most certainly, there is gratitude. This is what I've been thinking about this week, and more than ever, this is how I know I should live my life.

     I spent the first part of this week in San Francisco. The city was beautiful and now one of my favorites. I loved how in one city you could mesh Chinatown, the San Francisco Bay, sprawling hills, crooked streets, Italian restaurants with food that tastes like the restaurant was lifted straight out of Italy itself, street performers, Ghiradelli chocolate, steep roads that burn your calves on every uphill step, cable cars, and one of the best bookstores you could ever imagine. One of the things that was important that I do on this trip is run across the Golden Gate Bridge. For some reason, my husband and I couldn't figure out the public transportation system in getting there, though. We kept getting on the wrong bus, headed in the wrong direction. I know I regret the attitude I assumed as we made the attempt to get to the bridge. At one point, I told my husband that we should just forget it. I didn't need to run over a bridge. I resolved that I was going to have to be okay without the experience. So, I simply looked at my husband and said, "Let's just do something else."
   
     He stopped, looked at me sternly, and said, "We are going over that bridge!" After two hours of bus musical chairs and moments of  European Vacation's "Big Ben, Parliament," we got to the bridge. It was windy. It was foggy. We couldn't even see the bay right in front of us. To most that would have been utter disappointment. Yet, I ran and walked across that bridge. It was, by far, one of the most exhiliarating feelings I have ever experienced. I kept thinking all day that I was going to give up on that moment. I was going to forget about it because of a few small (okay, large) transportation delays. What I would have regretted had I not taken a risk and chance in the moment.

     While we were in California, the great irony there was that I kept seeing Taco Bells. For those of you who know my distaste for the establishment, the irony in this was unsettling. I began to photograph them, as I was here for a photography grant. I now have an entire Taco Bell collection:

As we were leaving a resaturant one evening, a homeless woman was sitting outside of a Taco Bell adjacent to our restaurant. She mumbled something that I didn't quite hear. I had a hard time in San Francisco seeing all of the homeless people. I always do whenever I go to a big city. So, seeing this woman was no different. When we finally got on the bus (this time the right one as we had figured out the transportation system), I asked my husband what he thought she had said. "She was begging for a taco," he said. It really got to me, and I wanted to get off that bus at that very moment and patronize the restaurant I despise so much just to feed that homeless woman, but we were long gone away from her by that point. Two days later, a man's sign caught my eye. He didn't have a sign that said "homeless" or "help." Just a sign that said "desperate times." If there was a Taco Bell on the corner, I would have bought him a taco. Instead, I took the money that I would have spent on that woman's tacos and gave it to him. You see, a lot of that trip I spent thinking about that woman, grumbling for a taco. I regretted ever making fun of Taco Bell, of defending my stance that it is not "real" food. To some, perhaps that meal is everything. How utterly selfish I started to feel. However, because I learned from this experience, some man who is experiencing "desperate times" suddeny had a smile on his face as I handed him the money. He was gracious, and tears filled his eyes. Don't get me wrong; Taco Bell is still far from my favorite restaurant, but I now will think about that mumbling woman on the streets of California more when I do frequent the restaurant. To those of you I relentlessly argued with regarding the establishment, you may be happy to know that I've softened just a bit on my opinion of Taco Bell. Perhaps this newfound opinion will bring me gratitude when I am outvoted by my kids and am forced to eat there.

     I also found myself at Water Country in Williamsburg one day this week. I am not a water ride person. Who am I kidding? I am not a ride person. I used to be. I'm not sure what happened between the age of 18 and 42 that brought me to the place where I am today. I think I enjoy watching my own kids' expressions while they are on the rides more than experiencing the rides myself now. I did go on one ride that held all five of us in a raft, thrusting us down enclosed tubes in the dark. I screamed until my throat hurt as my son told me several times to "Get over it, Mom!" After the ride, I asked him what he wanted me to get over. "Get over your fear, Mom," he said while laughing. "It's not that scary!" I'm glad I faced my fears and went on a ride I probably would have sat out of otherwise. There were no regets.

     Still, I don't feel myself at a water park. I even have a hard time being lazy on the Lazy River, as I am one of those people who is constantly on the go or doing something. I held on tightly to the inner tube, sitting up straight. I finished the loop, got out, and watched my kids go around one more time. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of a gentleman on a two person raft. He was completely relaxed, arms hanging off the sides. I couldn't see his face until the tube turned around, and I recognized the man on that raft. My husband. I laughed at the sight, wishing I could feel that same relaxed feeling, regretting how sometimes I take life too seriously.

     So, this week, I've been thinking about how to live a life without regrets. What does that mean? It's one thing to say something like "No regrets," but it's another to actually practice it's meaning. There's no denying it; everyone has regrets. Yet, if you are someone who realizes that everything we experience shapes who we are today, there's never a reason to regret anything. I started to think about how I could live a life without regrets this week. For one, I have started to tell more people that I care about in my life how I truly feel about them. Yet, I've also realized I can do things like trust my instincts, take life less seriously, and take more risks. I have realized that I can turn the failures in my life (like the inability to navigate through San Francisco's transportation system) into bridges that connect my failures to lessons. I've realized the need for me to be myself. I'm never going to be lazy enough to be on the Lazy River, and Taco Bell will probably never be appealing to me. However, I can look at life a little less seriously; I can embrace Taco Bell every once in awhile

     Yet, the experience this week that has forced me to really reflect on living this life of no regrets was attending the celebration of life of my friend's husband. Here was a man who lived every day in strong faith without regrets. I read about that in the newspaper; I listened to the beautiful words of my friend as she bravely and beautifully spoke at her husband's funeral. I heard it in the words of the police officers at the funeral as well as his friends and other family memebers. I heard it in the music his daughter and his best friends played. Yet, I knew he lived life this way just in the first time meeting this man. He had come to Back to School Night his daughter's freshman year. His wife--my colleague--could not come because she was hosting her own set of parents in her classroom down the hall. There was something about him that was different from the other parents in the room who just had questions about pre-IB ninth grade English; he had a presence about him that radiated through him--he was so very full of life. You could just tell that he lived a life of no regrets. And what I've learned most through this tragedy his family is experiencing is to live my life this way--a life without regrets. I need to stop what I'm doing and live in the moment. I need to take risks. I need to have gratitude. That's how my wonderful friend's husband lived. The loss he leaves behind in his family is beyond tragic and beyond words. Yet, he also has left a life that has taught so many--including myself--the importance of no regrets.

      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 and act in gratitude for such lessons. Yet sometimes that acceptance is so hard. I've been listening to the song "Let It Be" by the Beatles a lot this week. I'm not sure why, but it keeps popping up on the radio, on my playlist while running, even in two stores where I've shopped. Paul McCartney wrote the song about his mother Mary who died when he was 14. McCartney's mother came to him in a dream ten years later when he was stressed, uttering the three simple words "Let it be." He took her words and put them to music. I can't help but think that sometimes  we have to just learn from our life experiences instead of regretting them. We need to ride that water slide and recognize the need to not take life so seriously--even while on the Lazy River. We need to not give up on that bridge and recognize that someone else's treasure (Taco Bell) may not necessarily be ours, but that's okay. Sometimes we just have to "Let It Be" and live a life of no regrets.

Summer Edition: The "Bay Side" of Life in Week 5

    This blog comes to you all the way from California. I actually wrote a good portion before I left, but finished it up here. I miss my cozy kitchen at home where I listen to music and write. Writing from a hotel room did not inspire much creativity in me. My husband tells me it makes me a "real" writer to write the way I am, in the confines of a hotel room, but we're all "real" writers; some of us just choose to write more often than others. Regardless, here are my thoughts for Week 5 of the summer...
  
 I remember the day this picture was taken. I was six. We were at the bay.

                                                   Tobay Beach, 1981

Growing up on Long Island, we went to the Tobay Beach regularly. Only, when my mom took us by herself, we only went to the "bay" side because she didn't know how to swim. There were no waves at the bay, just endless sand and water that maybe created some kind of movement if a boat came close enough to shore. We safely played in the sand, making a "bakery" of cakes, pies, and cookies out of sand. (Why build an ordinary sandcastle when you can create an entire bakery of sandy sweetness?)  So, on the weekends when we went to the "ocean side" when my dad was with us, it was a thrilling experience, like that roller coaster you're nervous to go on but muster up enough courage to do so anyway. I remember holding my dad's hand, petrified of the waves crashing on the shore. They were fierce mouths of fire in my six year-old eyes that could swallow me up whole. My dad would try to let go, forcing me to embrace the ocean that I feared, and I remember my brother, sister, and I singing the Beatles song, "I Want to Hold Your Hand" to him as loudly as we could. I often wanted to bail on those waves and run straight to the bay side. While the waves drowned out our voices as we were singing, they never drowned out our fear of the thunderous ocean because of our rare exposure to it. This dichotomy the beach created for me as a kid--the safe bay side and the fearful ocean side--left me with a mixture of emotions and serves as a perfect metaphor for life. So when my daughter Katie uttered two words in the car on Tuesday of this week, it brought me back to the moment of the safe bay and the fearful ocean all over again.

  They were just two words--two words sounding from my nine year-old daughter's lips this week that got me thinking. As she sat in the back seat of the car, Katie sighed deeply and said, "Life's hard."

     "What did you say?" I asked, afraid I had heard those two words correctly.

     "Life's hard. Why does life have to get harder as I get older?"

     "What do you mean by that?" I asked increduously.

      "I mean last year I didn't have to worry about stuff. Life is harder this year."

I felt as if I had failed as a parent. No child should have to grow up thinking life is hard. And she couldn't really explain why she felt the way she did as we talked the rest of the ride home. It was a great conversation, though--one that you end by saying "Good talk" and mean it, and one that easily ends in a hug. Yet, I left feeling unsettled. I struggle with this idea of life being hard, especially for a nine year-old. Life is hard, of course, at least from my 42 year-old eyes. And I really didn't have an answer for Katie as to why it is that way.

     As I thought more about this, I was reminded of the difference between the ocean and the bay I experienced as a kid. When we were at the bay, my mother didn't worry about us. Everything was easy. When we went to the ocean on the weekends with my mom and dad, there was that fear--both from my perspective and that of my mom who didn't know how to swim. Life suddenly became more difficult.  Perhaps my initial thought of failing as a parent is all wrong, though. For, if life is totally easy for kids, how are they ever to learn? I would never know how to swim in the ocean if my dad didn't bring us there to experience it. Today, the ocean is one of my favorite places on Earth. But would it be if my dad never brought me there to face my fears? Maybe life needs to be a combination of both--always--the hard and the easy, the yin and the yang, the bay side and the ocean. For, our hardships help us appreciate the easier parts of life.

     So as I was sitting in Richmond airport this Wednesday, just watching the people as I was waiting to board my plane to California, I couldn't help but think about the stories of the people before me. There are so many people with stories that I just don't know. Why can't we talk to each other anymore? Most people looked straight at their phones without even making eye contact. We don't talk and we don't listen to one another enough. We need to talk to one another. We need to be honest and say, this is what I have going on in my life. This is not easy. Yes, life's hard. Instead, we tend to hide behind Facebook posts and Tweets and sometimes even text messages.

     Whenever I travel, I do end up sitting next to someone on a plane who talks to me. Most people are annoyed by that, but not me. I like listening to people's stories. I'm not always the one to initiate that conversation, and this time was no different. Before I could place my bag underneath the seat in front of me, the man next to me peered in it and said, "That looks like a lot of work in there (I had a laptop and 4 books in my bag). You must be a teacher." I laughed and told him that I was, indeed, a teacher and that most of what was in my bag were books I wanted to read. The conversation that ensued was brief, but I had the chance to tell him about all of you--the students who I taught this past year. I always am grateful for any chance I have at telling someone else about what I get to do for a living. The man on the other side of me actually removed his headphones as I started talking about teaching, asking all sorts of questions. I had both men fully engaged in conversation at 6:45 in the morning. It's so important to talk to one another.

     As a teacher, I am faced with those two words Katie said to me this week--life's hard--on so many occasions. I've had students tell me their struggles in emails, in conversations, in things they've written. Recently, several of you have been through some pretty difficult moments; I can't even begin to express how hard it is to see my students struggle. Two of you in particular lost your dads recently, and I truly am so sorry for this loss you are going through. More than anything, I wish I could change things for you. I never believe teachers should have all of the answers, yet in these situations, I wish I did have an answer for you as to why life has to be so hard, as to why things happen the way they do.

     What I do know is this. Life is a series of moments where we are forced to let go. In a memoir I read on the plane over to California, Hannah Brencher perfectly explained this: "You just start to get comfortable with a place, or a person, or a job, and then everything shifts and you have to find new balance again It happens over and over again..It almost feels like at some point life whacks you on top of the head and hands you a list of all the things you can keep. The list is surprisingly long. You can keep letters. You can keep trying. You can keep secrets and you can try your hardest to keep promises. You can keep your eyes on the road. You can keep photos and you can keep the memories. But you cannot keep people. People are not things-- you can't keep them"  (48). I wish I could hold onto everyone I have met and known--even the people who have treated me badly. I really wish I never had to let anyone go. Life's hard.

     So where do we go from here? We continue to talk to one another. We don't make assumptions that the people we know--even the ones we feel we know well--are okay. Relationships are everything in life. Hardships are inevitable, but the fact of the matter is, we need each other to get through them. As a teacher, the most important thing I can do is build a relationship with my students. That matters far more than a test score or whether or not you've mastered literary analysis or how to write a knowledge question. I used to hold my thoughts and ideas close to my heart. When I first started teaching, I was afraid to tell my students how I felt. Veteran teachers would warn me to distance myself from students, to not smile until Christmas. How truly wrong they were.  So many things in our lives we hold onto tightly instead of spilling them out in front of us for others to hear and know. We need to talk to one another, we need to tell one another how we feel, we need to help others balance the bay side and the ocean side. Remember, people are not things. Sadly, we can't hold onto one another forever no matter how much we want to.

      That is what I've thought about since I've arrived in California. I've spent time seeing Monterey Bay. It was peaceful as the water quietly brushed against the rocks.

 I also spent time on the Pacific Ocean (my first time in the Pacific) at Monterey Beach and Carmel Beach watching the waves roar against the sand. My feet immersed in that cold water, and I felt the same thrill I felt when I was six years old at the beach with my dad. I may no longer be afraid of the ocean, but I am in awe of its size, power, and intensity.

                                                                                         First time in the Pacific Ocean

 Life is messy, but it's how to handle the mess that matters, not how fast we clean it up. It's how we balance the bay side of things and the ocean side. What I've realized on this trip more than anything is that everyone in life has hardships. Everyone has those moments where they experience fear in the power of the ocean, where life is far more challenging than the tranquility of the bay side. I wish I could grant you only "bay side" moments, but seeing the Pacific Ocean the past two days has made me realize how powerful life is in those "ocean side" moments as well.

     Ultimatley, I want to end this blog by taking my own advice and telling you how I feel. What this week has taught me more than anything is how fragile life can be and how we need to tell the people in our lives what we think of them. So, I feel compelled to tell you, my former students, right now how much you are valued...how proud I am of you....how much I loved teaching you....how much I respect the human beings you've become...how creative and smart and so very funny you are. I am lucky to have the relationship I do with you and hope I hold onto that relationship for a long time. May you always have many more "bay side" moments in life, but when you do find yourself on that "ocean side" of life that is hard and challenging and makes you feel like giving up or fearful of what's ahead, remember I'm always here.  That's what I ended up telling my daughter Katie when she uttered those words "life's hard" this week. I'm always here. Remember, I'm always here.


 

 

 

 

Summer Edition: Definitions of Wonder Woman in Week 4

     When I was a little kid, I wanted to be Wonder Woman. I would watch Linda Carter on the t.v. show transform from a normal, everyday woman to someone whose lasso and wristbands could fight off anything. I was eight and thought I could do the same thing every time I wrapped socks around my wrists. Even when I was four, I donned Wonder Woman underoos and put on my own red knee socks to serve as her boots. I searched high and low this week for that picture of my sister and me dressed as Wonder Woman, but sadly, I could not locate it. I am sure it's in a box at my parents' house or my sister somehow has possession of it. Regardless, it demonstrates my true passion for Wonder Woman at an early age.

      Fast forward thirty plus years, and Wonder Woman still follows me. In a conversation I had with my mom this week, she said, "Kelly, remember, you don't have to be Wonder Woman." I was telling her how I was having a hard time this summer keeping up with everything, which is extremely ironic considering the only "real" job I have is to be a mom to my kids. Yet, when I found myself cutting the grass after swim team practice while simultaneously grilling dinner, I felt sort of like Wonder Woman--the woman who has to do it all and do it all well. The definition has changed a bit from the woman that I emulated as a kid who fought off evil with her wrists. Some days, I'm just trying to survive the battle, especially when eight year-old Jack Pace corrected a 35 year-old's grammar the other day. In public. To the man's face. This week I've learned to recognize my limitations. I'm trying my best to stop feeling like I have to do everything. It's not easy for a person who doesn't have time to ever be bored and who tends to read three or four books at once, but I really am trying. I've recognized my flaws; I'm not great at enforcing my kids' chores, paying attention to when they're swimming at swim meets (I somehow miss a child swim every single meet), and getting the laundry put away. I sometimes go until 2:30 before I think to eat lunch because I lose all track of time. Forget fidget spinners. I just need a bell schedule to keep me focused. Yes, this week, I'm trying to recognize I don't have to be Wonder Woman.

      Yet, I still aspire to be that woman who conquers evil with her golden lasso and flashy wristbands. I did a little research on Wonder Woman this week. Her character was created by a psychologist named William Marston in 1941. Marston wanted to create a superhero with a new power who would triumph with love. Marston's wife Elizabeth insisted he make his character a woman.  I went this week to see the movie with Maggie and Jack. Jack laughed at all of the adult-humor jokes, and I sat there hoping he wasn't really getting them. Remember, this is the same kid who corrected a 35 year-old's grammar; I have my hands full. I know we had some passionate discussions in the Class of 2018's Theory of Knowledge class on the viewing of this movie, but I'm not trying to rehash those arguments. Rather, I want to tell you about why I've been thinking about this movie all week. As the movie's plot unfolded, I realized this is the movie the world needs right now. We live at a time when hatred is prevalent--from the person who turns the other way instead of helping someone to crime, violence, and drugs. Our nation and our world are in trouble in terms of the way we treat one another and the way we look at ourselves. I considered my own small world this week and watched two people I know within the past two weeks lose a family member due to drug overdoses. Both of the deceased were in their twenties. Both had full lives that they could have lived yet they sadly found themselves on drug-laden, destructive paths. While I did not know either twenty year-old who passed away, I have seen what their deaths have done to their families. And I've realized that the problems of our society are not as far away as we sometimes think.

     There was one quote at the end of the movie that particularly resonated with me:  "I used to want to save the world, to end war and bring peace to mankind. But then I glimpsed the darkness that lives within their light, and I learned that inside every one of them there will always be both--a choice each must make for themselves, something no hero will ever defeat. And now I know that only love can truly save the world. So I stay, I fight, and I give for the world I know can be." I sat in that theatre with tears in my eyes, listening to those words. I wanted to fight for what is right. I wanted to stand up for love. And I wanted to remind the people in my life to always love--to love who they are, to love others.

      I went home after that movie and saw pictures on social media from former student Jack Wilson who had attended the KKK rally in Charlottesville that day. I suddenly felt guilty that I had sat in a movie theatre thinking about the importance of love in the world while this young eighteen year-old was actually doing something about it.

                        

Photo Credit: Jack Wilson, 7/8/17

LOVE is going to save the world. It's the only thing that truly can. I know the words came out of a movie that most would find highly idealistic, but I am an idealist to a fault. Maybe the solution to everything is that simple. LOVE. It's a word that transcends age, time, race, etc. We wouldn't have racial problems and prejudice if we had it in unlimited quantities. That KKK rally wouldn't have even been a possibility. And so this week I can't help but be reminded of what John Lennon so eloquently wrote: "Love is all you need."

     So I want to focus this week on the acts of love I witnessed...a family in my neighborhood opening their home and pool to host the birthday party of a little girl who has Stage 4 cancer.....former students reaching out and inviting me to catch up at Starbucks....journeying back to the mountains to return with my three kids in my back seat....lunch with former and current colleagues....the friend who brought me a gift this week just for something I did to help her....the neighbors who snuck in our house with the spare key to decorate the kitchen for Jack's birthday...the stranger who brought me endless water bottles while I was timing at the 95-degree swim meet on Wednesday...the letter from a former student who is living his dream in the Air Force Academy (One of the best things about being a teacher, by the way, is seeing your former students fulfill their lifelong dreams).

     This week, I realized I was trying to see too big of a picture. Again, I was looking at that definition of Wonder Woman as the person who can do and fix everything. Instead, I made some conscious choices to help others in much smaller ways. I cooked dinner for two families who needed it. I brought slushies to a friend's daughter who had jaw surgery (I had one myself, by the way, and now highly recommend the watermelon slushie at Sonic). I wrote a letter to a former student who I knew needed some inspiration. I made a key lime pound cake for a friend I know needed baked goods more than I do. I walked my friend's dog this week (and I am petrified of dogs). These actions are such small things, barely counting as acts of kindness, really. We need to start small, though, to conquer the big problems like hatred, like drugs, like the deflating kindness of some of the people in our nation. I am smart enough to know that a key lime pound cake and walking a dog are not going to stop hatred in the world or solve our war on drugs. Yet, small acts can multiply into larger ones. It's all about changing a mindset through the ripple effect. I have a new project that I want to take on if I have the courage to do so. It started with a TED talk I watched this week of a young college girl who had low self-esteem and wanted to fix her situation. What she did and spoke about in this TED talk and in her book (which is one I recently ordered) inspired me. She started a movement that fits perfectly with the live 1% better idea I try to uphold. I may be calling on you to join me in this project if you so desire. For, as fast as hatred, drugs, prejudice can spread, we can combat them with love even faster.

     I think back to the picture of four year-old me posing as Wonder Woman, and I can't help but think that my four year-old self was more capable of saving the world than my forty-two year old self. Life has become harder with steeper uphill battles. One thing I do know is that I need to try to stop being Wonder Woman in the definition of being everything for everyone, of trying to do it all. I can't. I am only one person who, like everyone else walking this Earth, is sometimes just trying to survive above water. Yet, I can do something. I can be the Wonder Woman who fights for love, who uses her talents for good. So maybe writing about love in this blog is part of  how I assume the Wonder Woman persona. Maybe writing about the need for love is not as passive of an activity as I thought it was. I may be too idealistic for some; perhaps some of the more jaded people I know stopped reading this blogpost long ago. That's okay. However, if you've made it to the end, thank you. This week, my perception of kindness and how to save the world has changed for the better simply due to 2.5 hours I spent in the movie theatre. So, if you're looking for me in the near future, I'll be donning the metaphorical flashy wristbands and golden lasso in the hopes that love can conquer hate and truly save the world.

Summer Edition: Lessons of Sharing in Week 3

I’ve spent a fair share of this week driving to Orkney Springs, about 40 minutes northwest of Harrisonburg. I would so much rather drive to the beach, but I’ve actually done this drive to the mountains four times within one week to visit my husband who is working up there and to take Katie to camp. The drive is 2 hours and 43 minutes to be exact. At least that's my record so far. (I have four more trips to make up there this summer). There are more than a dozen Taco Bell restaurants from Mechanicsville to Orkney Springs in case you are wondering.

     For those of you going to JMU, there is one at both exits surrounding the campus exit. You are good to go...or maybe you're not. It all depends on your perspective. I have done this trip so much that I have started to know where the roads curve once you get off of the highway and when Jack will start to feel carsick. I’ve listened to everything from the Beatles to Fleetwood Mac to Garth Brooks to the Eagles to Michael Jackson to Khalid to Imagine Dragons to the Rent soundtrack to even Radio Disney and Kids Bop (the most painful of the listening). I’ve consumed plenty of unsweet tea to keep me awake and opened the sunroof to let the wind finger my hair. And I’ve done all of this by myself. I’ve been alone with my thoughts for over ten hours of driving this week. To most, this would be divine. Yet, what I’ve learned most from making the trip to the mountains so much this week is that life--so much of it--is meant to be shared. Yes, my children have been in the car with me, but somehow the ride is not the same when your front seat is empty and your kids are in the back seat having a two and a half hour rock--paper--scissors war as well as playing a game called calclulator that from what I've observed from the rearview mirror does involve some kind of math on their fingers. Sharing is necessary for our survival and function as human beings. We should never go at everything alone.

Most kids learn to share at an early age. Some, I suppose, are better than others. I remember watching my own kids learn this ritual. Katie, the middle child, was always the best at sharing. Perhaps it was because she was evenly placed in the middle by age and forced to do it more than the others. Perhaps it is due to her empathy; even as a baby, she cried when she saw other kids crying. Regardless, most would agree that sharing is learned at a young age. Yet, somehow, I feel like we lose this concept as we grow older. This week, this seemed to be a common theme throughout my experiences. Let me explain.

I just finished a book called, The Innovator’s Mindset that I read for a professional development workshop.

In the book, George Couros (@gcourous) writes, “Sharing should not be the exception in education but the rule” (178). When I attended the professional development book discussion on this book where about ten educators, administrators, and school counselors discussed the book. the sharing of ideas for me was inspirational. 

     I started to think a lot about this over the course of the week. When I first started teaching, a few teachers handed me some worksheets they used in their classrooms, but no one ever asked me what I was doing in mine. Did they not trust me enough to think that my ideas were valuable? Was I just the naive new teacher who had different ideas that they did not want to consider in their own classrooms? I was never a teacher of worksheets; my own educational experience included too many of them. I tucked a lot of what those teachers gave me away, thinking I may use them at some point, but they never resurfaced. It was nothing against my new colleagues; I had my own ideas to try. So that’s what I set out to do. At the time I began teaching, I was required to teach structural grammar. Instead of teaching the grammar through basic textbook exercises the way my colleagues did, though, I brought in song lyrics. We underlined prepositional phrases in the Beatles’ “Let it Be,” (Yes, I made them listen to the Beatles, too) and identified common and proper nouns in Billy Joel’s “We Didn’t Start the Fire.” My students began to bring in their own song lyrics. They were recognizing grammatical patterns in their own music. While most of the other tenth graders just lugged their textbooks to class and painfully completed exercise after exercise, my students began to enjoy grammar. They came into class asking what song I brought in that day. Some days it was a stellar classic rock selection; other days it was something contemporary on the radio. 

     Yet, I don’t tell you this story to demonstrate that I was a teacher who was forward thinking or who even had a great idea. Actually, this lesson totally failed, and here’s why: I never shared it. No one ever experienced the magic my students saw in grammar because I was too scared to share it with my colleagues who had years and years of experience on me. I was insecure and thought they would laugh at the idea of using music to teach grammar or talk about me in the lounge. Somehow, the success of this lesson got lost because I didn’t share it, because I didn’t spread the idea. Sharing was something I learned at the mere age of four and somehow, as an adult, I had failed.

Nineteen years of teaching later, I believe in the sharing of ideas. I’ve given teachers--new and veteran--whole unit plans that took me hours to create. One time, an administrator saw me teach a lesson and said, “You must have gotten that from the teacher down the hall. I saw her do that activity last week.” Ironically, the teacher down the hall got that activity from me. Initially, I was possessive over my work. Yet, I’ve realized something important: What would happen if we all share our ideas? And not just in the classroom, but in life? Think of the change we could make. We don't need to take ownership or possession of our ideas all of the time; rather, let's take the time to spread them.

This week I really thought about this concept. After finishing Couros’ book, I tweeted about the book, and he immediately responded to my tweet, asking if I would write him a book review on Amazon. Here is the review I wrote: The Innovator's Mindset Review . Along with Couros’ like of my tweet, 59 other people liked it and 8 retweeted it, most people I have never met. Twitter is a way to share our ideas. Maybe you all know this and do this already, but there are so many thoughts inside my head that I never have the courage to tweet. I realized that this week. I agonize over my Meme Monday post every Sunday night for all of you. Yet, imagine what kind of audience I could inspire if I wasn’t so afraid to share my ideas. How many people could I reach?

This past year when I was inspired by all of you to begin my 1% movement, I changed my biography on Twitter to read “What would your life look like if you lived 1% better than the day before?” It’s subtle, but I’ve already had people ask me about it. Every time I do, I share what we did in class together. In the past, I would have been scared to share an idea, to start a "movement," to cultivate a plan. I like this change.

      I've seen this idea of sharing in so many other instances of this week. I'll be honest and tell you that my Fourth of July didn't really feel like a holiday. I went to my mother-in-law's house with my kids, but without my husband, it just seemed incomplete. There were fireworks and hamburgers on the grill, and I watched my kids eat ice cream cones with chocolate dripping down their faces, yet it didn't seem right without my entire family there. My brother-in-law religiously sets off fireworks every July 4th. He's a Henrico firefighter and always takes great pride in taking the proper precautions to set off and put out the fireworks. It's his thing and has become a tradition. As we stood around and watched them, I turned around and looked over the fence at the neighbor's house. There they stood on their deck, watching our fireworks display. It was a pretty cool shared experience. They were slightly embarrassed to be looking on when our eyes met, and I just waved and told them I was glad they got to share the "show" with us.

     

Probably the lowest moment of my week was spent from 3:00 p.m. until 1 a.m. at a swim meet on Wednesday. For the past two summers, I have served as the chair of my children's swim team in Ashcreek. It is not a job for the weak; I probably worked as many hours managing the team as I do teaching. I have reveled in my "freedom" this year, as my tenure is over. However, while one of the current chairs was away this past Wednesday, I agreed to assume the role of chair at the meet. Typically that is not a terrible position; you just have to set up and clean up the meet and make sure everyone is happy. There's manual labor involved, and a lot of people pleasing. Believe it or not, I can do both pretty easily. I was fine on Wednesday until the rain set in. By the end of the meet, I was mopping rain off of the clubhouse floor and completely drenched. I was still smiling, but inside was extremely grumpy and resentful.

As I cleaned up in the pouring rain and mopped in solitude while some others stood around talking, I suddenly glanced over at my kids' four coaches sitting on the ground, soaking wet, towels around their shoulders. They hadn't eaten dinner and were sharing some pasta salad. They were laughing and joking around and looked up at me, offering me some of their communal dinner. It made me stop and readjust my attitude and realize that those four young people dedicate so much time to my kids. They shared in an experience by making the best of it. If they could do that, I could too. I never ate their pasta salad, but I did join in their laughter. It made getting to 1:15 a.m. not so bad.

Finally, I received a phone call by the end of the week from Mrs. Wendy Edelman. I am used to this call. Last summer, she interrupted me on the beach to tell me our IB results. It was a welcomed interruption. While I would have loved to be on the beach this year when she called, the interruption was still welcomed. Every year I get excited to see the successes of our students. I think about the two years of work, the countless papers, study sessions, group chats, moments of jubilation and frustration--sometimes even in the same block. I think about the commentaries and the seminars and the prescribed titles and the IAs and the annotations and the essays, yes the essays. I think about what I have a chance to do every single year. And I know I am lucky to share this experience not only with my students but with my colleagues. I remember the first year Mrs. Edelman and I taught together, and she called me with our English scores. "You did a great job teaching these kids to write," I told her. "Your scores are fantastic!" She stopped me and reminded me that these were OUR scores. WE worked together to do this. While I certainly am grateful that Mrs. Edelman does bat clean-up when it comes to IB English instruction, I also know that we are a team. Those scores are a combination of junior and senior year. They are a shared experience. We share in your joys, your successes, your frustrations. We plan ideas and our curriculum together, and together, we certainly are proud of you, so very proud.

Life is meant for sharing. That's what I've gotten out of this week. I think about this as I remember the very first blog I wrote. I was so scared to hit the publish button. What if no one reads my words? What if what I have to say is not worth sharing? That first blog was read by 125 people! My latest blogs reached close to 250 views. It’s not because I’ve gotten better at writing them or even that I am a good writer in the first place. I’m actually still scared to press the “publish” button most of the time. It’s because I have realized that everyone has something important to share. So this is my challenge to you this week. Share a part of yourself you would not usually share with someone else. Maybe it’s an idea, a story, a kind gesture, or even a meal at Taco Bell (know that wouldn't be my top choice, but for those of you who have fought me on this all year, this one's suggested with you in mind!). Maybe those early lessons of sharing are the ones we need to return to in our adult lives. Life is not a solo ride no matter how many hours you spend in the car passing Taco Bell signs and listening to an eclectic collection of music all the while glancing in your rearview mirror to be sure your kids aren't killing each other. It's meant to be shared. I challenge you to be brave enough to share an idea, a thought, a perspective with someone this week. And more importantly, consider sharing with me what happens when you do. I look forward to hearing from you!