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

  I wrote this blog seven 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 2023 who I am going to miss. It's also dedicated to my own daughter, Maggie. I know I will be leaving a piece of my heart in Morgantown this week, but I also am so very excited and proud for what's to come for you. 

     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. (Perhaps this explains the amount of shopping Maggie and I have done this summer). 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. 

      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. Make good choices and take responsibility for your actions. 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.

    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 you are, what you're doing, who you're becoming. Maggie, as your mom, I am so grateful to have had a front row seat to watch you grow into who you are today. I may be leaving a piece of my heart in West Virginia, but I'll be returning home knowing you are ready for these new experiences. 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. Spread your wings. Soar high--because you are ready. And remember I will always be proud, so very proud that you were my students, that I was your teacher.

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!

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.