A Comforter, Shampoo, and Fear: What I took to College

  This blog is dedicated to anyone headed off to college this month--especially my former students of the Class of 2018. 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 brighter." I started to cry. For those of you who know what I'm like at goodbyes, 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?

      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 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 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.

I Just Wanted to Be Popular: Reflections from the Ferris Wheel

     I just wanted to be popular. 

    That was a constant thought when I was in eighth grade. I was at Marjorie Post Park, lacing up my ice skates with my friends when a group of the "popular girls" walked in. One of them invited me to skate with their group, and while I didn't leave my group of friends I came to skate with, I was more than flattered to be approached by the "in" crowd of my grade. In high school, this desire to be "popular" seemed to morph. While I matured a bit and didn't care about being part of the popular crowd as much, I wanted to be accepted by as many groups as possible. So, I became everyone's friend. And while that may seem admirable, it never enabled me to have a friend who knew my greatest fears and insecurities, a friend who knew my favorite candy was M&Ms and that in the fifth grade I was asked by my chorus teacher  to mouth the line of a song because I was off key. I feared being judged so much that I just tried to let everyone accept me.

     I just wanted to be popular.

       Fast forward to adult life, and I still grapple with the idea of popularity. When I first started teaching twenty years ago, I was not confident in my lesson plans and knowledge. I looked at the way I taught and noticed it was far different from the veterans I was teaching with who could just open the book and teach. I was reading and rereading; I was writing excessive comments on student papers. I was planning for hours at a time. I was teaching grammar with song lyrics and creating iMovies to introduce the books my students were reading. I don't know if I was judged by other teachers, but I do remember feeling so isolated because of my nontraditional teaching methods, and even though I stood by those methods, I just wanted acceptance among my colleagues. I also craved the acceptance of my students; instead of being concerned whether or not they were truly learning the material, I tended to focus on how much they liked my class. That was important to me (and still is to an extent) because I know that if my students don't buy in to what I am teaching, they become far harder to teach. Yet, I also have learned over time that desire to be liked and accepted shouldn't be the greatest focus of my classroom.

     Recently, I've been thinking about this idea of popularity and how easy it is to measure our own self worth against others. It's also easy to judge. I see it all of the time: We judge everything from what others post on social media to what food someone else is eating to what our friends are wearing. Our desire for acceptance runs deep as does our aptitude to criticize. I try not to do either of those things, but it's not always easy.

     This summer, I have spent a fair amount of time riding roller coasters at King's Dominion. I hate roller coasters. I keep my eyes closed and my hands gripped so tight that my knuckles are the palest shade of white. Why do I ride them? I know they make my kids happy, and while I might be embarrassed to admit it, I want them to have a mom who is willing to experience things with them. In other words, similar to my eighth grade self, I care about what they think of me. So when I finally confessed to my family that my favorite ride in the park is not the roller coaster but  the ferris wheel, laughter erupted. "That's the slowest adult ride in the park, Mom," my son teased.  To me, though, the ferris wheel is majestic. At night, as the spokes light up, flashing bright white lights into the night sky, there is nothing more beautiful in the park.  It slowly lets people on and off, ascending to the top until you sit for a little while, looking down at the entire park, soaking it all in.
       (Images three different nights on the ferris wheel at King's Dominion)

Last week, I forced my kids to go on the ferris wheel at night with me. They complained the entire time in line and then when we got on the ride, they whined about how slow it was. That is, until we got to the top. I glanced across the cart as one of their little mouths formed a circle and a gasp.
 "It's so pretty up here at night, Mom," my daughter Katie said.
  
"I still like roller coasters, but this is cool," Jack admitted. I sat with them and appreciated our view of the "Eiffel Tower," relishing in the moment that I don't always have to be the mom who rides roller coasters.

     I'll close by reflecting on a song lyric from "Already Gone" by one of my favorite classic rock bands, the Eagles:
                                                    
How much this lyric has resonated with me this summer. For much of my life, I felt like I was chained to what was popular, what looked right, what everyone else thought was the best idea. We're constantly being judged about not being smart enough, good enough. My own kids even judged me for liking the ferris wheel.

Let's stop judging one another. 

When a tragedy happened this year in the Raider Nation, I walked back to my desk one morning, and there was a note from a student that read, "You are enough." I had seen that phrase a lot, yet no one had ever said those words to me.

You are enough.

It doesn't matter what is popular or right--just that you are enough. This summer I realized I had the key at the top of that ferris wheel all along; I don't have to be chained by what others deem as right or fun or acceptable. I've come a long way from the girl who just wanted to be popular in eighth grade. I now am the person who tries to be worth knowing, not well known. I am someone who works hard not to judge or criticize. And I am someone who will always, always ride the ferris wheel, pondering life at the top as she does.