College Edition: When You're Here, You're Family

     I remember feeling like a guest in my own home when I would come home from college. There suddenly were rules. My mom had cleaned and rearragned my things in my room. My brother and sister were different; they seemed closer. My mom would cook my favorite meals for no fancy occasion at all.  It's strange feeling like a guest in your own home.

     If I can be honest, I'm beginning to hate seeing my former students with visitor's nametags. Don't get me wrong, I LOVE that you are all coming back; it's the yellow visitor's tag that I hate. It puts a barrier between things. It's like how I felt in college all over again; you are a guest in your own home. You were once a part of room 211, but now, suddenly, you have to wear a yellow rectanglular sticker to return to my room. You once came in full of energy or complaints about all of the work you had or tired because you stayed up all night finishing some IA or annotations that were due, but now you're different. Things are different. You're coming into a room where the seats already are filled. It's a bit unnerving for me if I can be totally honest. I've had numerous visits over the past few weeks, as more and more colleges are having Fall Break. One student even got stuck in my classroom for a good 30 minutes due to a non-emergency safety drill. And I have been grateful for every visit--every single one.

There is a huge part of me who would give away every material possession I own just to have one more seminar with all of you. Truly. I love the students who are now a part of my room. If you currently are a student in my classroom reading this, please know it's an honor every single day I get to teach you. Yet, as a teacher, the hardest thing I have to do is say goodbye every year to a group of students. So, when those students return, donning the yellow rectanglular badges to deem they are a visitor at Atlee, I have mixed emotions. I love having them back, but at the same time, I hate having to send them off once again.

      As more and more of you have graced me with your presence, I want to reflect on what I've learned from talking to you:

1. You've changed. It's like you're wiser and smarter and like there's some hidden secret about high school that you now possess.  I love it. It's almost as if you've crossed the line to understanding exactly why your teachers taught you certain things or made you write a certain way now. You get what high school is all about. You understand what should be stressful and what doesn't really matter after all (even though it seemed way too important when you were in high school).

2. I've also seen you seize opportunities that never could be afforded to you in high school. One of you is in a drone making club. If that is not more perfect for who you are, I don't know what is! Many of you are playing intramural sports including things like sailing. You've already earned yourself internships. The opportunities you have in college far exceed what you could do in high school. So, as much as I continuously long for one last seminar, I know that it is important for you to have these new opportunities.

3. You're more mature these days. I watched as the students in one of my classes were joking around, and one of you just rolled your eyes at me. I knew exactly what you meant by your eye roll; ironically, just a few short months ago, you were in those seats joking around with me. I single handedly gave you the eye roll--the same one that I think you now understand.

4. You have time management. The years of procrastination, the staying up nights before to finish your extended essays....I think you somehow understand how to prioritize. Maybe it's because college affords you such a different schedule. You no longer have to be a "morning" person by default. You have time in the day to study, to call home, to text your former English/TOK teacher, to play ultimate frisbee on the lawn. Regardless, I loved listening to how you now have prioritized your time.

5. There's nothing you can't handle. You've proven that to me by the way you describe your classes. You've proven it to me by what you've told me about the clubs at your school and your roommates and your professors who don't grade as easily as you would like them to grade. You've proven that to me in some of the college papers you've sent me to read. I'm proud of you for that; I always will be.

      Fourteen years ago, the Olive Garden launched an advertising campaign with the slogan, "When you're here, you're family." I always have loved that idea of having a place where any time you entered, you felt like family.

The t.v. show Cheers that aired when I was in high school and went off the air the year I graduated had the same kind of feel; it was the place "where you want to go where everybody knows your name." The lyrics to the opening theme song have always stayed with me:
                                         

I like to hope my classroom is like that for all of you--your home, the place where everyone knows your name. So, please continue to visit 211. Wear those bright yellow rectangular visitor badges and know that despite the fact that they may place a barrier between us because you don't get to stay (and I have to sadly say goodbye all over again), you are always a part of room 211; you are always welcome home. My door will be open, you will never be a guest, and I always will be excited to have you back.

Do You Hear What I Hear?--Finding Value in Listening

     Have you ever listened--I mean really listened--to the sounds around you? I sometimes step outside at night to listen to the sounds of my neighborhood--the hum of the cars skidding over the railroad tracks that run behind my house. The gentle rhythm of the cicaidas. A dog barking in the distance behind my neighbors' wooden fence. Listening always slows things down for me. I suddenly become aware of so much of my surroundings.

     I've learned in life that there are listeners and there are talkers. One of the first things I've ever noticed about my husband and his family is how it's hard to get a word in edgewise. They like to talk, leaving the listening up to others. My huband and his sister are the most fun to watch, as they battle in a tour de force that just might resemble a Civil War battle when it comes to talking wars. Someone eventually surrenders while the other inundates the air with words. With my more timid personality, I always have had a hard time trying to compete to speak. So, I remain quiet much of the time. I listen.

     I've always been a listener. In high school when they handed out senior superlatives--most of which were humorous and gently poking fun at members of my class--I received Best Listener.

I have this face that screams, "Tell me your story. I'll listen to every word. I won't judge, and I won't tell anyone else." It's not easy sometimes to feel like you don't have a voice. Yet, sometimes I view my role of secret keeper as far more important than the person who tells them. Most of the time I find value in being all ears.

      There really is something valuable about this skill of listening. And it's something I don't think we do enough of in this world. I'm guilty of it, too. My kids will be saying something to me, and I'll be doing something I deem "important" at the moment, and all of the sudden their words are just words--floating in the air void of meaning and understanding. "Are you even listenng to me?" one of them will say, and I quickly try to repeat what my subconscious has heard. My husband gets the same treatment sometimes. This weekend when he was droning on about Aaron Judge and the Yankees' chances, I know I did not hear all of the words and am grateful there wasn't a quiz following our conversation.

     A friend of mine recently posted this image on Facebook.

The Dalai Lama's words are so important. We've got to listen to learn something new. This past month as the school year began, I have made a conscious effort to listen. Here's what I've been listening to and what I've learned:

      First, I listened to a former student as he challenged me upon his graduation to incorporate the song "Wish You Were Here" into one of my lessons. I found this idea amusing at first; I will be honest. I have used music in the classroom in the past, but how in the world would Pink Floyd fit into one of my lessons? I listened to the words of the song that I had heard so many times before, but this time I really listened. And then it hit me. The song became an introduction to literary analysis in my IB English 11 class. We analyzed one line of the song and gradually deciphered meaning from the entire passage. And this became my opening message for you,  my students: Not to be a lost soul swimming in a fishbowl year after year. I encouraged you to try something new, to set new goals. You listened; this phrase has crept up into your writing and your attitudes. And I learned that perhaps we as teachers don't have all of the ideas and answers. We need to listen to the challenges our students throw at us sometimes.

     The most recent project, called "Humans of Atlee" required you to interview someone at Atlee and listen to their story. In collaborating with Mr. Leise's graphic design students who will create a design around your writing, we will continue to demonstrate true communication skills. This idea of really listening to someone's story is not something we always stop to do. I've talked to many of you who have been inspired by the people you've interviewed and who learned something new in these stories.

      Theory of Knowledge has also been a class where I learn far more by listening than talking. That class lends itself to listening to ideas and formulating opinions and maybe even reforming those opinions sometimes. The current senior TOK class has spent the past month studying history as an Area of Knowledge. In doing so, perhaps the most profound lesson was our Socratic seminar discussing what happened in Charlottesville this summer. I watched as people who usually are quiet in seminars had their voices heard and people who speak quite regularly were able to listen. I listened to the differing opinions around the room, and I marveled that the classroom could be a place for people of your age to express such opinions. So often I feel like we stifle our ideas because we are afraid of what others will think. This was not the situation on that day discussing Charlottesville--a day we may not have agreed but one where we did listen to each other.

      Just last week the junior TOK class painted rocks with inspirational messages as an introduction to CAS (Creativity, Activity, Service). We walked over to Cool Spring Elementary School (taking the long route) to leave our mark (or rocks) for the students there to find. As I listened to the sounds of the voices of you on that walk, there was an energy that inspired me. Later that evening, Dr. Brown, the principal at Cool Spring ES, sent me an email thanking us for bringing joy and inspiration to the Dolphins. I couldn't help but think of the power of listening in this situation. These young kids were inspired by our messages. These young kids just might have a better day because of a painted rock they found on their school grounds. These young kids are listening.

     We need to continue to listen to one another instead of constantly wanting our voices to be heard. Sometimes, it's in the listening where we learn the most. This Saturday, I had the honor of attending everyone's favorite 9th grade Pre-Bac teacher Ms. Shivers' wedding.

As my husband and I sat at a table with no one we knew, I started thinking about this idea of listening to others. I started thinking about how the people closest to us were at one point strangers in our lives. That idea is pretty amazing if you think about it. As I listened to the gentleman next to me--a complete stranger--talk about growing up in Atlanta (something this native New Yorker definitely could not relate to), I realized I have a lot to learn about people and can only do that by listening. I realized how we can impact a complete stranger just by listening to his story.

     As I allow this blog post to come to an end, I want to reflect a bit on what happened in my classroom last year. Back in February, I spent a day out of my regular instruction promoting to my students the idea of living your life one percent better than the day before. What I thought was going to be just another lesson that didn't mean a whole lot turned into something vastly different. My students listened. And gradually, they changed. And so when I presented this same idea to you this year, I have marveled at the number of you who have already written about it or talked to me about the idea. It's simple really. Do something--just one thing--better than the day before. I challenge you this month to allow that one thing to be to listen to one another. I challenge you to let your voices be heard but also take the time to listen before you respond. Listen to the sounds of each other's voices to car horns to good music. Listen to the strangers you meet in this world instead of being dialed into your phone or avoiding making eye contact with others. I think about the sounds that I hear on a daily basis: the high pitched voices of my children, fire trucks speeding down New Ashcake Road, the sound of the keyboard, the crack of the baseball bat at Atlee Little League, laughter, my phone indicating a new text has come through, students engrossed in heated discussion, the music of the Beatles, Dr. Wheeler's confident voice on the morning announcements, the sounds of the last bell on a Friday, new words that only teenagers seem to know and speak, the alarm at 5:20 am as I pull myself out of bed, the student who just needs someone to talk to. No matter how much everyone around me continues to talk, I will be listening--always listening, always learning.

College Edition: Be The Music While the Music Lasts

College Edition: A blog entry written to the AHS Class of 2017...

"You are the music while the music lasts."--T.S. Eliot

     I've always been drawn to music. In elementary school, the band instructor would bring in all sorts of instruments and allow us to try them to persuade us to join band. I never could get a sound out of a single instrument. It's always bothered me. I remember asking if I could play the triangle because I knew my capabilities and limitations. The band director chuckled and moved on to the next kid, saying he didn't have room for a triangle player in the band. When I was in the fourth grade, I was asked to mouth a line in the chorus instead of singing it. The chorus director announced to the entire chorus that one person was "off key." At the time, I never understood why she asked me to do that, so I obliged. Reflecting on it now, it is another example of how I am not musical despite the fact that I feel like I live in a musical world. I'm drawn to all types of music. Music has been known to make the hairs on my arms stand up and make me cry. It is one of the most powerful forces in my life.

    This summer I had to adjust to a quiet household after 9:00 p.m. My husband was working in Harrisonburg, my children were asleep, and I was left alone in my living room. I was the master of my domain; I could have watched whatever t.v. show I wanted, lounged and read any book of my choice, and yet, I felt so very alone. I turned to music. I constantly played music during the quiet moments in my house. The musicians began to speak to me in ways I had never experienced before. Everything from Khalid to the Beatles (no surprise there) from the Eagles to Ed Sheeran. I always have been that person who has a song in her head. I know that if I had to have a theme song for when I entered the room, it would easily be something like Michael Jackson's "Man in the Mirror." That song connects with me. I understand the values of that song. I wake up every morning to Tim McGraw's "Humble and Kind." It is an early morning reminder (a 5:20 a.m. reminder for that matter) on how to live my life. I spend 3 minutes and 54 seconds of every day listening to my favorite Beatles song "Let it Be." I am inspired by the idea of Tom Petty's "Into the Great Wide Open." And I constantly am mesmerized by the range of someone like Adele or Whitney Houston, the tenderness of Elton John and Eric Clapton, the intimicy of Jack Johnson, the sounds of Raury. When I get a song in my head, I often can't get it out. For three hours today I had "Despacito" on my brain thanks to my children. Does it surprise you that my son Jack knows all of the Spanish words to that song that I despise? But I digress.

     Last Friday, I woke Jack up for school, and he looked me straight in the eye and said, "I'm not going to school."

     "You're going," I said sternly.

     "I've already done this for five years. I'm not doing it anymore," he said. It was then that I started to panic. What if he remained so headstrong that he completely refused?

      I quickly retorted with, "If I have to carry you to the bus stop, I will." He didn't look amused. But neither was I. When Jack came downstairs, I decided that I needed to change my attitude. Demanding he go to school was not going to fix things but make him even more resistant. So, I turned to music. I started playing the 80's anthem, "Pump Up the Jam." It's a horrendous song, really, but it's upbeat and chock full of lyrics to get you moving in the morning and always brings me back to my eighth grade years. As I danced around the kitchen, Maggie and Katie started to laugh. That's the reaction I was going for. Jack finally looked at me and said, "Mom, you know the food I just swallowed?"

    "Yes?" I said.

     "It's starting to come back up."

      The cleverness and quick wit of that kid never ceases to make me laugh. And all of the sudden music had brought him out of his funk. He may not have bought into the sheer awesomeness of "Pump Up the Jam," but he was smiling...and on his way to school.

     I used to teach with music on a regular basis. Instead of teaching grammar through the traditional textbook like I was supposed to be doing, I printed out song lyrics. My students identified prepositional phrases from the Beatles' "Let it Be." They labeled common and proper nouns in Billy Joel's "We Didn't Start the Fire." They eventually started to bring in their own song lyrics. My students were recognizing grammatical patterns in their own music. Marvin Gaye's "What's Going On" helped my students explore the injustices in Antigone and the Notorious B.I.G. came through to study the theme of greed in The Pearl with the song "Mo Money Mo Problems." So when challenged after graduation by Jack Snider to write a lesson around Pink Floyd's "Wish You Were Here," I was bound and determined to come up with something.

     I ended up using that song on the first day of school to teach not only analysis but my overall message for the year. Students first analyzed the album cover.

Then, they looked at one single line, trying to make sense of it all "chopped up" in a magnetic poetry format.

When given the full lyric, they explored larger themes and ideas, even colormarking the song lyrics.

Students were particularly drawn to the line, "We're just two lost souls living in a fishbowl year after year." Ultimately, I presented my overall message to them for the school year through Pink Floyd's lyrics: Don't be a lost soul living in a fishbowl this year.  I encouraged them as the song suggests to be learners who are engaged and fearless. I stressed the importance of being people who don't let an opportunity pass, people who take chances. The music spoke to my students. They wrote statements for homework that evening about working to escape the fishbowls in their lives, vowing to make the most of every moment. And so lies the power of music.

      "You are the music while the music lasts." I've started to think about this line from a poem by T.S. Eliot a lot this week. What does this mean? Live life to the fullest while your song is being played. It means making the most of every moment. It means taking chances and exiting the fishbowl of familiarity. I found myself this week starting to feel suffocated and overwhelmed. I have a lot on my plate. I told that to someone recently, and he asked if I had carrots. I didn't think it was funny at the time. I actually was slightly annoyed, but I'm laughing now.  If you can't have a sense of humor about life, you really aren't living. Still, this past week I started to question how I can be everything for every person in my life. I was about to lose at this balancing act until I ran a race this morning to support those battling childhood cancer. I didn't want to run this race; I had far more than just carrots on my plate to tackle this Saturday, but a current student encouraged me to run. I never run with music during a race, but felt like I needed music this morning. The first song I heard as I turned to my go-to running playlist was "Man in the Mirror"--my enter-the-room theme song. There's nothing better than hitting the pavement to Michael Jackson. I listened to the words through a fraction of mile 1, and somehow everything seemed to click. "If you want to make the world a better place, take a look at yourself and make a change." I have control of my own destiny. I am the master of my fate. I am the music while the music lasts.

      I vowed in that moment to make the most of my life, and that's what I want to end on as words for you all as you are finding your way at your new college "homes."  Make the most out of your experience. College will throw you curveballs, and you will forget the lyrics from time to time. That's okay. Live life to its fullest. Take advantage of every opportunity. I will go to work Monday stronger than I was on Friday because I don't want to waste away a moment. How I wish I had never counted the days away in my life.

     So, I hope this gives you an idea of what to do today, of how to live. Take a look at yourself and make the change that seems right to you. Swim outside of your fishbowls. Live life to its fullest. Be the music while the music lasts.

Shipbuilders of the Future: A Message to Begin the 2017-2018 School Year

     In my recent trip to California this past summer, my husband and I found ourselves on a boardwalk of sorts overlooking the San Francisco Bay. The view was breathtaking. There was a World War II ship that resides in the bay that intrigued my husband and me because both of our grandfathers fought in World War II, his serving in the Merchant Marine Academy on a ship similar to the one we saw.

While walking down the boardwalk, my eye caught sight of a sign giving information about the ship, stating how this ship was built in part by high school students. I stood in awe of that fact--a ship built by teenagers. That one sentence really resonated with me. I seriously couldn't stop thinking about it all day.

     Let me backtrack to why I couldn't get that sentence out of my head. When I began my student teaching 21 years ago, one of my friends asked me why she hadn't seen me on campus. When I told her I was student teaching, she replied, "You will be the best kindergarten teacher!" The surprised look on her face when I told her I was teaching high school is something I never will forget. "Why would you want to do that?" she asked me. That age group just inspires me. It is the age where they are coming into who they are as people of the world, where they have the potential to make huge changes and dream big. My teenage years were fantastic in part because of my teachers. Twenty-one years ago, I wanted to be that teacher to show the teenage generation that they matter. Twenty-one years later, I still want to be that teacher. 

                                A young Mrs. Pace in her first year of teaching circa 1997 
                 and a more "seasoned" Mrs. Pace in her 18th year of teaching circa 2017. 
                   The hand gestures and excitement for teaching have not changed.

When asked what I do for a living by people who I don't know, I'm usually received with a look of raised eyebrows and surprise. Whether or not it's intentional, people tend to judge teenagers too much. They assume that all fast driving and reckless behavior are attributed to the teenage population I am inspired by on a daily basis in my classroom. I've seen the stereotypes infiltrate society: teenagers are lazy, ungrateful, and spoiled. They are addicted to their phones and have no motivation except to play video games. Teenagers today get more bad press than any generation in history. Yet from my view, I just can't find the truth in those statements. I see what teenagers are capable of doing. I see their kindness and witness their ideas that have the potential to change the world.

     So, as we begin the 2017-2018 school year, I want to tell you my goals for you--the shipbuilders in my classroom. This advice also can apply to my own children who are in elementary and middle school. I want you to work hard but know that it's okay to make mistakes. That's where true learning occurs. I want you to read the books and write and rewrite generously. I want you to connect with others in the room. Like any classroom, my classroom is a community. In order to be a part of the community, you need to talk with one another. I remember observing a class a long time ago, and the students didn't even know one another's names...and it was May. Get to know one another. Get to know me. Know that I am an avid Beatles fan, but they are not the only band who makes the hairs on my arms stand up when I hear their music. Know that in my eyes, there is nothing more powerful than a handwritten note or a good book or a smile and that most of my thinking and ideas for lessons is done on my daily 5:20 a.m. runs (Yes, I do get up that early). Know that I am passionate about teaching and passionate about being a mom. I think the roles of a teacher and mother are often interchangeable. I am trying just as your parents are to lead you in the right direction--to help you make the right choices.

     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 you for a 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? These are questions that keep me up at night and ones in which, unfortunately, I don't have an answer.

     So here's the final thing that I want to tell my students, my children, and anyone else who is a student this year who is willing to listen: Forget about the expectations others put on you. Set your own goals. Realistic goals. Ones that won't compromise your stress level and sanity. Don't try to do something big. Do little things every day. I recently heard that advice when I went to visit my husband's grandfather in Lynchburg  (the same one who served as a Merchant Marine in World War 2) . One of the ladies who stopped to say hello to him told me that and said that she had to retrain her brain entirely after her stroke. She is completely functional now because she didn't try to do it all at once. What a profound accomplishment. What profound advice.

     More than ever, I encourage you to be the best version of yourself on a daily basis. Last year, I introduced my students to the idea of being one percent better than they were the day before. I challenged them to do just that--to find a way to minimally improve their lives every day. The way those students changed and grew was one of the most remarkable things I had ever witnessed as a teacher. They were kinder and more compassionate. And nothing revolved around a test score or a grade. They just did it because they knew that if they lived this way for a year by the end of the year they would be thirty-seven times better. They did it because they cared and put kindness first. They did it to make a difference. So, don't worry about being the smartest or the most talented or the fastest or the student involved in every club. Be 1% better. Be kind. Spread that movement. Be the nice kid who gets along with everyone. Be the nice kid who celebrates the successes of others, who makes good choices. Be the student who the teacher remembers as the nice kid.

     I'm still in awe that the ship I saw in California was built in part by teenagers. I am one of the luckiest people in the world to spend seven  hours each day with such a population. You may tease me ruthlessly about my Beatles-loving, emoji-hating, Taco Bell-loathing self, but you keep me young and make me smile. You make me think. You are the ones who make me 1% better. You are the people who are the shipbuilders of the future. You are my clients--all 149 of you this year--and I will work as tirelessly as I can to get you to improve your writing, analyze texts critically, speak eloquently, but most importantly be better, kinder people and global citizens. Shipbuilders, my classroom is ready for you. I am ready for you. Here's to year 19 of a journey I am thankful for every single day!

 

                                       

You Had Me At Hello: Reflections As I Begin My 19th Year of Teaching

     As I head back to my classroom on Monday, I can't help but think of the iconic line from the 1996 movie Jerry Maguire: "You had me at hello." At the time of seeing that movie, I was puzzled. How could someone feel so connected to another human being with just the simple word hello? I remember watching Renee Zellweger undoubtedly join Tom Cruise with his goldfish in hand and leave the business world as she knew it to begin anew. How could she let that simple word hello lead her to the decision to quit her job?

I tend to wear my emotions on my sleeve, but I understand that others aren't always so quick to open up, especially at the word hello. Sometimes it's just difficult to make a connection with others. When you think about it, life is all about connections. We have connecting flights; we often connect the dots between things. We experience bad connections on our phones, computers, etc. We attempt to "get connected" through social media (although I may argue those aren't always real connections, but that's a topic for another blog). I've seen people hired or achieve things because of the connections they have. Life is about making connections, and as I prepare to head back into the classroom on Monday, I am reminded of this idea, the connections I have, and the ones I hopefully will be fortunate enough to make this school year.

      People often ask me why I teach. The simple answer--connections. I enjoy the relationships I can make with people. I love the fist bump from the student who initiates that as he walks into my classroom. I love when a student emails me an article that has to do with something we are discussing in class. I even have learned to appreciate the high five from the teacher across the hall once he learned to lower his hand to my height level. I am inspired by learning new things from my students--words that never would have been in my vocabulary, emojis that I never would have used (Okay, poor example. I rarely use emojis). I love sharing ideas with my colleagues. And I love re-connections--those moments in life when that failed connection picks back up again. Recently, one of my former students told me that he doesn't ever say goodbye in life. "It's a small world, and you never know when people will pop back up," he wrote to me. That really resonated with me; today I want to tell you about some of those reconnections and how small the world of no goodbyes really is.

     Two years ago, I was on the dance floor at my husband's cousin's wedding at the Homestead. I suddenly felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to find a young man with a smile on his face. "Mrs. Pace?" he asked. I stumbled through the rolodex of student names in the back of my head to remember his.

     "Davis?" I asked. He beamed, proud that I had remembered his name. I beamed, proud I located the correct rolodex file. I had taught this young man over 15 years ago. I remembered he played baseball at Mills Godwin High School. He remembered I played music in my class to teach grammar. I was so glad to have made the reconnection.

    I always tell students that the hardest thing about being a teacher is knowing I might not ever see my students again once they graduate. So, coincidental reconnections always make me happy. In 2007, my daughter Katie was born at St. Mary's Hospital. After her birth, the nurse in the operating room pulled down her mask. "Hi Mrs. Pace," she said. Kathleen. Kathleen was a student I taught many years prior, another appearance of a student recurring in my life.

     Last week, I led a professional development session and was walking around answering questions and getting to know the teachers in the room. I came to a table of three teachers, and one of them looked at me and said, "You were my English teacher in 1999." Caitlin. What a fortunate reconnection, especially knowing that a former student became an English teacher.

And then there's Kyle. When I taught him, Kyle was disrespectful in class. He put up a big front, rarely letting me or anyone else in. Several years ago, I had a knock on my classroom door--Kyle. The image of the boy I had remembered was replaced by a young man in a military uniform. He started by telling me that he returned to apologize for the way he acted in my class and that he appreciated what I did for him as his teacher. This was certainly a reconnection I will never forget. And maybe that former student was right in never saying goodbye; life has a way of enabling us to connect with the people we need when we need them most. 

     Last year, was the first time in my teaching career I questioned why I taught. It was an unsettling feeling.  I had never felt this way before; teaching had been my dream job since I was playing school in my basement as a seven year-old. It is my passion, and somehow, I saw that passion slipping through my fingers. Don't get me wrong. I have had plenty of bad days in the classroom. My colleagues in my first year of teaching certainly can attest to plenty of my tears of frustration. More recent colleagues have also witnessed the tears. Yet, this feeling was different. I never questioned why I had taught before. I was overwhelmed by the expectations of this profession in a way I had never experienced. I felt suffocated; I was drowning. You know when you’re swimming underwater and you open your eyes and can see the surface of the water, barely out of reach? You push off the bottom of the pool floor and dive up to the top, resurfacing as the water splashes across your face? I couldn’t even see the water’s surface. I kept sinking deeper and deeper to the bottom of the pool, being sucked down by the drain I was petrified of as a little kid. So, I did the only thing I knew to do--I put a smile on my face and kept teaching. I decided not to let anyone know the uncertainty I was feeling.

I went through a good portion of last year feeling that way. It’s been the first time in a long time that I didn’t feel like I was making an impact. I wrote college recommendation after recommendation (almost 50 to be exact), I served on countless committees, I edited college essays, I graded more papers than I want to think about, but I didn’t feel like any of it mattered anymore. Why did I feel this way? I had stopped making connections. I began to let the hard parts of this job consume me. I existed on this island that was purely my own self-pity. I didn't let anyone in, and once I finally did, it was almost too late.

I somehow finally turned to a colleague for help. She perhaps found herself in the wrong place at the wrong time, but she didn't avoid me or ignore me. She listened. She connected with me. And what she helped me to notice is the importance of making connections. To that one colleague who got me to see again why I love my job--I can't thank you enough. Because of you, I started to talk to other colleagues more, and I started to pay attention to my students--really pay attention to them. And my attitude transformed entirely.



About halfway through last year I made a conscious effort to really connect with the people who spent time in four classes in my room over the past four years. I watched my students--students I had taught since they were freshmen--grow into kind human beings. Through their words and actions, they showed me what matters in life--and taught me that I matter. What they accomplished last year to me was awe inspiring, and it didn't center around a grade or a test score. It centered around being better people than they were the day before. By the end of the year, I didn't want my students to leave room 211. I considered barricading the door, but I thought most of them would easily get past my five foot one self. I considered failing all of them, but I try not to let failure be an option in my classroom. So, I said goodbye--a goodbye that was not easy nor pretty. They came to my house for breakfast on graduation day.

Some of them sent me pictures of themselves before they headed to college. Some of those pictures were really sad ones like the dog on top of packed clothes or a packed trunk with the caption to mimic an earlier blog of mine: "A Comforter, Shampoo, and a Whole Lot of Stuff."

I even got a video of a college dorm room all set up and another of one of my students studying. While I will miss these students not being a part of room 211, I know I will always have the ability to make connections. And it was these connections with students that resurrected my love for teaching.

Yet, it wasn't just the students who enabled me to find the joy of this profession. My colleagues did as well. I remember the first time I heard the term "Raider Nation." It was at the opening faculty meeting when I first came to Atlee. I never had heard a school referenced as a "nation" before and found that an interesting choice of words. Yet, that's the perfect word for all of you. As a faculty, we are one nation--one group of people who make connections with 14-18 year-olds on a daily basis. We connect with their frustrations, their struggles, their work ethics or lack thereof, their affection for their iPhones, their fidget spinners and water bottle flips (Yes, that was so last year. I'm sure there's some new thing that awaits our rooms this year). We are compassionate about our subjects but even more compassionate about each other and our students. We take care of one another. We are connected in a way that no one else can deny. We are the Raider Nation.

     Every time I feel like I want to give up on teaching I will remember Davis. Kathleen.
Caitlin. Kyle. I will remember the connections I am able to make in room 211. I will remember my students from last year--the ones who I almost missed out on because of my lackluster attitude for a few months when I was busy questioning why I teach. I will remember that one particular colleague who listened to me unconditionally to show me the impact connections can have. I will remember my colleagues of the Raider Nation. 

     I head back to the Raider Nation on Monday.  I won't wish the days away this year. I won't be hoping June can't come fast enough--even on the hard days. (Please remind me of this statement if I start to complain or grow frustrated or overwhelmed). It's not always easy to return to school after a restful summer of freedom and pool-side reading, especially one that is directly preceeded by a trip to the beach. 

     Yet, this year, I have a different attitude because of the connections I know I can make. This year I return to school proud to be a teacher and a part of the Raider Nation. This year more than ever, I begin with a renewed sense of optimism, ready for the 149 students I will teach in year 19. Realistically I know every lesson will not be perfect. Realistically I know every student will not be engaged in every word I have to say. Yet, I know if I work hard enough, I can make the same connections I have made with past students--those from nineteen years ago and others from this past year.

      So, as I make my way down Cool Spring Road and turn onto Atlee Station on Monday morning, I will think about former students and my colleagues and how they helped me see the potential to make connections in something that to me is not just a job or even a profession but a passion. While I didn't realize it at first, you had me at hello.

Goodbye Unsweet Tea, Books, and The Beatles: Life Outside of My Comfort Zone in Week 9

     As a 42 year-old, I'm comfortable where I am in life. I know what I like and what gets under my skin. I love a good glass of unsweet tea, cooking Italian food, and nothing beats a run when my legs feel twice as long as they really are. A good book always pleases me as does listening to good music--the Beatles. But I digress. For all of the things that make me comfortable when walking around in my shoes, I probably have experienced an equal number of things that make me uncomfortable. One in particular I am thinking of occurred six years ago.

     Six years ago, the butterflies wouldn't settle. You know the feeling where your stomach feels like it is being separated from the rest of your insides as that flutter perpetually persists? There was nothing that I could do that morning to calm my nerves. I tried drinking a diet Coke (which I never do in the morning), but the caffeine didn't work. I tried taking a deep breath, but the butterflies still were dancing a fierce waltz. I had done this for a dozen years before; why was the first day of school so hard this year? For one, I was teaching IB English for the first time. I knew going into it that these students were so incredibly smart yet sometimes judgmental of new teachers. At least that's what I had been told. I don't remember my lesson that day, but I do remember a boy in the back of my classroom with his hand raised before I even started. "Yes?" I asked him.

     "How long have you taught IB English?" he asked, arrogantly. It was the kind of question that I could tell he already knew the answer to.

      "There's a first time for everything. This is my first at IB," I stated meekly. And there were the butterflies. My lack of confidence propelled me backwards. I didn't know how I would face those kids the next day and the day after that when they clearly had no faith in a teacher who had never taught the course. I was uncomfortable.

     Yet, that year, I learned that sometimes we need to take a step oustide of our comfort zones. If we never take chances, if we are always comfortable with where we are and what we're doing, we will never see change and progress and growth. In a poem by T.S. Eliot called, "The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock," Eliot writes, "Do I dare? Do I dare disturb the universe?" Later in the poem, he talks about measuring his life in coffee spoons. In other words, do we go about our daily lives making a large impact in what we do or do we just go along with the monotony of life--the coffee spoons? That first year of teaching IB English was a challenge for me, but I grew as a teacher in doing so because I dared to disturb the universe, because I stepped out of my comfort zone. For those of you in that first class (who incidentally are rising seniors in college), I hope I did you justice and prepared you well! And to the bold young man who asked about my tenure in teaching IB, I applaud you now. That took courage to ask me that; I didn't like the question at the time, but I so appreciate it now.

     The past few weeks I've had to remind myself of this idea of stepping outside of my comfort zone. I recently was asked to participate in a video to be shown for our opening school convocation. If any of you know me well, I can't stand being the center of attention. The mere mention of my name in a crowd makes me uncomfortable. It always has. I watch people receive awards with confidence or truly enjoy the spotlight, but I would rather just be another brick in the wall, another face in the crowd. It's not that I don't want to be awarded; I'm just better at focusing attention on others. I've always been shy--painfully shy years ago. I've actually done a lot to overcome that. Our world teaches us to always be front and center and in the spotlight. I watch so many people comfortable there. I'm just not. I never will be. I found myself in the spotlight more often than not this year for various reasons (I even have a fat head of myself from Mr. AHS thanks to one of you to remind me of that feeling).
 

The spotlight will always make me more than uncomfortable. So, when I was asked to do this video, I was hesitant--not only because it is a video that the entire school division would see but because I had to sing in the video. Honestly, I love to sing...in the shower, at home, in my car with the windows rolled down, but singing in public on a video that every teacher, administrator, school board member in Hanover County would see is not my style. I did it, though. And while I bribed the communications specialist to edit me out of every shot, I am proud for doing something that made me more than uncomfortable. I learned that one of my strengths in this whole thing is that I may not have a voice but I do have a sense of humor. My face hurt from laughing when we filmed that video. And I'm sure it will be bright red when I have to actually watch it among my Atlee colleagues in a week.

     I also found myself courageously in an online writing course last weekend. I've never taken an online course, but I signed up for this one willingly; I have had this lifelong dream to publish my writing one day and was hoping this course could be a catalyst for that goal that still sounds more like a farfetched dream than a reality. It was one of those courses where I watched a live stream of the teacher in the course, and on the side was a panel where the students in the course could discuss information and share writing. My shyness really made this a challenge at reaching out to others online who I didn't know just to share my writing. It put me in a vulnerable position. I watched as instant "friends" were made and Twitter handles were shared. Some students in the course had already written their novels. Some wrote poetry. I was the only English teacher-want-to-be writer. Yet what I got from that class was an affirmation to keep writing even when it's hard or makes me feel vulnerable. I also have so many ideas for my classes this year. Get ready to write if you are headed my way!

       Perhaps the day that put me most out of my comfort zone, though, was the day spent at King's Dominion. I'm not a large fan of amusement parks. There are usually too many people, the lines are too long, and then there are the roller coasters. For twelve years, I've happily avoided roller coasters and watched my kids on the small, kid-friendly rides, occasionally going on the carousel with them. Yet this year, everyone was over 48 inches--tall enough to ride the roller coasters. I panicked. I really did. At first I thought I would be the mom who took pictures and held everyone's stuff while my husband and three kids braved the coasters, but Katie looked at me and said, "Mom, are you coming?" And I realized that there's going to be a point in time when my kids don't want to ride a roller coaster with me. Time is of the essence, and if I don't make these memories with my kids now, there aren't going to be any opportunities for memories later. So, I begrudgingingly got on the Rebel Yell to start. I didn't feel like a rebel when I got on, and I certainly didn't feel like one when I got off. I rode many more coasters that day...the Stunt Coaster, the Woodstock Express (which, by the way, for a kids' roller coaster was terrifying), the Grizzly (in the dark, which was petrifying). My kids had no idea I was scared. I was far away from my safe zone, and maybe I would have not felt my heart racing for hours on end had I just taken the pictures and held their stuff, but I am glad I did get on those roller coasters. It taught me that sometimes everything you've ever wanted is outside of your comfort zone. I found a connection with my kids. I found happiness. I found my sense of humor these past few weeks and now have a music video on my resume. I found affirmation to keep writing.

     


Each time, I stepped out of my comfort zone, I did grow as a person, though. These experiences the past two weeks were no different....the music video, the writing course, even riding roller coasters put me in more of a spotlight than I prefer. Yet, the experiences also connected me more with people.

     In the musical Rent, my favorite song is "Seasons of Love." The lyrics begin 

Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes
How do you measure - measure a year?
In daylights - in sunsets
In midnights - in cups of coffee
In inches - in miles
In laughter - in strife


The song continues to say we should measure a year in love. Truly, I am in love with this idea of weighing our experiences by the love we share with others. In thinking about this, I would be remiss this week not to comment on what happened in Charlottesville recently.  The attrocities of violence, racism, and injustice are horrifying. I am not one to often take a political stand (another thing that makes me uncomfotable) but this issue isn't quite political; it's human. It's a situation that should not exist in 2017 or any time for that matter, and one that makes me more than uncomfortable. What if we had the courage to love? Imagine who we would be. And so, I can only find myself resorting back to my comfort zone of my friends, the Beatles: "All you need is love. Love is all you need." And that's how I will try to measure my life.

     So I leave you with this: How do you want to measure your life? Do you want to measure the 525,600 minutes of the year in daylights? In sunsets? As T.S. Eliot poetically states in coffee spoons? Or  Do you want to disturb the universe and step out of your comfort zone?  Recently I put my unsweet tea and Beatles music aside. I was far from my comfort zone in that music video, online writing course, and on those roller coasters. And as I did so, I was reminded of Shakespeare's line from A Midsummer Night's Dream: 

"Though she be little, she is fierce."

That's how I want to be remembered--the one who is fierce, who does disturb the universe, who dares to do something that scares her more often than not, who steps outside of her comfort zone every once and awhile, who measures her life in moments of love. It's a new world every time I step out of that comfort zone, but I have no regrets and know I can always come home to a book, a glass of unsweet tea, and the Beatles. They will always be waiting, but memories and experiences often will not.