#AtleeStrong: Hug Harder. Live Kinder

     When I coached track at Godwin High School many years ago, the other head coach I worked with used to give out "happy hugs." Whenever a kid on our team was down or frustrated or annoyed, he would look them in the eye and ask, "Do you need a happy hug?" The kid would inevitably roll his eyes, as a smile crept into the corners of his mouth. A hug was never exchanged, but the idea of one simply transformed a bad attitude.

      I am a hugger. I always have been affectionate in that way. I imagine a good hug--one that lasts longer than a second and does not feel obligatory--is similar to the way other people feel about handshakes. A firm handshake conveys confidence and someone who is certain of the world around him. A strong hug demonstrates kindness, compassion, and is a way to show people they matter. This past week, I've given out a lot of hugs. Some were tight embraces where the other person didn't want to let go. So I kept holding on until they did. Some were awkward, as I am much shorter than most people and had to stand on my tiptoes. Some were given because I didn't know what to say. A hug just seemed like the right thing at the moment. One young man turned to his mom after I hugged him and said, "She knows how to give a good hug!" Yes, I'm good for something. I promise. Each  hug was my way of saying to others that they mattered. Yet, each hug also told me that I mattered.

     We don't take enough time out of our day to tell other people this. For most of my teaching career, I know I didn't tell the students sitting in front of me those words. I thought I showed them that through my passion for teaching or my desire to listen to what was going on in their world, but how many times have I honestly sat down and told someone in my life they matter to me? How many times have I told them they were important? While I may think as a teacher I am showing this to my students through my actions, I don't think I always have had the courage to say those two words: YOU MATTER.

    It can be nervewracking to tell someone they matter to you. What if you look foolish? What if they laugh? What if they are not ready to be serious at that moment? What if they don't feel the same way about you? So imagine what it is like to tell 30 students they matter. Last year was the first year I recall saying those specific words; afterwards, my class embraced me with a very claustrophobic group hug, yet it changed things between me and my students for the better.

     Quite often I find it is easier to talk about someone else than to speak directly to them. Our world is becoming more and more about screen time--communicating with others through texts and tweets instead of face to face contact. No hug can be conveyed through a text message, though. Even a hug emoji doesn't provide the same feeling. We've become so concerned with the number of followers and rewtweets and likes we garner, yet what is most important is the person behind those likes and retweets. We need to show others they matter, and we need to do this through our kindness. Kindness is not a knee jerk reaction; it is an everyday reaction. I grew up knowing that kindness was just something you did like brushing your teeth and looking both ways when you cross the street. It was not an option. You weren't kind for any bonus points or rewards or recognition. It didn't even matter if no one caught you in the middle of your kind act. For, sometimes the best acts of kindness are the quiet acts that no one knows about.

     I know I try to use this blog to write about what we are doing in room 211, but this month, that is going to have to take a back seat; instead, I want to show you the kindness I've seen around Atlee High School and emphasize the need to continue to show others they matter through kindness.

      Last month I wrote about my junior Theory of Knowledge students painting inspirational rocks and hiding them at Cool Spring Elementary School. The seniors were inspired by such an activity and took a field trip on a weekend to Pearson's Corner Elementary School just to hide their kindness rocks they made.

       Inspired by Lee Davis High School teacher, Brandon Farrar, I also encouraged my senior TOK class to thank two people for something small in their lives. We called this a lollipop moment based on the TED talk by Drew Dudley called "Everyday Leadership." I noticed some of my students were a bit apprehensive about this assignment, so the next day in class I gave them 24 lollipop moments, thanking each individual student. Many reflected later that this was one of the most beneficial assignments they had received.

     Kindness existed in small things like a student writing me a letter this past week and another bringing me an unsweet iced tea from McDonald's because she knew that I needed the caffeine to finish my grading. (She was 100% correct).

     I've witnessed kindness in CAS (Creativity, Activity, Service) service projects of many of my students. One student raised over $500 for the Wounded Warrior Project through a benefit tennis tournament. Another collected several boxes of books for Memorial Regional Hospital's patients. Two other students spent the past two months coaching my son and his teammates at Atlee Little League. All acts of kindness are ones that demonstrated to others that they are important, that they matter.

      This week, kindness existed in Sepp Shirey asking me to wear his jersey to the last home football game (one of the greatest honors I have received as an educator) and then watching him score his 80 yard touchdown as the Varina players cheered him on. I watched that moment live with tears running down my face because I knew what an accomplishment that was for Sepp. Yet, what I didn't realize until I watched the video that has been played all over social media including the Today Show and Inside Edition, that the Varina players clapped their hands as they led Sepp to his touchdown. It was their idea to lead Sepp to victory.They chose to cheer him on. The ultimate example of kindness.

     And I have seen the Raider Nation come together this week in response to tragedy. I watched as people seemed to be a little more kind and compassionate. People seemed to check in on one another. Students looked me in the eye and asked me how I was doing. I sat in the library to talk to students I didn't even know, as they told me about marching band and being new to Atlee and how much they disliked To Kill a Mockingbird (That last one I still don't understand, but I'll be kind and let it go). Students walked in my room just for a hug, not needing any words, which probably was a good thing because I didn't have the right words to say.

     Ultimately, I've learned this week to love longer. Live kinder. Hug harder. Tell others they matter. You Matter. All 148 of you that I teach this year. All of those I taught last year and the year before that. All of those who I have ever taught. You will always matter. Don't be afraid to tell one another how you feel. Hug Harder. Live kinder. #AtleeStrong #WeAreAtlee

#WhyIWrite

I wrote  my first rant in the eighth grade. It was in the form of a poem. We had to title it "I Hate" and list all of the things we hated. I remember struggling with this; I've never been a complainer let alone a hater. The final line was a direct result of my teacher's tongue-in-cheek sense of humor: "But Other Than That, I'm Not Picky."

In high school, I wrote notes to friends, folded up in intricate triangles that assumed the role of Fort Knox if you were attempting to open them. They were passed surrepitiously in class, begging to be opened when the teacher was not looking.

I wrote about my very first days in the classroom--how I lacked confidence but lived on caffeine, how I was barely swimming above water and how I just so very much wanted to change the world. I forgot that year just to try to change the 18 kids in that classroom. My goals were far too big. They still are.

I wrote about a car accident I experienced the year after I graduated college that almost killed me. The shards of glass that were in my mouth, the roll of the car three times across lanes of traffic, and my shoes that landed in the back seat of my car--all captured in a leather bound journal.

I wrote my first love letter to my husband. I gave it to him the day we got married.

I wrote a poem when I miscarried two of my babies. And another when we lost my father-in-law unexpectedly within that same week. The grief that poured out hit the paper with tear-stained emotion and a choked up sense of sadness that only could be described in words.

I wrote a heart on my children's palms the first day they went to kindergarten so they could remember I was always with them. I wrote countless notes on slips of paper, tucking them neatly into my children's lunch boxes. Lunchtime smiles.

I write letters every year to thank people important to me or to tell people they matter. People need to hear those things. Letter writing is a dying art, but one we need to continue to breathe life into. There is nothing better than receiving a letter in the mail, handwritten from someone you know. I save any letter anyone writes me. This box is 19 years of letters from students--some of the best gifts I have ever been given.

I write a blog. I attempt to give my students some glimpse into my chaotic whirlwind I call a life--my life.

I write texts--unaccompanied by emojis.

I have always been a writer. From the moment I was able to communicate and put words together, I have found them powerful. For me, I could always write what I wanted to say, even at times when I wasn't able to vocalize it. Last year, I vowed to make writing a regular part of my life. I started to wake up with sentences in my head. One night, I awoke at 2 a.m. and wrote an entire blog. Words began to creep into my mind when I was running, when I was serving as a taxi driver for my kids, when I was lying on the couch reading with my daughter, when I was cooking dinner. Words started to surround me, and I surrendered to their poise, elegance, beauty, and passion.

So why do I write?  On this National Day on Writing, I write because I am human. I write to understand humanity. I write because it is the one thing that brings us closer together as humans. Words bind us. They connect us in a way that we can't be connected otherwise. If you've ever been so kind to take the time to read my words--in a blog, an email, a letter, a text, on a napkin, or folded into an intricate triangle and passed to you in a high school class--know I chose my words carefully. Know that the words connected us; they always will connect us.  I write and never will stop writing, never stop dreaming, never stop growing, never stop believing in the absolute power of the written word.

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!