Who's Coming With Me?

     When I was in my first years of teaching, a parent came into my classroom for a parent/teacher conference and requested what seemed to me to be the impossible. The student was doing poorly in my class despite the fact that he was rather intelligent. Before I could talk about her son's academic performance in that conference, the mom looked me in the eye and said, "I need you to help me get my son off drugs." Sadly, I've been teaching too long to remember what I said to that parent, and I don't know if her son ever stopped using drugs. I do remember stammering through a response, I remember the parent crying, and I remember questioning that night if I had gotten into the right profession. I was practically a kid myself--twenty-two years old teaching seventeen year-olds. But even now with twenty-two more years of experience, I know I would struggle with that conversation even though I probably have more knowledge and expertise on how to answer it. For twenty-two years, I feel I have worked to make things that are seemingly impossible, possible.

I have been a book dealer--selling books every year to kids who have no desire to read them.

I have been a counselor--trying to dry the tears of a troubled teen because of a broken relationship or because of their latest math grade, or sadly, because of the tragic death of a classmate.

I've dealt with plagiarism, cheating, peer pressure, and bullying--sometimes all in the same class block.

Sometimes, I wake up in the middle of the night with a lesson plan idea or the solution to one of my student's problems. I find myself constantly thinking about my students and my classroom.

I have toed the line, hoping that a parent won't question my choice of literary text or the grade their child earned.

Because of the courses I teach, I have had deep conversations about racism and class and politics and the way we think. Not everyone even has these conversations as adults. I've had them with seventeen and eighteen year-olds.

I have learned the art of a selfie (sort of), chartered through the preference of using an emoji over words, explored TikTok, and listened to rap music because my students value those things.

I have written hundreds of letters of recommendation, trying to find the perfect words to describe my students to the colleges of their choice.

After twenty-two years, I have corrected more grammar errors than I'd like. I have graded thousands of essays; I have read enough literary analysis--both good and bad--to satisfy me for a lifetime. Yet, I'm still standing. (Elton John would be proud).

I have eaten lunch with students in my classroom because they don't want to deal with the social pressures of the cafeteria.

I give a presentation every single day, not worrying about public opinion. I performed a TikTok dance on stage at school and definitely worried about public opinion.

I've witnessed moments where I thought I'd never regain control of the room, wondering if I really did have control in the first place.

I've watched my students become teachers themselves.

I've smiled with tears in my eyes, as my students marched proudly across the stage at graduation, receiving that piece of paper that signifies thirteen years of learning and so much more.

I've seen students who hated to read find the right book; I've witnessed the weakest of writers finally find their words.

I've returned emails and texts over Remind late at night when I knew my students desperately needed an answer right at that moment.

I've opened my classroom early in the morning and stayed late into the afternoon because that one kid needed to talk or required more help.

I've been a cheerleader and a disciplinarian all in the same breath.

I've settled disputes, judged mock trials, helped with promposals, and picked out prom dresses. I've given advice on where my students should go for dinner before prom--in case you're wondering, never a chain.

I wear my emotions on my sleeve; I've cried in front of my students.

And I've laughed--Every. Single. Day.

     Anyone who is a teacher has had these experiences. They might not look the same as mine, but nevertheless, they've experienced the feelings these moments create. That's the beauty of teaching. I know there's been a lot of debate over how teachers feel about returning to school as of late. I'm not trying to advocate my opinion here (and believe me, I do have one); instead, I write this to remind others of just how powerful and beautiful this profession can be. I write this to remind people that this year is going to be hard on teachers, but let's face it; teaching is not easy. I write this to celebrate my profession because to me it is far more than a profession. It is a way of living. So no matter where I'll be teaching this school year--virtually or face to face--I'm still that teacher who is forever inspired by her students and who will work tirelessly to help them grow and learn. I'm still that teacher who loves what she does. I'm still that teacher who wants to make the impossible possible. That's what I vow to do this year--whether it be getting classes through virtual scenarios that just don't feel right or whether it be face to face with my students, hoping Covid-19 doesn't take over my classroom that really doesn't look and feel like my classroom, I know we can do this. Teachers, we can make the impossible possible.

     One of my favorite movie scenes is from the film Jerry Maguire. In the scene Jerry (Tom Cruise) is fired from his high paying job after writing a mission statement on the unethical nature of his profession as a sports agent. He holds a Ziploc bag with a goldfish in the air, yelling, "Who's coming with me? Who's coming with me?" to the entire office of onlookers.

I would imagine that moment was vulnerable for him, as this one feels for me right now. If you are a teacher, let's remember why we got into this profession in the first place. Let's remember the young child or teenager we once were. We needed our teachers to mold and change and help us grow. Likewise, our students need us. And more than ever, we need each other. This year, we can be the change. We can make the impossible possible.

Who's coming with me?

Using My Free Time For Good

     "What are you doing this summer?" I've been asked this question on more than one occasion recently, and I'm not sure how to answer it. To be honest, my summer has felt kind of purposeless. Vacations are different. I haven't spent my weeks at King's Dominion or the pool. I haven't made countless trips to Orkney Springs, where my husband typically directs a sports camp and where my kids rotate attending as campers. I have no swim meets to set up and manage during thunderstorms. My tutoring business is nonexistent because the SAT is suddenly not an important component of college admissions. I'm even finished my professional development. So, I've been trying to find an answer to that question, but more often than not, the search has been futile.

     It wasn't until I received a text from a student I taught several years ago that I figured out my response.  He had been asking me how I was, and I told him for the first time in a long time, I have a lot of free time on my hands and how weird it was. I didn't know what to do with the hours of my day. His response caught me off guard:

"Try to use your free time for good."

     He may not have realized this, but that text changed my summer. Things in my life often come full circle, and this was yet another one of those moments. I was receiving unsolicited advice from one of my former students--someone who years ago sat in my classroom where I gave him advice. And while I was not asking for advice at the time we were texting, he must have known I needed some. Somehow, I now had an answer to "What are you doing this summer?"

     While most people did a lot of reading and cooking and bread baking and Netflix binge watching during the beginning months of COVID-19, I worked harder than I usually do. I was worried about losing connections that I had worked so hard all year to build with my students, so I worked to hold onto those. I was nervous about my students not being ready for their IB assessments, so I worked hard to make them feel prepared. I was concerned that my dual enrollment seniors would be robbed of their college level writing instruction, so I made videos so that they understood the content and  expectations. I learned how to teach and exist in a virtual world--from conducting IB assessments to having a virtual graduation party for my seniors. I worked tirelessly to lift others up and remain positive. I helped  plan a graduation that was anything but traditional. So now that school is out, I look around and I have nothing on my agenda. The days seem so long. For the first time in my life, I have time, and I'm just not sure what to do with it. It's a change that has challenged me more than I thought it would.

     Yet, when I think about it, change has always been a common denominator in my life. I came into teaching on the cusp of change. SOL tests were in their inaugural phase during my first year in the classroom.  Most teaching was done with students sitting in rows. Grammar was taught out of a textbook with boring sentences and repetitive exercises. During my second year of teaching, my principal asked me to attend a conference with him on collaborative learning. That conference revolutionized my classroom; I started to have students work in groups--a practice that most teachers did not embrace at the time. Students sat at tables, actually looking at and talking to each other. I brought in song lyrics to teach grammar (much to the chagrin of some of my colleagues who thought I should be teaching traditionally out of the grammar textbook). As a teacher, I guess I've always learned the importance of adapting to change.

     I remember stepping onto the track for practice one afternoon when my athletes told me about what happened at Columbine High School. Those were the days long before social media, but one of the seniors had gone home before practice and found out about the school shooting. That day changed teaching in schools forever. So began the days of intruder drills and me pondering what I would do if a shooter tragically entered my classroom. Things I had never thought of as a teacher before all of the sudden were paramount. As a teacher, I had to learn adapt to change.

     I've watched the state of education change drastically over the past twenty-two years in the classroom. I've seen technology become a large part of education, as even the various platforms that I've had to use (Blackboard, Google Classroom, Schoology) have changed over the years. I've seen phones take over the classroom and have observed how social media has transformed the way students interact with each other. I've witnessed the change from not having every piece of information at my fingertips to a classroom where I'm not the key source of information in the room.  I actually remember a world of teaching when "google" was not a verb, when "Google" didn't exist at all. So, I keep reminding myself that as a teacher, I've had to learn to adapt to change.

     Recently, I feel like my social media feeds are inundated with two things--racial injustice in our country and why we should or should not return to school. Everyone seems to have an opinion. Sometimes the two subjects collide with each other, competing for my attention. Sometimes posts that are seemingly kind or about something entirely unrelated are suddenly hijacked to discuss someone's personal agenda whether that be about tearing down monuments or wearing a mask or heading back to school. And I guess I want to respond with this: Somehow in looking at everyone else's agendas, I found my own--to adapt to the changes our world is requiring of us by using my free time for good.

So what will I do with my free time this summer?

1. Embrace differences. I can't control what this pandemic has in store for us. I think the hardest thing through all of this is that we have no control. There are many moments--especially recently--where I have felt lost and purposeless.  I'm not sure what school will look like next year. Whether we are face to face or virtual, there is one thing I am sure of: I still will continue to work hard. I still will continue to make connections with my students. I still will learn to adapt to change. So, for now, I will start to think about some of the choices I will make in teaching my class under different circumstances. I have a pile of books to read because I know since our learning will probably be different, I need to choose just the right texts. So, I will use my free time to figure this out instead of worrying about the change to come or stress about the unknown. 

2. Continue conversations. I recognize as a white American, I still have a lot of learning to do when it comes to understanding racial issues. So, I will continue to educate myself. This week, I hosted my first antiracist book club which brought together many people from many different walks of my life as well as people I had never met before. The conversation was enriching and powerful. We need more of that. My free time will be spent having these important conversations in future book clubs as a means to do good.

3. Minimize how things impact me. It's so easy in life to sit and complain or criticize. It's so easy to think about how you personally are affected by what's going on in the world. My goal this month is to not be so insular in thinking about how this affects me; maybe step into others' shoes or see the positive in the world around me. The world is not easy right now. I want to hug others. I want our racial divide to dissipate. I want to see my parents. I want to go into a public place and not have to wear my mask. It's so easy to think about how life's current situation only benefits me, but I need to think  beyond that. Until then, I will adapt; I will wear the mask; I will forego the hugs; I will call my parents; I will listen to others.

      So while it might seem as if nothing is on my agenda because my online calendar app has not really been used much recently to schedule swim meets and vacations and lunches and professional development workshops, know I am doing a lot of work this summer. I am thinking about my relationships with others. I am pondering how we can exist in a world with less criticism and more compliments. I am figuring out how I can be the best teacher I possibly can for my future students who also are being forced to adapt to change. Know I'm figuring out how to continue to grow as the world changes, learning to teach in whatever way is necessary next school year. Those things might not be able to be scheduled on a calendar, but at least I now know what I'm doing this summer when asked the question. The answer is more clear than it ever has been: I'm using my free time for good.  

Hugs on Hold: End of the Year Reflections

     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. Over the past few months, I have missed the hugs. I've missed the tight embraces where the other person doesn't want to let go; so I hold on until they do. I've missed the awkward hugs that I often experience, as I am much shorter than most people and often have to stand on my tiptoes. I miss hugging someone because I just don't know what else to say. I miss hugging people to tell them that they matter.

     March 13, 2020 is a day that changed me as a teacher. That was the day I should have done so many things--but I failed. I should have stopped to talk to my colleagues more that day instead of rushing around like I always do. I should have checked on all of the students who usually need a kind word and those who don't ever expect or seem to need anything. I should have given out all of the books in my classroom so you had something to read over this long time. I should have hugged every single one of you one more time and told you how much I love being your teacher.

     Regret undoubtedly makes us human. It's one of those things that is easy to wear but rather difficult to take off. You try and try to unzip it, unbutton it, pull it over your head, but quite often it remains. The only way to remove it is to accept the lessons regret provides. So today, instead of allowing this pandemic to define me, instead of thinking about all that has been ripped away from us (including the hugs), instead of lamenting on the "should haves," I'm going to tell you, my students, what I should have told you almost three months ago and give you a virtual hug with my words.

     Juniors, you are undoubtedly one of the smartest groups I have taught in years. Every time I thought I was challenging you, I learned I could push you harder. You experienced my many mistakes in the classroom--moments when I stumbled over words, got the phrasing all wrong. A2 witnessed my first cup of coffee (disgusting, by the way, no matter how much cream you did add). You taught me my first TikTok dance and perfected my shoot (well, maybe mine's not so perfect). You discussed heavy topics like racism in today's society in such a mature, powerful way. You were readers--so many of you would linger a few minutes after class to talk books with me. You showed compassion during hard times by writing positive messages on my tables. You made me laugh with your "Joe mama" jokes, mock trial theatrics, and sarcasm. You posted quotes from The Office on my board daily and taught me what resilience truly is. Your performance on your IB oral commentaries truly amazed me. I usually don't get nervous for assessments of my students, but I'll admit, there was so much at stake for this one. I was not there with you face to face several days a week to guide you beforehand. Could I trust you to practice on your own? Were you ready? I know now that I didn't have to be standing in my classroom teaching you. No matter how difficult the time is--and we are in a global pandemic--you put in the work. You made it happen. And for that, I will always be grateful. Know that I wish I could have hugged each of you after that challenging assessment to tell you what a great job you did instead of smiling at you over zoom.

     And my seniors. How I wish I would have said thank you to you in person on March 13th. Thank you for entertaining me on a daily basis. Thank you for having a sense of humor and showing me the value in that. Thank you for teaching me that sometimes what I had planned to teach you might not be as important as what we really needed to be doing. Thank you for doing good. Yes, you did well on your assignments, but more importantly, you always chose to do good. You see the good in others and act on it. You stand up for what's right. You empower yourselves by empowering others. You didn't take a day after March 13th for granted. The work you turned in to me is not like the work I usually see from seniors who suffer through "senioritis" at the end of the year. Instead, many of you completed your IB CAS projects virtually. Some of you wrote 6-8 page research papers with complete virtual instruction. You battled through far more loss than any group could ever be expected to do, but you did it with grace and positivity. Thank you. Thank you for teaching me that what you have is far more important than what you lost. Thank you for helping me get through this time where we were stuck at home, longing to go back to school. Thank you for joining me on zoom, for making me laugh, for showing up randomly outside of my house on my birthday, for making me realize my job as a teacher is not about the grades or assessments; we found a world in this pandemic where relationships and feedback mattered far more than a GPA. That's powerful.

     As this school year comes to a close, know that the year we had may not seem ideal, but to me, it is a year that will always define me as a teacher--not because a global pandemic occurred, not because I taught virtually for the first time in 21 years of teaching, not because the seniors had a longer than usual senior skip day, but because for the first time, I know I don't need to be in my classroom to be a teacher; I don't need the dry erase board. I don't need to be summoned by bells and dodge the crowded hallways. I just need you--my students. Thank you for sticking by me through this. Thank you for reminding me you are the reason I do this every single day--whether we are looking into each other's homes over our computer screens or staring at each other in Room 211 face to face.

     Every year at graduation, one of the best experiences I have is watching my students walk across that stage to receive their diplomas--many students who have spent two years in my classroom receive that diploma as my eyes well up with tears (I'm not only a hugger but also a crier). There's a pride that is indescribable in that moment, as is the same experience when I hug them afterwards to say goodbye.

This year, for the past month I've been working on the graduation committee to rethink the way we can give the Class of 2020 the graduation that they deserve.

Next week, you may not be sitting with your entire class; only five family members will experience your moment with you. You won't sit through all of the speeches, anticipating that moment to walk across the stage. I won't be able to hug you, but know that I'll be standing there with the same pride I had for my previous students. Know how much your attitude and resilience have shaped me as a teacher these past few months. Realize how much you are capable of doing. Stop waiting for the right time to do things and go out and change the world for the better. The world needs your compassion, your kindness, your resilience, your intelligence, your strength right now. And hopefully, once you've seen what exists beyond Atlee High School, you'll come back to visit me in Room 211, where one day I can return all of my gratitude with a hug.  I'll put the hug on hold for now. Until then, know how proud I am of you; I always will be.

Keep on Dancing: Lessons My Students Taught Me During COVID-19

   Although I despise being the center of attention, I actually love to dance. I remember being at a family wedding and my sister and I made up a dance to "Mustang Sally" and had the entire crowd dancing with us. My sister and I laughed uncontrollably as the group of people we never met before joined us on the dance floor, thinking we were introducing them to the new Cupid Shuffle or the Electric Slide.  Dancing has always felt like my body's way of smiling. I don't think I left the dance floor at my own wedding. Tonight I wished I was dancing. You see, tonight as one of the junior class sponsors, I should have been in charge of Atlee's prom. I should have been arriving early at the John Marshall to make sure everything was in place. I should be holding the crowns for the naming of the prom king and queen, taking tickets, coordinating things with the John Marshall staff, handing the final playlist over to the DJ, wearing my Raider blue dress, taking pictures with my students, watching their smiles and marveling that the same students who sit in my classroom in athletic shorts and hoodies are magically transformed by tuxedos and formal gowns. I should have been talking to my students about where they went to dinner tonight.  I would have loved to share this moment with my co-sponsor Ms. Edmunds and colleagues and students. Instead, I'm thinking about dancing while I'm in my kitchen cooking dinner, wishing I was on a much better dance floor.

     I've found myself doing a lot of things these days that I never imagined myself doing. I'm hosting zooms regularly and while it's good to see my students' faces, I'd so much rather give them a hug or a high five. I'm still laughing at my botched attempt at cutting my son's hair. Recently, I've had to ration all sorts of things in my house--the number of freeze pops my kids seem to eat per hour, the tv, Fortnite, snacks, paper towels. I've been teaching multiplying and dividing integers and what a vascular plant is by conducting an experiment with celery and blue food coloring. I've been on a virtual field trip to the Great Wall of China. I'm no longer afraid to put myself on camera, as I've made more videos for my students that I ever thought possible. I ran a half marathon--13.1 miles totally by myself. I've baked cookies regularly for medical workers. I've painted rocks and a chalkboard wall in my house and played more board games than I even knew we owned. People keep calling these times "unprecedented," addressing every message, commercial, and article with phrases like "now more than ever." If I can be honest, "now more than ever," I'm tired of that word "unprecedented." But that seems to be the perfect word to describe this pandemic. All of those things--the solo 13.1 miles, the math instruction, the attempt to cut my son's hair--are unprecedented. I've never seen the world like this, and neither has anyone else. Many days I don't feel like the teacher I was just a month and a half ago. Maybe it's because I'm wearing slippers and sweatshirts instead of professional attire. Maybe it's because I don't feel like I'm "teaching" in the actual sense of the word. Someone described teaching during quarantine as throwing a frisbee and not getting anything back in return, and in a way, that's a decent analogy. It's hard to gauge student understanding. Recently I've discovered that some of the biggest lessons in this quarantine I didn't teach others; rather, I learned them from my students. Allow me to explain.

1. Show Up for People: Last Saturday when I ran that virtual half marathon, I stepped out of my house only to be greeted by my students holding up signs, cheering me on at the start of my "race." I saw another student and his mom sitting in their driveway encouraging me at mile 5. One of them looked at me and said there were very few people he would get up this early for on a Saturday. But he did. He showed up for me; they all did. Most of the race I was motivated because of those students. I wanted to show up for them. And since then, I've been conscious of the people I am showing up for, of who I am trying to lift up.


2. Know your why: Recently, I sent my seniors a survey asking them to give one piece of advice as seniors before they graduate. My plan was to create a video and incorporate their thoughts in the video. One piece of advice really stood out to me--"know your why." These three words are what have helped me wake up in the morning and find a purpose. While I am not walking into my classroom each day juggling my hot tea and bag full of papers and books, eager to write today's agenda on the white board, I am still a teacher. I have only seen glimpses of my classroom from students who have sent me photos from outside of my window (I'm so glad I forgot to close the blinds).

One of the biggest things I've learned from all of this is that I don't need that physical space to be a teacher. I just need to know my why. So this week I held writing conferences with some of my dual enrollment students. I set up individual meetings with IB English students for this coming week to help them with their oral commentary assignment. I found my why--I felt like a teacher again, and it was one of the most glorious feelings.

3. Make the most of it. Tonight when I was lamenting about how I wished I was dancing at prom, I received a text from one of my students. It was a picture of her on zoom, all dressed up with a corsage around her wrist. They were just a group of friends virtually at "prom." "We miss you!" she wrote. "Happy prom!" I responded immediately telling her how much I wish I was at Atlee's prom with them right now, and how much I loved what her group of friends did. She responded that they were "making the most of it." Immediately my mindset changed. It's easy to feel sad or scared or frustrated by the world in which we currently live. I constantly feel like I'm making things up as I go, and that's okay. It's okay to be vulnerable at this time; it's okay to be sad. Yet, I've also learned the need to smile through all of this--to make the most of it.                 
     Life is all about perspective; how we look at this point in our lives is important. My students, I wish that you didn't have to experience this in your lifetime. But we don't get to choose all of life's experiences. We do have a choice in what we do in those experiences and how we act. I'm so grateful for the students who taught me this.

          All we can do is keep on going. Smile when we can. Cry if we have to. Help each other. Hold each other up. Show grace. Stay safe. Be kind. Show up for people. Know your why. Make the most of it. Tonight, I will put on dance music. Whatever song I listen to, no matter where my dance floor happens to be, I'm going to just try to keep on dancing. I hope you do the same.


   

       


       

Smile With Your Eyes

"Smile with your eyes."

     Those were the last words I read before making my first of many on-line videos for my students this week. I'm grateful to HCPS Communications Specialist and TV-99 teacher, Mr. Brian Capaldo, for this reminder. You see, I don't despise many things in life, but I really don't like to be on camera. Brian experienced my camera insecurity a few years ago when he had to film me, and I remember him giving me that advice then. Somehow he managed to email me the very same words days ago when I told him what I was about to embark upon--a video each day to connect with my students. If you want the honest truth, I was petrified. Cameras don't lie, and I easily become shy around them. But I also know my students need to see my face. We all need to see each other. So I did what Brian suggested; I took a deep breath and smiled with my eyes. My first video was born. I've continued to make one daily.

 I've done a lot of smiling with my eyes these days because I can't seem to construct an  actual smile on my face. I just keep thinking of the things I'm missing:

I miss my school next door neighbor and one of my dear friend's laughs. Any of you who teach on the 200's hall know who I'm talking about. Heather Leise's laugh is infectious and simply the best. She keeps me grounded during the day when things get crazy or hectic or I'm stressed. Had I known we would be out for so long, I would have recorded her laugh to play on repeat.

What I wouldn't give to silence the room in B1. You see, every time I ask a question in that class, no one has anything to say. Somehow I'd be okay with that now. While we've had to continue instruction online, I really am missing conferencing with you in person on your writing.

I miss eating lunch in 20 minutes in between people asking me questions or joking around in the writing center. I miss my students who come in just to spend time in there.

I miss watching the teacher across the hall give out papers and instructions to his students as they  walk into his classroom. As a veteran teacher, I'm always inspired when he does this and long to pick up on his organization.

I miss making memes for my TOK students and having them roasted (most of the time). I'm still a work in progress. I know.

I miss Dr. Wheeler's quote on the morning announcements every day.

How I wish I could hear the banter in my B2 and B4 classes right now--the same banter I complained about at the beginning of the year that was detracting from my teaching. Yes, I miss it all.

I'd give anything to listen to a heated debate in A2. Or to read an Office quote provided by Scott and Wendy.

I really wish I could start my day with A1 and listen to the jokes from the trio of boys who sit in the back of the room.

A4, I would love to hear your perspective on this new book we're reading. You all always have something profound to say that makes me question everything I taught in the two blocks prior.

I can't believe I will admit this, but what I wouldn't do to witness students walking around doing TikTok dances.

I miss heading into my IB Coordinator, Wendy Edelman's office to get her expert advice on something new I want to try in my classroom.

I miss rushing my own kids out the door for school. Now they just show up in their pajamas. One of them is still late so I guess some things have stayed the same.

I'd give anything to eat inside any restaurant (I'd even patronize Taco Bell and Waffle House right now). I want to go back to the days when milk and toilet paper were plentiful and I didn't have to tell my kids to wash their hands every five minutes. I'd even take an afternoon carpool.

How I wish I could set foot in Room 211. School fuels me--not the physical classroom or the work (although I find my work meaningful)--but the conversations I have with colleagues, the students who are so creative, who think outside the box and ask all the right questions. It's crushing me not to spend these weeks with my students and colleagues if you really want to know.

So I just keep smiling with my eyes--embracing the discomfort with a little bit of a twinkle and optimism. I think of what I've done this week. Just because I don't have a classroom doesn't mean I haven't stopped being a teacher. I've set up on-line "office hours" where students can ask me questions about their learning or just check in. I'm learning all sorts of new ways to use technology. I'm putting myself on camera to connect with my students. In a world where I'm usually against the use of too much social media, I've spent more time connecting with people online.

I'm running my own school in my house (I'm not quite succeeding in this endeavor--yet).

   

Thanks to a friend's idea of kindness, I've sent all of my daughter's Girl Scout troop's extra cookies to thank the medical personnel at St. Mary's. I've gone for long runs and spent a lot of time with family. I've finished several books and given out lots of recommendations. I've gone from the fear of missing out on things to the fear of just missing things. There's still that feeling of longing for what's missing, still that lump that forms in my throat when I think about my students--especially the Seniors--and what they are feeling and thinking right now. My heart breaks for my former students who were supposed to graduate from college this May.

And so, I encourage you to continue to smile with your eyes. I know this is not ideal. You don't deserve this. No one does. But what you've taught me in the many videos, photos, and messages that you've sent me this week is that you have grit and perseverance. You're not going to let a virus keep you from being positive. You know the power of kindness. Often in hardship, kids learn from the way adults respond to things. In this situation for me, it's been the opposite. I've learned so much from the way you, my students, have responded to this pandemic. You've told me things about your lives, you've checked in and have made me laugh. For that, I'm grateful.

When this ends--and it will-- maybe we'll be better, stronger. Maybe we'll live in a world where we don't take so much for granted, where we don't count down the days until school ends but savor the days as they last.

So, I'll continue to smile with my eyes. I'll continue to make videos even though I still am way out of my comfort zone. Why? Because you matter. Because I miss you. Because we need to get through this--and we will--together.

Raising the Roof for Metaphors: My Struggle to Motivate My Students

    In my first teaching job, I found myself teaching eighth grade remedial reading at Fairfield Middle School in Henrico County. After interviewing with more than a dozen school systems all summer long, I was hired the day before school started. I was twenty-two, naive to believe I could make a difference, and living a dream I had since I was seven years old when I played school with the stuffed animals in my basement. My new colleagues were excited to learn from me; they started to ask me questions about the teaching of reading, thinking I was a reading specialist because of what I was hired to teach. The truth? I never even took a "how to teach reading" course in my undergraduate degree, and I had no idea how to motivate young readers who were reading on a fourth grade level in the eighth grade. The honest truth? I was scared. I told my new colleagues I was far from a reading specialist, met with the school division's English specialist, read a lot of books on teaching low-level readers, and began a journey looking straight ahead, determined to motivate these young kids.

       I'd like to say I got every kid in that classroom reading on grade level, but that didn't happen. I'd like to say that when I took my students to the library, they couldn't wait to check out a book, but that didn't happen either. My students genuinely hated reading because they couldn't read well. At their age, I would walk to the public library from my house at least once a week and spent hours picking out books. So I couldn't relate to the idea of being unmotivated to read. I decided I needed to think smaller and work with them on some of the basic reading skills they needed. I also realized that I needed to get on their level.

     One day, I was teaching them the difference between a simile and a metaphor. They had been learning poetry in their eighth grade English classes and were struggling. I sensed the struggle and frustration in the room as I started asking my students questions. And so, I altered my plan for the day and decided to have some fun with what they were learning. "Okay guys," I said. "Every time you hear me read a simile in the poem, I want you to raise your hand, and every time you hear a metaphor, I want you to raise the roof for metaphors." I mimicked the "raise the roof" motion with my hands over my head, and all of the sudden they understood, as they raised the roof at appropriate times, smiles donning their faces. Laughter erupted, and I realized for the first time they really were learning. In the middle of the class, my principal, Dr. Ford, walked in. To describe my first principal, he was tall, commanded the presence of any room he entered, and I was petrified of him. He looked at me, and in an angry tone said to me, "Miss Nagle, what in the world are you doing in here?"

     I didn't know how to answer his question. I didn't know how to tell him that I am doing what I always dreamed of doing, and that these kids are getting it--really getting it. I didn't know how to say that for the first time, these kids seemed motivated, and it was all because I asked them to have a little fun while doing so. I inhaled deeply, looked him in the eyes as the class silenced itself, half of the students' arms still suspended in the air over their heads. "Dr. Ford," I said, "With all due respect, sir, we're raising the roof for metaphors." He took a step back, stunned that what was going on in that room was not chaos, but indeed, real learning. He joined in my crusade to raise the roof for metaphors.

     I think back on that moment often even twenty-three years later. Those kids were motivated that day because I got on their level. I took the time to understand the way they learn. I made reading fun in a world where they never believed it to be. Even the principal thought we were goofing off instead of learning. In twenty-one years of teaching, I've watched various instructional methods come and go, but the one that has never left my classroom is how to motivate students by connecting with them. Yet, the longer I am in this profession, the harder motivating students seems to be. Maybe it's because there are many more vices that distract students including texting and social media. Maybe it's because society puts so much more pressure on young people today to be everything and do everything. Maybe it's because I am older and sometimes have a hard time getting on your level. Whatever it is, I constantly change teaching practices or create new ones based on what I think will motivate you, my students. Allow me to explain...

     How do you bring a play about gender roles written in 1947 to life? You let your students create memes and TikToks to illustrate the book's themes. And then you struggle with grading the assignment because you have no idea what some of them even mean. The students understand all of it, though, and laugh through the class as we present them.

     How do you give students a break when they haven't had one all year? You make hot chocolate, project a You tube fire in a fireplace on your board, and allow them to read independently as you proclaim it an "in-class" snow day. That day every student was reading, every student had a book, every student had a smile on his or her face when they left your room.
     

     How do you motivate students to write a rhetorical analysis? You allow them to film their own public service announcements first so that they have an interesting subject to analyze. You marvel at how creative and profound your students are in creating PSAs about bullying and screen time and mental health.
           

     So when it came time for my theory of knowledge students to write their prescribed titles--an IB assessment that is far more abstract and obtuse than it is practical and useful, I struggled finding a way to motivate you, my students. It wasn't because I was tired or unmotivated myself. I struggled because it was something you had to do, not something I was passionate about teaching you to do. You made "murder boards" where you planned your essays which proved to be successful. Yet when it came time to write the 1600-word paper, many of you were unmotivated. And when the due date arrived, I was missing many of your essays. Discouraged, I decided my classes needed a talk about motivation, and so in a very "Kelly Pace" fashion, I dug up some old photographs from my childhood of moments where someone motivated me and told my students the stories behind those photos. As I gave my "lecture," I could feel it happen--something I vowed I would never do in front of my students unless I'm watching them march in to "Pomp and Circumstance" on their graduation day. I cried. Tears welled up in my eyes until I couldn't hold them in any longer. The floodgates opened, as I told you I was at a loss of how to motivate you. Somehow when it came to senioritis, I had no answers, and I had never before experienced this; I knew the solution wasn't as simple as "raising the roof for metaphors." Teaching became hard--motivation even harder.

      I've come to learn this month that motivation unfortunately can be temporary. The students who I've watched motivated sometimes lose sight of that drive. Sometimes we need more motivation and sometimes it's so very difficult to hold onto. We allow it to slip from our fingers or from the hole in our pockets. We've gotten into college and have been doing this for 12 years straight. We're tired. We really hate this book we're being asked to read. We are never going to use this information again. The diploma is just a piece of paper. In the whole grand scheme of things, this essay just doesn't matter now nor will it ten years from now. We haven't had a snow day all winter. The list goes on and on, and quite frankly, all of those may be accurate statements. So when you experience these moments, let me help you work through them.

    Sadly, I don't have a solution to curing senioritis or your lack of motivation. But what I do know is that when I finally received all of the final drafts of those essays, I marveled at your intelligence. I once again was rejuvenated by your ideas and interpretations. You thought of examples to explain your topic in ways I never could. You went beyond what was expected to produce arguments that honestly are some of the best I've read in all of the years I've been teaching this course. I'd like to think my "waterworks" (as one student called them) were what did that, but I didn't do anything. Motivation was there with you all along. You just needed to reach down and find it.

     Poet and author Gwendolyn Brooks wrote, "We are each other's business; we are each other's harvest; we are each other's magnitude and bond." My students, know that your success is my business just like my success in motivating and teaching you is your business. Know how much you motivate me to do the job I've longed to do since I was seven years old. And know how I will never give up; I will work hard and continue to find ways to motivate and raise the roof for you. 

TikTok Bravery: Do Something Every Day That Scares You

     "This is why adults should not be learning TikTok dances."

      I pretended not to hear my son's words as I forged a path in the world of  TikTok dancing recently for this year's Mr. AHS competition. Yet, every time I worked on my dance moves, I could hear his little voice in my head. If anything, I was going to be an embarrassment to my ten year-old,who rolled his eyes every time I practiced in my kitchen. His words made me recognize my fear of showcasing my lack of dance moves in a crowd of close to 700 people.

     I'd like to say I do something every day that scares me, but that's not quite the truth.  I'm going to be honest and tell you that I don't often live by this mantra; I'm not usually that adventurous or brave. Courage often falls flat on its face as I tend to choose the path of least resistance. I wallow in comfort instead of risk. It's often hard for me to step outside of my comfort zone, as I fear people will laugh at me or criticize me. I'll admit it: I know I shouldn't, but I fear what other people think sometimes.

     As an introvert, I tend to observe instead of exist in the middle of the circle. I loathe the spotlight and don't even like recognition if it happens to come my way. So when it was suggested that the sponsors of the Junior Class dance in the Mr. AHS competition, I was adamant this was a bad idea. How would someone who dreads being the center of attention dance in front of 700 people? I learned the dance in about four days, watching two of my students on repeat in a video on my phone. My screen time went up 30% this week. I blame the fifteen-second TikTok dance I must have watched at least 100 times. I even took time in class to give a preview of my best move--the shoot. Students laughed, one attempted to fix my botched attempt with no success. Other students told me to loosen up. Some said I was a good dancer (I'm not sure what they consider good dancing). But the common thread through all of it was laughter. I realized as I was doing this that I was bringing joy to my students. They were comfortable enough to laugh with me or tell me I was doing it all wrong. It's okay that they were laughing at me; it's okay they thought I was a bad dancer. The level of happiness in that classroom was all that mattered.

     I did dance on Saturday night to a crowd of 700 people. I did it for the students. I've been sent many videos of the performance and several photos.

 I've come to the conclusion that my son was right: Adults should not be learning TikTok dances.

      It was not pretty and far from perfect. Every time I watch the video, I feel like I don't recognize the old lady whose nae nae looks like she's waving goodbye and whose shoot looks like she's punching the lights out of someone or something. But I'm there right in the middle of the stage dancing--my way. It was one of the bravest things I've done as a teacher. Minutes before that dance I froze in my shoes. And while I will not seek opportunities in the spotlight any time soon, what this taught me was the meaning of having courage, of facing my fears, of stepping out of my comfort zone every now and then, of being brave.

Brave is experiencing that fear and deciding something or someone else is more important.

Brave is doing something you're scared to do with a smile on your face.

Brave is admitting when you did something wrong.

Brave is sticking up for that one person in the class who may need a little extra encouragement.

Brave is sometimes going against the grain because you know what you believe in is right.

Brave is hard. It's complicated. But it's also beautiful and forever makes you a better person.

     My dancing may be a simple example; I'm no soldier fighting a war; I'm not putting out any fires; my bravery consists in other forms--helping the student with emotional battles, raising three kids in a world where technology is like quicksand--continuously holding their minds captive. Brave is teaching teenagers every day. Yes, you are pretty unpredictable and funny and sometimes hard to reach. You've taught me how to think quickly on my feet, approach life with humor, and even how to have patience when you don't turn in your work on time or somehow manage to show up to class without a pencil. Yet you also are the ones who have shown me the most about what it means to be brave:

Take for example, Kendall Jaskinski. This past month Kendall told her story about mental health to CBS 6 while two of my students, Ruthie Weeks and Will Gordon, stood in front of the camera reporting on the story for everyone to see. That's bravery at its best.

Brave are the eighteen boys I've recently supervised in Mr. AHS sing and dance and perform on stage, making it look easy.

Brave is the student who stopped me to ask how I was doing because she knew I was struggling today.

Brave were my dual enrollment students who recently spoke about problems in our world and their solutions. With topics from bullying to Snapchat to mental health, they told their stories with honesty and integrity and poise.

Brave were my eleventh grade English students who recently tackled the problem of racism by making public service announcements on the topic and sharing them with students at the communications specialty center at Varina High School.

Screenshots from some of my students' PSAs

Brave are my senior TOK students who entered the month of January ready for their final assessments in theory of knowledge, knowing they are hard but not letting that be what that holds them back.

     You see, I've learned more about bravery, about courage, about strength from the seventeen and eighteen year-olds with whom I spend most of my day. I wouldn't have been able to get on that stage this past weekend in front of 700 people without my students holding me up. So thanks to the boys who gave me high fives right before the music played. Thanks to the dance choreographers who were forever encouraging and who I think modified some of the  moves when they realized I just wasn't going to get the real ones. Thanks to the student who corrected what I thought was my "best" move. You kept me grounded, reminding me that adults probably shouldn't do TikTok dances.

     Even my son Jack acquired a newfound faith in me before I made my dancing debut. He wrapped his arms around me before I left and said, "You'll be great, mom! You can do it!" That is a rare moment from my ten year old, so I'll take it.

     This month  I encourage you to do something that puts you a little out of your comfort zone. Do something that scares you. Take chances. Not everything you do will be easy but everything is possible.

     As I've most recently learned, adults should not be doing TikTok dances, but I'm grateful this adult knows she can.