Up Against Gravity: The Need for Validation

      When I was a junior in high school, I played a minor character named Charlotte Sowerberry in the play Oliver. In one scene, the stage directions of the play had me throwing a glass of water at another character's face who meddled with the business of all of the other characters on stage. Lisa, the girl who played that character, was a bit of a busy-body herself in "real" life. She always had an opinion. The role she played on stage was perfect for her, and many would have agreed she deserved every drop of the water I pretended to throw in her face. Of course, we used a small amount of water so she barely got wet--that is, except for one day. The day of "fun practice" was always a day or two before opening night. The directors, Miss White and Mr. Titone, wanted us to get the kinks out. We were silly, messed up lines on purpose, played pranks on each other, etc. Anything was fair game. The goal was to learn how to react in case something crazy happened during the actual show and to have a little fun in the process. Prior to the practice, many of my friends in the cast encouraged me to fill the glass up with water to throw in Lisa's face. "I can't do that," I said, thinking it would be so mean to get a glass of water in my face. Yet, pressure got the best of me, and I filled up that glass with water. When it came time for my line, I threw the water right in her face. Lisa gasped in shock and then started to laugh as water dripped down her face and mascara created lines that traveled from her eyes to her cheeks. Those looking on--including Miss White and Mr. Titone--laughed uncontrollably. "I didn't think you had that in you," Miss White told me afterwards. "I'm proud of you."

     Those simple words of validation made me feel good in the moment. Yet, when I think back on that moment, it was a pretty mean joke to play on someone. I'm not proud I did it at all. I suppose I threw that glass of water in Lisa's face to feel validated because so many in my friend circle told me it would be funny. Yet, in retrospect, it was the wrong kind of validation, as it was based on what others thought about me. I now would love to tell my seventeen year old self that we never should base our own  feelings on those of others to feel good about ourselves. In the right moment, everybody needs to feel validated in life, though. I read something recently that speaks to this: "You need that one person who comes up beside you and validates you, tells you you're not crazy and that they too want to fly away sometimes. Otherwise, you forget gravity is something you're supposed to go up against."  How many times have I found myself up against gravity and someone is there to validate my feelings, show acceptance to where I am? How many times have I done the same for others? 

     In this pandemic in particular, I have found validation numerous times in my classroom. I continuously solicit feedback from you, my students, not necessarily to feel validated but to keep me in check. After all, teaching in a pandemic is drastically different than anything I've done in my 22-year career.  I always appreciate the honesty I receive from each student survey; you often tell me what's not working (my microphone) or what you absolutely can't live without in my classroom (independent reading, games, and outside time when it's warmer). The most recent surveys greatly validated the effort I had put into every assignment until I got to those from my seniors. Now, keep in mind, this is my second year teaching you; we have a relationship that I would consider open with each other. You know how I feel about your writing, study habits, etc. I've written most of your letters of recommendation. This time, I definitely received a dose of honesty. While many seniors validated my teaching of Theory of Knowledge, some of them did not. In reading the surveys, I felt like I had let them down; I felt like I had failed my students. Perhaps, in a way, I felt like Lisa receiving that full glass of water in her face. It was a wake up call to see what really wasn't working in the class, to see that the experience I had given other seniors in the past six years was not present in theirs. I didn't know what to do or how to fix it aside from feeling terrible that I had let them down. So, I started by sending them a message apologizing. 

     What I received back was something I did not expect. Messages came from many of  my seniors: "You're teaching in a pandemic..." 

 "You're one of the few teachers who has a positive attitude."

 "You say hi to every student every day. I can say you're my only teacher that does that."

 Validation. I was not anticipating them to validate my feelings, but somehow they brought me up and raised my spirits to believe that I, in fact, could go up against gravity even if there were things I needed to change about the teaching in my classroom. Of course, their validation does not make their honesty go away. I still have things I need to work on in teaching in a pandemic. And that's okay. We all have things to work on every day. These students were able to validate the things that are working while also showing me what wasn't. In life we need to balance the truth with those moments of validation. 

     The need to be validated in a pandemic--whether we're teaching or learning  in it--is so necessary. We need to continue to build each other up; learning in a pandemic is just as hard as teaching in one. So, I want to end by validating you, my students. To the juniors, you made me most proud recently in your mock trial. Instead of saying that we couldn't do an assignment like this, you embraced it. So, when it came time to put Antigone on trial in our classroom, you made it happen whether you were an attorney virtually arguing your case on zoom or the bailiff swearing everyone in by emphasizing the word "truth." You brought levity to an intense book while simultaneously showing me learning could be fun--even in a pandemic. 

      And to my seniors, I think sometimes I forget how much you've lost--no spring sports last year, no junior prom, not a single senior pep rally, no senior section of the rage cage. I know sometimes I can be critical of your decreasing motivation otherwise known as "senioritis," but you have shown me so much grit and perseverance--more than any other class. You are making the best of a difficult situation. You've had the glass of water thrown in your face, but it doesn't matter. You're overcoming and surviving and succeeding and persevering. For that, I see you. I hear you. I validate you.

     Know that I intend to make changes in my classroom. After all, I sought feedback so that I could do just that. Honesty is a good thing even if it sometimes is hard to swallow. Yet, everyone also deserves to be validated. So, the next time you find someone else up against gravity, ask yourself what you can do to validate their feelings. The next time you go to throw that glass of water in the face of another, ask yourself if you are seeking validation for yourself for the right reasons. What I've learned recently from all of you is the value of honesty combined with validation is a beautiful thing. We may be up against gravity in this pandemic, but remember, we are never, ever alone.

The Best Is Yet To Come: My Word for 2021

     I have come to value the moments of beautiful irony in my life--not the moments that Alanis Morissette referenced in her hit song in the late nineties, but those moments whose hands are gripped tightly around me, trying to destroy everything in sight yet eventually make me stronger, happier, more resilient in life. When I was 23 years old during my second year of teaching, one such moment occurred; I was asked by my first principal, Mr. John McGinty, to coach the high school debate team.

    "Mr. McGinty, I know nothing about debate. I don't even like to argue." I found myself trying to find a reason or a way out while simultaneously desiring to make him proud.

  

  "You'll be great," he said, with the infamous twinkle in his eye and smile on his face that he constantly wore. As an eternal optimist, he really believed that; I, however, could only see the irony of it all: I am the peacemaker, the person who never takes a side and who was now going to spend hours after school with students who actually enjoyed disagreement. I agreed to Mr. McGinty's request because I respected him and didn't want to let him down, because it was easier to just say yes. I taught during the day, coached track after school, and then several times a week in the early evenings, I would meet with the debate team. I learned a lot about argument, too much about my weaknesses, and a great deal about being patient with teenagers who thought they knew everything (Truth be told, the members of that team did know a lot--definitely a lot more about debate than I did).

     Ultimately, this was a moment of beautiful irony. You see, I met my husband Chris through coaching debate. He coached at a neighboring school, and we started talking at a VHSL rules clinic for debate coaches early on in the year. At the time when Chris offered me a Sprite from the hospitality table, I had no idea that he actually was flirting with me. After all, who goes to a VHSL rules clinic for debate coaches to meet someone, especially the person you plan to spend the rest of your life with? Yet, that year as we spent many Saturdays together at debate tournaments, we got to know each other, and eventually, we began dating. Almost twenty years of marriage later, the rest is history and goes down as a moment of beautiful irony. 

    These moments of beautiful irony tend to creep up on us when we least expect them to. 2020 was no exception. Every year, I choose a word to serve as a goal for the new year. Last year, I chose the word "embrace" as my word of the year. Talk about moments of irony--I spent ten of the twelve months unable to embrace anyone due to Covid-19. Instead, I spent time disinfecting, wearing masks, and distancing six feet apart. I am a hugger. (I hate to argue, remember?)  I know many people struggling by the limitations of Covid-19; the hardest for me has been the lack of hugs. Yet, my word was not a complete failure despite its presumed irony. My goal last year was not just to physically embrace others but to embrace new situations. And that, I think, I actually did fulfill.

     Covid gave me a chance to reflect--a lot. Covid humbled me as a teacher. I don't know too many people who show up to work every day, working as hard as they can, even though they know that they are not going to do a good job or as good of a job as they do in a "normal" year. Teaching synchronously is definitely one of the hardest experiences I've had in teaching, but it's also humbling. I've tried new things this year from a basketball competition to eating outside with my students to embracing all sorts of microphones and video appearances. In my personal life, I've baked new recipes. I've run a half marathon virtually. I cut my son's hair (a never-again experience) and we've had a lot more family dinners. I'm not as afraid anymore to express what I think, especially in my writing. I've embraced a lot--we all have--and I'm stronger because of it. We all are. Talk about beautiful irony.

     So when I had to choose a word for this year, I was stumped. My word from last year--a seemingly epic failure of ironic proportions--actually became a way to live life. This year, I wanted a word that showed positivity and hope, one that would present a challenge for me and maybe a similar moment of beautiful irony. I went through words like rise, worth, shine, glitter, hope, grace, thrive, leap, smile, laugh, confidence, legacy, reach, but none seemed to be speaking out to me. So this year, I settled on "yet." You may be thinking, yet is hardly a word. Yes, this word is often overlooked, yet more frequently used than you think (See how I used it there?). Yet represents possibilities. Yet signifies eventually and at some future time. Yet means in addition. Yet changes a mindset. As a conjunction, yet blends sentences together to change the direction--to often create beautiful irony. 

    So for me, yet is the word I am embracing in 2021: 

     I haven't gotten a Covid-19 vaccine yet.

     Things may be challenging as a teacher, yet I am learning so much.

     I won't give up yet--on myself, on my students, on our society that is often plagued by polarized views.

     There are so many incredible moments--moments of beautiful irony--I have yet to see unless I allow myself to see them, allow myself to experience them, to laugh and grow with others.  

     

    I'm no longer a debate coach, yet I've learned to embrace some of the moments in life that might make me feel a little uncomfortable. Such moments have created a beautiful irony. I often think about what life would be like had I not said yes to Mr. McGinty's request to coach debate over twenty years ago. What a hand he indirectly has played in my life. What a moment of beautiful irony he created! (If I haven't said it yet, thank you, Mr. McGinty!)

     2020 brought us a world of frustration, of sorrow, a world without hugs and with a whole lot of distance. I miss my family and friends. I miss the casual smiles I see from strangers in the grocery store. I miss the hugs and high fives in my classroom. I've had friends and family who have struggled through this virus and some who are still struggling. Yet is the word that is going to pull us through in 2021. Yet is going to turn our "I can't" moments into "I can't yet." Yet is possibilities and growth. We may be struggling right now, however, the best is yet to come. And that, my friends, is beautiful irony.

Nine Photos to Capture 2020

I Didn't Sign Up for This

I didn't sign up for this. 

     That's what keeps coming to mind this year every time I put on a mask before I head into a public place, every time I unsuccessfully search for Clorox wipes on the grocery store shelves, every time I clean the desks in between classes, every time I start a zoom during my face to face class, or I look into that zoom and there are many black boxes instead of smiling students, every time I look at the room as students are spread apart and limited by lack of high fives and hugs, every time I have to revamp a lesson plan because it just can't be done the way we used to do things, every time I am muted or just can't get the technology right, every time I sit down to grade a set of essays because I'm teaching more students than I ever have in my teaching career.

No, I didn't sign up for this. 

None of us did. But here we are in the middle of a pandemic--teaching and learning and existing as best we can, doing all the things we never signed up for.

     There have been many moments in my life that I remember saying, I didn't sign up for this. I'm in high school, and my school counselor asks me to sit with a student named Meg. Meg was a social outcast; people made fun of her on a regular basis, she didn't have the finest hygiene habits, and often acted like she had a chip on her shoulder. I abandoned my friends so Meg could have one, and all she did was smirk, move her chair further away from me, and take out a paperback book to read. I didn't sign up for this. 

I'm a new parent caught in traffic on the Verrazano Bridge headed to New York with just 9 month-old Maggie in the car, and I somehow manage to get the stomach virus. I finally get off the bridge and vomit on the side of the road as Maggie is screaming in the back seat. How can I be an effective parent when I can't even take care of myself? I didn't sign up for this.

     I'm a teacher at a new school--Benedictine High School, an all-boys, Catholic military school. I'm in the middle of my teaching career, but nothing could have prepared me for teaching in an all-boys classroom. The boys come bounding into my classroom that first day--full of energy, familiar, joking and laughing. They all look the same to me: tiny beady eyes, clean haircuts and upper lips, creased pants, and shiny shoes greet me. They stand at attention as I walk to the front of the room, their shoulders stiff, as if boards are lodged inside their backs. I start my introduction, and they still remain standing at attention. Finally, after what seemed like the longest two minutes of my life, one Cadet whispers I need to tell them to be "at ease" so they can sit down. I'm a young woman in an all-boys school that seems more like a cross between a fraternity house and a small army than a classroom. I didn't sign up for this.

     So, as 2020 comes to an end in a few weeks, I've been thinking about life as we know it--a life I never signed up for, anticipated, or desired. I am working harder than I have in my twenty-two years in the classroom. So are you, my students. Yet, what you've learned is far more than what I could teach you or what a textbook ever could. You've learned flexibility. You've learned perseverance. You've learned how to appreciate the little things. You've learned the value of time. And I, too, have learned much of the same thing because you have helped me forget what I never signed up for and see the good.

     Sadly, there's no "full disclosure" statement that comes with living in a pandemic. Actually, there's no "full disclosure" statement when it comes to life. While I wish that every possibility you may face could be common knowledge before you experience it, sometimes we are forced with the reality that we just didn't sign up for this. And maybe that's okay. In the past four months, I've watched you handle difficult situations. You've navigated school virtually, Some of you quarantined and still managed to keep up. I've watched you have things you love ripped away from you--sitting across from each other at lunch, athletic events, pep rallies, the Rage Cage, homecoming. 

     This past month, in our TOK Class, I've witnessed you make the holidays happen for over forty kids in the Hanover Preschool Initiative at Henry Clay Elementary School. Many of you bought these students--students you never even met--gifts, and we spent a class block wrapping them (some of you now have another new skill).

Shopping for presents

A socially distant sword fight after wrapping

 I've watched you attempt new ways of writing and embrace everything I've thrown at you in the classroom--including playing basketball with a paper ball and even a John Lennon parody karaoke competition (my way of putting that big microphone in my room to good use).

You've helped me troubleshoot the best ways to teach synchronously. And when the internet went out this week, I watched you help me figure it all out because I didn't want to lose a moment of instruction.

     I've found myself becoming more and more reflective during this pandemic. For someone who naturally reflects on just about every moment of her daily life, that's a lot of reflecting. Yet, what I've thought about is sometimes the things we didn't sign up for, the things we are somehow "voluntold" to do, are the things where we learn from the most. Take that moment in high school when I had to sit with Meg, for example. I sat with her for a week straight, and she continued to smirk and read her book--until one day when she smiled. I got Meg to smile. That's what I'll remember.

     And I think about that moment being sick on the Verrazano Bridge. After finally reaching my destination, my daughter got to meet her great grandfather for the first time. I think that's more of what I will always remember than the fact that I was sick on that bridge. 

  And I think my years at Benedictine were the first years where I realized as a teacher that I can learn from my students.  Those boys taught me more about the kind of teacher that I wanted to be and made me a teacher I never thought I could be because they allowed me to fail, get back up, and try again. That's what I will remember.

We may not have signed up for any of this; life is hard; being an educator is hard; being a student in a pandemic is harder. So, as you come to the end of this year--a year where you wanted to shout from the rooftops, I didn't sign up for this--think about how you've grown, how you've changed, how far you've come. The sign up sheet may be long of things you never intentionally signed up for, but its rewards might be longer if we allow ourselves to see them.

Thoughts from the Chick-fil-A Drive Thru

       I rolled through the Chick-fil-A drive thru with tears in my eyes. The parking lot was crowded, but I knew from my students who work there that the line would move fast, and that once I paid for my food, I'd have it in five minutes with a "My pleasure" to follow. It was around 5:45 p.m., and I hadn't been home yet, staying after school for not one but two meetings--both virtual. I felt broken after teaching that day, thinking the day could have been better spent in bed in my pajamas. With no lesson plans done for the next day, I was entirely overwhelmed and did not think I could continue to teach in this pandemic. Unsustainable has been a word I often use to describe what I'm doing this school year, and I had just used that word to describe my experience in my last zoom meeting. Rarely am I negative, but as I pulled into Chick-fil-A, I was angry and frustrated and even hard on myself for not having the energy to cook dinner for my family. I composed myself, rolled down my window, and placed my order, but when I went to pay, I realized my purse was in my trunk. I proceeded to hold up the entire line in rush hour to retrieve my purse to pay for my food, and it was then as I got out of my car, I saw one of my students in the line next to me waving. Actually, her entire family was waving and saying hello. She was a reminder of why I do what I do. She was a reminder that I need to show myself forgiveness and not put so much pressure on myself, not worry about whether or not I am cut out to teach in a pandemic. After all, school is not about being the perfect teacher or even a good teacher. It's about building relationships with students and a classroom community. It's about helping one another in a world where sometimes everyone seems to be forging his own path.

     These days I feel like we place an inordinate amount of pressure on ourselves. There are social pressures of what others think. As a student, there's the pressure to earn good grades or do the right thing or be in an excessive amount of clubs and organizations. There's the pressure to get into college and be the best athletes, citizens, children, students, people we can. There's pressure from our social media feeds to the clothes we wear. Why do we have this internal clock that makes us think we constantly have to be working to be better than everyone else?  We compare ourselves to others on who has it harder, easier, who is smarter, funnier. Your uphill climb both ways in the snow will always outdo mine.  What if we stopped putting this pressure on others and ourselves?  What if we started rooting hard for each other instead of pulling each other down?   

      In 1993, George H.W. Bush wrote a letter to Bill Clinton when Clinton won the presidential election.  The letter talked about the office of the presidency, and Bush ended the letter to Clinton saying, "I'm rooting hard for you."   

 Every time I read that, I'm in awe at President Bush's words. Here were two political rivals who put aside differences to see the common good and encourage one another. I think that's something we need right now--encouragement. We need to be lifting each other up instead of pressuring one another on who's the funniest, the smartest, the most popular, the best athlete, the fastest. I have met people who often try to "one up" me. My hardest moment is never as hard as theirs. My greatest success can never compare to theirs. Let's stop doing that. Let's root hard for each other.

        So, here's what I'm rooting for: I'm rooting for you, my students. You are the 140 individuals who have shown me far more grit and resilience in this pandemic than any other group. You are the people I spend more time with on a daily basis. You are the people who never seem to complain, who keep going. Yet, I also see your stress. I also see the pressure you put on yourself to be the best or better than others. I see the pressure inside of you--even if you aren't competing with one another. It's easier said than done, but I think when we stop worrying about how we will succeed and start cheering each other on, some of that pressure is relieved. More importantly, some of that support of others is simply necessary while living in a pandemic.

     What I've learned from teaching in this pandemic is teachers and students are more united than they were before. We are in the trenches together--whether that be face to face struggling through the forward-facing rows and one-way hallways or whether that be on zoom as we long for far more of a connection than a screen. There's a level of grace this year that exists between teachers and students that I'm not so sure existed before--or at least I like to think so. In many years a disconnect can occur between teachers and students. What if I told you this year, I feel like we are on the same playing field? It's hard to teach in a pandemic; it's equally hard it learn in one. There's nothing easy about it so instead of putting pressure to be the people we were before this virus, what if we just gave ourselves and each other grace? What if we rooted for one another?  I see you, my students, constantly rooting hard for me--whether that be just checking on how my day is or helping me navigate three screens of technology or bringing me chocolate to get through the day.

     Likewise, I rooted for you quite often this past month. IB English students, you drafted and recorded podcasts about your Covid-19 experiences. They sounded so professional that my own children at home asked me what I was listening to. Perhaps one day you will look back and listen to your own experiences with pride of the resilience and grace you exhibited in living in a pandemic. I also witnessed you thinking outside the box in your analysis of Station Eleven. Perhaps I was cruel to ask you to read a book about a pandemic while we are living in one, but you never faltered or complained. Because this book is one without many teacher resources, most of the conversations and activities we've done with it have been from my own thinking. It's allowed all of us to think outside of the box and demonstrate far more creativity. I'm proud of the work you did. 

Six Degrees of Station Eleven projects

     And my TOK students, you set up and opened a mental health space for the entire school to use. You put ideas and research into this and despite the fact that we do not have goats or a bird bath like you asked for, you made this space a place for others to take a break. 

Raider Retreat Ribbon Cutting Ceremony

Seniors, you've done what I believe all good classrooms should do--you took time to know each other. While you may have spent up to twelve years in school together and were actually all together in TOK last year, you started having conversations with others in our classroom you don't regularly talk to. You resolved conflicts with one another. Yes, you have had some interesting discussions about the arts as an area of knowledge, but you've also gone beyond the curriculum to support one another. I hope you continue to do that.

"Family" Breakfast

     At the end of the day, if you can remember one thing in the middle of this pandemic, it's this: I'm rooting  hard for you. 

     So, promise me you'll stop putting pressure on yourselves and on each other. And I promise you I'll stop putting pressure on myself to be the teacher I was last year or to make you the perfect students. Remember, sometimes it's okay not to be okay. Sometimes it's okay to just go through the Chick-fil-A drive thru because like me, your moment of clarity  might be waiting for you there. And when you do have a day where you just want to put on pajamas and crawl back into bed, know I'll be rooting hard for you--always.

That Teacher: Serendipity and Clarity in the Middle of a Pandemic

    It was a cool Saturday morning when I recently decided to pound the pavement and go for a run. My runs have become a lot longer lately; that often happens when I have a lot on my mind. I was deep in thought that Saturday, as I started to head down one of the main streets of my neighborhood when I heard the cheering from a distance. There was a tall, thin woman in front of me, and I honestly thought the man standing in his driveway was calling out to her, until she passed, and he continued to cheer for me. Lately I've needed cheerleaders in my life, so I waved, smiled, and picked up my pace a little bit more. I'll take all of the encouragement I can get. After all, teaching in a pandemic has been less than desirable. 

     The start of this school year has not been like most I've known in the past. I keep thinking back to the kind of teacher I longed to be when I was seven years old, playing school in my basement. I keep thinking back to the teacher I desired to be in my first years of teaching. 

I wanted students (aka stuffed animals when I was seven) to like me, but more important, I wanted them to respect me.

I wanted to have innovative lessons where students collaborate. No one would sit in rows facing forward. We would be a community that I would have worked constantly to build.

I wanted to see smiles and hear sounds of laughter. Learning should be noisy and fun.

I wanted students to come into my room excited to learn. 

I wanted to be the teacher students asked to write letters of recommendation, came to when they were struggling, and hugged when they graduated.

I wanted to be the teacher who worked tirelessly at giving students the feedback they needed, not the feedback steeped in grades, but honest feedback about how they could improve in class.

I wanted to be so passionate about the book I was teaching so that students couldn't help but be passionate themselves.

I wanted to be a listener, a cheerleader, a disciplinarian, a mother, an inspiration.

This year, I am not that teacher.

This year, I am stressed. I have been overwhelmed more than usual. I have been hard on myself to be better. I have wanted the classroom I always imagined, but somehow seem to be falling flat. I've gotten stuck in a breakout room. I've had sound issues every single day to the point that I feel like I am a part of the Verizon "Can You Hear Me Now?" ad campaign from 2001-2011. 

Verizon "Can You Hear Me Now?" Ad Campaign

I am slow to grade papers even though I seem to be working every single night. Sometimes I'm so worried about how to even go about teaching my lesson that I forget the most important thing that's right in front of me. 

Yes, I am not that teacher I longed to be years ago. 

I keep trying to remind myself I am teaching in a pandemic. I am teaching both on zoom and face to face. Most days it takes twice as long to plan a lesson for a simple eighty-minute class. I started this year very closed-minded. Most nights, I woke up at 2:00 a.m., thinking about not being able to do this. I called what I was doing unsustainable. I silently questioned everything. I felt isolated, never really seeing my colleagues because somehow I can't even manage to get out in the hallway between classes; I am either setting up a zoom, cleaning laptops and desks, or just taking a deep breath. 

     It wasn't until two weeks ago, that I realized I was slipping into a teacher I never desired to be. It wasn't until Mr. Gardner, my assistant principal, stood outside of his friend's house in my neighborhood, cheering me on during my run that I was able to realize that school doesn't need another person complaining. My classroom doesn't need a tired, frustrated, anxious teacher. Rather, they need that teacher. They need the teacher who listens and who is excited and wants to come to school this year even though it is different, even though it is hard. For a few weeks I lost that feeling. I couldn't see past the fact that I had 140 students and that I was teaching four of my six classes synchronously. Every time another colleague complained, I thought to myself that I had it worse--that is, until Mr. Gardner cheered me on. Without even knowing it, he made me realize I needed to get out of wallowing in my self pity. Instead, I needed to cheer others on. I needed to laugh with my students and be a cheerleader for them as well as my colleagues. Mr. Gardner didn't take away my struggles of teaching during a pandemic. Every day is still hard, and I don't know a single teacher who is not struggling right now, but he did remind me that there will always be people cheering me on and that I need to do the same.

     I saw Mr. Gardner again on my run--about four  miles in. He was leaving the neighborhood and rolled down his window to continue to cheer me on. It's funny how sometimes in life people are placed there at the right moment, at the right time. Seeing Mr. Gardner on that run, not once but twice, was a moment of change for me. Everyone needs a Mr. Gardner cheering their race. I'm grateful my serendipitous moment happened just when I needed it. For, it made me realize how much I wanted to be the teacher I always dreamed of being, how much I wanted to be that teacher. 

     Sometimes we need to take a step back to realize what we have in front of us all along. I may not be good at zoom. Virtual students, you may be frustrated that you can't always hear me or that I forget to share my screen or turn up the sound. Face to face students, I'm struggling with the difficulty to teach the way I used to when we could gather around tables and high five our successes. Just know I am trying. That's all any of us can do. Somehow you've started this school year miles ahead of me; you never complain even though you are walking in one-way hallways and wearing masks 8 hours a day. And might I mention lunch--it's nothing like you've ever known it to be, yet you keep smiling. You've already done big things--our first practice commentary...setting up a mental health space that will open officially this month. 

Oral Commentary Practice

  

Mental Health Space opening soon!

So many of you check on me, some have even brought me Diet Coke, and others have expressed grace when I just can't get things right. You've shown me you can do hard things and that I, too, can do the same. 

    So when things get hard for you (because they will), take a deep breath and remember you are learning in a pandemic. You don't have to be perfect. My teaching this year will be far from that; there are things we just can't change about teaching and learning during this time. Most importantly, when things do get hard, remember that I'll keep pushing to be your cheerleader instead of complaining. I realized recently I actually don't have to be that teacher; I just need to be your teacher. And I promise I will no matter how hard it seems.

      So, Mr. Gardner, if you're reading, thank you. Without even knowing it, you saved this teacher this school year. And if you ever happen to be in my neck of the woods again, I'm out there at 8:00 a.m. most Saturdays running. I'll be listening for the encouragement. I promise to pass it along to others as well. After all, that's all any of us can really do.

A Letter to My New Students: How One Middle School Nickname Prompted Me to Give This Year a Chance

     I had an unfortunate nickname in eighth grade, as many thirteen year-olds tend to put labels on everything. It started when one boy in my class called me "Liberty Bell" because my hair--well, let's just say I had hair of epic proportions like many teenagers growing up in the eighties. Unfortunately, mine was so thick that it also stuck out in a bell shape. Sometimes the name was just shortened to "the Bell." Had I lived in a world with hair straighteners instead of extra large hairstyles of the eighties, maybe I would have avoided the loathsome nickname. I tended to just roll my eyes and smile when I was called "the Bell," because I didn't have a retort or any kind of retaliation in me and quite honestly, that just wasn't my style. Still, any time I heard it, I despised the nickname.

     No one called me that nickname in Ms. Coseglia's class, though. My eighth grade math teacher, Ms. Coseglia, meant business. She was maybe five feet tall, yet her presence reverberated throughout the entire room. She didn't put up with anyone's ridiculous antics or nicknames for that matter, and you always knew where you stood. She was tough but fair. She had a laugh that was infectious and a sense of humor paralleled to none. Her room was on the second floor of the school, right at the top of the stairs. I remember being a fifth and sixth grader, silently tiptoeing past her room in fear that she would find my movement down the hallway disruptive to her class. When I got past her room, I always breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn't until I was a student in her class that I realized she was not as scary as I thought she was. In fact, she was actually really kind. She looked out for her students and put them first. She taught math but so much more--values of kindness, compassion, and honesty. No one was a favorite in her class; everyone was. She was the teacher who taught me most of all that sometimes in life, we need to give things a chance.Sometimes we need to stop living so fearfully by tiptoeing past the classroom door. For had I never given Ms. Coseglia a chance, I may not have realized what an incredible teacher she was; I may not have realized my potential.

Ms. Coseglia and me, 1989

     THIS is my hope for you this school year. Whether you are starting school virtually or face to face, give this year a chance. This school year is going to be different. There are more rules in place for our safety. And every single rule seems to be revised and then revised again. All of the desks in our classroom are facing forward. That is terrifying to me; you will quickly learn that I hate to be the center of attention. There are arrows in the hallway for class changes and a paper-free pass system. Right now, there are no sports or after school activities. Everything feels a little out of place in this pandemic, like something is missing or somehow has been distorted. Yet, when you strip school down to what matters, it's there--teachers who care about you and your well-being and an excitement to be learning again.

      So here is my advice to you as you attempt to give this year a chance: 

1. Before you go to criticize or judge, take a step back and look at things from a wider perspective. 

2. Own your mistakes and learn from them.

3. Build your own character by building others up.

4. Know that you don't always have to be the loudest in the room to be heard.

5. Be kind--to yourself and others.

6. Know that sometimes you may be ahead. Sometimes you may be behind. It all evens out in the end.

7. Understand the value of hard work and that the answer can't always be Googled.

8. Don't compromise who you are.

9. Give yourself grace. No one should try to be perfect because no one is.

10. Always--this year more than ever--maintain a sense of humor...and wear your mask!

When you look back on your education, I hope you realize it's not the facts and awards and books, but it's the people around you that shaped you into who you are. I will always be grateful for teachers like Ms. Coseglia who shaped me into who I am today. Sadly, this past spring, Ms. Coseglia passed away. I will remember her for her tough love. She talked to us like we were human beings who mattered even though I'm sure our hormonal eighth grade selves drove her crazy. Ms. Coseglia made me feel valued and a lot less like a middle schooler in my awkward "Liberty Bell" years. I recently what found her message that she wrote in my eighth grade autograph book:

 I can't help but think that had I never given Ms. Coseglia a chance, she would not have written what she did, I would not have had a class block every day where I was able to safely avoid a nickname I loathed, and most importantly, I would not have grown as a student and a human being. It's a reminder to me of the need for me to embrace teaching in a pandemic no matter how much it might challenge me.

     One of my favorite spoken word poets is Sarah Kay. In her poem, "If I Should Have a Daughter," she writes, "This life will hit you, hard, in the face, wait for you to get back up so it can kick you in the stomach. But getting the wind knocked out of you is the only way to remind your lungs how much they like the taste of air."  This year is going to be hard. It's going to test us. I will be honest and tell you I am nervous to teach face to face and virtually at the same time. I'm worried I won't give you everything I usually would in my classroom under normal circumstances. I don't know how to teach without you collaborating closely with each other. To that end, I promise to try. I promise to give new ideas and opportunities a chance. I promise to continue to love what I do fiercely. I promise to remind my lungs how much they like the taste of air. I promise to help you see the good in the situation even when it's hard to find--especially when it's hard to find. Ms. Coseglia did that for me until I reached the day where I no longer tiptoed past her classroom, in fear that she would yell at me for disrupting her class. I may not like the way I have to teach due to this pandemic, but I love teaching. I have big dreams for all of you just like Ms. Coseglia did for her students. We can do all of the hard things together and keep reminding ourselves that when it gets hard, our lungs really do love the taste of air. 

Welcome to Room 211! Welcome to a year that will be anything but ordinary. 

     

     

     

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

 I wrote this blog four years ago, when my first group of IB TOK seniors headed off to college. I have continued to revise and share it each year because the sentiment still remains the same. Today's blog is dedicated to anyone headed off to college this month (or next)--especially my former students from the Class of 2020 who I am going to miss when I head back to Room 211 in a few weeks. 

     I remember the car was filled to the brim when I went away to college. My dad is good at so many things, and I am sure from the looks of the picture below that my dad's "packing system" was unparalleled to none. I don't really remember how that empty car suddenly transformed into 18 years of life packed into one place, or where my brother, sister, and I sat. Yet, somehow we packed everything in and found a way for the five of us to get to Richmond. .

August 1993

My Dad and I right before I left for college

I felt like we had all of Costco in our van. We were never members of the megastore conglomerate, but weeks before I headed off to college, my mom took me there as her friend's guest to shop for "the essentials." Quite honestly, I felt like I was taking more to college than I would ever need. What I needed was courage. I needed friends. I needed grit and determination. I needed self-confidence.I needed to know how to balance a checkbook and make a long distance phone call (real struggles in the world before on-line banking and cell phones). Yet, as we made our way down the driveway, headed seven hours south to the University of Richmond, I went with none of those things in tow...Only a comforter, sheets, and shampoo bottles that would last me all four years of college if you want my honest opinion.

    I knew no one at the University of Richmond. Displaced from the North, I suddenly found myself among southern accents and barbecue that was vastly different from the way my family used the word. The cafeteria's inclination to fry everything (including things like okra--a vegetable I had never heard of before coming to Richmond) was unsettling. So was the idea that I was on my own. You see, when I think back on it, I'm not sure I was ready to be independent. I loved spending time with my family and friends; I was a homebody.  I was close to my teachers; some even attended my graduation party. Everything in college was big and new and so vastly different than the world from which I came. When I said goodbye to my family, I didn't want to look back. I knew I couldn't turn around just to see them get smaller and smaller down the road until the now empty mini van disappeared in the distance. I didn't want that to be the last image of them in my head until I saw them again over Fall Break. So, I walked straight ahead into my dorm without looking back. I went to my room and turned on the radio. To give you perspective on how far technology has come, my radio was one of those giant boom boxes. Picture John Cusack in the movie Say Anything (Please tell me you've seen that 80's flick) when he plays Peter Gabriel's "In Your Eyes" below the love of his life's window with the giant boombox suspended in the air over his head. That's the kind of boombox I had in college.

The first song I heard on the radio was an R&B song called "Ooh Child." The lyrics blared from the boom box:"Ooh child, things are gonna get easier. Ooh child, things will get brighter." I started to cry. For those of you who know me well, you know I'm a pretty emotional person. This experience was no different.

      When I think about it, the biggest thing I brought to college along with my comforter and shampoo bottles was fear...fear of not making friends, of not fitting in, of classes being too hard, of not connecting with professors, of missing home, of getting lost on campus, of not feeling like myself, of dropping my tray in the dining hall (I never did that, but I did spill scalding hot chocolate all over my lap once and screamed so loudly the entire football team stopped eating to look my way). I left high school with feelings of pride swirled with hope, dreams, and passion. I was the kid who was friends with everyone in high school. I had the respect of my teachers. I could walk down the hallway and know I belonged. But now all I could see was the fear I brought--packed into my suitcase so that you had to sit on top of it to close it. Fear wedged its way out slowly, creeping in all aspects of my initial college life. 

The main thing I was afraid of? I was afraid to fail. Who was going to be there to catch me if I did? Who would show me how to brush it off or tell me to keep going despite the mistake? All of my life, I lived in this padded room. Yes, I made plenty of mistakes, but for every mistake, I had a cushioned landing. Someone was there to protect me, defend me, forgive me. What if college wasn't like that now that I was on my own?

      I wish I knew not to be so hard on myself when I entered college. I wish I knew not to put unnecessary pressures on myself, not to be afraid to fail. And I wish I had a teacher tell me it's okay to fail when I was eighteen years old. Trust me, I would have listened. All of my failures have made me stronger. All of my failures have made me who I am today. Bottom line: If there's one thing I could tell you before you head to college, it's this. It's okay to fail. You will do it more times than you will want to admit, but I can promise you every time it will make you stronger and better.

     So, own your failures. Don't make excuses. There might not be anyone to catch you when you fall this time; you've got to figure out that for yourself. Yet there comes a time in your life where you don't need that cushion; you don't need that padded room to allow your failures to fall upon. Now is that time to continue to stand up after you fall.  In college, you will grow and change and work hard and study and stay up late (okay, I think you already do that) and meet new people. High school will start to feel like a million miles away some days. There's no more tardy table and dress code and set lunch times and classes from 8:30 until 3:30. Make good choices and take responsibility for your actions. I know your college experience will be different than mine and perhaps, different from anyone else who previously went to college. After all, you're attending college in the middle of a pandemic. Some of your classes are virtual. Some schools have delayed semesters. Others have shortened them so you're home by Thanksgiving. No matter what your experience, know more than anything, you have so much to offer the world. Know that new experiences help you grow. New experiences help you acquire courage and demonstrate grit. New experiences help you learn how to balance your checkbook.

    After writing all of this, I realized that maybe my words are wasted. After all, I taught some of the brightest and most confident young people I know who probably don't have the fears and insecurities at 18 that I had. You are the class who missed out on so much at the end of your high school experience, yet you didn't let that stop you or bring you down. You have grit and determination and the will to make lemonade out of lemons. So here's the final thing I want to tell you that might apply. If you listen to anything I've written in this blog, this is what I want you to know: I need you to know that you matter. You will always matter to me. As a teacher, I never stop thinking about my students--where they are, what they're doing, who they're becoming. So as you pack your car and drive away from your homes, remember to leave your fears behind. Bring your confidence and your desire to make a difference and your oversized shampoo bottles, and  your mask. Hug your family. Call your parents. Let your former English/TOK teacher know how you're doing every so often. Spread your wings. Soar high. Remember I will always be proud, so very proud that you were my students, that I was your teacher.