Dear End of the Year Teacher Self, There are some things I need you to know. They're good kids and you're a great teacher. 13 is usually unlucky and dreaded, but count yourself lucky because you're done with your 13th year of teaching. I'm sure you are worn out and your view of everything may be shaded by the trials any years throws at you, but know you started this year with so much enthusiasm and optimism. You have no doubt made a difference. I know because even this early in the school year your students come to class with so much excitement, and they even laugh at your jokes. They see that you are special and you notice the same about them. They are probably now bouncing off the walls appearing more like apathetic freshmen than innocent 8th graders, but they were once bright-eyed, eager kids ready to laugh and learn. I hope you take time to see those kids, not through the lens of a perhaps long year, but as you greeted them with a smile and puzzle piece on the first day of class. They believed in their part of the puzzle. They readily hitched themselves to you and held on tight for this year's long ride. Undoubtedly, some of your co-workers have pushed every button and created some new buttons and double pushed those, but remember back to August when everyone was fresh and everyone wanted the same thing--what was best for students. Life happens to the best of us. They have probably had the same ups and downs that you've experienced. See them with fresh eyes. Embrace the brilliance you saw in them in September. Remember the lessons of theirs you've used and the time it saved and how it impacted your students. You may be tired as you pace to the finish line. Your oldest is surely driving you crazy about going off into the big, bad world on her own upon college graduation. Your once snugly son has a deeper voice and enough body odor that even if he came close, you'd likely push him away. The middle child has assuredly caused more grey hair than you could ever count, and you're scared she's not ready for the responsibilities of junior year and taking the ACT/SAT. Heaven help you! Stop worrying. They have and will survive and thrive. They, too, are good kids who always make you proud. Be proud of all the good you've seen and done this year. Teaching ain't easy, my dear, but it's so worth it. Finish strong! Love, Keisha in August
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My daughter, husband and I were confounded by the guy in this picture who was seemingly floating on the streets of Rome. We theorized about how he was able to, so convincingly, trick our eyes. Was it magnets? Was it a painted chair we could not see? We had no clue, and often at inadvertent times throughout our trip, we would look at each other and ask, “How’d he do that?” “It’s just an illusion,” one of us would reply. The other day I grumbled, “Summer is over.” My husband quickly responded “it’s just an illusion.” Wait, what? This feels quite real--no magnets or paintings required. He explained that summer is not over until September 23rd. He reminded me summer is not dictated by backpacks, school buses and lesson plans and there are plenty of days left to drip my toes in the water and enjoy the rays of the hot sun with a book and/or bottle. I needed to hear this. I am a flip flop and tank girl. I need, love and live on the vitamin D the sun provides. Summers in the windy city are getting shorter and I harness the power of the sun for those nebulous, cold December/January/February days. So the beginning of this school year does not mean an end to vitamin D or flip flops or leisure reads or to the learning I have immersed myself in--that’s just an illusion. I am privileged to extend my circle of influence to about 75 new acquaintances as summer wanes. I get to hear about mini-milestones as my own children enter pivotal academic years (8th grade and a senior in college). As a practitioner, I get to put into action all things I have learned this summer. What a relief that it's just an illusion! It finally clicked. Michele had, subtly and not so subtly, been sharing this mantra with me for over a year. "Keisha, I'm telling you--less is more! Don't kill it." I'd smile and nod while my head swam with more things I had to do. Yeah right, less is more. Have you seen my desk? Have you seen my to do list? Have you checked my inbox? My life was MORE! There was no seeming escape from it. But I was wrong. I have found refuge in the peace and rest of these summer days. The 'more' that cluttered my head has diffused and in this clarity, the wisdom of my friend is salient. Less is more. I've had time to think about what these words truly mean to me, and I'm adopting Michele's mantra because I think it will save and better me. As a wife, less time nagging and more time together. More hand holding and seeing him as lover and not just provider. As a parent, less is more. Less time worrying about trivial things that don't mean a hill of beans in the long run. I want to raise happy, loving, kind citizens and my husband and I are on the right track. More time laughing and enjoying who they are. At home, less stuff! Less to clean--enough said. I have enjoyed watching shows about tiny house living and while I am not there, my land of excess needs to be pared down. More peace with less stuff. As a teacher, less of me and more of them. Learning is about ownership, and if I have taken full ownership, what is left for my students. Time to divest. Less instruction and more construction of their own ideas, questions and whatever else comes from kids taking the reins. As a friend, less talking and more listening. I could go on and on. I don't want or need a life of 'more' when it compromises my peace and rest. I am hoping even on my busiest day, I can smile and nod emptying all the clutter and recall my friends words "less is more." Thanks, Mich! I am an avid list maker. There is nothing more fulfilling than grabbing a post-it, you know the ones from the dollar bin at Target that scream WRITE A LIST ON ME, and emptying your mind of all preoccupations and must dos. It's a beautiful thing. My lists are often scrolls of epic proportion. They keep me sane--okay for those who know me sanity is relative, so I'll say slightly sane. It does not matter that it's humanly impossible to get through all of the things on them, btw my students say the same thing about my classroom agendas; yet, just having them brings me comfort. Yes, it's crazy, I know. If I am able to cross a few things off, I have succeeded. I guess it's the thrill of the chase: the elusive and unattainable. Here is today's list: *Reflect (check) *Write (check) *Walk *Prep for tutoring *Help Marcus with Marketing Materials *Get curriculum work done *Organize vacation itinerary *Check in with the kids on reading progress *Pick up the nephews *Meal planning *Take Katie shopping *Set lunch date with a friend *Find lost library book *Read Ahhhhh, done writing my list. Time to relax and do what isn't on the list like check Twitter or Facebook or Instagram to see what's up in the micro/macro world, drink some tea while staring out at nature marveling at the growth rate of flowers and weeds, spend 20 minutes waking up teenagers and sitting on the side of their beds talking and laughing, walk by my husbands office and smile. Life is hectic and while my lists let me know what I need to do, I am just as happy when I don't get it all done for those other little things that I also really need to do. Recently, I've seen a lot of my friends on social media sharing past posts and/or pictures they'd shared on the same day one, two or even three years prior. These images of time past and words of yesteryear always catch my eye--I think I was a sociologist/psychologist in a former life. I read the past and ponder: How have people evolved or regressed? Do their past statuses/photos give a glimpse into their present predicaments? (Yes, I must have too much time on my hands!) Often, I conclude not much has changed in the way people think and live from year to year based on these snapshots or "timehops." They are still "happy for summer to begin," "can't believe my baby is getting so big," and "sick of Chicago weather." What would my own "time hop" look like? Time for a little self-psychoanalysis! ONE year ago, I was immersed in teacher education at an NEH Seminar at UC Berkeley studying about WWII: Life on the Home front basking in the joys of perpetual learning. I remember feeling euphoric going back to college, if even for a week, taking in so much information and gaining teaching inspiration. I could hardly wait to get back into the classroom to share all I'd learned with students and fellow teachers. Ah, the memory feels like a warm hug. I was content and eager in my profession. TWO years ago, I committed to improving my overall health and eating habits. I'd done the research and decided I would eat clean and green. I spent hours at farmers markets with my family. We discovered new fruits and vegetables none of us will ever eat again. Pinterest stole my heart, and I pinned and pinned and pinned some more. I went to yoga classes and bootcamp. By the summer's end, I'd only lost about 5 lbs. (I guess I used too much butter when I sautéed the veggies). THREE years ago, I wanted to spend every waking moment of summer with my oldest who was going away to college. I convinced myself I would teach her all the things she'd previously ignored before she entered college, and we'd part with confidence that we'd done it all and I'd taught her right (I am a teacher after all). You saw coming what I could not (or choose not) to see---EPIC failure. Instead of time together, my daughter needed to see and commune with every friend she'd ever made. She slept away from home more than she'd ever done. Her refrain was "it's my last chance to ...." You would have thought she was dying, but really it was me who was dying a bit. I spent the summer sulking, wondering where I'd gone so terribly wrong and how she'd survive because I hadn't finished life's important unit/lessons. Fortunately, she lived through her freshman year and so did I. Some of those lessons came through the school of hard knocks. Some came over the telephone with hours of weighing options and giving advice. Precious time and lessons learned. NOW, I am back to walking everyday and veggies are in heavy rotation. I am learning through several PD books on instructional coaching and implementing reading and writing workshops, through podcasts and twitter chats. I am spending time with my favorite teenagers and imparting lessons on the fly---they, too, HAVE to see every friend almost every other day, and not because they are leaving for college but because their parents bore them. I am planning our two week European vacation to visit our daughter who is studying abroad in Spain and will be a senior in college this year. I am readying myself for my next challenge. Time hops, but I guess I have remained grounded in my own past predicaments and I'm okay with it. 'Now that the Union is no longer in danger,
now that the North and South are no longer enemies: now that they have ceased to scatter, tear, and slay each other...' What is now, when now is not yet? Now, we divide. Now, we stake a claim. Now, we wave flags of dissent. Now, in blood-shed wider than the Mississippi, the red sea does part. Not yet. Yet, do we face our visceral hatred of ourselves and humanity. Yet, do we acknowledge history, so brutal, ever-present and boiling over yet again. Yet, not yet. Now. 'let us strive on to finish the work we are in; to bind up the nation's wounds; to care for him who shall have borne the battle' A past incomplete. A series of not yet. Hold on. Sit tight. But no one has made it right--yet. A present void of now. She walked away. She looked so carefree with 45 pounds of God only knows and I wasn't checking. As bad as I wanted to hug the fear out of me and the naiveté out of her, I knew to at least keep the goodbye simple. A peck on the cheek and a 'don't forget to text us' would have to suffice. Any lingering would belie my true feelings. I had done the math (even though math is my least favorite thing to do). She would arrive in Dublin by midnight. She'd have enough time between flights to send an update text, stretch her legs, go to the bathroom, update her snapchat story, people gaze and if she was feeling daring, and I'm sure she would be, guzzle an Irish beer before the rooster crowed twice. The clock silently ticked like a bomb fraying my nerves. What if the plane crashes? What if she loses her passport? Did I remind her to always keep her travel pouch hanging in front of her and not across her body? What if she forgets to charge her phone? What if she gets lost? What if she gets kidnapped or adult-napped? Didn't the movie "Taken" happen in Paris her next destination? Finally, a happy-go-lucky 'made it! smooth flight. lots of food and great movies. very techy airport' text arrived. I could breathe again. More math. The flight to Paris was just over 2 hours and with her layover she'd arrive in Paris at 4am CST. I had four hours to sleep, if I could call it that, before the next update. 4am and nothing. I wake my husband whose snoring suggests he is not having a problem sleeping nor does he have any anxiety about our baby, who is really an adult, trekking the globe all by herself. "Kayla hasn't text yet and her flight should be in by now. Can you check your phone to see if you got a text?" He turns and looks at me blankly as my comment and question slowly register. He turns and grabs his phone from the nightstand. "Nothing, yet. Give it at least an hour before you panic." He should have just said give me another hour to sleep before you alert me again of your panic. What had we done? We sent our daughter to backpack across Europe with people we didn't know, to some lands and tongues foreign to us and her. She'd always been the one to break out of the cocoon long before I was ready to release her. Was she truly ready to go it on her own? When would my fear dissipate? Would I feel better when she arrived in Paris because I had studied abroad there and had some familiarity? Would I feel better when she arrived at the hostel? Or when her friends arrived the next day? When she arrived in Spain where she was fluent? 4:43am - a text 'got lost because I could not read the abbreviated metro station stops but found someone who spoke Spanish and they told me where to go. hostel is nice. also guys keep coming up to me and talking in French. I have no clue what they are saying, so I just nod and walk away.' I smile, and send back a voice recording "Je ne parle pas Francias. Je parle Anglais et Espagnol." An adult, who will always be my baby, walked away ready to take on the world. |
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