To my hero

Dear Megan,

Meditate on all you've done.

Take a breath. Get through this moment. You can do anything.

Meditate on all you've done.

You helped a boy mature into a man who can love with a healthy passion instead of dysfunction.
You helped turn a surprise into a loving family.
You finished your college degree while battling difficult depression.
You fought hard to overcome your postpartum, life-change-induced depression.
You worked hard to become a teacher when you'd had no training.
You held your head high and gave love in a time of dying.
You are a loving, giving daughter.
You fought through six months of painful baby croup and crying with love.
You care for the creation of a young woman, and a young man.
You jump in.
You make it happen.
You build things.
You build people.
You build relationships.
You do.
You are dignity.
You are elegance.
You are class.

Things seem hard. They've seemed hard before. You did it then. You'll do it now.

You're my hero.

Hold your head up, you silly girl. Look what you've done.

http://youtu.be/-SbCIFbJQDk

Do the Evolution

The part of teacher evolution I'm thinking about today, as I prepare to walk in to my first set of P/T conferences, is spatial ownership.

There's this space that I occupy at my school every day. Its number is assigned to me. All of the students who share the space during the day are assigned to me.

About six weeks ago, I blindly, frantically shaped this space in to a "classroom." In the time since then I've added to and taken from the space, both physically and emotionally.

Today, I feel like I belong in this space.

Today, I feel some ownership.

Today, this space is mine.

It's not a conquest, and it's not a hostile takeover.

It's an evolution. It's the propagation of helpful adaptations, and the annulment of old ways. It's the creation of a new being, in a new habitat.

I am evolving. One way I know this to be true is the way that my new home is starting to look, smell, feel, and live to me. I'm learning the ecosystem: both the local and the regional. I'm caring for it, and it is caring for me.

In addition, today I figured out a conversation that has been happening around me, but of which I was not a part. I figured out feelings and responses from my teammates about having three brand new teachers on a team of 12.

This was important not because of the knowledge it imparted (ok, that too), but because of the familiarity of that discovery. Gauging and understanding subtext and unspoken norms are things I'm good at. It was nice to feel that familiar warmth of understanding; nice to put knowledge in my pocket.

They say I'll slip back down this mountain more than once before next August.

So let it be written.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aDaOgu2CQtI

Just keep swimming

Hm.

Had a sub for the first time Friday. Monday was no big deal.

First parent-teacher conferences tomorrow. I'm a little nervous.

Taking 45 minutes of my night and listening to Elton John on Fresh Air. This is a little peace of terra firma for me.

Winfield happened. It was good.

Something is happening inside my brain and my heart. Something is growing.

I'm different, I'm told. I think I know this to be true.

One thing that's different is stress.

Stress is because I care about what's happening during my days.

Something is growing.

What's new? It's always new.

What's new?

It will be August of 2014 before I am consistently doing things that are not "firsts."

I have a very supportive principal who is willing to be tough on me, shoot straight, and push me to be better. And who texts after she's been out of the building to ask how new strategies worked out for me. That feels good.

I love many of my co-workers.

I can see the line between firm and mean from where I stood today. It was a sight for sore eyes. ("Site for sore eyes," which I almost typed, would work too. And it's more fun to imagine.)

I love teaching about history. I love talking about current events.

Tomorrow is the anniversary of 9/11. I have at least 1 Muslim student, whom I love dearly. Today my students asked me, almost every hour, what were were going to talk about for 9/11. When I talked about this with them, I thought I was going to cry.

I told them the stories of two of the worst moments in my life: watching the towers burn with my 1-year-old child playing in front of the TV, and watching the Challenger explode as a 3rd grader. I told them that bad things happen. I told them that we still had learning to do. I told them that evil people aren't representative of their race or creed or gender or religion. I told them that we shouldn't stop the world to remember the time that crazy people did crazy things. I thought I would cry. It was the ethos I dreamed of imparting.

When my children and my world ask me the question, "Did I do all that I could? That I should have done?" I pray that the answer will be yes.

And I look forward to the day that I'm not running scared so that more of my moments are teaching and fewer are scrambling.

If that day is a myth, please don't tell me until next August.

I'd like to teach the world to sing...

There are so many things I'd go back three weeks and do differently. Not just because I see how they'd be better, but because I'm reaping the whirlwind of not having done them well.

So many things make so much more sense to me now.



I hope this chart that my friend shared with me is wrong. I've been told on a number of occasions that I'm already very reflective. I hope that's true. I think that's a good way to live a life. Maybe that means I'll be ahead of the curve.

I definitely dreaded going in today. Friday I had a mutiny in first hour. They just didn't care for my rules and my discipline. Hello, blind side.

Anything worth doing is hard. The big thing for me is regret that these kids won't get the teacher I someday hope to be.

Onward and upward. Or downward. Then upward.