Thanks to @MuellerHolly for creating a space for reflection on our spiritual journey each week. This week's topic came from @dashthebook about leaving a legacy. Feel free to read and enjoy our musings on Holly's blog (http://www.hollymueller.blogspot.com/) - or join in on the fun. I'd love to read your reflections as well.
Leaving a legacy - a gift left for generations to come. A story to be shared . . . such a neat concept. We all have our story, our gift to the future, but not all know exactly how it plays out.
For example, you have authors. We know the legacy of the heroes, villains, and ordinary people who walked the face of the Earth in biblical times. The fact that we know it thousands of years later makes me question my choice of the word "ordinary" at all. To me it's extraordinary that I have these stories that shape my life today to help me become the person I want to be.
Then there are musicians. Music feeds the soul in so many ways. The legacy they leave, their mark on the world, can impact for centuries to come. The memories become instant, almost a direct line to the heart. "Canon in D" -- my wedding; "I Will Survive" -- a friend's triumphant war cry in the face of cancer; "What Child is This?" -- my grandmother's church as a child with glorious trees and loving hands.
I could go on -- the artists, the athletes, the people who fought against evil. Their legacies are celebrated, beautiful, sometimes haunting.
But I'm just an ordinary person. I haven't finished a book (yet). I haven't composed a masterpiece (probably not in my skill set). I haven't painting anything that someone beyond my parents would appreciate. I'm just me. A believer. A wife. A mom. A friend. A teacher. Someone who can fade into the woodwork of life.
However, God doesn't let that happen. He is good. He provides. He answers prayers.
So when I start my day with, "God, let me be what You need today. Help me to do Your work." He answers. He moves in ways that I will never know - and when I start to doubt. When I question, "Is this what You want?", he nudges me.
As a teacher, I'm probably seen as an idealistic person. I believe that relationships with kids will move mountains. When those relationships are forged, kids begin to believe in the power of "What if . . . ". They begin to see possibilities that they never knew existed. They begin to trust. That trust is a powerful tool to help them engage in learning, though it's often not a quick process. I fall on my face at times, but I believe if I exhibit grace, grace will be given in return.
I was blessed by a former colleague (1993 - 1996) this week. We taught together in my hometown. I was green then -- just out of college and full of ideas. I really wasn't much older than my students -- 10 or 11 years. (In fact I'd taught many of them swim lessons, babysat, and knew their families socially from my elementary, middle, high school, and college years.) But I loved those kids.
I can still see them. Once a student enters the room, he/she enters my heart. It's kind of a messy thing -- caring -- it allows for failures, follies, and a million powerful moments. It was one of the hardest things I've ever done. It was also one of the most rewarding.
I'm friends with a few on Facebook. I treasure seeing what they've done with their lives. I love seeing them embrace life as adults -- they are now teachers, professors, professional actors, bakers, designers, architects, parents, etc. They are doing things that were only dreams when they were in 7th grade.
Anyway, this week, my colleague shared a story with me:
Hi Amy. I had surgery on my Achilles' tendon Wednesday and saw several former WRMS students during the process. My post op nurse was a former student of yours named Kelly A......... She credits you with turning her life around. She was hanging with the wrong crowd. She stated that you cared more about her than she cared about her self. She and her mother are so grateful to you. Today she is a delightful, professional who took good care on me. I had to pass it on to you.
I cried. Of course I remember her. I can still see her as a 7th grader . . . and a lump of happiness sits in my throat. I'm honored by the gift of these words. A gift of the power of relationship in the classroom.
You see -- this is the legacy that I want to leave. It isn't really about me at all -- it's that I want to be open to Him and how He needs to use me as a person.
So my challenge to myself this year is to listen -- to continue to focus on the person He needs me to be.
That may be the greatest legacy of all --
Thursday, June 4, 2015
Thursday, May 28, 2015
A moment of silence.
One of my favorite ways to start the day is with a moment of silence. I'm blessed that the state of Tennessee requires this, and I'm blessed by administrators who give the full minute every day.
I try to use the time wisely - to put aside all that needs to happen first thing in the morning - attendance, notes, reminders, greeting students - and to focus on having His blessing for the day. I pray for the students who walk the halls at the high school next door. I pray for the students who will sit in the chairs in my room throughout the day. I pray for the students who will sit there in years to come. I pray that He uses me as He needs me to help prepare my students for the lives they face.
It means a lot to me. They never know, but it always makes a difference. It makes my day, well, more. It gives me perspective, patience, and a sense of calm.
I can always tell when I allow the morning cacophony to crash throughout my brain. It's easy to be distracted by the world and its demands. But that time needs to remain focused. It needs to be an intentional training of the brain.
Silence. A time to focus on what I hold to be most important. Those things worth doing should be done well.
I begin the year in silence. Several weeks prior to school starting, I begin sitting and praying for the students who will occupy those seats for the next 200 days. I pray that I follow His lead in providing what the student needs. Whatever it may be -- that I help them on his/her path.
That doesn't mean I will always agree with that path . . . what is important is that He knows what that child needs far more than I do. It requires faith, trust, and a willingness to take turns leading, walking alongside, and following. He knows far more than I do; I am simply an instrument.
There are times throughout a year when a class needs refocusing. Again, the moment of silence . . . the moment of surrender to a greater purpose . . . the moment of letting go helps every single time.
I don't shout it from the mountain tops, though the conversation definitely lifts my mood. It doesn't need to be announced. Most never know how vital that moment is to me every day. After all, my job really shouldn't be focused on me. It should be focused on my students and their needs.
I try to use the time wisely - to put aside all that needs to happen first thing in the morning - attendance, notes, reminders, greeting students - and to focus on having His blessing for the day. I pray for the students who walk the halls at the high school next door. I pray for the students who will sit in the chairs in my room throughout the day. I pray for the students who will sit there in years to come. I pray that He uses me as He needs me to help prepare my students for the lives they face.
It means a lot to me. They never know, but it always makes a difference. It makes my day, well, more. It gives me perspective, patience, and a sense of calm.
I can always tell when I allow the morning cacophony to crash throughout my brain. It's easy to be distracted by the world and its demands. But that time needs to remain focused. It needs to be an intentional training of the brain.
Silence. A time to focus on what I hold to be most important. Those things worth doing should be done well.
I begin the year in silence. Several weeks prior to school starting, I begin sitting and praying for the students who will occupy those seats for the next 200 days. I pray that I follow His lead in providing what the student needs. Whatever it may be -- that I help them on his/her path.
That doesn't mean I will always agree with that path . . . what is important is that He knows what that child needs far more than I do. It requires faith, trust, and a willingness to take turns leading, walking alongside, and following. He knows far more than I do; I am simply an instrument.
There are times throughout a year when a class needs refocusing. Again, the moment of silence . . . the moment of surrender to a greater purpose . . . the moment of letting go helps every single time.
I don't shout it from the mountain tops, though the conversation definitely lifts my mood. It doesn't need to be announced. Most never know how vital that moment is to me every day. After all, my job really shouldn't be focused on me. It should be focused on my students and their needs.
Tuesday, May 26, 2015
End of the year musings
Well, another end of the school year has come and gone . . .
The room is packed up tight, desks stacked in the corner, chairs tower over them. My workspace is wiped clean - no papers, no clips, no books scattered about. The plants are gone, the printer sits quietly in the corner. The cords are unplugged, the colorful messages packed away.
I dislike the end of the year.
It's not that I don't enjoy summer - I do. I love lazy mornings, having time to write, being with my kids. I love the pool, spur of the moment activities, seeing family. I love reading, thinking, dreaming, getting organized. I embrace this time every year. It's a time to see things with fresh eyes.
But I miss my students.
I was laughing the other day -- being a little dramatic as usual. In the office I was saying, "You give them to me for 200 days, tell me to care about them, encourage them, make them love reading, writing, and engaging in their learning; then you rip them from me and send them off to find their life." It was dramatic - done for effect - but in my heart, I miss them.
Sometimes I think a teacher may be the only person who really understands. Now I celebrate from afar - most are at the high school across the football fields and parking lots. I look at it every morning during our moment of silence and think of them before during back to the new ones in my charge. I hope that they will find successes through challenges; that they will love and engage in what they are learning; that they will carve out a unique life path that will fit.
I still miss them.
So the end of the year brings some sadness with it. It's a time of letting go and trusting. Trusting that the seeds were planted in fertile minds, trusting that lessons will echo, trusting that it's really not about what I did anyway. I was there to help, encourage, and care . . . but the hard work was done by the student.
So I step back. I smile. I face a new group and care - knowing that the end of the year will come again. It's worth it.
The room is packed up tight, desks stacked in the corner, chairs tower over them. My workspace is wiped clean - no papers, no clips, no books scattered about. The plants are gone, the printer sits quietly in the corner. The cords are unplugged, the colorful messages packed away.
I dislike the end of the year.
It's not that I don't enjoy summer - I do. I love lazy mornings, having time to write, being with my kids. I love the pool, spur of the moment activities, seeing family. I love reading, thinking, dreaming, getting organized. I embrace this time every year. It's a time to see things with fresh eyes.
But I miss my students.
I was laughing the other day -- being a little dramatic as usual. In the office I was saying, "You give them to me for 200 days, tell me to care about them, encourage them, make them love reading, writing, and engaging in their learning; then you rip them from me and send them off to find their life." It was dramatic - done for effect - but in my heart, I miss them.
Sometimes I think a teacher may be the only person who really understands. Now I celebrate from afar - most are at the high school across the football fields and parking lots. I look at it every morning during our moment of silence and think of them before during back to the new ones in my charge. I hope that they will find successes through challenges; that they will love and engage in what they are learning; that they will carve out a unique life path that will fit.
I still miss them.
So the end of the year brings some sadness with it. It's a time of letting go and trusting. Trusting that the seeds were planted in fertile minds, trusting that lessons will echo, trusting that it's really not about what I did anyway. I was there to help, encourage, and care . . . but the hard work was done by the student.
So I step back. I smile. I face a new group and care - knowing that the end of the year will come again. It's worth it.
Friday, March 6, 2015
Finding Adventure
Adventure calls us. It lurks around the corner. It whispers in an ear.
Sometimes it's giant and yells at us through a megaphone. Other times it's quiet and sits waiting to be noticed. Then there is the adventure that nags at us, trying to engage, stop, and notice.
It's a gift that has been given to us.
Like all gifts, once given freely, it's up to us how we use it.
There are the obvious adventures -- such as moving across the country or changing careers. Those are the ones that always strengthen my relationship with God. I spend time with Him asking for his help, His direction, His will. He gives me cause to dance despite a different agenda from my own. I'm grateful for His presence in my life.
It's the quiet adventures that I don't want to miss. The beauty of snow falling in lazy, fat flakes across the frozen ground; the tiny, brave flower poking up from the crack in the sidewalk; the glory of spring buds and the glory of blazing color of the leaves in the fall. These are the moments that make my breath falter for a moment. The beauty of simple adventures catch me off guard; often they bring a tear to my eye, grateful for a glimpse beyond my own understanding. Adventures that often go unnoticed because we are tied up in our own plans.
This reminds me of our relationship with God. How many times does he put things in our path that we ignore because we are concentrating on our own agenda? Our own adventure?
Therefore, it is this exciting word that causes me to slow down. It causes me to turn to God and hear His will. It invigorates me to embrace Him.
I'll be honest -- sometimes the relinquishment of what I want scares me. It takes me out of control. It means that my hard work doesn't really matter. So I turn to Him, on my knees, humbled.
And I pray for His guidance through the best adventure of all -- a life lived to please Him.
Sometimes it's giant and yells at us through a megaphone. Other times it's quiet and sits waiting to be noticed. Then there is the adventure that nags at us, trying to engage, stop, and notice.
It's a gift that has been given to us.
Like all gifts, once given freely, it's up to us how we use it.
There are the obvious adventures -- such as moving across the country or changing careers. Those are the ones that always strengthen my relationship with God. I spend time with Him asking for his help, His direction, His will. He gives me cause to dance despite a different agenda from my own. I'm grateful for His presence in my life.
It's the quiet adventures that I don't want to miss. The beauty of snow falling in lazy, fat flakes across the frozen ground; the tiny, brave flower poking up from the crack in the sidewalk; the glory of spring buds and the glory of blazing color of the leaves in the fall. These are the moments that make my breath falter for a moment. The beauty of simple adventures catch me off guard; often they bring a tear to my eye, grateful for a glimpse beyond my own understanding. Adventures that often go unnoticed because we are tied up in our own plans.
This reminds me of our relationship with God. How many times does he put things in our path that we ignore because we are concentrating on our own agenda? Our own adventure?
Therefore, it is this exciting word that causes me to slow down. It causes me to turn to God and hear His will. It invigorates me to embrace Him.
I'll be honest -- sometimes the relinquishment of what I want scares me. It takes me out of control. It means that my hard work doesn't really matter. So I turn to Him, on my knees, humbled.
And I pray for His guidance through the best adventure of all -- a life lived to please Him.
Thursday, February 19, 2015
Dive
I've been thinking about the word dive for the last few days.
It takes me back to the summer when I was 13. That was the summer I started teaching swimming lessons. I remember one of my favorite lessons was to teach how to dive.
To teeter on the edge of the pool. Eyes on your stomach so your head would go in first. Hands clasped together over your head. Butterflies dancing in your stomach.
It takes a lot of trust to dive. Those first few attempts where you stand in position and jump in the pool. Or the inevitable face first flop because you wanted to see where you were going instead of tucking your chin. Then of course you have the belly flop where your fear causes you to pull back from position just in time to smack you from head to toe.
I remember looking into a child's eyes, asking for his trust, and leading him through the process. The feelings of uncertainty crossing his face, a momentary flitter of panic, a glimpse of peace.
Then the total eruption of happiness when the task was conquered.
I taught swimming lessons, swam competitively, and coached teams for over 13 years. I helped over 1,300 kids learn to dive. Each situation was a little different, but the basic process was the same.
Life is kind of like diving.
Most people want to know where they are going; they want control over their life. However, this often ends up with a smack in the face, or heading in a direction you were not intending. It's much easier to rely on our understanding of the world instead of trusting a God who can provide so much more than our human minds can comprehend.
I'll admit to belly flops. Time where my trust wavered, and I pulled back. They were painful; however, they helped me grow into the person that I'm intended to be. They helped to center me on what is most important; to trust, to believe, and to be the person He desires me to be. They taught me humility, humbled me, and forced me to my knees.
It's when I truly embrace the dive that I fly. It's not looking to the future; it's doing what I'm intended to do now. It's serving how God intends me to serve. After all, life really isn't about me. When I can understand that, I'm filled with peace and grace.
I often go back to my favorite scripture. It's the one that brings me peace when I have the most doubt. It's the one that keeps me from going in feet first or face planting in the water
"For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." Jeremiah 29:11
With words like that, how can I not dive?
It takes me back to the summer when I was 13. That was the summer I started teaching swimming lessons. I remember one of my favorite lessons was to teach how to dive.
To teeter on the edge of the pool. Eyes on your stomach so your head would go in first. Hands clasped together over your head. Butterflies dancing in your stomach.
It takes a lot of trust to dive. Those first few attempts where you stand in position and jump in the pool. Or the inevitable face first flop because you wanted to see where you were going instead of tucking your chin. Then of course you have the belly flop where your fear causes you to pull back from position just in time to smack you from head to toe.
I remember looking into a child's eyes, asking for his trust, and leading him through the process. The feelings of uncertainty crossing his face, a momentary flitter of panic, a glimpse of peace.
Then the total eruption of happiness when the task was conquered.
I taught swimming lessons, swam competitively, and coached teams for over 13 years. I helped over 1,300 kids learn to dive. Each situation was a little different, but the basic process was the same.
Life is kind of like diving.
Most people want to know where they are going; they want control over their life. However, this often ends up with a smack in the face, or heading in a direction you were not intending. It's much easier to rely on our understanding of the world instead of trusting a God who can provide so much more than our human minds can comprehend.
I'll admit to belly flops. Time where my trust wavered, and I pulled back. They were painful; however, they helped me grow into the person that I'm intended to be. They helped to center me on what is most important; to trust, to believe, and to be the person He desires me to be. They taught me humility, humbled me, and forced me to my knees.
It's when I truly embrace the dive that I fly. It's not looking to the future; it's doing what I'm intended to do now. It's serving how God intends me to serve. After all, life really isn't about me. When I can understand that, I'm filled with peace and grace.
I often go back to my favorite scripture. It's the one that brings me peace when I have the most doubt. It's the one that keeps me from going in feet first or face planting in the water
"For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." Jeremiah 29:11
With words like that, how can I not dive?
Tuesday, February 17, 2015
When do rules become more important than people?
The day I became a mother, I became a better teacher. This is true for me. To say that you have to be a mother to be a good teacher would be a faulty statement. I was a good teacher prior to being a mom . . . it's just that I became better after I held my child in my arms for the first time.
It's a powerful type of love. It created a shift in my classroom from having the focus be on me and what I needed to accomplish to seeing what the children in my room needed to accomplish. Don't get me wrong, my classroom is usually well-organized chaos. It's a place where kids can contribute, be pushed to excel, and find their voice. Many leave the room with a visible shift toward a love of learning, a love of words, and the skills to face the future. Along the way, I've made many mistakes. I've discovered that the most important thing I can do is be honest with my students in these situations. As an adult I have to swallow my pride at times - simply because it's the right thing to do.
But this really isn't a story about me and my classroom. It's about being a mother.
Actually it's my son's story. My youngest is an amazing child. (*Disclaimer -- all of my children are amazing and unique children; this just happens to be about my youngest.) He's a cross between a skilled ninja and a giant teddy bear. His ability and vocabulary can rival most educated adults, and he has a passion for learning. He constantly asks questions - about words, vocabulary, life. He creates solutions to problems, builds crazy contraptions, and enjoys experiments. He sees the world in black and white, and he is willing to fight for justice. Sometimes I just watch him go about his day and wonder at the adult he will become.
Other times I worry because the world is sometimes hard for ninja-like giant teddy bears who see the world in black and white.
But let me step back. My youngest is a big kid for his age. At 11, he is the size of a small adult 5'5" and quickly growing out of his size 10 men's shoes. He reads voraciously, and prefers stories about the underdog - and llamas, he loves llamas, but that is a different story. When he's upset with his brothers, he writes parodies about life where the underdog is successful. One of his latest works is the story of the "Three Little Llamas," a parody of the classic three bear story. Needless to say the moral of the story was that doing a little research about life will result in a successful launch from your parents home -- instead of having a life of llama trauma or being relegated to the basement of your mother's house being addicted to video games and Cheetos. On the athletic front, he has found success in football. He loves his position at lineman, and he is willing to fight for position. In the off-season he does CrossFit. To say he loves CrossFit is not strong enough. At times he's frustrated because he's the youngest in his group, but he continues to work to be the best he can be. His strength continues to grow as he does.
I think he's pretty incredible. Of course over the years it hasn't always been easy for him. Having a vocabulary like his in a young body can cause friction in the wrong situation. Oftentimes his peers didn't understand him. Depending on the adult in charge, seeing the world's injustices could result in battles. Battles that left scars - probably on both ends. I can tell you stories about our path through elementary school. (As I write this, I think of the character of Scout. Most of his battles were epic, but one sided.) His story may be novel worthy.
As a teacher you've probably had a child like this in your class. Building a relationship with him will cause him to move mountains for you -- because he's found someone to trust. Or you can choose the other option - poke at him until he feels like a bear and comes out growling. Both options will affect the person he is destined to be.
Therefore, as his mother, I implore you to SEE the children sitting in your room, eating in your cafeteria, walking down the hallways as children. All weekend I've been struggling with something that happened last week in school.
My son has had an amazing year in school. Reunited with a teacher who cherishes his gifts, his questioning nature, his unique spin on life, he has grown in leaps and bounds. Over the last two years, things have calmed down, smoothed out some. His maturity is growing as well as understanding of others. He's learning to grow as a leader, take responsibility for his actions, and he's starting to love school again. It's been a process of a couple of years to get him here. To say that two years ago was rough would be an understatement. A year of poking the bear in school and out of school cause some eruptions. Some were his fault, others were not. As a parent, we worked together to take ownership of what he was doing wrong. We worked through his responsibility, and ways to survive the year. It took a year of healing and a few special teachers along the way to even make him want to walk through the door of the school.
Though that work was undone temporarily last week. It was a huge set-back. You see, in an assembly he was invited by his first grade teacher to go see a picture of him in her class. She said it made her smile, and permission was granted for him to go. After the assembly he went to her room, saw the picture, and was feeling like he was a king. It doesn't take much to show a child that he matters.
Walking back to his classroom, he wasn't running; he wasn't causing problems; he wasn't doing anything but walking down the hallway feeling special. That's when another fifth grade teacher called him out for being in the wrong space. She questioned his answer, that he had permission to be there and asked if either teacher would be willing to support his story. He said, "Yes. Ask them." Of course his back was to the wall at this point. Any positive feelings were crushed in the fists he had by his sides. Again, he was being accused of being wrong when he had done nothing to be wrong. This is a theme for him in this situation; one that has happened often enough in his school career to make it occasionally a truth. The act of being the child simply makes you the wrong person in the party.
Think about that for a moment. The act of being the child simply makes you the wrong person in the party.
The adult then asked his teacher if he had permission to be in the hallway. Of course, he did.
Her apology to him was along the lines of, "I'm sorry, but you're always doing bad things around here."
Yes, this one will hurt. This one will show him that adults will let him down. What lesson did she teach him? It wasn't one of compassion. It wasn't a positive learning experience. What she taught him was that some people have to have the last line. That adults are afraid of being wrong. That you don't get a chance to learn or change. That in school rules are more important than people.
No child is perfect. No adult is perfect. If you watch one long enough, you will see mistakes. You'll see a momentary disregard for rules. Sometimes you'll get caught.
As an adult, this is when one should apologize. The apology should be said with sincerity for their actions because the "but . . . " that isn't necessary. It's an opportunity to teach compassion. There is no need to turn a mistake back upon the child. To the child it becomes a lesson within itself; it's okay to be wrong as long as you work to make amends.
My child is expected to do this.
I go back to the beginning. Becoming a mother has made me a better teacher. It's opened my eyes to see each of my students as a child who is learning and growing. As an adult I've learned that sometimes I need to adjust my expectations to match the child - instead of the other way around. I've learned that relationships are key, that kids respond to sincerity. I feel fortunate that my child had his teacher there to decompress the situation immediately - to validate that he didn't do anything wrong. Bless her for just being there when he had been torn down.
After all, it's not really what you say that matters. In 20 years they'll probably forget specific lessons, either they will be ingrained in the reality of their life or a vague memory. They will remember, however, how you made them feel.
This shift in perception is an important one. I ask my students the following question often; "How do you want to be remembered in 20 years?" Then I encourage them to discover the path to be that person.
Think back to your memories of school. Don't let the opportunity to be a positive force escape your grasp.
It's a powerful type of love. It created a shift in my classroom from having the focus be on me and what I needed to accomplish to seeing what the children in my room needed to accomplish. Don't get me wrong, my classroom is usually well-organized chaos. It's a place where kids can contribute, be pushed to excel, and find their voice. Many leave the room with a visible shift toward a love of learning, a love of words, and the skills to face the future. Along the way, I've made many mistakes. I've discovered that the most important thing I can do is be honest with my students in these situations. As an adult I have to swallow my pride at times - simply because it's the right thing to do.
But this really isn't a story about me and my classroom. It's about being a mother.
Actually it's my son's story. My youngest is an amazing child. (*Disclaimer -- all of my children are amazing and unique children; this just happens to be about my youngest.) He's a cross between a skilled ninja and a giant teddy bear. His ability and vocabulary can rival most educated adults, and he has a passion for learning. He constantly asks questions - about words, vocabulary, life. He creates solutions to problems, builds crazy contraptions, and enjoys experiments. He sees the world in black and white, and he is willing to fight for justice. Sometimes I just watch him go about his day and wonder at the adult he will become.
Other times I worry because the world is sometimes hard for ninja-like giant teddy bears who see the world in black and white.
But let me step back. My youngest is a big kid for his age. At 11, he is the size of a small adult 5'5" and quickly growing out of his size 10 men's shoes. He reads voraciously, and prefers stories about the underdog - and llamas, he loves llamas, but that is a different story. When he's upset with his brothers, he writes parodies about life where the underdog is successful. One of his latest works is the story of the "Three Little Llamas," a parody of the classic three bear story. Needless to say the moral of the story was that doing a little research about life will result in a successful launch from your parents home -- instead of having a life of llama trauma or being relegated to the basement of your mother's house being addicted to video games and Cheetos. On the athletic front, he has found success in football. He loves his position at lineman, and he is willing to fight for position. In the off-season he does CrossFit. To say he loves CrossFit is not strong enough. At times he's frustrated because he's the youngest in his group, but he continues to work to be the best he can be. His strength continues to grow as he does.
I think he's pretty incredible. Of course over the years it hasn't always been easy for him. Having a vocabulary like his in a young body can cause friction in the wrong situation. Oftentimes his peers didn't understand him. Depending on the adult in charge, seeing the world's injustices could result in battles. Battles that left scars - probably on both ends. I can tell you stories about our path through elementary school. (As I write this, I think of the character of Scout. Most of his battles were epic, but one sided.) His story may be novel worthy.
As a teacher you've probably had a child like this in your class. Building a relationship with him will cause him to move mountains for you -- because he's found someone to trust. Or you can choose the other option - poke at him until he feels like a bear and comes out growling. Both options will affect the person he is destined to be.
Therefore, as his mother, I implore you to SEE the children sitting in your room, eating in your cafeteria, walking down the hallways as children. All weekend I've been struggling with something that happened last week in school.
My son has had an amazing year in school. Reunited with a teacher who cherishes his gifts, his questioning nature, his unique spin on life, he has grown in leaps and bounds. Over the last two years, things have calmed down, smoothed out some. His maturity is growing as well as understanding of others. He's learning to grow as a leader, take responsibility for his actions, and he's starting to love school again. It's been a process of a couple of years to get him here. To say that two years ago was rough would be an understatement. A year of poking the bear in school and out of school cause some eruptions. Some were his fault, others were not. As a parent, we worked together to take ownership of what he was doing wrong. We worked through his responsibility, and ways to survive the year. It took a year of healing and a few special teachers along the way to even make him want to walk through the door of the school.
Though that work was undone temporarily last week. It was a huge set-back. You see, in an assembly he was invited by his first grade teacher to go see a picture of him in her class. She said it made her smile, and permission was granted for him to go. After the assembly he went to her room, saw the picture, and was feeling like he was a king. It doesn't take much to show a child that he matters.
Walking back to his classroom, he wasn't running; he wasn't causing problems; he wasn't doing anything but walking down the hallway feeling special. That's when another fifth grade teacher called him out for being in the wrong space. She questioned his answer, that he had permission to be there and asked if either teacher would be willing to support his story. He said, "Yes. Ask them." Of course his back was to the wall at this point. Any positive feelings were crushed in the fists he had by his sides. Again, he was being accused of being wrong when he had done nothing to be wrong. This is a theme for him in this situation; one that has happened often enough in his school career to make it occasionally a truth. The act of being the child simply makes you the wrong person in the party.
Think about that for a moment. The act of being the child simply makes you the wrong person in the party.
The adult then asked his teacher if he had permission to be in the hallway. Of course, he did.
Her apology to him was along the lines of, "I'm sorry, but you're always doing bad things around here."
Yes, this one will hurt. This one will show him that adults will let him down. What lesson did she teach him? It wasn't one of compassion. It wasn't a positive learning experience. What she taught him was that some people have to have the last line. That adults are afraid of being wrong. That you don't get a chance to learn or change. That in school rules are more important than people.
No child is perfect. No adult is perfect. If you watch one long enough, you will see mistakes. You'll see a momentary disregard for rules. Sometimes you'll get caught.
As an adult, this is when one should apologize. The apology should be said with sincerity for their actions because the "but . . . " that isn't necessary. It's an opportunity to teach compassion. There is no need to turn a mistake back upon the child. To the child it becomes a lesson within itself; it's okay to be wrong as long as you work to make amends.
My child is expected to do this.
I go back to the beginning. Becoming a mother has made me a better teacher. It's opened my eyes to see each of my students as a child who is learning and growing. As an adult I've learned that sometimes I need to adjust my expectations to match the child - instead of the other way around. I've learned that relationships are key, that kids respond to sincerity. I feel fortunate that my child had his teacher there to decompress the situation immediately - to validate that he didn't do anything wrong. Bless her for just being there when he had been torn down.
After all, it's not really what you say that matters. In 20 years they'll probably forget specific lessons, either they will be ingrained in the reality of their life or a vague memory. They will remember, however, how you made them feel.
This shift in perception is an important one. I ask my students the following question often; "How do you want to be remembered in 20 years?" Then I encourage them to discover the path to be that person.
Think back to your memories of school. Don't let the opportunity to be a positive force escape your grasp.
Wednesday, January 21, 2015
A powerful lesson
I taught Leonardo in 1998. I can still see him now. He was a cocky young Hispanic boy who defiantly sat in my 7th grade classroom. This was the first year that his father got a job at the canning factory near Rochester, MN, making it the first year that he was in the same school for the entire year. The normal track was to attend school in MN from September - October and return in April when the fields were ready to work again. To say his attendance was sporadic would be an understatement.
He came from a migrant family. The oldest child of six, Leo opened my eyes to many things. His mother deserted the family when he was in elementary school. His father worked hard, but there were so many things lacking. At the tender age of 12, Leo was a pseudo-parent.
In school he wore his tough façade proudly. So many people let him down. He was labeled as a troublemaker, a year older than everyone else in his class because he was held back. The system didn't hold a lot of hope for him. Other kids were a little scared of him. He had a sharp mouth, and quick fists.
It's easy to judge that, isn't it? It's easy to make assumptions about him and his future.
He sat in the back of the room and just watched me. I was young, energetic, and working hard to engage my students. I encouraged inquiry, discussion, and non-traditional projects. I sat on the floor, read aloud, and pushed my students to embrace learning. The first couple of weeks we circled each other - testing the waters, sometimes engaging in a quick jab, pulling back.
I'd never taught someone like Leo. He wasn't easy to engage. I let it get to me - being inflexible was my mistake. I remember arguing with him about joining us on the grass outside do participate in a class activity. He refused to sit. He told me I was stupid. He wanted to be sent to the office. I can still seem him standing proudly in the sunlight in his white pants, blue tucked in shirt. His eyes dared me to release him from the torture of being with my class.
But I still didn't really SEE him. I didn't SEE the white pants. I was too involved in what I wanted to listen to what HE was really saying.
Later that week I saw him driving across town. Yes, he was 13.
I met him at the door the next day. "What were you doing? You can't drive. Something could happen to you."
"Laundry," was his simple reply. "Someone had to do it. We don't have a machine." Something clicked. I remember asking him, "Is that why you didn't want to join us on the grass?"
He couldn't look at me. He just whispered, "yeah. Those were new pants." New didn't happen very often in his family.
Fortunately I listened to the words behind his simple "yeah". You see, his life experience was so vastly different from mine. So many pieces of the puzzle flew into place. At that point I apologized. I apologized for my insensitivity. To this day, I still feel like a heel. It wasn't that he didn't want to be a part of us, he just didn't want to ruin his hard work over the potential of a grass stain.
I'm not sure that anyone had ever apologized to him. His smile lit my heart. It was the shift in our relationship.
Leo was responsible for a new vision for me. This 13-year-old boy challenged me to put my money where my mouth is and truly see every child sitting in my room. It opened my eyes to the fact that life happens outside of my classroom that impact what happens in my classroom every single day. Leo gave me a large dose of flexibility that I've never forgotten.
I'm grateful every day for him.
Leo grew in leaps and bounds that year. He passed all of his classes, had one office referral (yes, it was the pants day), and closed the gap in reading comprehension and writing. He scoured poetry, found books that intrigued him enough to give them a shot, and learned to ask questions. He started to find his voice. He started to find his confidence. His classmates started to look at him differently. He emerged as a leader and kept others on task.
At the end of the year he wrote me a note:
"Miss W taught me a lot this year. Sometimes she made me so mad that I wanted to poke a pin in her to make her pop, but mostly I just wished she was my mom."
Humbling, isn't it?
After that year I moved to the Twin Cities, then to Texas, Kansas, and now Tennessee. I spent a decade raising my own children, taught ELA to over 1,600 kids, and I lost track of Leo. For the first year or so I'd hear that he was doing well in high school, then I lost touch with my contacts in the district.
It's been 17 years since I met him. He's around the age of 30 now.
Through him I learned about the power of relationships, looking behind the façade, listening to the true words and insecurities that kids cannot voice. I learned about grace, found a new level of compassion, and focused less on my goals and more on what my students need.
He taught me to make sure that every child who sits in my classroom sees his worth, to make sure that child knows that someone cares, and to keep an extra snack in her cabinet for days when there wasn't enough lunch, or breakfast, or dinner.
He was a smart young man.
Thank you, Leo.
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