Superior: Home Sweet Away From Home

They say home is where the heart is.  Well, my heart is in this home, and it always will be. When I was 10, my parents went through a bitter divorce.  When it was all said and done, my dad was granted summer custody.  That summer, my dad met my stepmom, Becky. She came to meet us, cooked us real food (sorry Dad), and she brought her parents along. From day one John and Wanda became Grandpa and Grandma.  They treated me as though I was their own - blood or not.  Their home because one of my homes.  One of the places that never changed no matter how much my life changed.  For that, I consider myself truly lucky.

Each summer my brothers, sister, and I would spend about a week at Grandma and Grandpa's house.  It was a week for us to run wild, stay up late, play all day at the park, swim at the pool, and eat as much cookie dough as we could handle.  We lived for this week each summer, and now that I am a parent I am sure that my parents LIVED for this week as well.  (Can you say FREEDOM!) We played games of Posy Pitch and Yard Darts (the javelin-will-poke-your-eye-out-or-impale-you kind).  We slid down the huge slide at the park with wax paper so we would go faster.  We snuck black-cherry Shasta out of the fridge after bedtime.  We (being me) climbed through the crawlspace and got caught red-handed and hung-out-to-dry by my siblings who had gone before me.  No seriously, my butt was literally hanging out of the crawl space window when Grandma caught me, and they acted all innocent like it was my idea.  My brothers went commando one summer, and told grandma that, "They didn't wear underwear anymore."  She called home, discovered their lie, and then threatened to make them pink, silky panties if they ever came to her house again without their underwear, ending that threat with, "And you WILL wear them and like it."  We got as many pancakes as we could eat every morning.  And grandpa always bought us the biggest blizzards they made a Dairy Queen; we called them "Grandpa Smalls".

Every Christmas we grandkids packed the basement.  We played Thirty-One all night, or until Uncle Kenny got mad, stormed out and yelled, "You play cards like a fish, I ain't playing a G--- D--- card game with people who make up the rules as they go." (I am sure there were other expletives in there - nobody could cuss us out like Uncle Kenny.)  We kept air freshener at the table because our family was full of hot air in more than one way, and to this day, the smell of apple-cinnamon still makes me gag.  We serenaded anyone who lost with the song "Happy Trails" - led by Aunt Tami.  We would play until 3:00 in the morning, or until whomever was in college had won enough laundry money for the next few months. Jane got to sleep upstair because she was the first to have "greats". Joe and Jarod snored in the recliners upstairs, and we could hear them through the floor.  In the basement, sleeping bags and air-mattresses lined the floor. Jason and Bud blasted their discmans.  Jen used my stomach for a pillow and stole my covers.  Laura cried that she was in hell because of all the noise.  And we loved every crowded second of it.  The next day we crowded into the upstairs living room.  We exchanged tons of gifts, and Joe usually got old-lady underwear.  I can't remember the joke behind it; I just remember it was funny.  And then we ate.  Boy did we eat.  Homemade dressing and rolls.  Real mashed potatoes and gravy.  Turkey and ham.  And the pies, oh, the pies.  Grandma did it right (and somehow we grandkids managed to get out of doing dishes almost every time!)

You see, I watched over 100 people carry away my grandparents' stuff this weekend, and they had a ton of stuff - 60 years worth.  A comment was made about all the stuff, how it just sat there waiting to be sold, a lifetime worth of collecting -- gone.  What's the point? That is when I said that this stuff served a purpose.  It built a family.  And it brought us all back home.  Our home sweet away from home.  The stuff may be gone, but the family remains, and I am so blessed to be a part of this loud, opinionated, dedicated, emotional, party-like-a-rock-star family.

Four Legs Good, Two Legs Better

As a student, I was assigned the novel Animal Farm by George Orwell.  I remember disliking that novel at the time, not because my teacher did a bad job teaching it, or because I don't like a good allegory now and then, but because I could not relate.  What did a farm full of animals have to do with me? (Disclaimer: if you've never read the novel, you should - it will take you all of 3-4 hours to finish.  And if you are really feeling gutsy, study a little bit about the Russian Revolution ahead of time.  History repeats itself in many different ways, sometimes physically and sometimes metaphorically.)  Crazy how an allegory I was assigned to read as a freshman, and now teach to freshmen, is playing out in real life.

I can tell you that I now have a great appreciation for that novel and the message it teaches.  I see a resemblance between what is happening at the state level with education and our state budget, and it frightens me. Why is education important?  Because educated citizens are the only ones who can keep government officials in check.  Right now, I am feeling more and more like Boxer.  That poor, poor horse.  *Spoiler Alert:  He is worked to death and sent to the knacker's yard for slaughter.

Keep writing your representatives, Kansans!  This is not right.  This is not OUR Kansas.  This is "special interest" Kansas.

Online link to a PDF of Animal Farm:  https://ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/o/orwell/george/o79a/  

Online link to find your representatives:  http://openstates.org/find_your_legislator/

Armor Up

My son Kyle has an amazing friend, a true relationship with a person that I long to have someday. That person is God, and their relationship inspires me every day. Just the other day he came to me in the middle of the night. He said he asked God what to do, and God told him, "Just go get your mom." Then, yesterday he was riding his bike and hit a brick at the end of the drive way. He told me, "Mom, I think I hurt my bone to my penis (???), but don't worry, God is taping it up, and it will be all better."  

Today was the first day of Bible School for my son. He has been talking about it, about how much God loves him, about how he can't wait to see his friends, about taking his Bible. He was so excited. We got him enrolled, entered the room with the other children, and then it happened. My son became an extension of me, clinging to my leg, my arm, my shoulder, anything he could for dear life. He was genuinely afraid; I could see it in his eyes, and it broke my heart.

I probably didn't handle it correctly. I told him if we went home, he had to go to his room.  I was mad, frustrated, sad, embarrassed. I didn't understand what the big deal was - it was JUST Bible school. In my frustration, I hit the steering wheel with my hand.  I had crossed a line.  I was letting anger win.  The other day I witnessed something from a spectator's viewpoint that I pray I never do as a parent.  While taking a short walk to the post office, in the 11 blocks it takes to walk there and back, I heard two different families use the "F" word towards their small children.  The "F" word was not used in conversation with other adults, it was used in a degrading, belligerent way TOWARDS their children:  "Shut the "F-ing" door" and "Get on the "F-ing" porch".  I was stunned, saddened, shocked.  These two incidents have stuck with me.  I have had students tell me that I am one of the nicest people they have ever met.  I am not trying to pat myself on the back, but it is strange to me that more people in their lives are not nicer, that more people find it okay to use such hurtful and hate-filled words towards children of ANY age.  Incidents like this are the reason why I try to be so nice.  They don't need to hear negative words from me, and I knew that my son did not either.

I did not know how to handle the situation with Kyle, but I knew I didn't want to handle it with anger. You see, it is times like this, when I don't know how to handle my son that I know my husband will. (Apparently my eldest son and I are A LOT alike.)  And he did.  He talked to Kyle, and he listened to me cry because I felt I did not know how to parent my son in this situation without hurting his feelings. I want my son to tell me when he feels uncomfortable in a situation. I want my son to leave when he knows that something doesn't feel right.  But I also want him to try. I want him to give his best in every situation.  I want him to try new foods at least once, and introduce himself to new people. I think I want these things for him because I struggle with them so much too. It is painful to see my own struggles in my child. As for my second child, I fear he and I have a few things in common, too - mainly that he has never met a dessert he doesn't like.  

Hours later I can reflect on today, and I know this: I don't have to know all of the answers because God does. I don't have to make every correct parenting decision because of God's grace and forgiveness, the same traits I try to teach my son. I do know that Satan is not some little red devil with horns and a pitchfork sitting near flames. He is a very real being who will use my own children against me when he feels they are getting closer to God. Today I did not have my armor on, ready to fight. But tomorrow, I will do my best because that is, after all, what I ask of my son. When someone asks me what my weapon of choice is, it is kindness. Kindness always wins.

Yes, It's Personal

The actions coming out of Topeka regarding education in the State of Kansas are disheartening and quite frankly, it's personal.   

It is personal because I think that fewer and fewer of those representing us or sending their children to us each day have any idea of what we, educators, do on a daily basis.  Each year, fewer students are coming to school with the items they need for survival -- food, clothing, shelter, money, love, safety.  I was talking with a few of my students the other day. Of those students, two had a parent commit suicide in the last two years; one has a father in prison; one is in the middle of an ugly divorce. My room is safe to them.  It is where they show up if they need a hug, or to be disciplined, or to "rat" themselves out for making bad choices because they know I will find out.  They come to me for food, for advice, for reassurance, and from time to time I get to teach them a little English.   It is no wonder they struggle to learn. For many of our students, simply getting to school is the only battle they can win, and now that battle has become more difficult.

I had a young man sleeping in my seminar the other day.  I usually go a "little" crazy when that happens, but something didn't seem right.  I asked him if he was sick.  He said that he was tired.  The heater in his house had been broken for 2 nights, and it was 25 degrees inside.  He needed to sleep.  He needed to stay warm, so I let him rest for 20 minutes until the bell rang.  I offered him extra clothes or a blanket. He, of course, declined, and I worried about him until I saw him the next day and he told me the furnace was fixed.  It is no wonder why he struggles to learn.

I had a young lady who runs with the popular crowd come find me before lunch, even though I do not have her in class until later in the afternoon.  She asked for a pop tart for lunch.  The kids know I have food (bottom drawer, left hand side of my desk), and they know I will feed them.  She appears to be well off, but from further discussion, has a family crisis that has drained all extra cash at the moment.  She has been back twice for cheese crackers and more pop tarts.    

These are the students that hurt the most when we cut education.  Many of these students, who are already lacking in resources are going to struggle more and more each day.  Many districts are going to cut activity busses that take students home safely from activities that give them a purpose.  Many districts are going to cut teachers, so class sizes will continue to get larger.  Many districts may have to cut art and music programs, and these programs have saved more of our creative students' lives than most will ever know.  And many districts don't yet know how they are going to make those cuts without hurting children. So yeah, it's personal. (Edit 2016: now schools will close if funding is not adequate. This means no lunch programs, no sports, no school starting on time, no custodians or hourly workers will get paid - many districts do not truly know how this will effect their schools yet.) 

I don't write about these instances to pat myself on the back or in search of compliments - walk into any effective teacher's classroom and he/she does the same thing day in and day out.  We do it for the kids because we love our kids.  So yes, when our funding gets cut, it's makes us mad.  I am not mad because I won't get a raise (been there, done that, and I am still teaching); I am mad because once again kids are being hurt and we won't know the ramifications of these actions for years to come.

Anyone with any role in a child's education, whether you are a parent or grandparent, a bus driver, a cook, a custodian, a teacher, a counselor, an administrator, has to write those representing us.  We have to let our voices be heard. Don't worry that you may have bad grammar or don't know the "ins and outs" of a particular bill.  You don't have to write a 5-paragraph essay; a few sentences will do. LET YOUR REPRESENTATIVES KNOW YOU ARE A SUPPORTER OF EDUCATION.  (Edit 2016: be respectful no matter your stance. Hatred and name calling will only hurt your cause. Use facts if you need them, but please be respectful.) If you know or love someone in education, you need to act now. They expect to hear from me; however, to make a difference, they must hear from you.

In case you need to find a way to contact your representatives: 

Open States.org - Find Your Legislator 

  

Pop Tarts

Today has been a tough day.  I have found myself staring at the news, watching the events of Ferguson unfold with tears in my eyes.  One man is dead.  One man is forever changed.  Families have lost their businesses.  It is hate.  Everything about this is hate.  And anger.  And bitterness.  So much bitterness.

I am not here to debate politics, or race, or what my thoughts on this case are.  I am saddened by it.  I spend weeks each year teaching "To Kill a Mockingbird" which deals with so many issues that I am seeing today.  Do you want to know my favorite aspect of this novel?  It has nothing to do with race, or gender stereotypes, social class, or loss of childhood innocence.  It is the simple fact that when the world is dangerous and scary, Jem and Scout always have a safe place to land -- Atticus.

This gets me thinking about how many of my students don't have an Atticus.  Atticus is a man who values education.  He values hard work.  He, above all things, values doing what is right because at the end of the day he has to be able to look his children in the eye and know he stayed true to his beliefs.
His children are his life.  His children are the reason that he fought a losing battle. His children are lucky to have such a man as a father.

Not all children are that lucky, and to be honest, from a teacher's standpoint, it sucks.  The hardest part of my job is not being able to bring students home for a weekend.  To show them family and make them home-cooked meals that we eat around the dinner table.  To give them their own bed, a warm place to sleep, with clean sheets and their very own pillow.  To make sure they have clean clothes, and a toothbrush, and toothpaste.  There are so many things I wish I could show my students who are in need.  But I can't.  I only have 50 minutes a day to show them that someone cares.  I have one shot to make my classroom a safe place.  And I have one desk drawer full of pop tarts and crackers in case they are hungry.  So, while it is not home-cooked meal, students know where to find pop tarts when they are hungry.  And I suppose when you are hungry, pop tarts can taste homemade.

They know that in our classrooms they are safe and loved.  These long breaks are tough.  We teachers worry about our school kids.  Some of our students leave the safety of the school for uncertainty and chaos when they go home, and they count the minutes until they are back in our classrooms.

If only I could bring them home.  Even just for a weekend.  But I can't.  So when they get back, I will have pop tarts.

Work Boots and Big-Girl Panties

So today, I was subbing for a teacher who had a family emergency (don't worry, everything's ok), and I had the pleasure of sitting in on an AP Senior English class.  Towards the end of the hour, one of them looked at me and asked if I had blogged lately.  I have not.  Guilty.  But I told her of my latest idea, so now here it goes.

After teaching the short story, "Through the Tunnel" by Doris Lessing to my sophomores, I recently had my students create belief statements and action steps.  Within this assignment, I wanted them to think of where they stood on issues in five areas of their lives: future, morals, relationships, friendships, and family.  Many truly struggled with this assignment.  I expected them to.  But I wanted them to think.  I wanted them to think about more than the next five minutes or what they were doing next Friday.  I wanted them to take a stand.  To feel proud.  To feel strong.  Afterall, if we don't write down our beliefs and goals, they are just really nice thoughts.  And at the end of the day, we are the ones who have to live with ourselves.  No one else has to sleep with our conscience but us.

Teenagers get a bad rap for being impulsive, for thinking with emotion and not logic.  But honestly, aren't we all guilty of that?  The only difference is that as adults, we tend to blame those decisions on our life circumstances, not immaturity.  I wanted my students to think about these things, and to be quite honest, it all stems from an awful, horrible, no-good song I heard on the radio awhile back.  It pains me to even give credit to the song, but it is simply that bad.  The song is called "Habits" by Tove Lo.  (I cannot even believe this song gets air time.  Seriously.)

The chorus of the song states.

You're gone and I got to stay high
All the time to keep you off my mind, ooh ooh
High all the time to keep you off my mind, ooh ooh
Spend my days locked in a haze
Trying to forget you babe, I fall back down
Gotta stay high all my life to forget I'm missing you

Again, SERIOUSLY???  This song is #5 on iTunes.  And we wonder what is wrong with this world?  I might add that really, those are the nicest lyrics of the entire song.  So why do I bring this up?  Because I hope that maybe, just maybe one of my students will think about what they stand for, and rise up, rise against the societal acceptance of drugs and alcohol and laziness.  I hope that when they get into situations that cause them to make decisions, they can react with their heads and not  with impulse.  There is no decision in life that they will face that is better than them.  There is no decision in life that they can't work through. They are smart, and they are driven.  They need to know that sometimes in life, we just need to put on a good ol' pair of work boots and figure it out.  The singer, Tove Lo, she just needs to pull up her big-girl panties and quit making excuses about life in a horrible song.  We all have the chance to do great things.  As Maya Angelou once said, "I can be changed by what happens to me, but I refuse to be reduced by it."  It's all about choices.

That is all. 

Hi. My Name is Sam, and I...

This week we were challenged by a great speaker (Joe Coles) to write down our "why".  Why do we teach? Why do we do what we do?  What keeps us coming back for more when things get tough.  For me, this is two-fold.  I could easily list names.  I could list names of students who graduated and went on to do amazing things with their lives when the odds were stacked against them.  I could list names of students who touched my heart with kindness, took time to say thank you, or even let me know that the appreciated the effort I put into teaching them.  Students, after all, are the reason that any teacher teaches.

I have always wanted to teach.  Teaching runs in my family.  My grandpa was a teacher and administrator, as was my dad.  My grandmother and aunt were teachers and librarians.  My stepmom is a middle school teacher, and we all know that there is a special place in heaven for middle school teachers.  Teaching is what I know.  School was another home to me.  But you see, I have a confession to make.  My name is Sam, and in 8th grade I could not tell a subject from a verb.  Shocking, I know.  I could write a sentence, and it made sense, but I could not tell you what essential elements or parts of speech were used to do so.  Everyone else in my class could.  E.v.e.r.y.o.n.e.

So, "why" do I teach?  Because I felt dumb.  I felt dumb, but I was fortunate enough to have a crazy teacher named Ms. Jewell who loved what she did and loved us.  She used fluorescent chalk to diagram sentences, and we all giggled when she turned to write on the board because she usually had two handprints on her butt from the chalk dust.  She was loud.  She gave major and minor quizzes that could make a grown man cry.  She also knew I had no clue what I was doing.  She knew that I would require a little extra time and extra patience.  She also knew that I could do it.  I spent hours after school in her room and in Mrs. McAtee's room drilling and killing subjects and verbs.  And you know what?  I did it.  If I couldn't understand it one way, Ms. Jewell found another.  By the end of the year, I could write a compound-complex sentence, and diagram it.  By the end of the year, I was caught up with the rest of my class.  She believed in me, and I realized that I wasn't dumb.  (I might also add that she gave me my first-ever detention for...not doing my English homework...gasp!)

So "why" do I teach?  Because I felt success.  I felt success as a sophomore in Mr. Manes's class.  I remember my parents coming home from parent-teacher conferences, you know back when parents went to conferences, and I remember my dad telling me that Mr. Manes said I had a knack for writing -- that it seemed to come natural.  Me?  The same person who couldn't tell a subject from a verb?  Mr. Manes's class was fun.  He was not your typical "English" teacher.  He was a former football coach who loved Shakespeare and Medieval literature.  He cracked us up with his corny jokes, praised us for a job well done, and called us out when we were acting stupid or lazy.  (And I quote, "Well, you are either stupid or lazy, and you can't fix stupid, so which is it?)  He unlocked the English language for me by teaching etymology, word parts and origins, and I began to see patterns within our own language that I never knew existed.   Mr. Manes is the reason that I learned how to write essays.  He made me write, rewrite, revise, and rewrite again.  He pushed me to better.  Heck, because of him I still remember that you should never start a sentence with a number -- missed that twice on my research paper, and it still stings a bit.  He expected my best work, nothing less.

So why do I teach?  Because these two teachers busted their tails for me, and I owe it to them to pay it forward.  It's that simple.  I teach so that maybe, just maybe, a few of my students feel a little less dumb and a little bit of success.  I could not tell a subject from a verb, and now I teach it.  Because of them.

(I might also add that I still have my 8th grade English notes in all their glory with the dividers and whole protectors - don't judge me.  They are my Holy Grail of Grammar.)
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Also, if you feel like reading more, I have some pretty neat colleagues who blog:  Andrew Bauer and Jason Kohls.  Yeah, they're pretty neat.