Hold On To the "What Ifs"

This week, our district will transition from 100% in-person learning to hybrid learning. Our district made this decision because the number of COVID-19 cases in our county have risen. They made this decision to keep our teachers and students safe. As you can imagine, many people, who are not in the classroom each day,  have very strong opinions about what should or should not be done. And it makes sense because each day, parents send their children to us -- the most important people in their worlds. And it makes sense because they are fearful -- this world is scary right now.

As I finished the last few sips of my cup of coffee this morning, a notification came across my phone. It was a message from my ELA team leader Jason Kohls.  In this message, he affirmed the anxieties and fears that many of us teachers are feeling. He encouraged us to take a deep breath, to remember that we are in this together, and to continue to do what's best for kids. We were never trained to teach during a pandemic. We were never trained to teach online. But we are called to love, to inspire critical thinking, and to create hope. His final comments to us were: remember the world is still a place that we can make better. 

And isn't that truly why we do what we do: to make this world a better place? 

So teachers, let's do what we do best. Let's hold on to the "what ifs" - no matter what form of classroom  we are teaching in right now -- online, hybrid, or in-person. Please know that when I say this, I am not downplaying how hard this work is. I am in the classroom every day - just like you. I read the negativity online - just like you. I fear for my health - just like you. But I cling to the "what ifs" like the air I breathe. The "what ifs" sustain me.

For example, what if smaller class sizes means:

• I can truly see and hear my students for who they are and who they want to be? 
• Our classrooms are safer spaces?
• The content we teach becomes that much more meaningful?
• The way our students learn becomes more individualized?

These are a few of the questions that have crossed my mind this week. I was called to teach. It is part of my soul. 

I am scared. And I am beaten down by negativity online. And I am tired. My anxiety is high, my hair is falling out, and I struggle to sleep. The weight of this job is not lost on me. But I believe with all of my heart that the world is still a place we can make better. Our students make this world a better place. So for now, I hold on to the "what ifs". 

What if you join me?

Owning My Privilege

Over two years ago, I had the opportunity of a lifetime. I was selected as the 2018 Kansas Teacher of the Year. People often ask me what was the most memorable experience of my year. Surprisingly, it was not being at Google headquarters, the Super Bowl, Space Camp, or even the White House. There was one small moment that has left the biggest impact on my heart. It has changed me, for good.

The 2018 State Teachers of the Year at the
ETS Campus in Princeton, NJ.

While at the Educational Testing Service main campus in Princeton, NJ, the state teachers of the year participated in an activity where we were asked to sit in groups of four so that we could role-play a scenario. The roles were: an administrator, a teacher, a student, and a parent. We were given a prompt: as an administrator, you have a teacher who is changing his/her level of questioning when Black students are called upon in class vs. white students. We were told these actions have been documented and observed, suggestions have been made, but no changes have resulted. How would you address this issue with your teacher?

I took one of the four chairs in my group, and it turns out that I was seated in the administrator role. “Ok, I can do this,” I thought to myself. I am, after all, a principal’s kid, so I figured I could rely on that knowledge. It was just a role-playing activity, right? But doubt began creeping in. Before speaking, I began running scenarios in my head. I remember thinking that I did not feel equipped to know how to proceed with this situation. I had never been in or seen an experience like this. When the time came, I tackled the issue the best way I knew how. I talked about the teacher’s lower level of questioning. At this time my own white fragility surfaced. Because in my heart I believe I am a good person and would never intentionally treat someone like that, I avoided the issue of racism.

When I was calmly and safely asked by our group’s facilitator Josh Parker, the 2012 Maryland Teacher of the Year, why I did that -- I had no answers. I simply cried. And I couldn’t stop. I cried because I did have answers, and I was ashamed of them. I knew I had avoided the hard questions because I did not have the skill set or knowledge to address this. I naively and selfishly thought there was no way this would happen in a classroom. I stepped away from the hard question and tried to make everyone comfortable. That was wrong. It was during this short activity that I realized that being kind was not enough, and that there was a difference between being an ally and an advocate. It was at this time that I vowed to do the work, the hard work that social justice requires. And I knew I had to start with me and my own biases and privilege. 

In the past 18-months, I have been trying to figure out how to to put this into words. I have written this, rewritten this, asked for critical voices and feedback -- all knowing that I will not get it all right the first time. Looking back, I did not have the words I needed to talk about this because I had not started the work to learn about myself and about racism.

Two years ago, I didn’t know the difference between racism, “non”-racism (which is still racism), and anti-racism. I thought racism was a pattern of behavior or language towards others who are not white. I didn't understand that racism was structural - that systems and policies have been put into place that perpetuate it. I didn’t know about the school-to-prison pipeline. I didn’t know how dress codes and school rules about haircuts and hairstyles disproportionately affect students of color. I didn’t know how reading the “n--” word in a work of classic literature could be traumatizing for my students of color. I simply did the best I knew how to do -- I tried to be kind and model that for my own children and my students. I did my best to land on the side of what is just and what is kind, but to simply stand on that side is not enough. And now I know better.

You see, learning like this requires a person to accept that their past actions and words may be rooted in racism. Intentional or not. It also requires a person who is willing to own up to what they have done and vow to work to do better each day -- fully knowing there will be days that you mess up, are knocked on your ass, and cry. This work forces people to look at their own privilege and assess whether their lives have been made more difficult because of the color of their skin, who they love, or their religious beliefs. It forces a person to seek out voices of color - to decenter the whiteness that fills my timeline, my bookshelves, and the curriculum I teach. It forces me to listen more than I speak, to accept others experiences as true and important, and to be willing to assess how I can change my own actions as a result of this knowledge.  

Over the past few weeks, I have watched citizens gather at state capitols, armed with guns to protest their government, which they have the right to do, but it is impossible to notice that these protestors are mainly white. If this demonstration was held by people of color, it would be called a riot. 

A few weeks ago, I learned of a man named Ahmaud Arbery  who went out for a run, in the middle of the day, on February 23, 2020 -- and never came home. A man who was gunned down because he looked suspicious, when really, he simply looked black. A man whose murder would have never been acknowledged had there not been a video.

In the past week, I was heartbroken to learn of the death of Breonna Taylor, a Black woman who was killed by police in March in her own home. On Facebook, I was angered to see video of Travis Miller, a Black delivery man being unlawfully detained in a neighborhood by the president of the HOA. I have read articles about the dire situations on indigenous reservations as members of these tribes fight for supplies for Coronavirus. I cannot pretend that these things aren't happening.

I am the mom of three sons - three white sons. When my oldest leaves the house to go running at night, my biggest concern is that he doesn’t twist his ankle in a pot hole. NEVER have I worried about him not returning safely. That is privilege. When my kindergarten son gets upset and acts out towards a classmate because he is six and has big emotions, his school counselor helped him to understand how to respond to his own anger. NEVER have I worried about him being suspended. That is privilege. 

I have a responsibility to do this hard work. When I see racism and inequity, I get angry. It feels so big. And I feel so small. This type of work can be very polarizing. Somedays, this work is paralyzing. And while I know I have learned so much over the course of two years, I realize that I still have so much to learn about “how” to share this knowledge. Nothing hurts more than seeing another life being taken -- innocently. 

I do not share this post to justify my actions or to whitewash this experience. I recognize that I am a white person adding my thoughts to a conversation about people of color. I share this because as a white person living in America, I must do the work and others need to see what that work looks like. I must be willing to listen more than I speak. I must seek out diverse voices and learn from them, acknowledging that it is not their job to teach me, but it is their right to speak truth to their experiences. I must be willing to sit with my feelings when my own white fragility rears its ugly head. And then I must do better. I was not doing enough. I am not doing enough. Our BIPOC brothers and sisters have been doing the work for hundreds of years, and they cannot do it alone. 

Very often, I find myself going back to Princeton, sitting in that seat, wringing my hands with nervousness when asked tough questions about racism. My inability to respond in that moment has not left me. It never will. It is when I learned to acknowledge my own privilege. 

I started this journey when I was 37. I know I will make mistakes (and probably have in this post). I also know that it is not too late in anyone's life to begin this journey. If you are ready to do the work and learn about yourself, here are a few places to start:

1. We must start with ourselves first. Determine your own biases by learning about yourself through the Harvard Project Implicit which addresses biases that we have from your own experiences. Sometimes these results are hard to stomach because in our hearts, we are good people. Racism feeds off of this idea. It's called the good/bad binary. Just because you have these biases does not make you a bad person. Please know that.

2. Follow leaders and educators of color so that you can learn from them. I follow columnists like Leonard Pitts; authors like Jason Reynolds, Nic Stone, and Angie Thomas; and educators like Josh Parker, James E. Ford, Nate Bowling, Shana V. White, Sharif El-Mekki, Valeria Brown, Kelly Wickham Hurst, Kelisa Wing, Lyn Stant, Julie Jee, Christina Torres, and Rodney Robinson. Learn from them. Listen to them. Sit with it. 

3. Be purposeful in learning the language to be able to discuss what you are seeing:  

I have found sites like these to be very helpful: What is White Privilege, Really? and Racial Equity Tools. Start small, and start with terms like:

• racism
• anti-racism
• white fragility
• white privilege

4. Read, read, and read some more: 

• Nonfiction:
• White Fragility by Robin DiAngelo
• How to Be An Anti-Racist by Ibrim X. Kendi
• Me and White Supremacy by Layla Saad
• Stamped: Racism, Antiracism, and You by Ibrim X. Kendi and Jason Reynolds

• Fiction: (These are three suggestions, but you can find so many great books --> HERE)
• The Hate U Give by Angie Thomas
• All-American Boys by Jason Reynolds and Brendan Kiely
• Dear Martin by Nic Stone

Believe in the Power of Chances

As I ride in the passenger seat of my son‘s car, mile markers are passing by. These are the same mile markers that he saw four years ago as he was taken back to his hometown by the local foster care transporters. Four years ago, my son was unknown to me. Four years ago, my son was a ward of the state with no idea what his future looked like. And now I watch these mile markers pass by as he is driving to college. The significance of this trip is not lost on me. 

Four years ago, he walked into my classroom. Three years ago, he walked into our house. Two years ago he took our last name. An now, he starts the first day of the rest of his life. He needed adults in his corner. He needed a safe home. He needed a village of supporters. He needed to be able to see the possibilities of his future, not the dire state of his current reality. 

He didn’t need something perfect. He simply needed a chance. 

Teachers, as we go back, we need to remember this. All kids need a chance. Call me a hopeless romantic. Call me naive, if you will. But I believe in the power of education. I believe it can change the course of a life. I believe it can change the world. 

I believe in chances. I believe in him.

Be Their Voice

Last year, I had the experience of a lifetime. I was honored and humbled to be selected as the 2018 Kansas Teacher of the Year which afforded me opportunities that I never dreamt possible for a small-town Kansas girl. I know that oftentimes, I have to let these experiences simmer in my soul before I can write about them. Recent current events have brought this memory to the forefront of my mind and beckoned me to my keyboard.

My Teacher of the Year cohort had the opportunity to visit the Department of Education. We were invited a round-table discussion with Secretary DeVos - something that honestly surprised us. At this time she told us that ALL students were public students, and that all parents should have school choice. While it was not directly stated, this "school choice" would occur through vouchers. These vouchers would pull money out of public schools to support both private and charter schools which serve a select group of students and have shown a history of misusing taxpayer dollars with little accountability. Public schools, on the other hand, serve any student who walks through their doors. Public schools work each day to meet the mission that is visible as you walk through the doors of the Department of Education. This mission states: The Department of Education's mission is to promote student achievement and preparation for global competitiveness by fostering educational excellence and ensuring equal access. It does not say "educational excellence and equal access" for those who can afford it.

The 2018 State Teachers of the Year at the Department of Education

That day, I listened to Secretary DeVos tell us that parents should have the right to choose their child's school. As I listened, one thought crossed my mind: "What about the students who don't have parent advocates to fight for what is best for them?" To say I was frustrated is an understatement.

You see, a few months before this trip, my husband and I welcomed our newest son to our family. This was a different experience than the birth of our two other sons. My husband and I adopted our son out of foster care. The "baby" of our family was a 17-year-old who had been my student. He had been in foster care for about 2-1/2 years. He needed a home, and we had one.

Following the round-table discussion, my cohort went to smaller group sessions where we discussed topics such as school violence, the curriculum redesign, and teacher retention. In my first session, I remember sitting in the room, listening to a representative from the Department of Education tell us that we "just had to give Secretary DeVos a chance, to get to know her heart". Many of my colleagues raised questions and concerns about the difference in expectations between private and public schools. They spoke from experience, and they spoke from the heart.

Before I knew it, my hand was in the air. I was given a chance to speak, and I spoke about what I knew best. I spoke about my son. I spoke about children sleeping in foster care agencies because we did not have enough homes in our county to house them. I asked, "What do we do for the children who are in this situation?" I then expressed my concern that we cannot expect an overcrowded and under-funded system to advocate for their well being they way each of these children deserve. A look of shock came over this representative's face. I could see the disconnect in her eyes. This is the reality of hundreds of thousands of children in our country.

Later that day we returned to our hotel, and many of the teachers and their spouses went to dinner. I, however, was alone. I walked to the nearest Starbucks, bought a coffee, found an empty bench in DuPont Circle. I sat, overcome with emotion, and I wept. Hot, angry tears streamed down my face. I thought of my son, and I cried. I cried because he is one of the lucky ones. 

Prior to being adopted, my son had no parents to advocate for him. Over 430,000 children are in foster care in our country. Who is fighting for them?

During our time in DC, we were also told to have a quick 60 second story share with President Trump should we have the opportunity as state teachers of the year to visit with him later that week. We did not get to meet the president. However, while at the White House, I did get to share my son's story with Secretary DeVos. I was able to share how my role changed from his teacher to his mom. My husband and I are his advocates. He will go to college next fall. He will have a chance to beat the statistics facing children in foster care with no permanent home to call their own because he has us in his corner. Do the other 430,00 children not deserve the same chance?

Sadly, I am often reminded that many children do not have this basic need. This past Wednesday night, I was asked to share my family's foster/adoption story to a small group of prospective foster parents at our local foster-care agency. While I was there, I asked one of the social workers how many homes were needed in our county alone to meet the needs of the foster kids who were under their care. His answer was shocking: 68.

Our county alone is short 68 foster homes. (And that would be if all of the we have perfect placements for all 68 children.) And on the way home, I wept. Those are 68 children who do not have parents to advocate for them. These are our most vulnerable children. These cuts to public education will hurt them the most.

I often think of that time in DuPont Circle. I hold on to that feeling. It was raw - full of disbelief, anger, and grief. This was one of the hardest days for me as an educator and a mom during my year of service. But I left that park bench in DuPont Circle with a renewed spirit to fight for our children without advocates. Public school teachers do this every day. Those are our kids, and they deserve every opportunity this country can afford them. They did not ask to be born to unfit parents. They do not deserve a life in which they pay the price for their parents' decisions.

As educators and parents, we cannot sit silent. We must email, write, and call our representatives - be it nationally or locally. We saw that our voices had power as we advocated this weekend as it was announced that no further cuts would be made to the Special Olympics program. However, many programs are still left on the chopping block.

Our most vulnerable children and schools need these programs. We must tell the stories of the children who have no voice. Their futures depend on it.

We Must Reach the Whole Child

So there's this saying in education: "To teach the whole child, you must reach the whole child."

This is a motto that many educators live by each day. We take money out of our own savings accounts. We buy extra groceries. We buy soap and deodorant. We provide clothing, a new pair of shoes, or a back pack when kids need it. It's what we do. We take care of kids.

I work in an economically diverse district. I teach students who live in houses that cost half-a-million dollars. I also teach students who are homeless. In fact, in our district alone, 27 students have been identified as homeless. Across the state of Kansas, 167 districts reported identification of 8640 students:

• 7023 students who are doubled up (living with another family)
• 914 students who are living in shelters, transitional housing, or awaiting foster care
• 166 students who are living in unsheltered areas (cars, parks, campgrounds, temporary trailer, or abandoned buildings)
• 537 students who live in hotels/motels

Several years ago, a few teachers and I started the Buhler Clothing Closet. I bought two shelves with brackets, two dowel rods, and four rubbermade containers. My administration gave me the go-ahead to hang these in our teachers' lounge so that any teacher could access them in a safe place. We knew we had students' whose needs were not being met. We also knew that if students were worried about their appearance or were hungry, they weren't learning to their fullest potential. We didn't know where we were going with this idea, but we knew that we could not ignore the need we were seeing in our students.

Fast-forward to today, and we currently have a clothing closet, food bank, and two blessing boxes for students throughout our building so that they can have better access. These are funded through our educational foundation and teacher/parent/community donations.

Our clothing closet consists of two closets purchased from a local hardware store; one was purchased by a teacher and the other was purchased by our educational foundation. They are simple, but they meet the needs of our students.

Our food bank is stored in the office. We had a few cabinets that were not being used. We also wanted the food to be centrally located so that staff and students could help keep the blessing boxes stocked.

Our blessing boxes are located in two places throughout the building. One is located in a discreet location in the hallway. The other is located in the women's restroom in the main lobby so that we can supply pads and tampons to students. In both locations we provide food and basic toiletries.

None of this is fancy, but it is accessible to students. And to be honest, that is all that matters. We want our students to know they are more than just a test score to us. We want to do what we can to help them. It isn't much, but we know they are using these locations to meet some of their needs. We don't ask anything from our students to use this, we simply encourage students to pay it forward someday. 

All schools can do this. All communities can support kids in this simple way. Aristotle once said, "Educating the mind without educating the heart, is no education at all."

Should you feel moved to donate to your local school, below are some items that we use frequently as Buhler High School. We have found that items need to be grab-and-go, easy to open, and discreetly located.

#YouShouldBeATeacher

We've got a teacher shortage. Yep, it's that simple to say. This is a complex problem that deserves local, state, and national attention. This past summer, I attended an educational policy forum, and as I listened to governors, legislators, policy makers, and lobbyists suggest policy changes for education, I kept thinking to myself, "Why is the lack of qualified teachers NOT THE MAIN TOPIC OF CONVERSATION!?" (Ok, so maybe I was yelling that in my head.) During this policy forum, I felt like I was watching a ship being built with no crew to set sail, yet the passengers come on board every year, no matter what.

Now I am not going to sit here and write that teaching is without its flaws. I am not going to naively act like issues such as salary, lack of support, and public perception of teachers are not a large part of the shortage. They are a huge part of the shortage. These are adaptive problems that are going to take a cooperative effort to change. While issues like this oftentimes seem paralyzing due to their enormous size and complexity, I think that teachers can make a difference in this issue. There is one powerful statement that I think needs to be addressed. That statement is: "Don't become a teacher." 

I was told many times, by educators and family members, that I should not become a teacher. I was told that for a myriad of reasons, and I cannot tell you how thankful I am each day that I did not heed that advice. 

This past weekend I was able to speak in front of approximately 250 teachers. I asked them the same question: "How many of you were told NOT to become teachers?" It appeared over half of the teachers in the room raised their hands. Couple this sentiment with the reasons I listed above, and it is no surprise why we have a teacher shortage. As educators, we have to stop telling students NOT to go into education.

This teacher shortage seems like such a big problem, but as teachers we can band together on this. We can work collectively to build our profession. Let's start telling our students that we think they SHOULD be teachers. Let's be intentional with our words, for they are powerful. They hold weight. And they may just be the words that a student needs to hear.  

This semester, I have had two students tell me that they want to become teachers.  I've made sure to tell them I will help in any way that I can. And I meant it.  In the past week, I have also taken the time to tell two more students that I think that they should also become teachers. And I meant it. These are two students who do not have the best experiences in school. They tend to struggle with school as it is now, but because of this struggle, they would make amazing teachers. As I told one of them, "I know without a doubt that you would be a great teacher because you would never want one of your students to feel the way that you do." All four of these students have a passion for helping others, and in my opinion, that is the most important qualification to teach. You have to want to work every day to leave this world better than you found it. 

So can we do this? Can we join together and be intentional with our words, to tell others that there is no greater profession, no greater calling than to be a teacher? 

Download this PDF, (<---Just click on this hyperlink), and then have that conversation with a student. Take a picture. Tweet it out if your district allows it. Print a copy and give it to your student. These are such simple, yet important conversations to have and actions we can make to encourage future teachers.

Let's start a movement. Let's start telling students of any age that they should be teachers. No one knows teaching better than us. We know the kind of heart it takes to be an effective teacher. Every kiddo deserves a great teacher. So, let's work to build this profession that we love -- one student at a time.

It's Time to Put Our Differences Aside: Our Kids Deserve Better

I heard it. I heard the clip load into the rifle. I looked around the room at the other teachers and said, "Get ready, it's about to start." 

"Pop! Pop! Pop!" An empty hallway suddenly flooded with gunshots. Gasps filled the room, and organized chaos to secure an entrance began. This semester, our high school and middle school teaching staff participated in an active shooter training called "Run, Hide, Fight"; this training was conducted with our local law enforcement officers and our middle and high school staff. No students were present. Our district leaders did a great job preparing for this day. It is an important training. It is a hard training. And while I never thought I would have to do this, it is part of my reality.

When this training began, I thought I was ready for it. And then I heard that officers would be firing blanks. I grew up with hunters. I know the sound of a gun. I, myself, have shot many different types of guns. But this was different. These shots were going to be fired in my school - next to my classroom. Law enforcement told us no matter how much we tried to prepare ourselves, that once we heard gun shots, our body would react the way it is programmed to do. And once I heard gun shots, even though I told myself it was not real, my brain stem/ limbic system took control. My heartbeat raced in my chest. I could hear my heart beating in my ears, which meant my blood pressure had just shot up. Everything else seemed to be a bit muffled. Adrenaline was pumping through my body; I was able to push a couch over to the door and lift it up with one other teacher without much thought.  Desks and chairs were flipped over and stacked on top of each other.  My colleague took off his belt to hold the locked door shut. 

We grabbed staplers, chairs, a decorative brick, my marble Teacher of the Year apple, the ends of table legs that I had removed for my flexible seating tables, and a few dowel rods that I had in my closet -- anything that could be used as a weapon. Lights were turned off. Cell phones were silenced. It took us about 30 seconds to secure my classroom. And then we waited. We waited for shots. We could not tell where they were coming from. They were loud. They echoed through the hallway bouncing off of cinder block walls. And for the most part we felt safe in my barricaded classroom. We felt safe until the door was unlocked (as part of the training), and someone tried to get in. My colleague's hands began to slip because he had been holding onto his belt that was tied around the door knob, so I dropped my brick onto the chair next to me, reached over him, and grabbed on to the belt just above his hands. Other teachers readied the objects in their hands as potential weapons. Again, my heart beat filled my ears. And this was just a drill. But it could be any school in this country. Any school. 

This was a terrifying 20+ minutes. We repeated this drill two more times in different classrooms with different scenarios.  But these were rooms full of adults who had just been trained. All I could think about what how much leadership it will take to calm down a class of 20 students and prepare them to run, hide, or fight. 

Children need to know the plan should the unthinkable happen - yes even in small-town America. However, they should not be part of a drill like this or hear the sounds of gunshots through a hallway just to know what it sounds like. That sound was simply horrific. Last week, our elementary school practiced a crisis drill (no blanks were fired). My son, who is in second grade, is still asking me questions about the "bad guys" who come into schools. He is still asking me how I will be safe in my building. At the high school, we practiced this drill yesterday, with our students, and they were scared. They had so many questions. 

The training also reinforced that at no point should teachers be carrying guns. This is the second time this year I have had members of law enforcement echo that opinion. By the time we had secured my room, my keys and phone were on the other side of the room - these items never crossed my mind as I was pushing a couch, flipping over a table, or grabbing a chair. Imagine if that were a gun. My job is to make sure that my students are safe. It is our job to lead our students to safety (run), secure our classrooms and building (hide), and then prepare to fight if needed (fight). It is our job to shut down a school so that law enforcement can get there. They are trained. They know the psychology of a shooter. We do not; we are teachers.

As a teacher, I think about how I may need to respond to a situation at school. I also think about this need to respond when I walk into a grocery store or gas station. I think about this at church. I think about this at a concert or at the zoo. I think about this just about anywhere there are people. Where are the exits? Is there an AED in case someone's heart stops? I know how to check blood sugar. I know how to use an EPI pen. I know how to tie a tourniquet. I am loud; I can direct a crowd if needed. These thoughts often go through my mind. I don't fixate on them. I just observe and notice these things. I am trained to notice because one day I may have to step in to help until law enforcement, firemen, or EMTs arrive. 

In our training, we were shown FBI data. It stated that 46% of all active shooter situations occur in a public location such as a business or mall. Approximately 23% of active shooter situations occur in a school. Those numbers, however, appear to have been recently updated. This is a problem that is bigger than schools.

As a teacher, although it is not officially written in my job description, I am expected to respond. Just like my colleagues, I have looked a classroom of students in the eyes and told them that I would take a bullet before any of them. And we meant it. We still mean it. Our world is hurting, and it seems that as adults, we are too prideful to address this hurt. I often wonder what it will take for the public to respond. How many people have to be hurt and killed in an active shooter situation, a mass shooting tragedy, before it's too much? How many people have to be hurt and killed before adults from all walks of life are willing to meet each other in the middle and fight for a solution? 

It sickens me that hatred and anger have become mainstream. Violence seems to be expected. I even found myself struggling to decide when push out this blog because it seemed to be too close to a national shooting, yet another occurred yesterday in Pittsburg where 11 innocent people lost their lives. This is an adaptive problem that has multiple layers to peel back if we hope to truly effect change - it is not a simple fix. It is time to put our differences aside: our kids deserve better, and their lives depend on it. Kids need adults to come to the table and look for solutions. Kids need adults who are willing to lead, to have the hard conversations and call out hatred and bigotry when we see it. Kids need adults to act like adults.