Shipwrecks

A writer I adore, Black Hockey Jesus, once wrote that "we are all made out of shipwrecks".  Man, that's an image.  Have you ever seen a shipwreck on the shore?  Car wrecks and train wrecks... they all get cleaned up, erased from public view.  But a shipwreck stays, forever, molding and rotting and junking up the scenery.  They are constant reminders of the pain and loss.  I like that image because that's how I felt yesterday.  It's how I feel about most of my pain.  That I am navigating the shallow waters, eyeing the shipwrecks of my past, dodging the jagged rocks.

My post yesterday was shared by a few friends who took solace in my feeble attempts to make sense of the senseless.  It's why I made the attempt... because words are my weapon, my shelter, my compass.  If they gave comfort to no one but me, I'd still be glad I wrote them.  And then this morning it was shared by a few relative strangers -- people who know me in only short spaces -- my 140 character friends, if you will.  And their words gave me solace and comfort as well.  For a while.

I went back to bed in the late morning, and I slept until mid-afternoon.  This is my fall-back.  I avoid the shipwrecks by never leaving the dock.

But I couldn't stay in bed forever.  I had made a promise to see my little buddies, Elliott, Brooklyn, and Kellen, and deliver their ornaments. 

As soon as I pulled up to Chris and Courtney's house, I saw Brooklyn and Ell out front with their dad.  By the time I'd gotten out of the car, I could hear Ell's squeals of "Deana, Deana, come find meee!" 

Just FYI, if you ever need to find a 3 and a half year old, just pull a Christmas gift bag out of your car.  He'll find you instead.

We went inside, unwrapped gifts (because they need to be hung upon the tree), and then were back out to play.  Elliott's new favorite game is Hide-and-Seek.  This involves me counting, VERY slowly, to four while Ell hides.  At the announcement of "four", he jumps from his hiding place and squeals in anticipation.  Which makes Brooklyn giggle.  Which makes everyone giggle.

I'm telling you, if we could harness the power of squeal giggles, we'd solve the energy crisis.

Then Ell wanted to take a walk to look at the Christmas lights.  Not to be left behind, Brooklyn came toddling behind us, arms raised, eyelashes fluttering.  So I picked her up, placed her on my hip, and asked Elliott if he was ready to go.  He said "yes" and stuck out his hand.  It's hard to be sad when someone so beautiful wants to hold your hand.

And so we walked, my tiny navigators and I, cruising the shallow waters together, making way for open sea.

Hands

It's been 24 hours since I learned about yesterday's tragedy in Connecticut.  Given 24 years, I don't think I would still be able to find my words to register my true feelings about what happened.  It's been 11 since September 11th, and I still don't have any for that either.

Grief is a funny and terrible thing.  It stalks you, hanging around just until you think it's gone, and then it rears its head once more.  Now, our country grieves again.  When I think of our nation's most mournful times, I see incredible things.  Heroes emerge.  Kindness appears.  Strangers connect.  And in those moments, the impossible seems possible, and change can happen.

Yet so often, it doesn't.  Or at least it doesn't happen quickly. 

All over my social media, there are shouts and rumblings.  And blame.  There's always blame.  Fingers point at the other side, and arguments occur.  Gun control.  Second Amendment.  Republicans.  Democrats.  Right-wing.  Left-wing.  The absence of God.  God's will.  Your fault.  The President's fault.  The shooter's fault.  His parents' fault.

Let's get real, people.  It's our fault.  And it will continue to be our fault as long as we, as a nation, refuse to meet in the middle.  It will continue until we all stop needing to be so right that we are all wrong.

But I don't know how to change a whole nation.  If I did, believe me, I'd tell you.  The trouble is, I don't know if anyone would listen.

I do know this, however.  God is in our schools.  You can't take God out of a school anymore than you can take him out of your home or your heart.  He is in my basketball team as they pray for the health of a fellow teacher's mom -- our #1 fan.  He is in my students as they refuse to break Fast for even the thrill of a Snicker's bar won on a correct answer.  He is in my moment of silence each morning as I pray for the health and safety of those I hold most dear.  He is in the mouth of the child who told me, "I'd never let anyone hurt you, Miss Naz." 

I get it though.  It's easy enough to blame the absence of God when tragedy strikes because how could God let it happen?  But tragedy is a continual undercurrent of our entire history.  The atrocities that one human can inflict on another are a daily, moment-by-moment occurrence.  And I don't always know where He is.  Admittedly, He and I have always engaged in a cosmic version of Hide-and-Seek.  My only hope is that He's with those who have been left behind, giving them the strength to survive now and live later.  Those are two completely different things, you know.  Surviving and living.

I also know that the answer to school violence isn't by putting a gun in my hands or in my classroom, as a few have advocated.  To be honest, I can barely find my own keys most days.  I'm not sure I'm cut out for the vigilante lifestyle.

The only answer I have is to love one another.  Listen when someone needs help.  Ask for help when you need it.  Let go of your platform and have a conversation.  Seek out beauty, and, where there is none, leave some.

And, maybe, just this once, we use our hands to help or to pray or to hold... but not to point.

True Story: John Deere Changed My Life

When I was 10, I was a Girl Scout.  In fact, I was a Girl Scout for a really long time, but at 10, I was a scout who was desperate to go to summer camp.  I didn't realize it at the time, but my family didn't have the extra money to send me to a week of overnight camp.  The year before, my mom had recruited the local junior college basketball team, the Lady Bulldogs, to buy and sell hundreds of boxes of Thin Mints in order to send me, but I think that the next year, there was some kind of Cookie Moratorium laid down by the coach.  I was devastated at the possibility of not returning to camp.

Somehow, my dad -- the King of the Trade -- worked out a deal with the camp's site manager that he would mow the camp property all summer in trade for my time at camp. My dad had a big ol' John Deere tractor that he and my brothers ran tirelessly all summer to supplement our income, and now that I think about it, that tractor changed my life.

• I went to camp for 4 more years until Camp Cibola closed.
• My wonderful memories and realization of camp's influence never left me.
• In 1995, on a trip through the student union at ASU (a school I chose because I'd been to student council camp there), I applied for a job at Camp El Tesoro in Granbury, TX.
• At El Tesoro, I met the best friends I've ever known.
• I kept going back to El Tesoro for 8 summers as a counselor, program director, assistant CIT director, and, yes, even the camp nurse.
• At ET, I decided to change my major from Elementary Education to Secondary Ed.
• At ET, I met Heather Wilson who introduced me to Linda Denson.
• Linda Denson hired me at Nichols Junior High (even when she didn't TECHNICALLY have a job open yet).
• Thirteen years and over 1,200 students later, I am still at Nichols Junior High.
• Also, while at El Tesoro, I met Laurie Johnston, one of my many mentors in how to work with children.
• Nine years ago, LJ talked me into volunteering at Camp Carter YMCA to help start a camp for blind and visually impaired children.
• I became the day camp bus driver, the camp nurse, and the assistant camp director.
• In 2012, I became the director of overnight camping for Camp Carter.
• In 26 years as either a camper or staff member, I've worked with thousands of children and hundreds of staff members.
• Over 200 of my most valued, creative, generous friends and acquaintances came either directly from my time at camp or from a connection at camp.
• Statistically speaking, if you're reading this, you're one of those 200. 

Almost every decision I've made, every goal I've accomplished, and every dream that I've dreamed has been a result of my time at camp.  Nearly every person I interact with on a frequent basis is somehow a result of my time at camp.  Every place and moment and friendship is connected, and camp is the undercurrent of them all.

All because of a John Deere tractor.

This year, Camp Carter YMCA has set a goal to raise $63,000 to provide scholarships for both day and overnight camp for area youth.  As of this morning, we had $14,000 left to go.  We are hoping to raise that amount in the next 6 days.  I cannot promise you that I'll run a marathon to earn your donation.  Or walk 60 miles.  Or jump rope a thousand times.  But what I can promise you is that your donation, if you choose to make one, will change a child's life. 

Remember... not everyone's parent has a John Deere trade up his sleeve. 

If you would like to donate, you can do so in one of two ways: 
A) Go to Camp Carter's website, and follow the "donate" button located at the top.  Choose "Camp Carter's Annual Campaign". 
--OR--
2) Email me at coachnaz@hotmail.com or DM me with your mailing address and your pledge amount.  You don't have to pay right away.  You can pay out your pledge in installments if that makes it easier.

And, for the record, apparently there's a Kindle Fire being raffled off for those campaigning for Camp Carter.  Y'all know how I feel about e-readers, so if I win, I'll raffle it off to one of my donors!

On Saying Good-bye to Free Wine and TV

Everyone knows I love a good book.  And, yes, I mean everyone.  I've made it my goal this year to share literacy and my belief that building better readers = building better thinkers.  And thus, better citizens. 

Each of my students has a 40 book goal. All of my classes are over 10% of the way toward their class totals. Ten percent in 5 weeks... I'm going to call that a success. Especially since it took almost a week for all my students to realize, truly, that I was not pranking them. 

Since August 27, I've also read 15 books of my own 40 book goal.  They've been delightful and beautiful and wonderful.  I found that by asking my students to read more, it's encouraged me to read more as well, and I've been provided an opportunity to find new, incredible authors and stories and to share them with every kid I see.  I find myself asking, "Whatcha readin'?" to almost every under-18 face I see -- even those I don't specifically know.

I've spent quite a bit of money on my classroom library this school year as well. It's meant a few cuts in other areas of my budget, and that's been tough in the moment. I waited a month for new Back-to-School sneakers. I've traded golden highlights for good hardbacks, and I've missed almost every tv premiere this week. I haven't even had a pedicure in over 8 weeks. That's a lot of free wine that the salon has saved itself. And it's been hard. Although I don't consider myself high-maintenance, I do have a streak of self-spoiling behavior that I do enjoy. It hasn't been easy to choose what's most important.

But, you know, it's been worth it. Cracked heels and overflowing DVR, be damned!

I looked around my desk today and counted over 20 books piled around me.  Usually, piles are overwhelming.  I wandered to my shelves and found books sitting askew and out of sorts.  Usually, messy shelves are frustrating.  And, in all my classes today, I had to wait 4-5 extra minutes to gain students' attention.  Usually, it's because they're talking.  Not anymore though.  Now, piles warm me and comfort me.  Messy shelves mean that students are constantly browsing, discussing, trading, taking. 

And the quiet? Don't worry.  I'll wait for you to finish that page, kids.  I'm busy enjoying the silence and dreaming of my next good book.  And maybe, possibly, a glass of wine to go with it.

The Only News Worth Knowing

Dear Kellen,

Since you don't know me well yet, I will tell you this:

I'm not any good at 4:38 AM.  In fact, I'm downright unpleasant.

So, knowing that, there are only two acceptable reasons to dial my number at 4:38 AM.  One is death.  The other is life.

And in the wee hours of September 2, 2012, your little life made its way into my heart.  At 4:38 AM.  That is how miraculous you already are.  Your mere arrival in the world brought a smile to my face, even at 4:38 AM.  It even brought on coherent thought and a heartfelt reply.  Miraculous.

I went to see you last night.  Your Auntie Laurie and I planned it out by text... the exact right time of the day to visit where we would only have to share your chubby cheeks and new baby smell with only one another.  It's a small concession to make, to share with one another, but I knew I would get there before her anyway.

Aunt Laurie brought dinner for all of us.  Now, forever, I will think of you when I smell garlic bread baking in the oven.  It seems only natural.  One of the closest links your mother and I share is an unnatural attraction to freshly baked bread.

Aunt Laurie entertained us with a slideshow of her trip to Yellowstone.  Don't tell Aunt Laurie, but I didn't really look at her pictures.  Not when you were sitting so warm and snuggly and squeaky in my arms.  She'll show me those pictures again.  I think she was really only filling time until her turn again anyway.

Your mother laid in bed, let us hog you, and asked questions of everyone else.  Sometimes I am amazed at how nonchalant she can be even just 15 hours after bringing someone so glorious into this world.  She sat, drinking her Diet Coke, laughing at our stories, and pretending that it was an ordinary day.  An ordinary day where she produced 9 lbs 4 oz of perfection without the aid of either drugs or a doctor.  Like I said, nonchalant.  And amazing.

Your dad lamented that he didn't have a chance to go buy a newspaper to mark the day you were born.  I can't imagine that the Star Telegram would think to put your face on the front page, so I can't help but wonder what the use would be.  You, sweet boy, are the only news worth knowing on September 2, 2012.

The First "First Day"

I always say that the best part of my summer job as a camp director is bearing witness to the moment that a child falls in love with camp.  It is, truly, a magical moment. 

The other amazing part (and privilege) is watching that child grow up and bearing witness to the change he or she has upon the rest of the world. 

This is Katie.  She is the human, of course.  I'm sure I have clearer, better pictures of Katie, but this just happens to be one of my favorite pictures of her because I think it encompasses who she truly is and has always been: loving, kind, and generous.

Katie is a kid that I've known as a camper, Counselor-in-Training, Junior Counselor, Senior Counselor, and, for the last two summers, as one of the CIT Directors.  In every one of those roles, she has been the same: loving, kind, and generous.  And incredible.

And, tomorrow, she'll be a second grade teacher.  An incredible second grade teacher, I might add.

So, my Katie-did, as you begin your very first day in this new career, I want you to remember something.

You are more equipped for success than 90% of the teachers in the field.  You have lived with your classrooms for years, surrounded by a tribe of dirty-faced, question-filled, needy (and sometimes whiny) children for weeks at a time.  You've taught them to chop vegetables and cook over an open fire.  You've hiked and played and explored and prolem-solved in the 110 degree heat.  You've held the hands of countless homesick children, dried their tears, and found a place for them to belong.  You've explained the multi-step mysteries of the shower to dozens of clueless 7 year-olds.

Reading and fractions can't be much more difficult.   

Tomorrow, seventeen tiny faces will stream through your classroom door.  You will probably not feel ready, but believe me, little one, you are.  You've been ready for this since the first day I met you.

Tomorrow will fly by before you know it.  As a teacher, your life will be filled with a great number of "first days of school", but you will only have one first "first day".  Savor it.  Whether things go perfectly (they won't) or completely fall apart (they won't), it will be a day unlike any other.  And this is the beauty of teaching... every day, every moment, is a brand new chance for the best day ever.

Those 17 faces?  They will wear you out.  They may drive you crazy, even.  Remember: that's every kid's job.  So what do you do?  Love them.  Be kind to them.  Be generous with your time and attention and spirit.  I know you will because that's who you are, sweet friend.  It's who you've always been, and they are going to adore you for it.  They will be, I predict, the luckiest 2nd graders in the state of Oklahoma.

Have the best, most wondrous, first "first day" ever, Ms. Krambeer.  And then, maybe a drink and a nap.  You're gonna need it.

I love you, kiddo, and I'm so very, very proud of you.

Waiting For Inspiration

Hey, friend.

Remember me?

I didn't leave you forever.  I've just been busy.  And tired.  Really tired.

But I'm still here, waiting to be inspired.  Waiting for something to write.  But nothing amazing seemed to happen for a while, so I have just been waiting.  And waiting.  And waiting.

You know that feeling, don't you?  That emptiness -- that loneliness -- that comes with waiting?  If there is a Hell, I'm sure it will not be a pit of fire; it will be a waiting room.  Or the line at the DMV.  Nevertheless, it will be a feeling of doom, underscored by the lilting insanity of elevator music and boredom.

But today, I was asked to list the interesting things I've done this summer.  (It was the first day back to school for teachers, and, inevitably, whether you are 13 or 35, this is the first assignment.  Teachers... we never change.)  I panicked as I stared across at someone who I knew had traveled and lounged and done "interesting" things for the past 2 months.  What would I say?  "I worked.  At camp.  I slept a coma-like sleep on every break."  Believe me, exhausted comas do not equal "lounging".  It took me a few minutes, but I eventually came up with a couple of answers.  I still wasn't happy, and the question nagged at me the entire drive home.  It itched my brain while I shopped for sneakers, waited on my take-out, and priced refrigerators online.

Only now, hours later, do I realize what I wish I'd said.

• I worked at camp.  All summer.  It was exhausting and stressful.
• I worked at camp.  All summer.  It was exhilarating and full of renewal.
• I watched my best friend's son spend his first 2 nights at camp.  He only stopped loving his counselor, activities, and friends long enough to hug me twice.  Well... once.  I stole the second, fair and square.
• I saw my favorite campers -- kids I've known since they were 8 --  graduate from the C.I.T. program and then come back as junior counselors. 
• I spent 49 days working alongside my third generation of camp friends.  They are the most dedicated, supportive, and talented groups of people I've encountered in a long time.  Well... since my 2nd generation at least.
• I watched children from all over the world -- literally, from Mexico to the Czech Republic to England to China -- fall in love with the magic of camp.
• I laughed.  My God, I laughed.
• I cried.  My God, I cried.
• I busted kitchen raids.
• I narrowly escaped the clutches of Grandaddy Raccoon during one of his late night dumpster dives.
• I lured the camp dog out for a swim in the lake -- much to the delight of the canoeing class.
• I sang beautiful songs, with wonderful friends, on a gentle breeze by the light of a dying campfire.
• I sang loud and silly songs, with wonderful friends and giggling children by the roar of a fresh fire.
• I saw children become more than a stereotype. 
• I saw children without a home find the home they never expected.
• I witnessed friendships forged, stronger than steel, and bridges burn with the spark of regret.
• A circle completed itself as one of my campers from my cabin at grief camp became a counselor at the same camp, fifteen years later.  Her healing helped to heal another cabin of litle girls.
• I waved goodbye to one friend to finish his bachelor's degree, one to finish his doctorate, and one to ready her very first classroom. 
• I prayed that they won't be gone for long.
• I spent far too long from another best friend's children this summer, only to be welcomed back into their home with squeals and giggles and kisses from their grown-up faces.
• Just days ago, I saw another friend's son, one of my favorite miracles, walk to me with steps that were never guaranteed.
• I cried about that one too.
• And I read.  I read 14 books this summer, and I've got about 24 more on the stack.

But I didn't write because I didn't feel inspired.  Man, sometimes I'm blind.  And dumb.  And tired of waiting.