The Breakfast Lesson

My #Write30 topic of the day is to list my 3 pet peeves. There are many, but here are the first three I can think of: people who smack their gum, the tearing out of spiral paper, and people who don't follow rules and create more work for me.

But I'm feeling kind of sassy, and I'm going to break the rules and not write about today's topic. And it DOES actually create more work for me because all the way to work this morning, I thought about all the ways people piss me off and all the ways I plot my revenge.

See, each Wednesday, I roll into school for 45 minutes of duty time. Some stations are easy; some are hard. But not many of them try my patience as much as supervising the breakfast tables, and that's where I've been the last 5 weeks. Kids are messy. They don't clean up well after themselves. And they are desperate to stick together, so the thought of having to leave one another for the 7.2 minutes it takes to eat your bacon biscuit and chocolate milk seems sort of like this:

Kids are dramatic.

We also only open up 2.5 tables for breakfast so that messes are more confined and easier to monitor. But because of the pack mentality and the general slowness/obstinacy of junior high kids in general, we get kids nursing their carton of apple juice as if it's the last drop of water on Earth.

They're also going to try to sit wherever they want because this is what kids do. If I taped a $50 bill to the table and Sharpie-markered a personal invitation to sit down in that spot, they'd be all, "Yeah. No thanks" and move on to whatever spot an adult asked them not to sit in.

So, needless to say, cafeteria duty was topping the list of pet peeves this fine morning.

And then, 8:20 happened.

This would be about the time that one of my kids sat down with his older brother and friends who are normally quite the handful. I've worried about my student who's always somewhere between a hug and a strangle for me anyway. He wants to be on the right path, but he has these boys in his ear always, setting some not-so-great examples for him.

So he plops down in the big middle of the table, knowing the rule that I fill up one side of the table and then the other side, not sitting all willy-nilly, leaving tiny holes too intimidating to join.

So I asked him to move.

So he gave me the excuse that an administrator said it was okay.

So I told him I didn't care. These tables are my job on Wednesday, and this was not her decision.

So they wanted to call me out and argue that because she was my boss, my opinion did not matter.

So I weighed the situation. I could dig in and prove a point and possibly make my morning worse. Or I could let it go, pick a different battle, and get out with my soul still slightly unscathed.

I looked at these 8th graders sneer and remind me again that I wasn't "really in charge" and that they'd do as they pleased. And in that instant, I gave up. I decided that I didn't care. That I wouldn't teach them any lesson over a bacon biscuit because they don't care either. I know it and they know that I know it. I took a deep breath and readied myself to walk away.

And that's when my kid stood up. He picked up his plate and walked to the other side where I had asked him to go. And as he did, he told his brother and his friends, "Don't argue with my teacher. I'm going Ms. Naz."

I eked out a "thank you" and a smile, but I felt terrible as I heard them start in on him for being a "school boy", telling him he didn't have to do what I said, encouraging him to go back. To "show" me.

And that's when my kid stood up again -- for me and for him. "That's my favorite teacher. I'm not arguing with her and neither are you."

I didn't know what to do. I wanted to cry. I wanted to yell, "SUCK ON THAT, YOU LITTLE BULLIES!" I wanted to hug him until his guts collapsed and his eyes popped out. But I didn't because his street cred was hanging on by a thread at this point and any of that would've ruined him.

So instead, later in the day, I saw him walking down the hall. I called him over and told him that I appreciated what he had done. How he had followed the rules when it would've been easier not to. How he stood up for me by showing me respect. But most importantly, I told him, "You stood up for yourself when everyone tried to make you feel wrong for trying to do right. For trying to be good. And you are good."

And here is where my voice cracked and the tears welled -- "THAT is why teachers teach. To see you stand up for yourself and know you're worth the effort it takes to fight the crowd." And there is where a few of those tears leaked out. And there is where I didn't care. Not one bit. Not ever. Not at all.

And that's when he said, "Oh, Ms. Naz," and hugged me so hard, I thought my own guts would collapse and my eyes would pop out. And there's when he moved all the way to hug... just as far away from a strangle as one can possibly get.

Did I teach any big lessons over bacon and biscuits this morning? Nope. I sure didn't.

Because someone else did it better than I ever could.

It Might Still Be a Little Tiger Beat-ish.

I am fascinated by human behavior. There's nothing I love to do more than just watch people and try to decide who they are by how they behave. And I'm not talking "hang out at an airport and make random stories about strangers" (although that's fun, too). I'm talking about whatever you do throughout the day, whatever you say, I'm storing it away in my brain in a little file marked, "YOU". Actually, my brain files are marked with your names, but the file folders are all bent and piled up randomly and the names on the tags have probably been marked through a couple of times because sometimes people don't get to stay in my brain, but I believe in recycling.

Yes, I am watching. Yes, I am judging and questioning and filing for future connections. I'm like the NSA but less secretive about it. Or more secretive. Or whatever. (Hi, NSA! *waves gratuitously*)

Anyway, I watch because you're fascinating.

So to choose just one person as the person I'm fascinated by is dang near impossible. There are many beautiful and kind people in my own everyday life I could write about (and probably already have on here). There are a few celebrities that I adore, but I don't really have any personal connection with them. And that feels just a little to Tiger Beat for my taste.

So maybe there's someone somewhere in the middle of those two extremes. Someone famous enough to give me a little thrill when she retweeted me on Twitter but still seems like someone who's not so uppity that we couldn't split a Reese's and hang out at an airport watching weirdos and making up stories.

I've been a fan of Jenny Lawson (The Bloggess) for a long, long time. I cannot remember where I first found her writing, but whomever it was that pointed me to her should probably get several dollars a month from me. A "Thank You for Being Awesome" fee, if you will.

There are several things about Jenny that I love, but the fact that she and I barely missed each other at a tiny little state school in Central Texas always makes me feel like we could've been actual, real-life friends. Granted, I would've had to have been brave enough to talk to strangers first, but maybe it could have happened. If we were in the right class or had I run over her foot with my car.

I love that she swears unapologetically because swear words and Reese's Peanut Butter Cups are my two most favorite vices. I love that she gives all of her animals, both real and taxidermied, clever and completely appropriate names. (I'm a big Hunter S. Thomcat fan.)

She's delightfully odd with a penchant for dead animals in costume. Even creepy-as-shit dead animals. I love that she hails from a delightfully odd family who adore her in all forms.

Jenny is kind and thoughtful, even when it's only by accident. And she spreads that kindness somehow with just a few words and the feeling that it's just the right thing to do because someone needs to do it.

She takes on challenges even when she's unsure. She finds a way even when she has to build it herself. Even when that challenge is just getting Wil Wheaton to send her a picture of himself collating paper.

And now they're FRIENDS, by God.

She fights back with 15 foot tall metal chickens. Who does that? Badasses. Badasses fight the good fight with chickens named Beyonce.

But more than anything, Jenny fights, period. She fights for the voiceless. She fights for those that cannot get out of bed. She fights for those who would rather hide under their desk than stand on stage. She fights for anyone who is coming apart at the seams. And then she rallies the troops to help sew them back together.

She fights for them because she is one of them. And she's not ashamed of it.

Because the most fascinating thing about Jenny Lawson is that she is just Jenny-fucking-Lawson. Warts and all. I consider myself to be honest, but, in truth, most of my life, I've been what I've now deemed, "Dinner Party Honest".  You know, just honest enough to be respected, but not so honest that people aren't "WTF?" when you sit next to them at a dinner party. I'm still not that honest, but I'm on the road.

I'm a people-pleaser at the deepest core of myself, and what pleases others most of all is for you to be happy -- to be good -- to be even-keeled. So, for most of my life, I tried to be happy and good and even-keeled, even when I felt like I was cartwheeling down the side of a mountain and then hauling myself back up by my fingernails.

Reading Jenny's work told me a couple of things: A) I wasn't alone and 2) There can be joy and laughter in even the most absurdly awful moments. And it's okay -- more than okay -- to grab that joy by the throat and squeeze the Hell out of it. Give it a Copernicus-level strangle.

But more than anything, it told me that being whole isn't about hiding your cracks from others; it's about letting them show and treasuring those who helped pick up the pieces. Because none of us pick those pieces by ourselves. None of us. Nor should we.

In the time that I've followed Jenny's blog, she's raised thousands of dollars, bought dozens of weird-ass but incredible dead animals, written two best sellers, and empowered hundreds of thousands of men and women around the world.

And she retweeted me once (which is really just like a modern-day grown-up version of taping a Tiger Beat photo to your wall, but I don't give one damn. Tiger Beat Twitter for everyone.)

And it made me furiously happy.


(I've linked all of these within the post above, but I know how lazy some of y'all are about clicking on the link. So I made it easy on you. Enjoy. And if you don't, you're moving to the bottom of my brain files. Maybe.)

http://thebloggess.com/2010/05/the-traveling-red-dress/

http://thebloggess.com/2012/01/the-traveling-red-dress-revisited/

http://thebloggess.com/2012/01/the-end-and-the-beginning/

http://thebloggess.com/2013/12/accidentally-doing-good-things/

http://thebloggess.com/2011/06/and-thats-why-you-should-learn-to-pick-your-battles/

http://thebloggess.com/2012/02/her-name-is-juanita-juanita-weasel-unless-you-can-think-of-something-better/

http://thebloggess.com/2011/07/would-you-like-to-buy-a-monkey/

Dreams Do Come True

Once upon a time, a long time ago, I had a dream of being a writer. I kept diaries and journals full of bad poetry. I relished essay tests. And my high school English teacher forced me into any journalism event she could, helping me, eventually, into the only state medal I'd ever receive.

I tried for a while, when I showed up at college. I hung around the newspaper kids. I submitted a couple of things to the English department's literary magazine. But what I quickly realized is that you need to be 1) thick-skinned 2) good at promoting yourself and 3) a risk-taker.

Anyone who knew me at 19 can verify that I was none of the above. Anyone who knows me now, twenty years later, can verify that I still struggle with all of the above.

My full-time job is as a teacher. For the majority of the last 15 years, I was exclusively a writing teacher and a coach. Although I have a great passion for working with kids, there were moments where I wondered if I was a walking, talking version of that saying, "Those who can, do; those who can't, teach."

I hate that saying.

I tell my students that a writer writes. No matter what, this is true. A writer simply cannot be contained. His words buck against closed lips; her fingers search for just the right pattern of sounds. I am no different. I write with my kids in class. I create stories while sitting in traffic. I compose some pretty killer birthday cards and haiku. I've been published before, but mostly I considered that luck. Nothing more. I blog. I update. I spill in 140 characters at a time on Twitter.

But last weekend, I had the chance to test drive my dream. And, in truth, I almost turned it down. (Refer back to reasons 1, 2, and 3 if you're new around here.)

One of those 140 character friends, Shawn Krest, is an actual, real-life, professional writer in North Carolina, and he was one of the first strangers to encourage my writing. While I treasure the praise and support of my friends, there always exists a small fear that they're just being nice. Strangers don't have to be nice.

When Shawn learned that the Duke Blue Devils basketball team would be headed to Houston for the Sweet Sixteen, he knew he needed someone to cover that part of the tournament. Houston is a long way from Raleigh, and, contrary to popular belief, not every news outlet has ESPN-like budgeting. Somehow, Shawn thought it would be a good idea to send me as his substitute for accsports.com. I could catch a cool game or two, keep his credential viable, and write a little "if I wanted to".

I think his logic was something like this: Wide-eyed Duke fan sees her favorite team in person for the first time ever + nationally televised event + need to maintain professionalism and restraint while in the BEST SEATS EVER on press row = either hilarity or a total meltdown (still hilarious).

My thinking was more like this: OMG + WTF x Where do I go?/ I'm not good enough = Shawn's going to get fired.

Somehow, though, he talked me into it. He was paid back with 987 questions/freaked out text messages. I was paid with a seat 20 feet from my idol and court side seats to a dream come true. I think I came out ahead.

It was a tremendous four days. I was able to stay with one of my grown-up camp kids and see Houston through her eyes.

The sign that Allison posted on her front door
 to alert me that I had found the right house.

When you spend a birthday with a Skrehart, it's chocolate cake for breakfast.

The Beer Can Museum. Sadly, it was only open on the weekends, but here's what we know: a dude covered his whole house in beer cans. It took him about 20 years. We calculated that if he was a six-pack per day kind of guy, there were roughly 43, 680 beers consumed. Although, if you are dedicated to beer enough to cover your whole house, you're probably more than a six-pack a day kind of dude. Texas, y'all.

 

It's basically a house-sized wind chime.

And the art car museum. Houston has an art car parade each year. These are a few of the winners. I don't "get" art always, but this little museum is worth the time. It's also free. Definitely going to hit up the whole parade next year.

The Art Car Museum

Phantoms

The curator was also the doppelganger of Pat Garner.

"Hungry"

"Splinter" -- A full-sized Honda covered in wood

And "Lil Splinter": the go-kart version (special appearance by Allison for scale)

 And we even took a detour to look at David Adicke's latest work which Allison found by chance one day. It's a 30-foot-tall version of the Beatles. Because why not? And then we went to "Good Dog" --  a gourmet hot dog joint for a late lunch. Because why not?

When Allison last saw Ringo, he was torso-less. We're hoping John gets his left arm soon.

This is "The Texican". Avocado, black beans, freshly pickled jalapenos and creme fraiche.
Homemade buns, homemade dogs, homemade everything. Just do it, Houston.

And then there was the real reason I was in Houston. You know... that dream thing. I went to the first of four press conferences where I sat, working up the courage to ask a non-shaky-voiced question. I went to a Duke practice. Bucket list: check. I scored my first interview. It was with a 5 year-old.

That's a hall-of-famer, y'all.

From my seat at open practice

The precious kids who sat behind me.

Duke guys signing autographs

The Duke Family from my story.

This is the street I took to the stadium each day.
Duke University is located in Durham, NC. #GoodOmen

 I went to work everyday at an NFL stadium as opposed to going to work everyday across the freeway from one. (I have to say, ours is nicer inside. Yours is nicer, and less bicycle helmetish, on the outside, Houston.)

NRG Stadium

My seat for the Sweet Sixteen. Nothin' special.

The starting five.

I had the thrill of seeing a hall-of-fame coach getting his 12th trip to the Final Four, probably 2 (possibly 3) first-round NBA picks, and my favorite current player earn his way to a banner. Quinn Cook, who took me and every Blue Devil fan on a roller coaster ride for three years. Quinn Cook, who has emerged as a leader in every single, steady way this year. I love that kid. He is why teachers teach and coaches coach -- to see a boy become a man.

The post-game handshake with Utah before the actual end of the game.

Hometown Hero, Justise Winslow

I love you, Quinn Cook.

Coach K, finishing the job.

 I had to watch the dreams end for some kids, and I got to watch the dream continue for others. I watched as the media (including me) ignored Matt Jones in the press conference on Saturday. And then I watched him hide a smile on Sunday night as a reporter asked him how it felt to be the "Three Point Assassin". I saw these kids flip from playful to poised in an instant. I saw a coach defend his team with kindness and admiration and love.

Matt Jones, Quinn Cook, Coach Krzyzewski, and Tyus Jones

And I got to be a writer -- a "real" writer -- with all of the lavish accommodations you could dream of. Like the women's restroom for the female journalists. It was outside. As in, outside the stadium. As in, "go outside alone so someone can kill you and hide you in the Astrodome next door" kind of lavish.

For real.

The creeptastic Astrodome

But truly, I was in awe of the reporters surrounding me. They were in constant movement: keeping stats, tweeting, writing game stories, and lining up interviews -- all while the game was going on. The most I could manage was not yell at Jahlil Okafor to block out or stare, open-mouthed, at Grant Hill the entire time.

Then today, I came home to my very own name, spelled correctly and everything, in a newspaper. In print. That I can send home to my mom so she can read it to my dad.

Like I said, a dream come true.

Dreams don't happen just because they're dreamed though. They're usually the result of one person with a crazy idea (Shawn) and a hundred people somehow agreeing with that lunacy. I said while I was on my trip that if you ever want to measure how loved you are, announce that you're going to attempt a lifelong goal that could end in total ruined failure. People come out of the woodwork for that kind of stuff, man.

Here are my woodwork people. The list is long, but I don't have time for individual thank-you cards. I am seriously so very blessed. And I mean that in the most non-sarcastic way imaginable.

Shawn Krest -- Proof that not everyone you meet on the internet is an axe-wielding lunatic. Or at least not yet. I hope you're enjoying your first Final Four, buddy.
ACC Sports Journal -- Thank you for this opportunity. And thanks for not thinking Shawn had lost his mind.
Duke University and Mike Krzyzewski -- Thank you for finding one another and then for finding that 10-year-old kid one CBS Saturday afternoon.
The 2014-2015 Blue Devils -- You've made this season one of the best and most entertaining in a long, long time. You are a band of brothers.
Allison Skrehart -- Thanks for being such a great kid/adult and for letting me invade your home for 4 days. I am so grateful for your friendship. And for that cake.
Roommate Kelly -- You're the coolest. Give Hazel and Zelda a massive hug for me.
For my 140 character friends -- Twitter is allegedly full of racists and trolls and dumbasses. I wouldn't know that for sure because I hit the Twitter jackpot -- talented, funny, and kind. #ACCTwitter is truly, truly the best.
My school friends -- You told me things would be fine while I was gone, and you made them fine. Not just last weekend but for so many times this year. It's always a great day to be alive and a Mustang.
My camp friends -- There is no greater support network. Camp is the only place I knew I could fail and be just as loved as if I had piloted a spaceship to the moon and back. You are my touchstone.
JD and Tammy and Hunter -- You have always let me be who I was meant to be and loved me as intensely as I'd let you whether I saw you yesterday or last year.
Becky, Isaiah, and Jaxson -- Thank you for bringing such joy and kindness into my life. You amaze me.
Jim -- You've put up with my Duke passion for the longest, always having to share the VCR as it taped endless games or listen to me shout at my television as if they could hear me. You were the first person to recommend my writing to anyone else, telling Mrs. Hayes, "If you think I'm good, wait until you see what my sister can do." No compliment has ever been more treasured.
Mrs. Estlack and Mrs. Hayes, my junior high and high school English teachers -- You were my first guides in what to say and how to say it. You cracked open my skull and heart and out came my soul. Thank you for helping me scoop all those words into neat little piles. And these are just two of my dozens of life-changing teachers. I hope I make you all proud.
My parents, Dean and Wanda -- Daddy, you taught me how to tell a good story, but I'll never be as good at it as you. I miss them more than anything. Every story I tell now, I tell for you. Mom, you gave me power and strength to put on a brave face even when I'm terrified. Thanks for teaching me all about sports and not ever letting them be "just for the boys". I love you both.
And to my tribe, LJ, Courtney, and Heather -- There are not enough words in the world to ever tell you what you mean to me. You are the stars in my sky, the sun on my face, the prayer on my lips, and the solid ground under my feet. You are what every friend should be and what every person should be lucky enough to have.

Greatness Rising

I grew up in a really small town. Tiny, really.

There were only two stoplights (there are still only two). My 1st grade classroom was only about 200 yards from where I sat in my senior English class. When you moved from elementary school, you literally turned two corners in the hallway, and you were in junior high. To go to high school, you walked out the breezeway. We only had four channels on television until I was 10. We never had more than eight or ten stations until I was out of college. Tiny, I tell you.

It's a good place. But it's not a place that many people leave. Especially to become a football star.

Ours was Kenny King. When I was little, I can remember him coming to visit his hometown and making an appearance at the high school pep rally. He came to our classroom, and I stuck my hand out to say hello and get his signature in my autograph book. His hand engulfed mine, and I saw that he had on a very pretty ring. It looked similar to the college ring my dad always wore, but bigger. And shinier. He was so tall, with such a deep voice, but his smile was wide and welcoming.

I still have that autograph book somewhere. It has the signatures of my brother, my mom, my Grandma Henrietta, and a Super Bowl champion.

My mom and dad, both avid football fans, almost fell over when I showed them my book. And once they explained just who he was, I almost did too. Because of their awe, my awe was doubled. Every time he came to visit, or made an appearance, I was starstruck and too nervous to ever say hello again, no matter how many times he signed my t-shirt or binder or notebook paper.

Even now, when the Super Bowl airs, you can spot #33 in a clip, on his 80 yard touchdown run -- a record that would stand 16 years. And even now, when I see it, I get a little weak-kneed at having once come so close to a star. I can remember the way that he stood with his old classmates and teammates and teachers, taking pictures, signing shirts and footballs, so at ease, so normal, so like all of them (just with a fancier car and flashier jewelry). It didn't make sense to me that they should feel so comfortable in the midst of someone who had -- gasp! -- been on TV.

In the time since I was 17, I've managed to teach or coach thousands of kids who have grown into tremendous people, including: doctors, lawyers, entertainers, soldiers, mothers, teachers, and two professional basketball players and a national champion. Last night, I turned on Sportscenter to see a former student, so shy and quiet when I knew him in the 7th grade, burning up the highlight reel, hitting seven 3-pointers for his team in their first NCAA tournament game. And then tonight (and all season), I've watched another former student-athlete grow and develop into a solid collegiate player under the eye of an NBA and NCAA hall of fame coach. All such wonderful kids whose hard work and dedication took them far beyond their own city limits.

As I see them, playing on TV, earning the respect of commentators and players that I, myself, grew up in awe of, I am amazed that I came so close to greatness without even knowing it. And I begin to finally understand how those men and women could stand and chat with a legend with such ease. They knew him not before he became great;  rather, they knew him through all of the things that led him to be so.

I'm amazed at how they've changed as I study them in timeouts and interviews. But then I will turn my head quickly to see a gesture or a smile or a face that isn't 30 or 23 or 19. When I look closely, they're 13 again... turning in their homework or challenging me to a game of Knockout or hauling their tuba down the hallway. Those are the faces that now leave me a little starstruck, and tomorrow I'll look into my classroom and wonder about the futures waiting inside.

And I remember how lucky I am to see greatness rise, every day.

Just a Little Line-Jumping

I coached at my junior high for 13 years, and if there's one thing I learned in all that time it's this: when the End Times arrive, and all of our souls are sent to Heaven for Judgment Day, anyone who has ever coached B-team girls' basketball will move automatically to the front of the line. Junior high teachers, in general, will ascend in the carpool lane, but those coaches? Double sixes, buddy. Collect your eternal reward and understand that it was all worth it.

Seriously... saints, healers, people who give up their seats on the subway, three-legged dogs... you can all just wait your turn. Jesus knows the patient and virtuous when He sees 'em.

This is the first year in my entire career that I have not coached. After all, as I told my new principal last year, nobody gets their school out of AYP troubles with lay-ups and free throws. So, I stepped off the court and decided to devote myself to my classroom. All year long, people have asked me if I missed it. All year long, I couldn't decide if I truly did. I don't miss the 70 hour work weeks or the 6:30 AM practices. I don't miss keeping books and waiting on buses and hosting tournaments. I don't miss overly-enthusiastic parents yelling from the stands -- at me to play their kid (yes, I know she is unique and special), at their kid (no, they simply cannot box out), or at the refs (believe it or not, they DO know that they should "call it both ways").

Believe me. There are lots of things I don't miss.

Last week, I kept the scoreboard at the 8th grade girls' game. The A-game was exciting, fast-paced, push-and-pull. It was hard to keep my mouth shut, but I left them in good hands, and although they lost, I know that they'll be okay the next time around. I was sad to have missed out on their talent, but I did not feel the pang of regret that I feared I might.

And then, came the B-team.

When I first started coaching, my friends would come to my games, not to watch the kids but to watch me on the sideline as I, their most competitive friend, tore at my hair, pinched the bridge of my nose, watched kids shoot at the wrong basket on multiple occasions, and released a torrent of expletives into the back of my hand.

For the record, no one can hear you scream in your hand. Also, no one is ever really sure which basket is theirs. Ever.

As I watched those girls play, I was reminded of some of my most notable B-team adventures, including a tournament game whereupon I had 5 players total, and we won 9-6 in double overtime.

NINE. TO SIX. DOUBLE OVERTIME. For real, that's seven baskets (plus a free throw) in 42 minutes. At the end of the first overtime, when it was 6-6, the tournament hosts and the opposing coach wanted to just end the game, but I was all, "I did not just survive that mess for a tie. No way. SOMEBODY is going to win this freakin' game."  And then we did. My girls went on to dub it as their "Miracle Game".  I saw one of them at her high school last year. She is still talking about that game 5 years later.

B-team basketball is not for the faint of heart. The closest approximation I can make for it is to attempt to drive a bumper car, blindfolded, while holding an egg, without cracking it or your own skull. It is 32 minutes of collisions and near-misses and close calls. It is a series of wrong turns and panicked throws and unforced errors and at least two dozen switches of the possession arrow. It's more than enough to lead a coach to buy stock in hair dye and blood pressure meds.

It is also all heart and hustle and Hail Mary's. It's celebration and nervous energy and second chances. What I realized in my many journeys, navigating the wilds of B-team athletics, is that there are few people willing to work harder. There are few kids who find more joy in a steal or a rebound or, God forbid, a made free throw. There are few moments I have found more frustrating or funny.

But there are also few moments where I have found myself as a better or more patient teacher.

I've coached many incredible athletes who have gone on to set scoring records and secure scholarships and, yes, even win national titles. Yet their smiles are not always the first I remember in my heart; their one shining moment simply cannot hold a candle to scoring the winning basket in a miracle game. 

And tonight, as I watched those same girls play their guts out, I looked over to the bench. There were hot tears and hurt feelings and the pains of coming so close. I watched the coaches lean in to explain, to console, to teach, and I felt a little ding in my heart.

I checked the time. I listened to the parents yell a little more, and I wondered:

Do I miss it? Not really.

But do I miss them? Absolutely.

Was it worth it? Without a doubt.

Even if I didn't get my line-jump in Heaven.

Bloom Where You're Planted

This was my writer's response topic for my classes last week.

I gave it to them on the day I was assigning them to new seats and new teams. This is always a day filled with gnashing of teeth, lamenting wails, and other various expressions of teenage angst meant to drive adults so insane that they wind up giving in.

But I am no mere mortal adult, and I do not give in. I am well-versed in the art of guilt and inspirational quoting. This also happens to be one of my favorite expressions -- one that I tend to remind myself of when life takes a turn that makes me unhappy or overwhelmed.

My kids did fairly well at deciphering the meaning of the quote and VERY well at my intentions behind it. A new semester, new start... all of that. The angst level never rose above DEFCON 3, and for a week now, stability and *gasp* improvement have been the norm.

I felt pretty proud for about 6 hours. Then, I got in my car, looked in the mirror, and realized that everything I had just preached at my kids hasn't really been practiced by me lately.

I've been absent from this little space of the internet for a while now -- over a month by date alone, longer if you start looking closely at effort. I didn't stop writing; I still try to do that every day. My goal, after all, was to find a place to spill and drop the stress and worry and anxiety I found building up. My goal was to find something that made me happier and freer. I don't always accomplish that every day. Never have, never will.

The holidays were hard. I knew they would be because they are every year. By November, I am exhausted physically and mentally from work which has been exceptionally difficult this year.  And the brightness and light and commercial drain slapping me in the face each time I take a walk through Target tends to exhaust me spiritually as well. This Christmas brought a little extra emotional quicksand as I watched and waited through another leap off the deep end with my dad's health. And, in true Deana fashion, his backslide caused my own backslide because I am nothing if not my father's daughter.

Even as I felt myself fraying, I kept trying to write my way out of it, to use my words as my nightlight, to throw the puzzle pieces on the screen and the page and wait for them to fall into place. I kept writing and people kept reading and friends kept supporting. But one day, someone, in passing relayed a concern from someone else. "Deana just seems SO... SAD."

And I froze.

Granted, the ellipsis and the capital letters... maybe those are my own hearing; maybe not. All words are open to interpretation and strike different chords in different people at all sorts of different times. This is what makes words so dangerously beautiful. It's not that, at that very moment, I disagreed. In fact, in that moment, I wholeheartedly agreed. I was very sad some days, but not every day and certainly not CAPITAL LETTER sad.

But in the message of "I am concerned (and also saddened) by this", I received "Deana just seems so... pitiful (and frankly, it's a little much)."  And then... someone else said it, to my face, with a full-on sympathetic head tilt. Oh, sweet Jesus, the head tilt. That's when you know there's trouble.

I didn't stop writing, but I stopped posting. I stopped sharing me with anyone else and just closed up. I thought that maybe if I just stopped telling then people would stop hearing and then they would stop worrying/judging. If I didn't fill my timeline with links then people wouldn't feel compelled to click them and then I wouldn't feel so bad when anyone tilted their head in my general direction, even if it was a well-intentioned, heartfelt head-tilt.

And then I stopped writing altogether. Don't act shocked; it's the next logical step in the shut-down process. After all, the reason I began posting was so that when I tried to vanish (and I knew I would), there'd be some accountability. I took all TWO of those possibly (probably) innocent statements, and I spun them out of control until they absolutely dominated all of my self-esteem with questions and hesitation. Because this is my Achilles' heel -- wondering and doubting how people actually feel about me. Waiting for people to lose interest, find me tiresome, and walk away. It's nonsensical and overly dramatic and has virtually no basis in reality, but for some reason, none of that logic ever rears its head in those moments. So instead, my sad becomes too big, and others' happy becomes too loud, and it gives me the perfect excuse to shrivel up and fade and prove myself exactly right.

I amaze myself at my inability to identify my nonsense as it occurs.

So, last week, when I looked in the mirror, I knew that I had not been living what I was selling. I felt no better than a snake oil salesman promising new health and a new start. I came home, sat in front of my screen and stared. Nothing happened. No pieces fell into place; no lights magically came back on. But that's not how it works, and I know that. I still couldn't shake that doubt, so slyly tugging at my pocket, so I went back. I went back and read everything I've written here, and then I went back and read my journal. And then I went back to those links I posted; I read all the kind comments I could find from all the people I trust. I hoped that seeing would lead to believing and I would suddenly trust all of the good from others and ignore all of the bad brewing within.

And I sat in front of my blank screen last night, and I stared. Nothing happened. No pieces fell into place. No lights magically came back on.

Because that's just not how it works. Flowers don't blossom in the cracks of concrete jungles because anyone planted them there. Cactus blooms don't appear because someone else hauls water through the desert to feed them each day. Dandelion seeds scatter accidentally on the winds far more often than on the wishful whispers of a child. Bluebonnets cannot reappear year after year without dying and withering first.

They don't bloom because someone wants them to or even because someone wills them to.

They bloom because they can.

They bloom because they persevere.

They bloom in spite of their circumstances and not because of them.

And they bloom because sometimes, strangely enough, the very best thing for the strongest and most beautiful flowers is a truckload of shit thrown on them.

300

Sometimes writing is a celebration. The writer chooses a subject and holds it up to the light to inspect its beauty and paint it so with his words.

Sometimes writing is a mutilation. The writer chooses a subject and rips it apart to investigate its innards, its weak spots. He cracks its bones and shreds its skin.

Sometimes writing is a salve. It soothes troubled spirits and minds. It may not heal, but it provides relief and respite.

Sometimes writing is a blood-letting. It trickles, and it gushes. It provides a relief and respite that is totally different -- painful and unnerving but weirdly soothing.

Writing is different things for different people at different times. Sometimes it's all four. Sometimes it's none.

But it's never easy. Not if it's meaningful. Not if it's true. At least not for me. Words may fill the page or the screen, and they may flow quickly, but they hardly ever flow easily.

This is my 300th post. I started writing here in May of 2010. Looking back on those first couple of posts, I don't recognize myself. They feel fake and peppy. They feel like something I thought someone would want to hear, not something I would want to say. Only 4 people read that first post, and I'm glad. I can most likely guess who those four people were, and they knew that wasn't really me either. 

It was a starting point, though, and I don't think it took too long to find myself.

I value privacy. I am, by my very nature, a secret-keeper, and I am good -- with my own and with others'. I worship, shy and squirming, at the temple of modesty, and my nose tends to stay in my own business. So to put mine out there, in a public forum no less, has been a constant battle. To reveal my shortcomings, my embarrassments, my failings has been painful albeit helpful. 

There have been times that I stood naked in my weakness, and there have been times I have tempered my words because it felt too much, too raw. I don't reread those posts often; some wounds just shouldn't be picked at.

But there have been times that someone found comfort in my discomfort, and that's not a bad thing. It's a human thing. None of us wants to be alone, and, as cliche as it sounds, if even one word made someone else feel less lousy, then it was the right word.

And there have been times when I was able to tell someone all the things I never had the chance to tell them, all the things I never took the time to tell them, all the things they should be celebrated for, all the beauty they held within the light. I revisit those posts often. 

In those 299 posts, I've ranted and raged, cried and crumbled, sulked and snarked. I have also smiled and laughed and triumphed. I've uncovered the awkward and revealed the absurd. I've said hello to a few, and I've said goodbye to too many. I've written about my students and about my co-workers. I've written about the meaningless and the meaningful.  I've written for my family. I've written for my friends. 

More than anything, though, I've written for myself.

I've gone to the well 108 times in the last 4 months. A third of my posts in such a short time, and I wonder when it will be that I run out of words. I worry about that often, but I only know that it will not be today. My original goal was to write more, and in the past three and a half years, I've written more than I could have ever imagined, even with long stretches of silence where I could not bear to open my heart. 

A few of you have been there since the beginning, when I was too scared to do more than just let my writing sit, waiting in the corner at the school dance.

A few more of you have joined along the way. Some I know well; some I barely know at all.  In the time I've written, my site has had 27, 894 page views. Some blogs do that count in a month or a week or even sometimes a day. But I am not them, and they are not me. 

It seems, to me, like a whole heck of a lot of love and attention for my little wallflower blog. 

Thanks for asking me to dance every once in a while.

Kid Drives Me Crazy

I had a student once, just a couple of years ago.  Here's what I knew about him then:

He didn't talk to me. He didn't even really talk to his classmates that often or that loudly, but he especially didn't talk to me. I wasn't sure how he felt about me -- if I freaked him out, if my jokes were simply terrible, if he was bored. When he spoke, it was because I asked him a question. There was occasionally a shy smile, but he was mostly head down, serious, determined, and, yes, fairly silent.

He was in band. He played soccer. He loved the Dallas Cowboys. He liked to doodle and draw. He was meticulous and careful and prepared.

He was a teacher's dream -- sweet, humble, quiet. So quiet that it drove me crazy.  It drove me crazy because I didn't really know him. Since then, I've wondered if I did right by him. Do I teach kids like that or do they just absorb what they can while I manage the chaos around them? This is my constant worry as a teacher. With kids like him, I worry double because they're too kind to speak up and demand more for themselves.

I got an email last week from my friend, Bryan, our band director at school. This kid, this wonderful and kind kid, has been diagnosed with leukemia. Not that I think the Universe should go around handing out terrible diseases as punishment, but let's get honest with ourselves, I'd much rather see some pedophile or wife-beater in that hospital bed than this kid whose worst crime is probably not completing his summer reading for World Geography class.

I've fumed about it for several days. This is what I do about things I cannot control. I fume. I am often outraged by my lack of control.

Tonight, his 7th grade English teacher, his 8th grade English teacher, and his junior high band director, showed up at his door. What he didn't realize is that for all the moments leading up to that visit today, we were confused. What do we do? Where do we go? Where are all the parking spots in this crazy hospital? We were also pretty scared. How is he feeling? How will he look? What has been happening? And, most importantly, what are we going to talk about with this kid who doesn't speak?

It didn't matter. Bryan went through the door and was met with an excited, "Mr. Stein!" And then, "Coach Naz?" followed by a "Mrs. Simpson?!"

And the biggest smile I've ever seen on his face.

He looked thinner. Tired. He kept adjusting and readjusting his baseball cap and fiddling with his hospital bracelets. But his head was up; his smile bright. And he talked to us for 30 straight minutes.

About his diagnosis and treatment, he knew every detail. It didn't shock me because he's an incredibly smart and attentive kid, but there's such a sadness for a 14 year old to have so much knowledge. It feels far too heavy for those shoulders.

About the hospital, he assured us that the people are nice, but he's ready to go home. I think his poor mother is too.

About high school. As a small town girl, I am still intimidated by the size of Lamar High School, and I've always wondered how a kid so shy takes on such a thing. Yet he's enamored with how many new people there are to meet, how many opportunities there are to seize, what different challenges present. He won't be able to go back to finish his year at school, but he's expecting bigger and better things for his sophomore year.

About marching band, he gushed. On the wall was a giant poster. As he talked about his friends, both those that he has only met this year and those that have inspired him since elementary school, he pointed out their well wishes and signatures. He loves music, and he has found a family within the band. To see him so happy, especially in such a tough situation, made me just want to hug each and every kid in that band.

I went in tonight expecting us to muddle through, to attempt to bring some sort of lightness to a dark and scary moment, to just do the best we could. To be adults because adults know what to say, right? To be teachers because teachers have all the answers, right? To be some sort of saving grace because what else can you be?  

We didn't even have a chance because the kid in the bed, the kid with the i.v. line and body full of cancer-fighting poison, the kid who never spoke -- he spoke to us. We came bearing gifts, but it was he who gifted us. We came with questions, but he shared his answers with us. We came with fear and doubt, but he banished them with that same familiar smile. Only it wasn't so shy this time.

I got lost on the way home. I'm easily lost in unfamiliar places, but the hospital is literally less than 5 miles from my house. I was unfocused, and when I did find myself on a more recognizable path, I sat in traffic for almost an hour. I had expected to fall apart after our visit; I build walls against crisis only to crumble at the first private moment.  I didn't, and I couldn't wrap my head around why. I'm still not entirely sure.

Before our visit, I could only think about the student I thought I knew 2 years ago, but here's what I do know about our student now:

He's wise beyond his years. He has a clarity that is startling. He sees the beauty and strength in others and draws from it himself. He has many friends. He's still a teacher's dream. He still finds time to doodle. He seemed lighter, wiser, but still pretty determined. And he's silent no more.

I had expected him to wilt. Instead, it's almost as if he's finally blossomed. How does that happen? I am still shaking my head over it.

Did I teach him anything when he was in my classroom? Probably, but it took me 187 days. He managed a great deal more in just half an hour. How did that happen? Man, that kid drives me crazy.

Get better soon, E. There's a big world waiting, and it needs you.

She is Me, and I am Her.

Today is Veteran's Day. While I am always thankful for the service of our troops and veterans, it's hard to celebrate only them today.

Today is also my mother's birthday, so when I woke up today, she was all I could think about. My mother and her sisters were all born on holidays -- Veteran's Day, Christmas Eve, New Year's Day. I think this might be why my mother was so anti-holiday and anti-birthday; each day seemed to be celebrating others before them. As I saw all the posts (well-deserved though they are), it hurt me for her that yet again, others went before her.

I wrote something for my mother for Mother's Day a few years ago. It's one of my favorite pieces because it's the first time I actually realized the shift in our relationship.  My dad has always called me Wanda Jr., claiming that there is more of her in me than either of us would ever admit. In the past five years, our roles have reversed drastically, and it is only in this reversal I have begun to see myself within her.

My mother has always been brash and abrupt, never letting politeness impede truth. Politeness and manners have always been my armor against confrontation, but as I've gotten older, I've learned to wield a sharp word for those who deserve it. My mother's nickname isn't Freight Train for nothing.

My mother avoids the spotlight, always letting my dad be the star.  She downplays her own talents, camouflaging them as luck or happenstance, and abhors compliments and insincerity.  Wanda Jean is the Queen of First Impressions, knowing within moments the intentions of new friends as well as their retention. There is not a relationship or friendship that I've ever had that my mother didn't accurately predict its success or failure.  And, looking back, I knew too.

She is loyal and determined and fiercely protective. She is private and guarded with her heart, but once it is won, it's won forever. She is competitive and stubborn and wildly funny. She loves curse words and fried chicken and salt on her margaritas. She sticks when she'd rather run. She is often scared but doesn't show it. She is sometimes sad but doesn't say it. And she is strong but doesn't know it.

She is me, and I am her.

For the past 5 years, we've become veterans of our own private war, she and I. Today is a celebration of those men and women who have fought for our freedom and sacrificed for our rights, but in thinking about my mom, I realize that not every battle is fought on foreign soil and not every warrior puts on a uniform or grabs a gun. Some just get in the car and drive toward the sticking point instead of away from it.

Happy Birthday, Freight Train. Thanks for loving me, for teaching me, for fighting for me.

The Most Important Lesson

I often joke about teaching or about my kids at school.  I sometimes even let my anger free flow and turn into a comical rage.  Things have to turn funny -- I have to find the funny moments -- because sometimes the state of our educational system makes me so sad.

It sometimes makes me deeply, unbelievably, dangerously sad.

I can remember the first time I realized that all kids in the world didn't go to school.  I think I was around 10 or 11.  I was horrified.  I couldn't imagine a world without my teachers, without books, without power.  For me, education was exploration.  Education was empowerment.  I was proud to be smart, and I was proud to work hard.  I was also shocked that not every kid in America felt this way.  Sometimes I still am.

Tomorrow, Malala Yousafzai stands a pretty good chance of winning the Nobel Peace Prize for her fight and unyielding courage in speaking out about educational rights for all.  Bravery knows no gender; courage sees no age.

I planned to have a quiz about sentence structure tomorrow.  Complex sentences are important, but I'm not so sure that's the most important lesson they could see.

The Root

Today is World Teachers' Day.  The fact that A) I didn't know this, and I'm a teacher and 2) it's on a Saturday is so frustratingly appropriate that I can only shrug and laugh.  I only found out because one of my other favorite writers/teachers wrote a great piece about his 3rd grade teacher.  It's great, and you should go read it here.

It reminded me of a conversation I had with one of my fellow teachers not too long ago.  We'd been discussing her son's 4th grade teacher, and I couldn't help but remember my own.  Most of my elementary school career, I'd managed to fly under the radar.  I suspect that teachers knew I was smart and they liked me because I followed rules and kept quiet, but I don't have much of a sense of who I was as a child then.  Those memories are lost on me.

And then I landed in Bonnie Gooch's class.

I can remember so much about Mrs. Gooch's class.  I could probably even draw it out on paper if I had too.  She had the warmest smile, softest hands, and kindest voice I'd ever known.  She was also the tallest woman I think I had ever met, and I found it abnormally fascinating that someone so physically imposing could be so gentle.  Mrs. Gooch always read aloud to us in the afternoons, and there are certain books that when I hear them, I am transported back, head on my desk, warmed by the afternoon sun, soothed by her voice.  Mrs. Gooch taught me about dividing fractions, basketball rebounds, and compound sentences.  I think of her every time I teach my students about comma placement.

I think this was also the year we studied the plant cycle, growing beans in a cup.  I can remember my excitement at the green shoot, sprouting, spreading its roots throughout the soil I'd transplanted it to.  It was the first (and one of the only) things I've ever managed to grow.  It didn't last long as I hadn't realized that it would need room to grow and spread, that its roots needed more to anchor in and feed from.

More than just what she taught me, however, was the way she taught me to carry myself.  I was painfully shy and unconfident as a child, always struggling to please those around me.  I happened to be in a grade full of remarkably athletic boys and beautiful girls, and I struggled even just to stay near the middle.  When there are only 33 people in your grade, believe me, the middle does not contain a very wide margin for error.

If my earlier teachers had noticed any talent of mine, they never told me, and I had spent 4 years in school believing I had none.  Mrs. Gooch not only noticed, she made sure I knew.  She was a passionate competitor, and she encouraged this spirit in me as well.  She recruited me for her UIL Picture Memory team, an event which required the study of 40 paintings, their artists, countries of origin, and some critique.  I had never been exposed to such beautiful artwork (even in just print), and I marveled at how Mrs. Gooch could pronounce such difficult names and know so many things about places outside our small town city limits.  I was 21 when I visited the Kimbell Museum here in Fort Worth for the Renoir exhibit.  It was hot and crowded, but when I found myself nose to nose with a real-life Renoir, it was worth it.  I got yelled at by a security guard for being too close, but I didn't care.  When in my life would I be able to be so close to such history -- both that of the artist and my own?

Mrs. Gooch was also the first person to notice my love of writing.  She challenged me to be on her Ready Writing team.  It was difficult because I had grown up feeling like a child with no voice, with nothing of particular interest to say.  I couldn't imagine why she would tell me that she needed me, but she did.  We worked both in school and after, this little team of writers, racing the clock with only a pencil and our brains to arm us.  I do not remember even one word that I put to paper that year, but the feel of it was exhilarating.  I was only the alternate in that event, but it began my obsession with words.  It began my journey as both a writer and writing teacher.  It began my path to finding my own voice and then having the courage to use it.  For that alone, I'll be forever grateful.  It is a gift she had no idea she was giving.

I have been blessed by a lifetime of incredible educators, from elementary school all the way through college, and I continue to surround myself with some of the best in our field.  From each of them, I have taken nourishment and knowledge; each of them has a special place within my soul.  Other teachers along the way have nurtured what she planted, but Mrs. Gooch was the root.

Thank you for giving me room to grow.

The Power of a Twelve Year-Old Heart

This week has been vaguely terrible, and it's caused a great deal of pain and doubt in my heart.  I hate that.  

But this morning, oh this morning... At the start of 1st period, one of my favorite students asked to go to the orchestra room.  I let him go, and he came defiantly marching back with his violin.  He announced that another student had told him that "string" music was no good, and he was determined to prove her wrong.  He asked me if he could play for the class.  Loving his conviction, I surrendered the floor to him.

So before the tardy bell even rang, that 12 year-old football player stood in front of my classroom, underneath the flag, and he played.  He played for his classmates, for the teachers in the hall, and even for an assistant principal I hauled in.  And I stood in the doorway and cried at how beautiful his passion for music is.  His entire class was in awe.  Let me tell you, it's hard to strike a room full of 7th graders silent.  That was pretty beautiful too.  It's been a while since I have felt such pride in one of my Mustangs.

My school has taken a lot of heat lately, and we are facing challenges that overwhelm us on a daily basis.  There are children in my school who don't want to do the right thing.  There are children who don't know how to do the right thing.  There are teachers struggling to help those kids find the right path, so much so that sometimes we ignore those who are already upon it.  And we miss such beauty amid the chaos.  That causes a great deal of pain and doubt in my heart, too.

When he was done, I'm not sure he had changed that little girl's mind about string music, but he had rescued my whole day.  And that, my friends, is the power of a 12 year-old heart.

If God is in the Details...

One of my Most Valuable Friends often posts about where she sees God.  They are, by far, some of my favorite posts ever.

This was her post last night.

LeighAnne is one of my steady friends.  I lean on her for strength and logic (she has tremendous amounts of both), but I must admit that I also lean on her for her faith.  LeighAnne is what I would lovingly call "my kind of Christian".  Imperfect, and fully aware of it, I never feel her judgment or her push.  When I confess my own misgivings or questions, I know she understands.

I have never been very religious.  I was not raised in the church, and I am not particularly ever comfortable there.  I am not always even sure what I believe or how vigorously I believe it on any given day, but I think that any God who doesn't accept my questions is probably not the God for me.  I have lots of questions.

As a good Southern girl, I can talk the church talk enough to get through a Sunday service.  I know my way around a covered dish supper.  I reflect.  I pray.  I talk.  Sometimes I feel Someone talking back.  I put my best energy out into the world.  I am a faithful person.  I am loyal almost to a fault.  I am generous, loving, and (mostly) forgiving.  I try to find the good in everything and everyone.  But I can be skeptical.  I can be stubborn.  And, yes, I can be angry and impatient.  Typically, just as I begin to feel more even-footed with my own beliefs, an obstacle will often appear.  From what my friends-in-the-know tell me, this is the way He likes to work.  In the past few years, there seems to have been far more days jumping hurdles than walking the path of peace, and I found that my faith in finding the good feels like more of a struggle.

Luckily, I have incredible friends, valuable friends, who help me look.  If God is in the details, I'd assume it's easy to find Him in a sunrise or a flower bloom or the pages of a sermon.  But I imagine you'd have to look pretty closely to find Him in a noisy, crowded junior high cafeteria on an ordinary Tuesday morning.

As I shook that young man's hand and introduced myself to him today after school, I was awfully glad she did.

My Happy Eyes...

I let the worst of things get the best of me yesterday.  I came home and stewed and spit and sulked about it, and as you might guess, nothing changed as a result.  I tell my kids that every attitude is a decision, even the bad ones.  I encourage them that if they can't change the situation, they can still change their attitude about it.

My seventh graders and I are constantly learning how to do this together. (It's hard to have to relearn the lessons I push upon others.)   It's not easy, I tell them.  I am living proof.  I've been working on it for 30+ years now, and the struggle is real.  My friend, Tamie Colston, calls it "looking at it with her 'happy eyes'".  

Today, I tried to see things with my Happy Eyes, and I was rewarded with a good look at educators who truly care, friends who never give up on me, and even a student who came back -- just in time -- to remind me that junior high boys really DO grow up.  I'm not Colston-level, but I'm making an attempt.

When I got home, this was waiting on me.  No one sent it to me specifically, but there it was... waiting for me to find it with my Happy Eyes.  

And I'm glad I did.

Share the message.  Spread some joy.