Come On, America.

When I was 6, my parents moved us to the small Texas town of 2022 people.  I say this as if they'd moved us from some giant metropolis.  In truth, except for a few random memories of kindergarten torture in my previous home, I've never known anything other, and I still consider it to be my hometown even though I haven't lived there in nearly two decades.

Growing up in such a small and sheltered place (two stoplights, one Dairy Queen, and approximately 15 churches) had its distinct advantages.  I had very close friends who were more like family.  I benefited from a sound and extremely stable education (especially in junior high where I had the same teacher for each core class for 3 years straight).  I was safe to ride my bike, cruise in my car, or walk about town with little to no real concern of being snatched up.  Heck, I don't know that my parents ever even locked our front door until I went away to college.  I still sometimes forget to lock my car doors, 20 years later.

There were disadvantages too, of course.  In a town that small, everyone knows you.  Consequently, everyone knows all your business.  It can also get kind of boring.  Not much to do on a weekend night except for get into trouble.  Everything tends to run a few years behind, also -- cable tv, cell phones, politics, fashion (I know... as if I'm really ever one to comment on fashion).  And sometimes the sheltered state feels kind of like a police state, especially to a teenager.

Disadvantages aside, please understand that I truly love where I grew up.  It was idyllic in so many ways.  But it wasn't until I left those city limits that I really began to understand what I'd been missing.  See, in my hometown, everyone looked sort of the same.  Everyone had basically the same way of thinking.  I graduated with 33 people in my class.  Three were African-American; two were Hispanic.  And I didn't realize that it could be any other way.

When I graduated from college with my teaching degree, there was a real worry among my friends that I'd just stay there forever.  I'd been living there and doing my student teaching in my old junior high and high school, and all the members of my family and friends feared that the complacency and comfort would claim me.  I probably would have stayed if my mom and dad hadn't sat me down and told me "The life you're meant to lead isn't going to happen here.  You are meant for different things and different people."

It is still, to this day, the greatest gift I've ever been given -- the permission to leave.

So I moved to the DFW area and soon got my first teaching job at a junior high (7th and 8th grade) in Arlington.  In those two grades, there were 925 students.  In my childhood school, kindergarten -12th grade, there'd been less than 700.  Everywhere I looked, everyone looked different than I did.  My first teaching assignment was as an ESL teacher.  For the first time in my life, I was the only white face in the room.

I have never forgotten that feeling.

In the past 13 years at that same school, I've lived a different life for sure.  Very different from the first 18 years of my life.  I have taught students from all over the world -- France, Vietnam, Korea, China, Mexico, the Czech Republic, etc.  A few years ago, I had a student come to my room from Liberia.  He and his father and siblings hiked for three weeks, at night, to escape his country's civil war.  When we did free reading in class, he squatted under his desk, knees hunched up around his ears.  When I asked him about it, he told me, "That is how I used to get small when we would have to hide.  That is the way I feel safe."  He is also the student who would pick up pencil stubs and crumpled papers, always shaking his head at his wasteful American classmates.  I learned a lot from him.  Teaching those kids was a pretty big experience for a girl who had barely even left the state in any way other than through a book or a movie.

I've also had my eyes opened in a lot of other ways.  I've had students who were homeless.  Students whose family income is through drugs or prostitution.  Students who were pregnant at 13.  Students whose grandparents are only a few years older than I am (by the way, I am only 37).  Students whose parent(s) were incarcerated.  I've had students who went to jail themselves.  In my first year of teaching, the gang unit was called to our campus 4 times in one year to help combat the gang violence.  In one of my first assignments, I asked the kids to bring a family picture for a writing assignment.  One of my favorite kids brought a picture of him, his father, and his grandfather.  He showed me, and I promptly took it next door to ask a more seasoned teacher if they were, in fact, all throwing up gang signs.  They were, indeed.  There was also a two year old in the picture, attempting the same sign.  I also got to know a great many of our kids in that same school who came from regular two-parent, middle class families.  We had kids who grew up in multi-million dollar mansions and whose parents went to work as professional athletes.  We also had kids who grew up in the trailer park down the street.

It was the absolute strangest place I could have ever wound up.  I told my parents very vague details about my daily work life for fear that they'd make me quit on the spot.  Back then, I couldn't have told you why I stayed, but I know now.  I stayed because I loved those kids.  They were so interesting to my small-town self and their honesty and upfront way of dealing with me was such a completely foreign concept.  My students became my teachers about all of our cultural differences -- music, hair, dancing, humor, language -- and their delight in my inept fumblings and questions delighted them to no end.  In turn, they let me teach them, not just about English or basketball, but about the world outside their own city limits.

Their favorite subject was to interrogate me about my own past -- it still is to some extent.  Their eyes would widen as I would tell them about the introduction of the SECOND stoplight to my hometown or how local businesses would close completely for the Friday night football games.  They didn't believe that we had no ATM.  They scoffed at the fact that the nearest movie theater was 60 miles away.  But the statement that really caught their disbelief was the train tracks.  For the most part of my life, if you lived in town and were white, you lived on one side of the tracks; if you were black, you lived on the other side.  They would shake their heads and tell me that such things weren't legal.  I laughed and told them that I didn't really think that this had been a continual legal battle but that society's laws and rules are far more often likely to set the tone than any bow-legged sheriff.  They would question me at length about the differences between the two sides and if I thought of my beloved hometown as "full of racism and prejudice".  And always there was the question of "where do the mixed-race kids live"?  That was a very difficult and hurtful conversation -- for me and for the biracial child innocently asking the question.

Another teacher told me once that I shouldn't share my background with the students, that it would provide fodder for them to accuse me of being racist when a disagreement arose (because of my obviously racist upbringing).  But I just couldn't do it; I think it's important to have a firm grip on where we've been in order to know where we're headed.

All the time in my classes, I talk to my kids about differences.  I explain very early on that I'm here to provide a safe space for learning and that ignoring someone's differences doesn't eliminate their differences.  We talk and debate very freely about lots of issues, including things like religion and race and culture.  But we try to also educate each other instead of alienate one another.  Sometimes I think about what I hear from them -- what it's like to be a young black man, what it's like to sit in a classroom full of people speaking a different language, or what it's like to struggle with whether to wear a hijab in a world of girls with ponytails and curls -- and I remember those first few moments of loneliness and fear when I looked out into a room that did not reflect me.

That's not to say that life in my classroom is perfect.  It looks vastly different than the school and town I grew up in, but some of the same issues still reside.  At least once a week, we have to discuss why I won't allow a certain song (because it has the "n" word).  And I often have to defend my stance that NOBODY gets to use that word in class.  I have had to explain the term "wetback" to a student who claimed to think it was about people working in the sun and sweating.  FYI... it does not.  (I also knew that he didn't really understand because he called a Caucasian student that after a football practice.)  I've had to differentiate that all Hispanics are not Mexican and that not all Hispanics are illegal immigrants to a young man in a philosophical debate.  I cannot even begin to tell you the struggles I had trying to illuminate that a person can, in fact, be both Asian AND Chinese (and that the kid wasn't just trying to pull a fast one on this girl).  I literally thought my head would explode from the effort.  We've also recently had to tackle "that's gay", "retarded", and "no homo".  I'm really ready for the repetition of  "no homo" after-any-compliment trend to be done.

And my kids aren't alone.  I've said some (at best) culturally insensitive things in my lifetime.  I'm certainly not proud of it, and I suppose that someone could rake me over the coals for it if they wanted to dig deep enough.  But I'd also like to think that I'm pretty aware now of other people and what's hurtful.  It's a conscious choice to not go around being a jerk.  And the best way to not be a jerk is to educate yourself about people who are different than your own self.  My students hear other adults, celebrities, songs, movies, comedy routines, and they assume that because something is "okay" there, it's "okay" for them as well.  Being teenagers, it's also hard to get them to avoid pushing a button just for the delight of pushing the button.

So last night, I started hearing about Richie Incognito being suspended from the Miami Dolphins for -- you guessed it -- bullying a teammate with -- yep, you guessed it -- some disgusting slurs and other foul messages.  Yet another white dude tossing out a racial slur in order to show his manliness or get his way or just be an idiot -- I don't know.  It seems that every time I turn around, someone, somewhere is acting a fool seemingly just to act a fool.  And, of course, there's always someone else willing to stand up and defend the fool.  Happens all the time.  Just take a look at social media once in a while.

Man, social media is like friggin' truth serum.  People get behind that profile pic and keyboard and just go buck wild with their nonsense.  Social media shows you all the deep dark places people don't talk about at parties.

And every time I see it, I'm right back in my classroom.  Because that's what I've decided most social media (and much of the mainstream media) is -- a classroom of stubborn, selective-hearing, excuse-making teenagers.  My students give me the same arguments when they are a jerk to someone else.  And they are, often, jerks to each other. Their favorite way to be a jerk is to crack a couple of racially/culturally charged jokes.  It unnerves me to no end, and we wind up in a whole lot of  discussions about self-worth and self-reflection and treating others the way you'd want to be treated.  So to see people with a voice or a platform or a little influence throw some backward thinking out into the world for my students to emulate, I get a little pissed.

So here's my lesson, America, and I'm only going to say it once:

• Rape jokes.  Not funny.
• Slurs -- racial, religious, sexual.  Not funny.
• Mocking the mentally challenged.  Not funny.
• Costuming yourself as a survivor of a horrific tragedy.  Not funny.
• And while we're on costumes... black face.  Not funny.
• Bullying.  Not funny. 

Come on, America.  I need you to think before you speak.  Think before you hit "send".  Think before you do.  Because your kids are watching and learning, and you're creating a whole lot of extra work for me.  And that pisses me off more than just your average stupidity.

What Are You So Afraid Of?

Yesterday was the end of Banned Books Week.

I feel pretty sad because, as busy as I've been, I neglected the big display for my room I had planned this summer.

Books have always held a sacred and special place in my heart.  I am genuinely saddened by people who don't like to read, and I often wonder where all of their thoughts and ideas come from.  I've said before that my parents were never especially political or religious, and I really can't remember even one time where they told me what I should or should not believe.  From early on, I knew that some of the things I felt and believed to be right were not the same views shared by my family or their friends, but I cannot for the life of me remember a time that I was faulted for it.

Books and reading were never denied in my house or in my school, and I grew up surrounded by pages and words and thoughts.  I read everything I could get my greedy little hands on.  Even now, my greatest thrill is the feel of a new book open in my hands.

I have never understood the banning of books because I do not understand the denial of ideas and education.  For parents who challenge books or authors, I ask, "What are you so afraid of?"

Are you afraid of opposing views?

Are you afraid of defending your own views?

Are you afraid that your child will no longer share your views?

Are you afraid that -- maybe, just maybe -- you'll have to reconsider your own beliefs?

If what you believe, or what you've taught your children, is so worthwhile -- so steadfast -- don't you want them to explore other viewpoints?  How do you defend and build your truth if you never investigate what actually makes it true?  An argument that cannot withstand question was never a very valid argument at all.

Are you afraid your child will learn something you don't want him to know?

Are you afraid your child will pick up some bad habit, some swear word, some foul desire?

Are you afraid your child's interest in something will cause you more work?

Unless you're raising your child in a bubble, he probably already does.  The world is a dangerous and dirty place at times, but keeping a book out of his hand won't necessarily keep him clean.  Most of the terrible and dangerous things I learned about in life were certainly not found in a book.

Hypocrisy, adultery, lying, cheating, swearing, racism, bigotry... I saw them everywhere, from the bottom all the way to the top, from the lowly to the holy, from the common to the famous.  I still do.  But it's in books and speeches and interviews and newspapers (paired with open and honest discussion with the adults in my life) that I learned how I felt about those things.  Through those discussions and opportunities, I developed a sharp wit, a moral compass, a strong opinion, and a keen eye.

I said earlier that my greatest thrill is the feel of a new book in my hand, but I think I'd have to amend that.  It has nothing on the moment when a book closes, and I cannot stop thinking about what it said to me.

Books speak, or at least the best ones do, and their voices never go away.  All I ask is that before you silence one, ask yourself, honestly... what am I so afraid of?

 

The Book Room

I feel accomplished today.  Sore... but accomplished.

I went to work this morning with my department chair, LeighAnne, and together, for 2 hours, we tackled the book room.  The book room had become ridiculous.

In June, another teacher, assistant principal, and I had cleaned out two huge flatbed dolly trips worth of old, falling-apart, unused books and resources.  We shipped all of our out-of-adoption textbooks back to the district to store, sell, recycle, worship -- whatever it is that they do.  We didn't finish everything, but we felt accomplished.

And then the new school year arrived.

With the influx of about 50 new faculty, staff, and administration, the changes to our school were already overwhelming.  With the construction, renovation, and re-shuffling of classrooms, things seemed damned near impossible.  We each had to move in to our rooms in strict windows of time, and so many of our new-to-us teachers walked straight into a hot mess.  Some of the returning teachers did too.  *raises hand*

Every closet they opened, every bookshelf they saw, every desk drawer they slid, there was stuff.  It was packed in tightly.  Years and years and years of accumulated papers, transparencies, workbooks, and resources -- all just left.  And since many of those teachers weren't even teaching the subject of all that stuff, they simply did what they had to do.  They packed it up and called a veteran.

This veteran did what I do best.  I advised them to store it in the book room, and I'd deal with it later.

I always say that I'll deal with it later.  I'm not very good at defining "later".

But "later" became today, and off LeighAnne and I went.  I wish we'd taken a "before" picture.  If you think hoarders only exist on television or in that creepster house down the block, you obviously don't know many teachers.  We are, by our very nature, savers.  We so often pay for supplies out of our own pockets that you will see us pick up every pencil stub, stray marker, and freebie we encounter.  We will find a spiral and tear out the last 3 clean sheets because God only knows, some kid in the very next class will need paper.  We are masters of duct tape repair and salvaging lost time.

That nature, paired with the outrageous amount of resources thrust upon given to us by our school, our district, and our government and you wind up with -- the book room.

(Pro-tip:  if you're moving -- whether it's a house or a classroom -- don't leave your crap behind.  Put it back in its rightful place.  Put it in the trash can.  Put it in the hands of someone when they have time to deal with it.  But don't just leave it there.  If you haven't used it, they're not going to use it.  If you don't want it, they don't want it.  And if it's broken, for the love of all that is good and holy in the world, get rid of it.)

So not only did we have the crap resources left behind in those classrooms to contend with, we also had just every day run-of-the-four-decades-old crap resources that had been stored in our school since God was a boy.  In fact, I'd bet that some of that stuff was in the moving van from the former site to our current building (which is 20 years old).  Literally, these dictionaries were stored in there still.  There were more than 60.

1969.

Proof. 1969.

And this one? 1977.  It's only a year older than me.
I've changed a great deal since 1977.  

And, in true teacher spirit, when LeighAnne joked about their discovery on social media, several people tried to shame us out of recycling them.  They were literally falling apart in our hands and had gone unused for 13 years, but there has to be something else we can do!

We did.  We released their spirit.  Now they have a chance to become new books or new dictionaries.  Maybe even new dictionaries that can explain "twerking" or a "derp".  (God, help us all.  Maybe I should have spared those poor books.)

We unpacked boxes and boxes of novels.  Books that should be in the hands of kids and not taking up space in a closet.  Books in a box make me insane.  Although, in the same box, I discovered both of these.  I don't even get how these were in the same box.  Or room.  Or school.  They will be available in the book room shelf sale next week if you're interested.

Are you kidding me?

We found dozens of brand new binders.  Mountains of unopened construction paper.  Boxes of composition notebooks.  Folders.  Textbook CDs.  Audio books.  Personal audio book players.  All unopened.  All unused.

There were hundreds -- LITERALLY hundreds -- of old test practice workbooks.  Most were for a test that our state doesn't even administer anymore.  

And speaking of, dear Texas (and actually ALL OF AMERICA), kids don't learn more by "practicing a test".  They really don't even learn how to take the test better.  They just learn to really, really, really hate testing.  And often -- school.  Those workbooks no more encourage good thinking than they encourage good teaching.  So, schools, districts, states, feds -- stop buying them for us.  They're a crutch.  Instead, I'd love for you to use some of that money to invest in teachers.  Invest in adult education.  Invest in serving my students (who have no breakfast) more than just Pop-Tarts and string cheese (that was on the menu last week -- truth).  Invest in a school counselor who has time to actually counsel (and not just make schedules and organize massive testing opportunities).  Invest in a social worker for my campus.  

Or maybe you just ask us teachers what we need.  I think I can guarantee that it's not more test practice workbooks.

I also found teacher's editions with 30 different guidebooks, test generators, and auxiliary crap resources.  Literally. Thirty.  I don't need 30 teacher workbooks to sort through.  I'm too busy with IEP's and NCLB and ARDs and PEIMS and TEAMS to sort through your box o' crap resources.  I don't even use your Teacher's Edition because A) I went to college and actually took real live thinking courses in English and 2) the print is far too small for my tired eyes to look at while I'm also actively monitoring my classroom.  If you want to really help me out, here's what I need:  large print. 

On our second trip to the recycling bin, LeighAnne and I joked that if we really wanted to make the bucks, we'd write a textbook.  There are no less than 143 optional materials you can get with your textbooks.  Or we could create a standardized test.  That's where the real dollar bills are.  

"I might as well become a Satanist while I'm at it."  That's the reply I got from LA.  She has a point.

This was just the first recycling load.  We were gutsier with the second.

I think my biggest issue with today, however, was one I feel often.  That book room made me feel like a big ol' wasteful American.  My capitalist, white-bread guilt engulfed me.  The sight of all those workbooks, all those resources, all those unopened boxes of good stuff made me so very sad.  And it made me really angry because I have a school full of impoverished kids and our government's only solution is to throw money at the problem.  Money with strings and hoops to jump through.  Don't get me wrong -- my district and my school, in many ways, have started to learn about BETTER ways to spend (with technology and career path training and community outreach), but sometimes I want to lasso my local, state, and federal politicos with all their miles of red tape.   It's exhausting and frustrating.

Then again, our only solution was to lock it all up in a closet, so maybe we haven't been much better.  

At least it's a cleaner closet now though.

Cooperative Learning

I have always been a dog person.  I love dogs, even the little yappy ones.  Dogs are goofy and funny and you can take them on a walk or for a drive in the car.  Dogs go places.

Dogs also require a little attention.  They have to go outside to the bathroom.  They are pack animals, so they need interaction.  And unless you have the little yappy ones, they need a lot of room.

When I started at Nichols JH 13 years ago, I knew that I'd be living in an apartment.  I also knew that I'd be working really long hours as both a teacher and a coach -- sometimes never seeing the sun except for offseason workouts.  So I took home the tiny calico kitten that had resided in our camp office all summer.

I actually have 3 cats now.  They rule my house, and it's a good thing that I have such a kind heart and guilty conscience.  Otherwise, I would have thrown them all out this week.  Ransom spilled a Diet Coke on my computer and then, 5 minutes later, turned over the refill.  Maggie tried, on several attempts, to eat some hair dye.  And Pootie wakes me up every summer morning at 6:00 AM to feed them.  She does not like her strict diet, and her internal clock is very efficiently attuned to 6:00 and 6:00.  Who needs an alarm when you could just have a 19 pound cat stand on your chest?  Also, 95% of the time, they still all hate each other.  On the regular, I hear squalls of terror only to find someone cornered by another.  I'd remove the bully, but they all just sort of take turns being it.

But since I've been home all summer, I've noticed that cooperation seems to be increasing among them -- at least between Poots and Ransom.  Three times this week, I've woken up to a clatter.  It seems that they've figured out how to break into the old popcorn tin that keeps their food.  They use their noses to push on the lid until it's loosened and then Ransom knocks it off with her paw.  I've tried moving the can, placing heavy objects on top, etc. to little avail.  This morning, there was no clatter, but I did sit up in bed just in time to see two waving tails sticking out of the top of the can and the lid on top of the cat bed.  Cooperative learning at its finest. Unsurprisingly, Maggie the Cat is the only one who hasn't caught on yet.  I mean... hair dye, people.

So if your dog's driving you crazy with all the walking and need for frisbee catching, let me know.  I'm willing to make a trade.

Buyer Beware. It's a $30 Rant.

Take a look.

What might that be?  A clean desk?  No...  A new manicure?  Not so much...

It's a pencil.  That's right.  A pencil.  And before you roll your eyes and click that little red "x" in the corner, understand this... That's a $30.00 pencil.

Oh, you heard me right.  I didn't stutter.  That, my friends, is a $30.00, not-fancy, not-even-mechanical, will-be-devoured-in-5-turns-of-my-jacked-up-pencil-sharpener kind of pencil.

Uh. huh.

Now, I have to confess.  I didn't know that I was buying a $30.00 pencil.  Frankly, I hate pencils.  Detest them.  The writing's faint and reflects the light.  They smudge.  They leave eraser shavings all over my desks and require no less than 23 trips to the pencil sharpener per day.  I abhor pencils.

So, I'm sure that you're positively puzzled as to how I wound up with such an unwanted treasure.  Well, I'll tell you. 

I donated to a charitable cause.  And this was my "thank you".  I found it in an envelope addressed to me.  Without so much as a thank you form letter inside. 

A pencil.  In an envelope.

Now, before I get tens of emails/comments chiding me with phrases like, "It's the thought that counts" or "You should be grateful for even the smallest things" and treat me like some ungrateful wench, understand this:  I love to give.  Love it.  Can't resist it.  I buy cookie dough and gift wrap and coffee from every little kid with a fundraiser pamphlet.  I don't even drink coffee, but I'll buy it.  You're jumping rope for heart?  Tell me how much your mom pledged.  I'll probably double it.  Bowling for Kids?  Knock $50 worth of pins down for me!  You've lost your mind and decided to run 26.2 miles for cancer research?   Better you than me!  Here's my check, Crazy Face!

That's who I am.  A sucker giver.

You are funding educational grants for teachers who never have the funds to do all the things for their students that they can?  I'm in for $30!  And normally, I'd be in for a lot more ,but I bought a crap ton of giftwrap and coffee this year.  For real, you're all getting coffee. for Christmas.  Or Tuesday.  Gift-wrapped coffee.

Understand another thing, however, before you place that trinket in an envelope with a scrap of paper with my name taped to the front (I mean for God's sake, can't you at least take the time to hand write my name?).  I DON'T WANT IT!  In fact, it seems a tad trite and pathetic.  And junky.  It makes me wonder how when our state and district is in an enormous budget crunch, you're still shelling out the bucks to Oriental Trading Company for engraved pencils or coffee mugs. 

Last year, when I donated a bit more, I got a mug.  For the coffee I don't drink.  But at least I can't sharpen away a coffee mug.  For real.

More than just the ridiculous eyeroll that one little pencil brought on, it made me start to think about our entire society, and I became outraged.  That's right.  Pencil = All of Society's Problems.

That's how my Rage Brain works.  Just FYI, I'm like the Incredible Hulk of Illogical Rage. 

"DEANA NO LIKE YOUR CRAPPY LITTLE PENCIL.  DEANA BREAK PENCIL IN TINY PIECES!"

Why does our society request expect demand something in return all the time? Why is a simple thank you or a personal note or a phone call not enough? Has real gratitude gone out of fashion entirely?  Or do people just think that if you throw something -- anything, really, no matter how craptastic -- at you, that you will not only continue to give but also somehow be satisfied?  Are they expecting me to whip out my PENCIL at the grocery store to write a check only to have the man behind me inquire in a squeally wondrous voice, "Heavens to Betsy!  Where upon Earth did you find such a marvel of lead and wood?"  And then when I explain that it came from the recipients of a charitable donation, do they expect him to run out and throw some money their way?  No.  He won't.  Mainly because I broke your little thank you gift in the midst of a Hulk-Out.

I fully understand that not every kindness should merit a plaque or medal or t-shirt or even a coffee cup.  It shouldn't.  You shouldn't do something with the expectation of getting a return; feeling good about yourself should be quite sufficient.  But it is nice to be appreciated.  It's really nice.  Just don't patronize me.  Sometimes it's enough just to hear a thank you, receive a hug, or see a picture of what your small kindness created.  Instead of just figuring out a way to spend a little money to say thanks for gathering a ton of money, THINK.  Think about who gave the gift.  Think about who they are as a person.  Know your audience.  Grab someone's heart, and you're sure to get a lifetime of contributions.  Junk up their desk drawers and kitchen cabinets, and all you'll get is an eyeroll and a healthy dose of Rage Brain Hulk-a-Mania.  I guarantee it.

Lest I leave this on a bitter note, I made sure today to not just take pictures of that measly pencil.  I also wanted to share some of the notes and thank-yous that mean the most to me. 

1.  A thank-you note from a co-worker after his adoption shower.  It wasn't just the note; it was the words he chose and they way those words spoke to me.  While we'd worked together for 11 years and become friends, I would never have thought that my presence and support could mean so much.  And when he called me Aunt Deana, I was hooked.  I look at that note, with it's crayon-scrawled 6 year-old signature, every day when I go to work.  I didn't take a picture.  I wish I had now.  It's completely precious.

2.  Home-made certificate.  On plain white paper.  Cheap but clever.  Clever always works.  In case you can't read it, it's a Taco Bell Fire Sauce packet, and it says, "Thanks for all your hard work!  You've really been on FIRE" and "Way to think 'Outside the Bun'".  I'll never throw it away.

For just the cost of a bean burrito, you can make someone's day...

or this one:

3.  I found it in my mailbox at work.  A plain piece of paper with the words "You're doing a great job" penciled in.  No reason.  No signature.  But I found it on a day when I really wasn't believing I was doing a great job.  Even though I recognized the writing right away, it didn't matter.  At all.  Because THAT'S when the thought really counts.

Although in pencil, not in $30 pencil. 

or this:

This picture screams, "My run and your donation are helping to kick Cancer's ass!" 

That's my sort-of sister, Amanda, after finishing her 13.1 mile half-marathon.  It was my pleasure to donate to her cause.  I got a wonderful thank you on my Facebook and even better -- a chance to see her success, in full-on America's Next Top Model jumping fashion.  And her smile.

Or this:

I'll wait while you sop your melted heart up off the floor.

Okay.  Maybe I orchestrated that thank-you photo by making sure I gave a present proclaiming love for me on it.  Or this:

Not really a thank you.  But still.  How cute is that kid?  And how many birthday checks and college fund donations will I make as a result of that video?  That's what I call a preemptive thank you strike.

So go forth.  Be gracious and giving, and when someone gives to you, don't forget to say thanks. 

But not with a pencil.

Newsflash:

In case you don't live in Texas, or in case you live here but are a hermit, we're having a heat wave.

And it IS a heat wave. And it IS bad.

And if you didn't know it's bad, you should check out my Facebook wall. There are literally dozens and dozens of posts referring to the unholy temperatures. Not to mention the twenty -- I repeat, TWENTY -- pictures of people's car thermostats as visual proof of Mother Nature's Reign of Terror. (That's what I'd name this heat wave if I were a meteorologist here in the Dee Eff Dub because they all name serious, or allegedly serious, weather systems).

Anyway, here's my thought.

Stop it. Seriously. Stop it, Joe Public. Is there nothing more interesting to talk about than the heat? And what are you hoping to accomplish by asking me questions like, "Can you believe this heat?"

Really. What am I supposed to say to that?

Of course I can believe it. I HAVE SKIN DON'T I? Skin that's now melted onto my black leather carseats. Those were a genius idea, by the way.

The passive-aggressive side of me wants to just sit on my car and take pictures of the temperature every hour until others are as annoyed as I. But I won't. Because today, after 10 minutes of back to school shopping, I gave up and found myself writing a post on my wall about the heat. That's when I realized that it might not be people's fault. The heat has literally zapped them of all neurological coherence.

Someone asked me today how we coped at camp all summer. Well, it's like a no-hitter in baseball -- you just don't effing talk about it. Sure it was hot, but when you start assigning actual numbers to it, it worsens by 1000%. I used to work at a camp with no air conditioning. Some of my friends are currently volunteering there now, as I write, during Mother Nature's Reign of Terror. Can you imagine? I hope like Hell they're staying off of Facebook. Talk about irrational rage; there's nothing like being the one to burst the temperature no-talk bubble out there.

So here's my pledge. I will not entertain any more discussions about your disbelief of the heat. I will continue to refuse to post pictures of my car's thermostat. And I will still continue to be friends with all of my heat-zapped friends. No matter how crazy Mother Nature's hold over you may be.

I'm Not Good at Small Talk. Ever.

I've said it before. I am just not great at small talk. I have about three topics to exhaust before I just give up. Therefore, if I'm with a stranger for more than 4 minutes, things are bound to get awkward. And this need to avoid the awkwardness is important. It's how I pick most service people... my hairdresser, dentist, eye doctor, mechanic... they all just know to leave me the heck alone.

Today, I am not in the mood. For anything. Especially polite chit-chat.

I spent half my day off on the inner-workings of a half-wit only to be struck down with a serious case of Mother Nature roundhouse kicking me in the ovaries.

Then, to top it off, I stopped off at the local drugstore where the cashier, upon seeing my assortment of ibuprofen, tampons, and king size Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, took the opportunity to attempt to engage me in small talk about fireworks.

The rage. Oh, the rage. It was hard to hold at bay. Her only saving grace was the line of witnesses and my paralyzing fear of the U.S. Department of Corrections.

Really? What is wrong with people?

Sometimes... Maybe... Definitely...

Sometimes you have to just shut your mouth.  And bide your time.

Maybe you escape.  Try to let it out.

Definitely let it go.

But sometimes you just need to smile.  And laugh.  Laugh hard.

Maybe silly dance in the dark.  Try to stop.  You can't.

Definitely laugh some more.

Sometimes, all you can do is find the funny.  Point it out to someone else. 

Maybe you will revel.  Hopefully you will dance and laugh. 

Definitely forgive. 

Or at least forget.

Because life's definitely too short to let the shitty moments win.

My Illogical Jealousy Reaches New Heights. Or Distances.

I am completely and illogically jealous of one of my friends.

Completely so, because he's getting to see something that I would love. L-O-V-E. Illogically so, because the thing I'd like to witness is in England. That's right. There is a zero chance of my being able to go, so you'd think that I'd just be a grown-up and hope that he has a good time. But I'm kind of bratty right now, so I'll just sit here and fume. Stupid England.

In all seriousness, however, he told me tonight that he's going to a stage production of "To Kill a Mockingbird". Only my absolute favorite book of all time. Literally. ANNNDDD... if I really wanted to torment myself, I could mention that I'm the one who gave the book to him. Therefore, it is through my literary guidance that he's even attending said production.

I'd say "Harrumphhh!" if it wasn't such an annoyingly precious made up noise.

More than anything, though, I am unbelievably curious as to how the British actors will handle Alabama accents.

Never Better

This is from one of my angrier, darker days. During a day of intense frustration and unequivocable loneliness. It's not especially a proud moment but a truthful one at least in regard to such a day.

December 16th

What do you say when someone asks you how you are? Because except for the rare occasion, they're usually just being polite. Feigning interest or concern. Sometimes just making small talk, filling the void. So what do you say? What's the "polite" response that will discourage further probing or awkward silence or deep concern for your sanity?

Sometimes, for once, I'd like to just come straight out with the truth. Just to see some mo' fo' fall. the. freak. out.

Unassuming Stranger: "Hello. How are you today?"
Me: "I'm at the point where ripping off my skin seems like a viable option."

OR

Friendly Acquaintance: "Hey! What's goin' on?"
Me: "Well, right now, I'm wondering if it would be possible to kick you in the nuts so hard that you actually blacked out."

OR

People Who Know You Best: "That's great, but I really wanted to know how YOU are."
Me: "Well, mostly I'm kind of dead inside. Every morning, I wake up, cut away all emotion, and attack each and every task in front of me with a robot-like attention because if I, for even one second, let myself feel, I will suffocate. I will be unable to draw even the slightest breath. And then a flood of anger -- anger at healthcare, at shitty diseases yet to be cured, at God, the world, at you and your feeble attempts -- will rise within me beyond my control, pushing me to points where the fine line of sane reasoning wavers before me and threatens to break me wide open, beyond repair. In truth, I am best when you don't even ask how I am because I literally have no idea. Other than the fact that I am alive. I am breathing. And those are the only two things I am happy about today."

But I don't. I don't ever respond this way. Even with the people who genuinely are interested in my truest feelings. I give them the "okay", or the "fine", or if I really want to jack with them, "never better". And except for those 5 or 6 people who know me best, it's enough. No further investigation needed.

I have always been the Queen of Apologizing for Shit That's Not My Fault, but I also hold the title of Empress of Sparing You the Truth.

Not because I'm polite. Not because I'm socially graceful. Not even because I'm afraid you'll think I've gone off the deep end because somedays, I've got the Deep End plugged into the GPS, and I'm simply calculating at what point to start pumping the brakes.

No, it's none of those things. It's because I can't stand the look on your face when I tell the truth. How your face goes blank and your eyes go vacant. Because I can't take the shame that you feel. Because your hurt begins to hurt me. Because I'm not sure where the truth will send you. Because I know it will send you to all those places I cannot reach. It's not about my being a Truth Teller, it's about being a Pain Avoider. And so I spare you as many gory details that there are. I lock the demons away, put on my smile, and make my face calm before I tell you how I am.

"Never better."

The Latest Early Retirement Plan

One of my dear friends (and former co-worker) and I used to kick around the idea that we could write a book. A book on parenting. It would be delightfully wicked and brimming with what we deemed the "common sense" approach to child-rearing.

Only problem? Neither of us have actual children.

But you know what? I think that not having children will make this process even easier. No little rugrats to eff up the process with their whining cries for food money love. No extra sentimentality or fears that one day I'll wind up on some low-rent version of Oprah as my thirty year-old, grown-up child outs me to the public at large as a horrible parent. It's basically the most perfect plan I've ever conceived.

Am I qualified to write a book about raising children? Most would say probably not. But as a teacher and coach who spends 10+ hours a day guiding hundreds of children through the moral and physical perils of junior high life, I'd say I'm actually a little over-qualified.

I'm in the process of working on some chapter organization and titles. In order to appease both my people pleaser side as well as my snarky, bitter side, I think most chapters will probably bear a subtitle. I really, really adore subtitles and sarcasm.

Chapter 1:
"Teaching Your Child About the World of Competition"
Subtitled:
"Shove Your Participation Ribbon Straight Up Your Ass"

Yellow Candles and the Art of Being Present

Today, I lived my life as a bystander.

I missed my opportunity to be present and attentive to the world spinning and humming around me.

I was disjointed and disappointed, and I let that get the best of me.

I hate that.

And then, a kid... a kid who has bitterly opposed any and all authority for the past 5 days, all snarls and eyerolls and teenage annoyance... snapped me back to reality.

Want to know how he did it?

He cried. This too tough 15 year-old wise ass, sobbed throughout closing campfire. He wept for almost 20 minutes, at first quietly and then not-so-quietly, until his counselors pulled him away to check on him. Then he revealed that he was sad because camp was ending. Here's a kid whose smart-mouth and shit-eating grin and eff-the-world attitude had steeled him against almost any kind of real emotion for God only knows how long. And he was so present in that moment, so sad and scared and unsure, that he forgot to be ashamed of his tears. It was stunning.

After campfire, when he came to grab his Foster Kid Cocktail of Meds, he asked me if he could keep the candle he'd made for our closing ceremony. He told me he wanted to bring it back next year. All I could say was, "Sure. Of course." It was such a sad little candle, no bigger than something you'd find on a birthday cake, but he held onto it so tightly that it made my heart ache.

I had a different post all planned. I'd been writing it in my head all day. It was going to drip with smart-mouth and eff-the-world attitude. It was depressing and angry and spiteful. But the whole time I was typing tonight, all I could see was that crappy little yellow candle in his hand and his eyes, red from crying, and I couldn't leave it alone. I arranged and re-arranged and changed it up a hundred different ways, but to no avail. The whole thing felt disjointed and disappointing, and I've had enough of that today.

I hope that kid never loses that candle. I hope he does get to bring it back next year. I hope that when he gets back to his home, he takes a piece of all of us with him. And I hope that I can remember tomorrow, what it's like to be present... fully present... for the world spinning and humming all around me.