And Maybe We Danced a Little...

All my life, I watched my parents work. I can remember asking my dad what kind of job I should have, and he told me that he hoped that one day, I'd have a career, not just a job.

I loved that.

A career meant passion and love and excitement. I pictured myself as Mary Tyler Moore, dancing my way down the street, flinging open the door to my office, greeting my colleagues with a big smile and, perhaps, a laugh track for the day.

A job just meant work. And work doesn't sound very fun. Nobody dances at work. They shuffle. Nobody flings open the door at work unless they're stomping out, middle fingers raised high. Work is gray and dull and accented by the punching of a time clock.

I thought to myself, "Why the heck isn't everyone out there getting themselves a career?" (Snobbish italics, totally intended.)

***

I'm a teacher. It's what I do. I don't really know how to do anything else. I'm not sure if I'd want to do anything else. Sure, there are moments -- daydreams in the middle of chaos where I imagine life in a quiet cubicle, entering data, going to the bathroom anytime I dang well please.

But I'm a teacher. It's what I do. It is my career, and, yes, it is my WORK. It is my life's WORK. (Emphatic bolding and capitalization, totally intended.)

***

The first day in my school district, fifteen years ago, I introduced myself to a teacher from another school. Another school. She was gracious and kind and so very welcoming as I told her this was my very first teaching job. Until I mentioned what school had hired me.

"Oh. Well, you don't have to stay there forever," she advised. Her kind and sympathetic tone did little to cover her face which twisted up as if I had just plopped down a bucket of elephant dung on the table. At every training and meeting we attended until she retired, I made sure to greet her warmly with my very own best elephant dung face.

I never forgot that woman though, even after she retired, because, in a way, she never left. I saw her in every news story, in every public and private rebuke from our former superintendent(s), in every training where I felt my green shirt unwelcome. I saw her in the giant slideshow proclaiming us as UNACCEPTABLE as well as in the slight of the absent giant slide pointing out our recognition the very next year. I saw her in every gym my basketball and volleyball team entered, in every parent's face that registered only the color of my kids' skin and the decibel of their voices, in every bus driver or administrator that was "surprised" by my kids' manners and sportsmanship. I saw her face when kids and parents refused to be a part of us because of what they heard instead of what they knew.

And I saw her in every mistake we brought upon ourselves. Every gang fight. Every failing score. Every angry outburst. Every kid who gave up. Every teacher who gave up. Every decision we didn't follow through on. Believe me, I know and admit that, too often, we put our own panties on the front porch.

We were the underdog, and in the beginning, I did not mind. I have always loved the underdog because, in the movies, everyone cheers for and falls in love with the underdog. 

This is not so in real life. And, after a while, I did mind.

Making my mark 

***

Last Friday, we loaded up all of our students and staff -- every last one of them -- and took our crazy out in public to be a kickoff school for the Souper Bowl of Caring. The night before, I traded dozens of texts with my best life friends about this opportunity and how afraid I was of it going all wrong. Of all the possibilities of shame or bad behavior that could happen. Bad things can happen when you upset the balance of a single teenager. We had 800 teenagers. Away from school. With television cameras. 

I told them that I felt like 15 years of work was at stake.

But here's what else I was afraid of: it could all go right. It could all go right and nothing might change. My green shirt might still get a disapproving look from the cashier at the CVS near our school. Other teachers still might not want to listen because "what could they possibly know?" Kids and teachers and parents might still give up on us and on each other.

All night and all morning, my stomach flip-flopped from anxiety to excitement to nausea and back again. And as we rode over in that yellow school bus caravan, I wondered what Cranky Old Ms. Elephant Dung Face would say about that school getting picked to represent our district, our community, our region. I wondered what face she would make then.

As I watched our alternate curriculum kids wheel and walk out from the same tunnel that the varsity football players run from, that woman's face began to fade. 

As our platinum level scholars ran out behind them, her face began to fade.

As our sweet and generous cafeteria ladies and head custodian got their standing ovation, she faded.

As an NFL legend applauded our $1,500 check to a local shelter and food bank, and as kids received their awards, and as school board members and superintendent high-fived them, her face slipped away completely.

Drew Pearson, y'all.

And as my fellow teachers -- my Mustang family -- cheered and applauded and laughed, I realized that there is no career without a job, and there is no job without work. A lot of work. A big ol' pile of elephant dung kind of work some days. And in 15 years, I have shoveled my share.

Are we where we want to be? No.

Are we where we could be? No.

But are we where we were? No.

And, for the first time in a long time, the only faces that mattered were the faces right in front of me.

Our kids

So last Friday, walking into that gym, my teammates and I flung open that door and greeted everyone with a great big smile. And maybe -- just maybe -- we even danced a little.

My team teachers

Worth It

I love where I work. It's pretty normal for me to say that because there's never been more than just a few hours at a time, in 15 years, where I thought seriously about working anywhere else.

A great deal of my love comes from the fact that I work with some of the greatest, most caring, most fun people ever. I issued the ALS ice bucket challenge to them, knowing full well that they wouldn't let me down. And they didn't.

No matter who leaves or who stays or who arrives, the spirit is there, the kindness present, the love unwavering. I think it's in the brick and mortar. 

But it's one thing to love your co-workers and another thing to love your work. Where I work, things are rarely easy. We fight battles we didn't sign up for. We feed them breakfast and lunch, but it's their soul that sometimes starves. We are someone for a few, and everyone for too many.

It has been 4 days since the start of a new school year. It has been 4 days since I rested well. It has been 4 days since I began seeing 5:30 twice a day. It has been 4 days since I didn't bring home a worry that I turned over and over and rubbed, worn, in my mind. It has been 4 days, and I'm as tired as if it had been 14.

And then, today, this kid came by my room. I can tell you with full confidence that his deodorant application in class was the very least of our problems last year. I worked with him for a full 4 months before he trusted me. And another 5 months, convincing him that I wasn't lying when I said he was smart or tricking him by promising that "today is a new day". We had as many tears as we had laughs and as many failures and breakdowns as successes. Probably far more. His swings between liking me and hating me were rapid and unpredictable and intense. I never knew where I stood with him because I was always waiting for the bottom to drop out.

This was our conversation today as I stood at my doorway, passing out index cards for our warm-up.

Me: Hey, dude! How are you?

Him: Okay, I guess. Can I have a card?

Me: Only if you write on there, "I miss Coach Naz."
Him: I will. Because it's true.

Then he walked away.

And it was worth it, y'all. It was so very worth it all.

Potential

One of the hardest lessons I've ever had to learn is this:

You cannot want more for somebody than he wants for himself.

It's simply an unhealthy desire, and it will leave you, broken-hearted, banging your head against a wall.

As a teacher, I do battle with this every day. I see students with such potential who continually underachieve or disbelieve their own abilities or self-sabotage on a daily basis.

It's such a magical word -- potential. Really. It practically screams to be bolded and italicized. It's a whole universe of dreams and possibility in a nice little 9-letter space. But in truth, it's just a word. And, often, it's our own hopes and dreams we are forcing into that 9-letter space; not theirs. This is the danger zone.

With my 7th graders taking their standardized test in writing tomorrow and Wednesday, (and another round with math and reading in just 2 more weeks), I found it especially difficult to cram any more into their heads. Each class, I had to take the academic and emotional temperature of the room. Some classes needed a pep talk. Some needed last minute reminders. Others just needed to know what classroom to show up to tomorrow. And still others just needed to be left the Hell alone.

It is a fearsome and dangerous thing to poke a hive of agitated bees.

When each class left me today, I had to fight down the urge to focus on the 3 or 4 kids each class who voiced that they "only want to pass" and demanded to know the passing rate for this test. It's not typically 70, as in class, but that's the last thing I want them to do -- aim low -- so my lies of omission are the strategies I employ. Their desire to be average is completely foreign to me and also happens to be far below their suspected potential. but they are not me, and I am not them.

I cannot want for them what they do not want for themselves. All it leaves me with is a bruised head and a broken heart. They will do as they will do, and all that I am able to provide is the patience to see them through and the trust that I've prepared them as well as I possibly know how. The rest is up to them.

So, for all of my fellow teachers, in the midst of testing season, I offer this advice. Let them be. There will be plenty of other days to karate kick the hive.

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.

#CERTIFIED

So... I love my job. I do. But like with any job, there are things you have to do that, frankly, you just don't wanna.  One of those such things is training. Another is standardized testing. And when you get those two crazy things together... well, it's a whole lotta don't wanna.

But whether you want to or not, it must be done. Before the actual standardized test training next week, we had to watch 3 training modules about standardized testing.

No. That is not a typo. It's exactly as clear as it sounds.

This is modern day education. Just like there are warnings like "Do not ingest" on tubes of Preparation-H because somewhere, somebody thought "Hey. This stuff I put on my butt? I wonder how it tastes" and then got sick and died, there are poorly-acted training videos set in the worst looking fake classroom because somebody, somewhere, thought "Hey, I've got 4 hours to let kids test in my room. Maybe I'll take a nap."

And now we all suffer because grown adults can't follow scripted directions, pay attention, and stop eating hemorrhoid cream. Such is life.

But because there's not anything top-secret in these videos, and because I was so tired of hearing the robotic voice explain to me what was happening in said videos, and because I was totally alone in my classroom at 6:30 PM with no one to whisper my snark to, I live-tweeted my experience between video segments. Luckily, I think everyone was watching the NCAA tournament play-in games and paid me no mind.

I have to admit, some of the scenarios were intriguing... students stealing test booklets and hiding them in their leather jackets from 1992...THEFT! A teacher who can't tell the difference between Roberto Martinez and Robert Martin... ILLITERACY! Teachers leaving their booklets, trusting another teacher to turn them in only to have that coarse villain violate privacy rules by looking at the test... BETRAYAL! A shady looking administrator leaving a teacher's door unlocked after "checking smoke alarm batteries"... ABUSE OF POWER!

It's enough to make someone certifiable. Or you know, just #CERTIFIED!

*Please note that all of the teachers referenced below are what I believed to be not-so-professional actors playing the role of some very questionable educators. Because, let's face it... video taping a classroom actually engaged in standardized testing is most likely against the rules. There wasn't a module mentioning it, but I'm sure there will be next year.

**Also, reading this blog post does not qualify you as having been "trained". This blog post cannot be used as module credit, will not print out a certificate, and could never do these videos the justice they so rightfully deserve.

***Plus, I had to watch; therefore, so do you.

A Post-Spring Break Analogy

How I would describe the first day back from Spring Break:


Sometimes you're in control of the laser pointer.




Sometimes you're just not.

The Smallest Moments

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote about the hardest parts of teaching. It was tough to write because I did not want it to be seen as negative or a complaint; I wanted it to be a love letter to all of the teachers I know who strive and struggle to love those students who don't love themselves. It's rare that I feel I've accomplished my goal in writing, but I did. I knew it from the love I received back from all of you.

What we do is hard -- so very hard -- in ways that a college course or internship or even the world's greatest teacher cannot show you. The struggle is day in, day out, and it can be wearing. The burn out rate for teachers, especially new teachers, is astonishingly, exorbitantly high.

But it is worth it -- so very worth it -- in those small moments that no one else gets to see. Those moments that no camera crew wants to film, that no headline will ever be written about, that no legislator notices.

Today was a benchmark testing day for writing, a practice exam for the big standardized test my students will take in about 6 weeks. Because there are two state tests in my grade level subject (writing and reading), my students get a little worn out with the sheer number of tests (and practice tests) they endure each year. This morning, when I went into the four classrooms where my students were sitting, I tried to remind them of all the things that I expected they could (and would) do.

Today, this was the hardest part for me; instilling confidence in the unsure and unwilling.

I went on about my morning, checking in on all of the classes, relieving teachers and monitoring kids, seeing some small but reassuring work on their test booklets.  In my math teacher's classroom, I noticed one of my students hard at work on the first of his essays. His planning pages were full of charts and maps and... well... planning.

I was legitimately surprised. This is a student who, even on his best day, shies away from intensive work. He can be very sweet for sure. His smile can light up the whole room when he wants. But he gives up. He sulks. He has been known to make a poor decision or two, mainly in anger. He often loses faith in his own abilities, and so he struggles to simply try. Our relationship has lacked consistency and flow, stumbling through the growing pains of a child becoming a young man.

He didn't even look up to see me see him as I walked down the aisle and gave him a pat on the back. I was overjoyed at his effort and focus.

I continued to watch him as I waited for Ms. Doud to come back from her lunch break. Not only did he plan, but I watched him moving his lips as he silently read his essay, orally rehearsing it, inspecting it for missing words or errors and making sure it didn't lack consistency and flow. He still had not noticed me, noticing him.

And then, as he finished, I watched a slow smile spread across his face, and he gave just the slightest little fist pump. Like this:

It wasn't for show. It wasn't to throw me off his track. It wasn't an attempt to make himself feel better. It was simply the smallest celebration of what he felt was a job well done. In fact, when I pulled him out of his last class of the day to tell him how proud I was -- how genuinely thankful I was -- he had no idea he'd even done it.

But I knew. And his math teacher, Ms. Doud, knew because I had to tell someone as soon as it happened. She also knew because he was so proud of his essay, he wanted her to read it right away.

And the history teacher on my team, Mrs. Witt, knew because I took her with me so I could brag on him in front of someone else. I wanted someone he didn't know; someone whose respect and congratulations would be received with sincerity and not the suspicion it was made of simple kindness or empty cheerleading.

And now you all know it too because this is also my love letter to you, my friends. These are the moments that we build together. These are the moments that make the man, so to speak.

It was one of those smallest moments that bring the greatest joy if only we take the time to stop and look around for it. One of those smallest moments that no camera crew or legislator will ever see. But that's okay because those moments aren't for them. They're for him. They're for me. And they're for all of you.

And those are the moments that turn the tables and make the hardest parts, the most dreadful days, the biggest growing pains, seem the smallest indeed.

So, for each of you, for all of you, I'm sending you a slightly bigger, more fantastic, fist pump.

Keep going, y'all.

The Hardest Part...

Dear Students,

Several weeks ago, you asked me what the hardest part of being a teacher was. I desperately wanted to blurt out that "You! You are the hardest part about being a teacher!" We were in the midst of another stranglehold on each other's patience, so I can't be held entirely at fault. But I didn't, and I'm glad because for just a moment, you seemed interested. Thoughtful, even.

I told you that getting kids to care about something that they think they don't care about was the hardest part. I'm sure I was right at that moment, but I'm not sure I'm right now. I've thought about your question often since then, wondering what I would say if you asked me again.

The hardest part is caring -- getting you to care, yes, but it's also hard for me to care about you without being consumed by it.

The hardest part is management. Every 51 minutes, 5 days a week, I am met with a new team of 15-27 employees in the midst of hormonal turmoil.

The hardest part is watching your faces and calculating the slump of your shoulders or the width of your smiles in order to plan our interactions for the day.

The hardest part is when I miscalculate and ruin both of our days with the wrong words, the wrong tone, the wrong first step.

The hardest part is saying "I'm sorry" and meaning it. For both the student and the teacher.

The hardest part is choosing a lesson that will interest you as well as educate you and then delivering it 17 different ways until it is perfect for you. For each of you. And sometimes 17 isn't enough.

The hardest part is juggling all of your needs. Yesterday, I cleaned up a vomiting student in the hall and did not stop teaching my lesson even as I tied up the biohazard bag from the doorway. Even in the midst of chaos, the show must go on. The show must always go on.

The hardest part is that vomit wasn't even the worst thing I had to hear yesterday.

The hardest part is watching you throw away your opportunities because you think it will get the attention of those who have proven they don't care.

The hardest part is the moment you realize that no matter what you do, no matter how you wreck yourself, they still don't care.

The hardest part is enduring your disrespect and anger because it's too hard for you to respect and love yourself.

The hardest part is letting you fail and hoping it becomes a wake-up call and not a self-fulfilling prophecy.

The hardest part is forgiving, even when it's not asked for.

The hardest part is telling the truth, even when it hurts.

The hardest part is holding my tongue, keeping my patience, and being kind when I'd rather just be human.

The hardest part is knowing when to stand firm and when to walk away.

The hardest part is trying to get you to think when all you want is to be fed, to live when all you can do is survive, to rise when all you've ever done is fall.

The hardest part is not really the paperwork or meetings or long hours grading. In fact, the hardest part of teaching usually has nothing to do with teaching.

But if it wasn't a hard job, then everyone could do it.

And the last thing I want to be like is everyone else in your lives.

Teachable Moments

In my classroom, I try to follow just a few guidelines every day:

1. Don't speak in anger.

2. Never shy away from a teachable moment.

3. Find the funny. The funny will keep you alive.

That's it. I don't always accomplish all 3 every day, but I make the attempt and I apologize when I'm not successful. Especially when I don't accomplish #1. I've probably apologized to more 12 year olds than any other group of people on Earth.

I do believe, however, in the teachable moment, and I find myself sometimes teaching lessons that I never planned (see examples: here, here, and also here).  I also don't tend to shy away or ignore topics that kids seem to be/show to be misunderstanding. I like honest answers, and I don't think there's anything wrong with answering the "tough" questions as long as you speak respectfully, intelligently, and without personal bias. 

On Wednesday, my 3rd period had a 5 minute discussion on how one of the student's sentences -- 

"Joe, a black student, was sitting in class" was not a racist statement but that their continual assumption that I like country music and NASCAR because I'm white might be. 

(For the record, *Joe, is in fact, a black student, and he created that sentence himself. Also, for the record, it's a pretty funny story to tell, but in trying to recreate it in teleplay form, every last one of us just came off looking terrible.)

It's also how, during today's assignment, I discovered that my students didn't know the name of one of our mustachioed teachers and have been calling him "Dr. Phil" for the last 4 months.

You be the judge.

For the record, these kids don't have this teacher, so I don't really believe that they're trying to be mean-spirited. Unless he really hates Dr. Phil, I suppose. Then it would be mean.

Still... Tuesday's teachable moment is going to be all about introducing yourself and learning people's actual names as a sign of respect.

Never. A. Dull. Moment.

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.

The House Always Wins

I love to gamble. For someone as cautious as I am, it seems illogical. But I come from a long line of chronic gamblers, and genetics are a bitch with a tight, tight grip.

My best childhood friend, Haley, and her MamMaw took me on my first big gambling trip when I was 19. Haley had turned 18, and in Santa Fe, the legal age was about to change. MamMaw Cherry decided that it was her civic duty to teach us the ways of the casino and, consequently, the rules of life.  It was a magnificent time.  Because it was an Indian casino, there were few table games, but this did not matter to us. It did not matter that we could not drink or smoke or go buck wild. What mattered was that we had money in our pockets and a willingness to let it go.

MamMaw Cherry's Rule of Gambling #1: Don't play with necessary money. If that $500 is your rent money, you quickly shall find yourself homeless.

We milled about, feeling quite important and grown up. Loud and brash and obnoxiously hopeful, we played slots and video poker and keno.  We nickeled and dimed our way to hours of fun.

MamMaw Cherry's Rule of Gambling #2: Breaking even is a win. Don't question it. Don't get greedy.

But with every jingle jangle to our coin bucket, our confidence grew. By dawn, Haley and I had begun to strut around, claiming even our smallest victories and inflating them in our heads. We were up $50 and feeling our oats, dabbling in the dollar machines. Haley, feeling extra saucy, sauntered over to a $5 machine and won another $50 with one pull.

MamMaw Cherry's Rule of Gambling #3: Don't leave with empty pockets. Save something to at least buy yourself some pancakes on the way home.

It took us less than 10 minutes to be down to our last $10. As quickly as our hopes rose, they fell just as swiftly. Completely ignoring Rule #3, Haley decided this money qualified under Rule 1, and we didn't come here to break even, so she put in our last ten bucks. Haley grabbed the handle, shouted "All in!", and closed her eyes. Haley has always been an "all-in" kind of friend, and I have always loved that about her.

Thirty seconds later, we were on our way to the hotel room, broke and pancake-less.

MamMaw Cherry's Rule of Gambling # 4: The House always wins. Always.

She said this one with a sly smile. She had saved it because she knew we wouldn't listen the first time, and this would be an important -- the most important -- lesson of all.

I thought a lot about MamMaw Cherry today on my way home from work. Today was an interesting, although wholly unsurprising, day at work.

As gamblers, we can't resist breaking rules 1-3.  As gamblers, we go for broke. We spend every dime. We ignore every red flag. We believe in superstition and  Lady Luck and changing machines. We believe that big moves will always equal big pay-offs. We play with rent money and then wonder why we're out in the rain.

But we never, ever stop to think about what would happen if we just didn't go in. We don't think about what would happen if we didn't ante up. Because we wouldn't be us if we didn't sit down at the table to play. And no matter what hand we've been dealt, we play it all the way, even if we lose, knowing that the House always wins.

It's just no fun to eat pancakes by yourself.

Thanks for the lesson, MamMaw. It has served me well.

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.

There's Just No Class For This...

So yesterday, I wrote about the mysteries of the 7th grade boy.

Today, I found no answers.  Only more questions.

In 4th period, one of my guys was rummaging in his zip-up binder (just a modern-day, less-cool Trapper Keeper in my opinion).  That binder is where both homework and logic go to die.  In a 5 minute span, he took out a key, 8 markers, a half-eaten Pop-Tart, and a stick of deodorant.

I watched him stare at the Speedstick for a minute or so before I asked what he was doing.

"Trying to figure out if I put this on today."

Now... I must admit, there have definitely been rushed mornings where I perhaps have run out the door without my Secret swipe, but it only takes about 5 minutes to know I've made a huge mistake.  I go to sticky pit panic fairly quickly.  But it was 12:30 PM, and we were in the middle of composing an essay.

So I went with my go-to advice in most situations: "Better safe than sorry, man."  I assumed that he would ask to go to the bathroom and handle his business.  After 14 years, I still have not learned my lesson on assumptions.

I was reminded about the mistake of assuming when he popped the cap off and started up his shirt to deodorize his pits.  At. His. Desk.  Completely unaware.  Thankfully, his classmates happened to be working and not paying attention to him.

All I could do was advise him to go out to do this and try not to laugh.  I assume he went to the bathroom, but someone might want to check the hallway camera.

I love my university, and I think I got a pretty quality education.  But there's just no class for shit like this.

It's a Mystery

I had two 13 year old boys fighting in my classroom.

Before 9:00 AM.

Over a pencil.

Literally... I kid you not... they were fighting over a pencil.  Slap-in-the-back-of-the-head, shove-each-other-before-the-Pledge-is-even-said, cause-a-disruption-and-wreck-each-others-day, "fight".

Over a pencil.  

I do not understand teenage boys.  Even after 17 years of working with them, they are a mystery. I don't understand why they are constantly trying to punch each other in the crotch.  I do not understand why they incessantly draw penis pictures on anything that has a flat surface.  I do not understand how they can punch each other in the mouth, and, one hour later, be best friends again.  And I definitely do not understand how a pencil -- a plain yellow pencil -- is worth a fight and a trip to the office over.

A pencil.

Somebody... anybody... explain.

  

No Middle Ground

I've been at home, sick, for 2 days.  Of that time, I was only awake in 20-30 minute stretches at a time.  I even managed to doze off in the waiting room of emergency care yesterday.  So, needless to say, updating the blog was not top priority.  It also wouldn't have been very interesting.

It's my self-imposed policy to stay away from texting, tweeting, Facebooking, etc. while I'm sick.  It's just not pretty, and I even tend to annoy myself after a while.

At school today, from my students, there were two distinct responses to my return to work:

A) "YOU'RE BACK!  I MISSED YOU!" (followed by a hug)

or

2) "Where you been?  You ain't lookin' so good!"  (followed by a side eye)

There is absolutely no middle ground with 7th graders.

I was also greeted with a few children who decided to test my patience... see if a couple days of fever sweats made me forget my own expectations.  They didn't.  I made 4 phone calls home and had 3 separate hallway conferences.

There is absolutely no middle ground with this 7th grade teacher either.

True or False?

At lunch today, a student came up to me and said, "Coach Naz, I've really got to talk to you."

I was concerned because A) I don't even have this student -- but I know this student.  EVERYONE knows this student, and 2) I have never, ever seen him look so serious.  But he was.

"What's up?  You okay?"  I was genuinely weirded out by the grave look upon his face.

"Yeah.  It's just that today... on my history test... there was a question.  Question #7, I think.  And it said 'True or False: Mr. Stimmel is a better teacher than Coach Naz.'"  And then he looked at me with real, honest-to-goodness sad-face.  I've seen angry-face and wild-eyed crazed-face, but I've yet to see the sad-face.

I already knew about this test question since my new nemesis had already come to show me all of his answers from the students we share.  He had, of course, bullied them into choosing "true".

I went ahead anyway and asked, "So, what did you choose?  True?  Or False?"

"Well, see... I've got a 75 in that class... and I HAVE to make a better grade, so... I... chose Mr. Stimmel."  Again, with the sad-face.

I gave him the side eye for a good 10 or 12 seconds before I responded.

"Well, you sold me out, but you sold me out for the greater good, I suppose.  I'll let it slide this one time.  But just this once."  And then I gave him a quick hug-strangle and sent him on his way.

In a day that physically wore me out, a kid that I don't teach and don't really know, made my day. It cost him nothing but a small confession and 60 seconds of his time.

True or False:  Shouldn't we all be so wise?

Stimmel also had to show me this:

I think she'll be eligible for political office in 2036.  

Also, Stimmel, I'll let you slide on that punctuation.  But just this once.

I MAKE MIRACLES HAPPEN!

Every 12 year old I know has only two sworn enemies: body odor and combination locks.  Both seem to mystify and confound even my smartest students.  Students who seem to believe that dollar store perfume and Axe body spray somehow replace soap and water.

Unlocking a combination lock is the ultimate test for adolescent youth.  It requires patience, attention to detail, and enough memory space to store 3 numbers.  None of these happens to be a 7th grader's greatest attribute.  I might as well have given them the instructions in Japanese or asked them to divide 8 by eleventy-billion.  Their blank stares haunt my dreams.

The first few weeks of 7th grade each year are full of crying, begging, and bargaining.  There are even a few punches thrown in absolute rage.  Learning to work their lockers is a full-on adventure into the 5 stages of grief -- for them and for me.

Stage 1: Denial
With an entirely new administration and an almost 50% new teaching staff, there were certain things that fell by the wayside in planning.  One of the most notable of these was, you guessed it, lockers.  So for 3 weeks, students wandered in and out of classrooms, all willy-nilly, carrying their backpacks.  Not a big deal, I thought, until I almost met my demise courtesy of Jansport interference within my inner loop.  Every day, no fewer than 37 children would interrogate me on the whereabouts of their locker combinations.

"WHAT DO WE WANT?"
"WE WANT LOCKERS!"
"WHEN DO WE WANT THEM?"
"WE WANT THEM NOW!"

I'm telling you.  EVERY. FREAKING. DAY.

So, we gave them lockers.  They tried them. Once.  The next day, 37 children wandered aimlessly into my classroom -- with their backpacks.

"What happened to your demand for lockers, Norma Rae?" I asked.

"Lockers?  I never wanted a locker.  What do I need a locker for?  And who's Norma Rae?"

This.  This and that damned blank stare.  I have now endured the blank stare for 17 days with some of my kids.

Stage 2:  Anger
Me: "Put your backpack in your locker.  Put your backpack in your locker.  PUT. YOUR BACKPACK. IN. YOUR LOCKER."

Them:  (shock. indignation. gasps.)  "Whaaaatttt?  Huh?  No."

Me: (silently pointing at the lockers, blocking the door)

Them:  (5 second transition to) "I CAN'T OPEN MY LOCKER!  MY LOCKER IS BROKEN!  MY TEACHER NEVER GAVE ME A LOCKER!  WHYYYYY CAN'T I JUST BRING IN MY BACKPACK?"

Stage 2 involves a tremendous amount of anger, on both their part and my own.

And for the record, if you punch your locker out of illogical and asinine rage, I will not drop everything to give you a nurse's pass for your hand.  Those are what I like to call "natural consequences".  Deal with it.

Stage 3:  Bargaining
This is a good one.  Stage 3 involves all sorts of promises.  But if you've ever known/depended upon a 12 year old to follow-through, you know how it will end.  So, much of Stage 3 just involves me either looking away and pretending not to hear OR masking my still-burning hostility with a look of bemused ambivalence.

"I'll be so quiet if you let me bring in my backpack."
"I won't tell anyone else you let me bring it in."
"I swear I'll learn my combination tomorrow."
"This is the last time I'll need your locker key."
"No, really... this is the last time I need your locker key."
"Can you open my locker with your key one last time?"

Stage 3 also sometimes involves tears.  It doesn't matter if it's a boy or girl.  For the first 7-10 days of learning lockers, someone will cry.  Guaranteed.  Tears are a child's only real bargaining strategy.

It's sad, but not in the intended way.

Stage 4: Depression
This one tends to fade quickly.  And if it doesn't fade, it just jumps straight back to anger.  The default setting for most adolescent youth is usually just anger at everyone over the age of 16, so this makes sense.  But there is a TREMENDOUS amount of whining and foot-dragging as I force kids to their locker to make them "Show me.  Show me how you can't possibly open your locker."

Stage 5:  Acceptance
The absolutely most gratifying stage of any teacher's day.  This is the moment where you relish the win. You have feasted upon their tears, grown strong from their hate, and proven, once more, that you will outlast them.

It's also the moment where, yesterday, after quickly visiting all 4 of the first stages within 45 seconds with a student, I marched her down to her locker, made some quick observations about her lack of combination lock finesse, and taught her the Way of the Locker.  I am, essentially, the Mr. Miyagi of Lockerdom.

The Way of the Locker:

• Ignore the written directions. They're stupid.
• Listen to me. I am Mr. Miyagi.
• Shut up.  It's not important who he is except that he's awesome.
• Breathe.
• Go right. Slow down as you approach the number.
• Go left. Pass it up... slow it down.
• Go right. Pay attention.
• If you mess up, start again.
• Repeat as many times as necessary.
• Don't forget to breathe.
• Celebrate.

Which I did when she opened it three times in a row.  I threw up my hands to signal a touchdown and loudly proclaimed, "I MAKE MIRACLES HAPPEN!" in front of the Assistant Superintendent of Administration who happened to be visiting.

I didn't care.  Let him judge.  Let He who has not spent the last 32 days in Stages 2 and 3 cast the first stone.

And then let him take on the next one.  That kid stinks.  Probably because his Axe body spray has been securely locked away for 16 days.

Astronomy Lessons

Perspective.

It's something we all need and something so few of us have.

And it's terribly hard to teach a group of teenagers and pre-teens who have little to none.  On 3 separate occasions I had to share this lesson today.

And 3 is a record low.

Again, I'd like to take this public opportunity to apologize to everyone I knew at age 13.  Sweet Jesus.

Essential Knowledge

Here's what they don't teach you in education certification programs:

Tequila.

They don't teach you about tequila, and they should.  It's essential knowledge.

In fact, they should staple a margarita recipe to your teaching certificate because there will be days/weeks where you use both for equal amounts of time.

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.