Anyone who knows me well knows that I really love my school. I do, sincerely. I started there 13 years ago, on a wing and a prayer because a kind-hearted crazy woman who hired me when she didn't really have a job for me yet.
I don't just work there; I feel called there. You know... Called. Capital "C".
The atmosphere, the culture, the population size is all so radically different from everything with which I grew up that, on a daily basis, I learn something brand new about the world.
Mind you, my love for my school doesn't mean I overlook our flaws. We have a ton of problems; some are within our control and some are not. It doesn't mean that I don't get tired and fed up and want to quit on a weekly basis. Because I do. Sometimes it's a weekly/daily/hourly basis.
But in the last two weeks, my co-workers and I have been visited by three different former knuckleheads. Wait. Not "former", more like "reformed". Because they changed. They grew. Something, somewhere, opened their eyes to a life they didn't want to live anymore. Then they felt confident enough to come up to our school, to their coaches, to their teachers and say the words that every junior high teacher lives for:
"Miss (or Sir)... you were right."
All three kids acknowledged who they once were and who they are now. They acknowledged what they did and then explained what they do now. One has a 3.8 and is applying to nursing school. One is a working mom. One is mentoring kids at another junior high. All of them were smiling. None of them did this alone. The working mom told a co-worker and me that "Life is hard, but it's good".
I like that. Life is hard, but it's good. That's wisdom and realism and God all in six words.
.....
I overheard someone, in passing a few months ago, say something about "these kids" in reference to the students at my school. It wasn't a nice reference, and I won't go into the entire conversation for two reasons: A) It's not worth my time. And 2) the only words that truly irked me were "these kids". I didn't know, right away, why they irked me so much, but, after much thought, I figured it out.
The disdain drips out of them.
It's incredible how much of your truest self can be revealed in just one tiny little demonstrative adjective such as "these".
I started listening to how others talked about the people surrounding them -- friends, kids, students, politicians, sports teams -- and it was so interesting to see the differences in attitudes. People who wanted to distance themselves from the problem (whether it be a political disagreement, a lost game, or a misbehaving student) used the demonstrative. "That guy", "this team", "those kids"...
But others chose to use a possessive pronoun -- "our President", "our boys", "my students". The people, even in disagreement, still identified themselves as part of that group simply through the use of a possessive pronoun. And, in thinking about the personalities of all the speakers, I realized that those using the possessive not only identified themselves as part of the group (or the problem, as it may be) but were actively looking for solutions to remedy their disagreement. The "demonstrators" were much more likely to be people who not only distance themselves from the problem but also rarely perceive their own actions as a possible source of the problem.
I wonder... Can you be a part of the solution without knowing that you've been part of the problem?
......
Thinking back to the days when the three reformed knuckleheads graced our classrooms and hallways, I know that there were many times when I referred to them as "those kids" or "that girl" or "this knucklehead". I know it because I'm human, and many times my flawed humanity is glaringly unattractive. I'm not proud of it, but I am real with it.
Yet at some point, some time, we must have taken some ownership in their worlds as evidenced by their return. Because as Henry Ward Beecher said, "What the heart has once owned and had, it shall never lose".
Whether we own their hearts or they own ours, is the only question we have left to answer.
Tuesday, February 19, 2013
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
Can a Snickers Bar Save a Soul?
Today I realized that, yes, a Snickers bar can save a soul. Even just a bite-sized Snickers bar.
Yesterday wasn't great. I was tired. Kids were crazy. Lessons failed. I had to take my victories where I could get them, even the bite-sized ones.
A student that I've never taught but somehow know (you know the kind that I'm talking about) decided that he wanted a piece of candy -- specifically the bite-sized Snickers bar that one of his friends won from me in class. So I told this student that if he had his shirt tucked in every time I saw him all day, I'd give him a piece of candy at the end of the school day.
Every passing period, outside my door, there he stood -- pointing at his shirttail which was neatly tucked in each and every time. Yet at the end of the day, he never showed for his candy.
Coming in this morning, I saw him in the hallway. When I teased him about ditching me, he told me that he'd had to go home early. I reminded him to tuck in his shirt (again) and told him to come see me after school. After all, a deal's a deal.
When he showed up today after school (with his shirt tucked in), I offered the candy jar. He excitedly grabbed his treat and made sure to say thank you. I also told him that because I trusted he had his shirt tail tucked all day (which he probably didn't), he could have another as well. His eyes got as big as saucers, and he asked me, "FOR REAL?"
I laughed and told him that I never joke about Snickers bars and that I don't trust just anyone. And then I proposed that every day I couldn't catch him with an untucked shirt, I'd pay up with a piece of chocolate.
He looked at me as though I'd just offered him 50 bucks. The disbelief was all over his face. When I reminded him that I was no joke, he was so gracious and polite that, for just a moment, I couldn't believe this was the kid I'd seen do the things I'd seen (and heard). Upon leaving, he thanked me one more time and shook my hand.
I wondered about his reaction. It seemed that any kindness, any genuine concern for him, was met with suspicion and disbelief, and it's taken me a couple of weeks just to get him to answer me when I say hello. I was saddened by it, but I'm also hopeful.
Today really wasn't that much better. Kids didn't do their homework. I was still tired. And I woke up to some awful news, but I took my small victory, and I treasured it.
Don't get me wrong, I am completely unsure that a Snickers bar can save his soul.
But it sure as Hell saved mine today.
Yesterday wasn't great. I was tired. Kids were crazy. Lessons failed. I had to take my victories where I could get them, even the bite-sized ones.
A student that I've never taught but somehow know (you know the kind that I'm talking about) decided that he wanted a piece of candy -- specifically the bite-sized Snickers bar that one of his friends won from me in class. So I told this student that if he had his shirt tucked in every time I saw him all day, I'd give him a piece of candy at the end of the school day.
Every passing period, outside my door, there he stood -- pointing at his shirttail which was neatly tucked in each and every time. Yet at the end of the day, he never showed for his candy.
Coming in this morning, I saw him in the hallway. When I teased him about ditching me, he told me that he'd had to go home early. I reminded him to tuck in his shirt (again) and told him to come see me after school. After all, a deal's a deal.
When he showed up today after school (with his shirt tucked in), I offered the candy jar. He excitedly grabbed his treat and made sure to say thank you. I also told him that because I trusted he had his shirt tail tucked all day (which he probably didn't), he could have another as well. His eyes got as big as saucers, and he asked me, "FOR REAL?"
I laughed and told him that I never joke about Snickers bars and that I don't trust just anyone. And then I proposed that every day I couldn't catch him with an untucked shirt, I'd pay up with a piece of chocolate.
He looked at me as though I'd just offered him 50 bucks. The disbelief was all over his face. When I reminded him that I was no joke, he was so gracious and polite that, for just a moment, I couldn't believe this was the kid I'd seen do the things I'd seen (and heard). Upon leaving, he thanked me one more time and shook my hand.
I wondered about his reaction. It seemed that any kindness, any genuine concern for him, was met with suspicion and disbelief, and it's taken me a couple of weeks just to get him to answer me when I say hello. I was saddened by it, but I'm also hopeful.
Today really wasn't that much better. Kids didn't do their homework. I was still tired. And I woke up to some awful news, but I took my small victory, and I treasured it.
Don't get me wrong, I am completely unsure that a Snickers bar can save his soul.
But it sure as Hell saved mine today.
Monday, January 14, 2013
At the Halfway Point
Last year, after reading a book called "The Book Whisperer" by Donalyn Miller, I took on the challenge of trying to increase the levels of reading stamina for my kids. I also joined a literacy team at my school where our first order of business was to order hundreds of books to give away. It was delightful.
I'm telling you... seeing those kids at that giveaway changed my life. Everything about it made me remember why books and stories were so important to me as a kid; how important they are to me still today. Stories are my passport, my escape, my guidebook.
On the first day of school I told my students that we were going to read. Every day. Without fail. We would treat going to the library like a national holiday. We'd discuss books and characters and authors as if they were our own. And we'd have fun.
I set the goal at 40 books per student (with any book over 300 pages counting as 2 books). After a quick poll, I realized that the average number of books my students read last year was just below 4. I was pretty nervous that this would be a huge failure. That kids wouldn't get to 40. They might not even get to 10. I reminded myself that it's just a number -- a high number -- but that the real goal was to get the kids to just read more than they ever have. My goal is to get them to fall in love with reading again.
This was the photo I took on Thursday. This is our bulletin board where we update once a month. The number on the left is the number of books read, and the number on the right is the class goal (40 per student in class -- some are adjusted for late arriving students).
That's 946 books since August 27. Or 987 if you count mine as well. And I do. Three of my students have already surpassed their 40 book goal and challenged me to double my original goal as well. For the record, last year, I read 21 books (including the summer). Every student has surpassed their total from last year, and it's only January. My classroom library has grown from 62 books that hardly ever left the room to 507 books that are constantly being checked in and out, traded and reviewed, loved and hated.
I'd say we're doing pretty well. Delightfully so.
I'm telling you... seeing those kids at that giveaway changed my life. Everything about it made me remember why books and stories were so important to me as a kid; how important they are to me still today. Stories are my passport, my escape, my guidebook.
On the first day of school I told my students that we were going to read. Every day. Without fail. We would treat going to the library like a national holiday. We'd discuss books and characters and authors as if they were our own. And we'd have fun.
I set the goal at 40 books per student (with any book over 300 pages counting as 2 books). After a quick poll, I realized that the average number of books my students read last year was just below 4. I was pretty nervous that this would be a huge failure. That kids wouldn't get to 40. They might not even get to 10. I reminded myself that it's just a number -- a high number -- but that the real goal was to get the kids to just read more than they ever have. My goal is to get them to fall in love with reading again.
This was the photo I took on Thursday. This is our bulletin board where we update once a month. The number on the left is the number of books read, and the number on the right is the class goal (40 per student in class -- some are adjusted for late arriving students).
That's 946 books since August 27. Or 987 if you count mine as well. And I do. Three of my students have already surpassed their 40 book goal and challenged me to double my original goal as well. For the record, last year, I read 21 books (including the summer). Every student has surpassed their total from last year, and it's only January. My classroom library has grown from 62 books that hardly ever left the room to 507 books that are constantly being checked in and out, traded and reviewed, loved and hated.
I'd say we're doing pretty well. Delightfully so.
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
The $2.00 Prayer
I stopped at Walgreen's just to drop off some Redbox rentals and pick up some cat food. That was all I intended, really. But it's not all that happened.
On my way to return the movies, I noticed a man, trying desperately to stay dry and warm in the downpour, standing next to the machine. On reflex, I pulled my purse closer to me because I didn't know him. I wrinkled my nose at his unwashed stench. I cast my eyes downward to avoid making eye contact. I did my very best to ignore the situation.
And then he spoke.
"Excuse me, miss. How are you?"
I nodded and mumbled that I was doing fine. All the while, I wondered why the machine couldn't move any faster.
"And how has the day treated you?"
"How had the day treated me?' I thought. I woke up this morning in my extra-warm bed. I took a shower, put on clean clothes, and had a choice in my breakfast. I went to my job -- a job that I love and that provides me with more than I need. My students had come back to school... happy, ready, and able. I got no fewer than 20 hugs and even more "I missed you's". I was surrounded by friends and colleagues who love and appreciate me. And, on my drive home, my only complaint was the slow-moving traffic that might delay the start of my basketball game on t.v. So how had the day treated me?
"Fairly well. I'd say it's been the best day in a long while," I replied, with a smile.
"That's good. Real good," he grinned back. "You don't think you might pass on some of that good luck to me, do you? You don't have any spare change?"
In my mind, little Roman candles of cynicism burst forth. Beggar. Bum. Vagrant. Drunk. Stranger.
But when was the last time a bum asked me about my day? Better yet, when was the last time anyone who wasn't a close friend asked me (and really wanted more than a "Fine. And you?" in response)?
In my pocket was a dollar bill. The fact that I had any sort of cash is a small miracle, so I thought that maybe it'd bring him a little luck. I chirped at him to stay dry and try to stay warm, and I went in to finish my errand. As I was checking out, the machine asked me if I wanted cash back. Thinking of the man huddled under the flickering Walgreen's sign, I clicked the $10 button and waited for my change. I walked out, folded it up, and handed it to this stranger.
When he took the money from my hand, he also took my hand. I stiffened, alarm bells going off in my head, panic rising. And then I saw him bow his head to pray. To pray for me. When he looked up, there was genuine kindness and thanks in his eyes.
With the money clutched in his hand, he had yet to even look and see that it was a $10 bill. I smiled a bit as I walked to my car. During those few moments, a total stranger in a much-worse position than I, took the time to pray for me... for what he thought was $2. And his $2.00 prayer renewed me just a bit. When have I ever been so grateful for just a few dollars? Not in a long while. Not until that moment.
So, no... catfood is not all I picked up at Walgreen's today.
On my way to return the movies, I noticed a man, trying desperately to stay dry and warm in the downpour, standing next to the machine. On reflex, I pulled my purse closer to me because I didn't know him. I wrinkled my nose at his unwashed stench. I cast my eyes downward to avoid making eye contact. I did my very best to ignore the situation.
And then he spoke.
"Excuse me, miss. How are you?"
I nodded and mumbled that I was doing fine. All the while, I wondered why the machine couldn't move any faster.
"And how has the day treated you?"
"How had the day treated me?' I thought. I woke up this morning in my extra-warm bed. I took a shower, put on clean clothes, and had a choice in my breakfast. I went to my job -- a job that I love and that provides me with more than I need. My students had come back to school... happy, ready, and able. I got no fewer than 20 hugs and even more "I missed you's". I was surrounded by friends and colleagues who love and appreciate me. And, on my drive home, my only complaint was the slow-moving traffic that might delay the start of my basketball game on t.v. So how had the day treated me?
"Fairly well. I'd say it's been the best day in a long while," I replied, with a smile.
"That's good. Real good," he grinned back. "You don't think you might pass on some of that good luck to me, do you? You don't have any spare change?"
In my mind, little Roman candles of cynicism burst forth. Beggar. Bum. Vagrant. Drunk. Stranger.
But when was the last time a bum asked me about my day? Better yet, when was the last time anyone who wasn't a close friend asked me (and really wanted more than a "Fine. And you?" in response)?
In my pocket was a dollar bill. The fact that I had any sort of cash is a small miracle, so I thought that maybe it'd bring him a little luck. I chirped at him to stay dry and try to stay warm, and I went in to finish my errand. As I was checking out, the machine asked me if I wanted cash back. Thinking of the man huddled under the flickering Walgreen's sign, I clicked the $10 button and waited for my change. I walked out, folded it up, and handed it to this stranger.
When he took the money from my hand, he also took my hand. I stiffened, alarm bells going off in my head, panic rising. And then I saw him bow his head to pray. To pray for me. When he looked up, there was genuine kindness and thanks in his eyes.
With the money clutched in his hand, he had yet to even look and see that it was a $10 bill. I smiled a bit as I walked to my car. During those few moments, a total stranger in a much-worse position than I, took the time to pray for me... for what he thought was $2. And his $2.00 prayer renewed me just a bit. When have I ever been so grateful for just a few dollars? Not in a long while. Not until that moment.
So, no... catfood is not all I picked up at Walgreen's today.
Sunday, December 16, 2012
Shipwrecks
A writer I adore, Black Hockey Jesus, once wrote that "we are all made out of shipwrecks". Man, that's an image. Have you ever seen a shipwreck on the shore? Car wrecks and train wrecks... they all get cleaned up, erased from public view. But a shipwreck stays, forever, molding and rotting and junking up the scenery. They are constant reminders of the pain and loss. I like that image because that's how I felt yesterday. It's how I feel about most of my pain. That I am navigating the shallow waters, eyeing the shipwrecks of my past, dodging the jagged rocks.
My post yesterday was shared by a few friends who took solace in my feeble attempts to make sense of the senseless. It's why I made the attempt... because words are my weapon, my shelter, my compass. If they gave comfort to no one but me, I'd still be glad I wrote them. And then this morning it was shared by a few relative strangers -- people who know me in only short spaces -- my 140 character friends, if you will. And their words gave me solace and comfort as well. For a while.
I went back to bed in the late morning, and I slept until mid-afternoon. This is my fall-back. I avoid the shipwrecks by never leaving the dock.
But I couldn't stay in bed forever. I had made a promise to see my little buddies, Elliott, Brooklyn, and Kellen, and deliver their ornaments.
As soon as I pulled up to Chris and Courtney's house, I saw Brooklyn and Ell out front with their dad. By the time I'd gotten out of the car, I could hear Ell's squeals of "Deana, Deana, come find meee!"
Just FYI, if you ever need to find a 3 and a half year old, just pull a Christmas gift bag out of your car. He'll find you instead.
We went inside, unwrapped gifts (because they need to be hung upon the tree), and then were back out to play. Elliott's new favorite game is Hide-and-Seek. This involves me counting, VERY slowly, to four while Ell hides. At the announcement of "four", he jumps from his hiding place and squeals in anticipation. Which makes Brooklyn giggle. Which makes everyone giggle.
I'm telling you, if we could harness the power of squeal giggles, we'd solve the energy crisis.
Then Ell wanted to take a walk to look at the Christmas lights. Not to be left behind, Brooklyn came toddling behind us, arms raised, eyelashes fluttering. So I picked her up, placed her on my hip, and asked Elliott if he was ready to go. He said "yes" and stuck out his hand. It's hard to be sad when someone so beautiful wants to hold your hand.
And so we walked, my tiny navigators and I, cruising the shallow waters together, making way for open sea.
My post yesterday was shared by a few friends who took solace in my feeble attempts to make sense of the senseless. It's why I made the attempt... because words are my weapon, my shelter, my compass. If they gave comfort to no one but me, I'd still be glad I wrote them. And then this morning it was shared by a few relative strangers -- people who know me in only short spaces -- my 140 character friends, if you will. And their words gave me solace and comfort as well. For a while.
I went back to bed in the late morning, and I slept until mid-afternoon. This is my fall-back. I avoid the shipwrecks by never leaving the dock.
But I couldn't stay in bed forever. I had made a promise to see my little buddies, Elliott, Brooklyn, and Kellen, and deliver their ornaments.
As soon as I pulled up to Chris and Courtney's house, I saw Brooklyn and Ell out front with their dad. By the time I'd gotten out of the car, I could hear Ell's squeals of "Deana, Deana, come find meee!"
Just FYI, if you ever need to find a 3 and a half year old, just pull a Christmas gift bag out of your car. He'll find you instead.
We went inside, unwrapped gifts (because they need to be hung upon the tree), and then were back out to play. Elliott's new favorite game is Hide-and-Seek. This involves me counting, VERY slowly, to four while Ell hides. At the announcement of "four", he jumps from his hiding place and squeals in anticipation. Which makes Brooklyn giggle. Which makes everyone giggle.
I'm telling you, if we could harness the power of squeal giggles, we'd solve the energy crisis.
Then Ell wanted to take a walk to look at the Christmas lights. Not to be left behind, Brooklyn came toddling behind us, arms raised, eyelashes fluttering. So I picked her up, placed her on my hip, and asked Elliott if he was ready to go. He said "yes" and stuck out his hand. It's hard to be sad when someone so beautiful wants to hold your hand.
And so we walked, my tiny navigators and I, cruising the shallow waters together, making way for open sea.
Saturday, December 15, 2012
Hands
It's been 24 hours since I learned about yesterday's tragedy in Connecticut. Given 24 years, I don't think I would still be able to find my words to register my true feelings about what happened. It's been 11 since September 11th, and I still don't have any for that either.
Grief is a funny and terrible thing. It stalks you, hanging around just until you think it's gone, and then it rears its head once more. Now, our country grieves again. When I think of our nation's most mournful times, I see incredible things. Heroes emerge. Kindness appears. Strangers connect. And in those moments, the impossible seems possible, and change can happen.
Yet so often, it doesn't. Or at least it doesn't happen quickly.
All over my social media, there are shouts and rumblings. And blame. There's always blame. Fingers point at the other side, and arguments occur. Gun control. Second Amendment. Republicans. Democrats. Right-wing. Left-wing. The absence of God. God's will. Your fault. The President's fault. The shooter's fault. His parents' fault.
Let's get real, people. It's our fault. And it will continue to be our fault as long as we, as a nation, refuse to meet in the middle. It will continue until we all stop needing to be so right that we are all wrong.
But I don't know how to change a whole nation. If I did, believe me, I'd tell you. The trouble is, I don't know if anyone would listen.
I do know this, however. God is in our schools. You can't take God out of a school anymore than you can take him out of your home or your heart. He is in my basketball team as they pray for the health of a fellow teacher's mom -- our #1 fan. He is in my students as they refuse to break Fast for even the thrill of a Snicker's bar won on a correct answer. He is in my moment of silence each morning as I pray for the health and safety of those I hold most dear. He is in the mouth of the child who told me, "I'd never let anyone hurt you, Miss Naz."
I get it though. It's easy enough to blame the absence of God when tragedy strikes because how could God let it happen? But tragedy is a continual undercurrent of our entire history. The atrocities that one human can inflict on another are a daily, moment-by-moment occurrence. And I don't always know where He is. Admittedly, He and I have always engaged in a cosmic version of Hide-and-Seek. My only hope is that He's with those who have been left behind, giving them the strength to survive now and live later. Those are two completely different things, you know. Surviving and living.
I also know that the answer to school violence isn't by putting a gun in my hands or in my classroom, as a few have advocated. To be honest, I can barely find my own keys most days. I'm not sure I'm cut out for the vigilante lifestyle.
The only answer I have is to love one another. Listen when someone needs help. Ask for help when you need it. Let go of your platform and have a conversation. Seek out beauty, and, where there is none, leave some.
And, maybe, just this once, we use our hands to help or to pray or to hold... but not to point.
Grief is a funny and terrible thing. It stalks you, hanging around just until you think it's gone, and then it rears its head once more. Now, our country grieves again. When I think of our nation's most mournful times, I see incredible things. Heroes emerge. Kindness appears. Strangers connect. And in those moments, the impossible seems possible, and change can happen.
Yet so often, it doesn't. Or at least it doesn't happen quickly.
All over my social media, there are shouts and rumblings. And blame. There's always blame. Fingers point at the other side, and arguments occur. Gun control. Second Amendment. Republicans. Democrats. Right-wing. Left-wing. The absence of God. God's will. Your fault. The President's fault. The shooter's fault. His parents' fault.
Let's get real, people. It's our fault. And it will continue to be our fault as long as we, as a nation, refuse to meet in the middle. It will continue until we all stop needing to be so right that we are all wrong.
But I don't know how to change a whole nation. If I did, believe me, I'd tell you. The trouble is, I don't know if anyone would listen.
I do know this, however. God is in our schools. You can't take God out of a school anymore than you can take him out of your home or your heart. He is in my basketball team as they pray for the health of a fellow teacher's mom -- our #1 fan. He is in my students as they refuse to break Fast for even the thrill of a Snicker's bar won on a correct answer. He is in my moment of silence each morning as I pray for the health and safety of those I hold most dear. He is in the mouth of the child who told me, "I'd never let anyone hurt you, Miss Naz."
I get it though. It's easy enough to blame the absence of God when tragedy strikes because how could God let it happen? But tragedy is a continual undercurrent of our entire history. The atrocities that one human can inflict on another are a daily, moment-by-moment occurrence. And I don't always know where He is. Admittedly, He and I have always engaged in a cosmic version of Hide-and-Seek. My only hope is that He's with those who have been left behind, giving them the strength to survive now and live later. Those are two completely different things, you know. Surviving and living.
I also know that the answer to school violence isn't by putting a gun in my hands or in my classroom, as a few have advocated. To be honest, I can barely find my own keys most days. I'm not sure I'm cut out for the vigilante lifestyle.
The only answer I have is to love one another. Listen when someone needs help. Ask for help when you need it. Let go of your platform and have a conversation. Seek out beauty, and, where there is none, leave some.
And, maybe, just this once, we use our hands to help or to pray or to hold... but not to point.
Monday, November 12, 2012
True Story: John Deere Changed My Life
When I was 10, I was a Girl Scout. In fact, I was a Girl Scout for a really long time, but at 10, I was a scout who was desperate to go to summer camp. I didn't realize it at the time, but my family didn't have the extra money to send me to a week of overnight camp. The year before, my mom had recruited the local junior college basketball team, the Lady Bulldogs, to buy and sell hundreds of boxes of Thin Mints in order to send me, but I think that the next year, there was some kind of Cookie Moratorium laid down by the coach. I was devastated at the possibility of not returning to camp.
Somehow, my dad -- the King of the Trade -- worked out a deal with the camp's site manager that he would mow the camp property all summer in trade for my time at camp. My dad had a big ol' John Deere tractor that he and my brothers ran tirelessly all summer to supplement our income, and now that I think about it, that tractor changed my life.
All because of a John Deere tractor.
This year, Camp Carter YMCA has set a goal to raise $63,000 to provide scholarships for both day and overnight camp for area youth. As of this morning, we had $14,000 left to go. We are hoping to raise that amount in the next 6 days. I cannot promise you that I'll run a marathon to earn your donation. Or walk 60 miles. Or jump rope a thousand times. But what I can promise you is that your donation, if you choose to make one, will change a child's life.
Remember... not everyone's parent has a John Deere trade up his sleeve.
If you would like to donate, you can do so in one of two ways:
A) Go to Camp Carter's website, and follow the "donate" button located at the top. Choose "Camp Carter's Annual Campaign".
--OR--
2) Email me at coachnaz@hotmail.com or DM me with your mailing address and your pledge amount. You don't have to pay right away. You can pay out your pledge in installments if that makes it easier.
And, for the record, apparently there's a Kindle Fire being raffled off for those campaigning for Camp Carter. Y'all know how I feel about e-readers, so if I win, I'll raffle it off to one of my donors!
Somehow, my dad -- the King of the Trade -- worked out a deal with the camp's site manager that he would mow the camp property all summer in trade for my time at camp. My dad had a big ol' John Deere tractor that he and my brothers ran tirelessly all summer to supplement our income, and now that I think about it, that tractor changed my life.
- I went to camp for 4 more years until Camp Cibola closed.
- My wonderful memories and realization of camp's influence never left me.
- In 1995, on a trip through the student union at ASU (a school I chose because I'd been to student council camp there), I applied for a job at Camp El Tesoro in Granbury, TX.
- At El Tesoro, I met the best friends I've ever known.
- I kept going back to El Tesoro for 8 summers as a counselor, program director, assistant CIT director, and, yes, even the camp nurse.
- At ET, I decided to change my major from Elementary Education to Secondary Ed.
- At ET, I met Heather Wilson who introduced me to Linda Denson.
- Linda Denson hired me at Nichols Junior High (even when she didn't TECHNICALLY have a job open yet).
- Thirteen years and over 1,200 students later, I am still at Nichols Junior High.
- Also, while at El Tesoro, I met Laurie Johnston, one of my many mentors in how to work with children.
- Nine years ago, LJ talked me into volunteering at Camp Carter YMCA to help start a camp for blind and visually impaired children.
- I became the day camp bus driver, the camp nurse, and the assistant camp director.
- In 2012, I became the director of overnight camping for Camp Carter.
- In 26 years as either a camper or staff member, I've worked with thousands of children and hundreds of staff members.
- Over 200 of my most valued, creative, generous friends and acquaintances came either directly from my time at camp or from a connection at camp.
- Statistically speaking, if you're reading this, you're one of those 200.
All because of a John Deere tractor.
This year, Camp Carter YMCA has set a goal to raise $63,000 to provide scholarships for both day and overnight camp for area youth. As of this morning, we had $14,000 left to go. We are hoping to raise that amount in the next 6 days. I cannot promise you that I'll run a marathon to earn your donation. Or walk 60 miles. Or jump rope a thousand times. But what I can promise you is that your donation, if you choose to make one, will change a child's life.
Remember... not everyone's parent has a John Deere trade up his sleeve.
If you would like to donate, you can do so in one of two ways:
A) Go to Camp Carter's website, and follow the "donate" button located at the top. Choose "Camp Carter's Annual Campaign".
--OR--
2) Email me at coachnaz@hotmail.com or DM me with your mailing address and your pledge amount. You don't have to pay right away. You can pay out your pledge in installments if that makes it easier.
And, for the record, apparently there's a Kindle Fire being raffled off for those campaigning for Camp Carter. Y'all know how I feel about e-readers, so if I win, I'll raffle it off to one of my donors!
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