Saturday, March 31, 2018

Just right challenge

It's Day 31 at TWT!
I used to think
it wouldn't be worth it
if I wasn't perfect.

Wasn't that the point?

To write
every
day?

To post 31 slices in 31 days?

To live as a writer
every
day?

To push myself,
to make room for writing,
to jump in over my head,
to tackle a daunting challenge
and win?

But when I wasn't perfect
anymore,
I still grew.

Some writing
is better
than none.

If it pushes you,
it's a challenge.

Other people are not you.
Their measuring stick is not your measuring stick.
If it's truly everything you can do right now,
the best version of you is only compared to you.

I tell my kids to read "just right" books.
I tell them to shoot for attainable goals.
I'm not giving up on running
just because I'll never run a marathon or a 4-minute mile.

If it pushes you,
it's a challenge.

4 days a week.
20 posts in 31 days.

Carving out every possible slice
between teaching, running, reading,
friendship, faith, love,
toddler songs, stickers, swinging, sliding, climbing,
and responding to slices of my students' incredible lives.

Widening my view and narrowing my focus,
sparking ideas and spinning words
preserving precious moments
and exploring churning thoughts.
Grounding myself in the truths I know
and reaching to rise in new ways.

Pushing the balance
without tipping too far.

If it pushes you,
it's a challenge.

4 days a week.
20 posts in 31 days:
my "just-right" challenge
for this year,
for this me,
achieved.

Friday, March 30, 2018

Esperando sin saber

Day 30 of 31 at TWT! 
Mucha gente en la calle. El aire pulsando con una mezcla rara de paz, claridad, y anticipación. Las rayas brillantes de un puesto del sol maravilloso convirtiéndose en un anochecer azul-gris.

Mis padres y yo, extranjeros en más que una manera. Estadounidenses en España. Protestantes en un país de católicos. Mis padres siguiendo a su hija, sin poder hablar el idioma alrededor de nosotros ni caminar por las calles estrechas y serpenteantes de mi segunda ciudad sin un mapa, dejándome interpretar las conversaciones tanto como el camino. Nosotros tres, esperando con emoción sin saber exactamente qué nos esperamos.

La Plaza de la Villa, Madrid, antes de la procesión en 2005
Con suerte, encontramos un espacio en la muchedumbre cerca de la cuerda marcando la ruta de la procesión, casi en una esquina de la plaza. Tuvimos la sensación de esperar un desfile o evento especial en los E.E.U., pero con más gravedad. Entre la gente apretada, escuchamos a varios niños riéndose y jugando, pero la mayoría de la gente eran personas de edad mayor, esperando con seriedad.

-- He visto varias películas sobre las procesiones de Semana Santa de Sevilla, pero no sé si las de Madrid van a ser iguales o no. -- comenté. -- Pero espero que podamos ver bien la procesión cruzando la plaza de este punto de vista. --

El cielo incierto del crepúsculo se convirtió en una oscuridad definida, y las lámparas del ayuntamiento madrileño crearon ángulos de luz y sombra en los ladrillos antiguos de la plaza. De repente, oímos un ruido distante de tambores y flautas solemnes. Cesaron las voces que resonaban por la plaza, y la anticipación aumentó.


Primero, aparecieron los nazarenos, un espectáculo bastante escalofriante para cualquier estadounidense con conocimiento de la KKK, aunque ya sabía que los capirotes de los penitentes no tiene nada que ver con este grupo desagradable.
Cada procesión viene de una iglesia cierta, y los colores de cada cofradía son distintas. Vimos la procesión del Santísimo Cristo de los Alabarderos
Detrás de los penitentes marcharon lo más impresionante: La Guardia Real acompañando a los costaleros. Encima de sus hombros, la imagen del Santísimo Cristo de la Fé osciló ligeramente con el ritmo de sus pasos sombríos.
"Era ya como la hora sexta, cuando descendieron tinieblas sobre la tierra hasta la hora novena al eclipsarse el sol. El velo del templo se rasgó en dos. Y Jesús, clamando a gran voz, dijo: -- Padre, en tus manos encomiendo mi espiritu. -- Y habiendo dicho esto, expiró." (Lucas 23:44-46)
Y detrás de ellos, las flautas y tambores de la Guardia Real seguidos por varias mujeres en mantillas y ropa de luto tradicional, para recordarnos que el tema principal del Viernes Santo es, después de todo, la muerte de Jesús.


No hay mejor manera de contemplar el Viernes Santo que una procesión española. Ese día de 2005, no sabía qué me esperaba, pero agradezco que hice el intento. Cada Viernes Santo, los recuerdos de mi experiencia me conmuevan otra vez más, aunque ya han pasado 13 años.

Wednesday, March 28, 2018

Wrestling with writing

Day 28 of 31 at TWT!
I didn't feel like writing tonight.

Part of the beauty and necessity of writing when you are a teacher of writers is grappling with that feeling and realizing what it means to overcome it. I love writing. I may struggle with other parts of my identity, but I'm undoubtably a writer.

And if I, a writer, sometimes don't feel like writing, how much stronger and more frequent must that feeling be for students who don't see themselves as writers? If I, a writer, must sometimes dig deep, battle the voice that just wants to read or watch tv, and drag myself onto the blank screen to wrestle with writing as work (instead of joyful word play or an inspired flow of ideas), how much deeper must they have to dig? How much harder is their battle? How much more like work does it seem to them?

In my class, we do so much work with reflection and goal-setting. At this point in the year, my students have set goals, imagined outcomes, anticipated obstacles, made plans to overcome them, and reflected on their progress so often that those routines practically run themselves, especially with the help of my squad leaders. (In fact, we could be in danger of losing meaningfulness to monotony, but I hope those ideas become habits they internalize and use throughout their lives.) But that emotional battle of choosing discipline over default, of making yourself do the work even especially when you don't feel like it, of taking the conscious step to stare your obstacles in the face and force yourself to use one of your plans... that's the real key. There's nothing that I could possibly teach them that could be more important than how to chase their dreams with the relentless ferocity required to beat back the voice in each of our heads that tempts us to give up, give in, or just take the easy way out.

Usually, when I don't feel like writing, it's because I'm overly tired or "out of ideas". Tonight, I'm worn out but I have plenty of ideas... I just don't feel like writing about any of them! Squads in my class? I have 3 separate drafts already started about that, but I don't feel like diving into that on Spring Break. Running? I've been writing about that a lot lately. Sweetie? Ditto. Way too much. The hard stories? Nope. Not those. Not ready yet. Maybe not ever. Certainly not on Spring Break. Friendship? Two drafts sitting about that too, but I'm just not feeling the one, and the other is for farther down the road, if ever. 

Increasingly discouraged, I scroll through my list of slicing ideas. Everyday moments, special memories, a post based on a mentor post I've saved? Ehhhhhh.

I could write about not wanting to write... Been there, done that. But it could be fun... But I've done it. More than once! But I could put a different twist on it! And really, it's so good to reflect on that feeling for my kids! Maybe. It IS the biggest thing I'm feeling right now...

I start to go through my blogging routine: open a draft, go to the call for slices, drop the image in, add the tags I know I'm going to use. These familiar motions are like stretches before running. My brain is warming up to the idea of writing. I could focus on the teacher perspective. Ooh, and I could tie it into R-Factor! I could link to those old posts about this feeling...

I dive into my "writing" tag, looking for a couple of old posts I know I wrote a few years ago. My brain snaps awake as I realize there are more than I thought: an inner battle from not being prepared, a reflection on persistence, my two conflicting voices, and writing even when it's tough. And sprinkled in between, so many joy-filled posts celebrating the power of writing and how much I love it. Aw, I forgot about that! I almost get lost down a wormhole of rediscovering pieces of myself that I'd forgotten, and end up just closing the tab with the tag before I end up past bedtime with a half-finished post.

Over an hour later, I realize that I've somehow found my way to the writing zone: adding and revising sections, using the thesaurus, playing with formatting, body tense and eyebrows furrowed as my fingers try to keep up with my flying thoughts. How did I get here? By talking myself into sitting down to write. By reminding myself what I'd gain if I did. By choosing not to listen to the easy way out. By starting to go through the motions that would lead to writing. By doing the work.

I want my students to wrestle and win, too. With writing, with schoolwork, with life. This is why I write, why I teach, and why I open myself up as an example to them.

Tuesday, March 27, 2018

By our love

Day 27 of 31 at TWT!
Over the weekend, I went to see Paul, Apostle of Christ with a group of colleagues. For me, right now, just getting out there was an act of courage and joy, but the movie itself was even better than I'd hoped. It was an incredibly well-done, inspiring story that left us all doing plenty of reflecting, talking, and hugging afterwards.

As Paul suffers in a Roman prison, Luke keeps risking his life to visit him (so often that the Roman in charge of the prison wryly asks why he is so bent on sneaking IN when everyone else wants to escape!), hoping to preserve his life story to share with the floundering new church. At first, Paul doesn't believe he has any more to share, and Luke has to convince him of the difference his letters (which have always been my favorite books of the Bible!) have made already. My writer's heart loved how throughout the action, the movie interspersed moments of Luke writing down the story that would become "Acts", culminating with others in the community painstakingly copying it to share, rejoicing that they got up to 100 copies.

But my favorite thing about the movie was its overarching message of the power of love. Intentional, difficult, relentless love. Love in the face of evil and hatred. Love when you don't feel like loving. Love, even especially when it's hardest to love.

As the early Christian community faces appalling persecution and unspeakable suffering, frustration causes division that threatens to tear them apart. Luke advises the dissenters who want to fight back against the Romans that "Love is the only way," but in the midst of such horror, he barely believes his own words. Paul challenges him by describing the qualities of true love from 1 Corinthians 13:

Throughout the movie, this is the constant challenge: in order to stand out and spread their message, the early Christians must live it. They must choose love. Always. Love that perseveres through hardship, suffering, and cruelty. Love that does not retaliate, but keeps showing up with kindness, patience, and hope.

When I saw Luke's anguish, I was struck by how similar their world was to ours, even though we are thousands of years apart. Suffering, grief, dissent, betrayal, frustration, discouragement: we are never alone in those feelings, but the challenge is set for us to keep choosing love. At one point, Paul looks at Luke and proclaims, "They will know us by our love."

Immediately, I thought of situations where I need to do a better job choosing love when it's hard. I've read all those verses so many times, reflected and written about them, worked hard to intentionally cultivate relationships of all kinds, and even chosen OLWs to help myself focus on loving anyway. However, I can do better, especially in the face of hurt and disappointment, and seeing that idea come to life over the course of the movie was just what my heart needed.

In my most challenging situations, I want to be known for choosing love.

Sunday, March 25, 2018

So much love to give

Day 25 of 31 at TWT!
"I'm gonna make a craft for the Easter Bunny!" Carrying her bunny stickers from last week's egg hunt, Sweetie scampers over to her craft table. "I'm gonna make him a card!"

With the precision of a surgeon, she painstakingly selects the perfect position for each sticker on a piece of orange construction paper. "I'm making him a card because I love him!" She folds up both sides (ripping one in the process), then carefully seals it with another sticker (an innovation she came up with all by herself a few weeks ago). "I love him so much!" she declares in her most sugary voice.

"That's very nice! Do you want to set it by the door so we can take it to the egg hunt after your nap?" Husband gestures towards the garage door.

"Yeah!" she scampers down the hallway, clutching her card, and sets it beside her fuzzy bunny Easter basket. "I love the Easter Bunny! He's gonna be so happy for my card!"

Later, as soon as the community center barn is in sight, she starts asking, "Where's the Easter Bunny?" We clamber out of the car, adjusting her pink bunny "bee-boppers", pulling a fleece jacket over her bunny shirt as she skips and wiggles in her gray bunny pants and sparkly bunny shoes. "I don't see him! Where is he?"

"Remember, last time he came just as the hunt was getting ready to start. He's probably resting a little from hiding all those eggs!" We mill around in the dazzling sunshine, peering out at the vibrant dots of hundreds of eggs nestled in the grass. Suddenly, the much-awaited figure steps out the barn door. "Look, Sweetie! Who's that?"

"Easter Bunny!" She shrieks and bolts towards him, waving her card in an outstretched hand. "I made a card for you!!!" she proudly proclaims, thrusting it towards him.

"Look, Easter Bunny! She made you a card!" We have to direct his attention to this presumably rare development happening at his waist level. He notices, takes the card, and gives her a thumbs-up.

"Do you want to give him a hug?" He crouches down, and she throws himself into his arms as he holds her card.

We hunt for eggs, jump on a trampoline, and climb on fire trucks, but the rest of the day, she keeps chattering about how happy she made the bunny. "He never got a card before! I made him so happy! I love the Easter Bunny!"

Saturday, March 24, 2018

Lunchtime lullabies

Day 24 of 31 at TWT!
"Can I snuggle you?" Little Sweetie twists sideways in her booster seat and puts her little hands on my arms as I get ready to lift her out after lunch. Crinkling her bright blue eyes, she leans forward and beams at me.

"Of course! I love your snuggles!" I lift her warm, wriggly body on top of me, wrap her in a hug, and lean back. Letting my chair rock a little, I nuzzle her soft blonde hair, breathing in watermelon shampoo and pure sweetness.

"Rockabye, don't you cry, Daddy's gone a-hunting..." Her pure, gentle voice starts murmuring a lullaby that my mom passed to me from deep in Appalachian Ohio. "... Upon the mill [it's supposed to be "hill"], beside the mill, to get his baby's bunting."

"Aw, thank you, Sweetie! I love that song!" I cuddle her closer, remembering how that was sometimes the only song that would settle her down when she was a baby.

Those bright eyes fly open. "'Member the rainbow song?"

"Yeah, I love that one too! Will you sing that one to me, too?" I pat her fuzzy Hello Kitty robe.

"Um, I don't 'member how it starts..."

"You're the end..." I only get out a few words before she jumps in.

"...of the rainbow, the star on the tree, the Easter Bunny to your Mommy and me. You're sugar and spice, and everything nice. You're your Meemaw's..." she stumbles, realizing that how my mom sings it to her doesn't make sense right now, then forges ahead "... Mommy's...Daddy's biiiiiiig girlllllllllllll!"

I cover her delicate, silky face in kisses. "Thank you! Meemaw and Granddaddy used to sing that to me when I was a little girl!" There's so much love in our family! Squeezing her tighter, I wish I could freeze this moment in time. Then, I realize I almost can. "If Daddy takes a video, will you sing that to me again?"

"Yeah!" She sits up, switching immediately from snuggly to perky, with a dash of imperial. "Daddy! Get your phone out of your pocket!"

He does, and she settles back in to me for round 2. Alternately gazing at me and grinning at Daddy and his phone, she croons the whole song again, sweetly patting my back with those tender hands. "You're the end of the rainbow..."

Wednesday, March 21, 2018

Real stories, real tears, real writers

Day 21 of 31 at TWT!
"Are we ok over here?" I scurry over to one of the square tables, where two girls are desperately grabbing tissues.

They nod, wipe away tears, and hug each other.

"Something someone wrote?"

"No, she just told me what she might write about her dad!"

Wow. Now we've moved on from crying over published posts to crying over potential posts! This community of writers is incredible! A slideshow in my mind shuffles through all the similar moments over our past few weeks of blogging:

Kneeling beside C. to tell him personally how heartbreakingly beautiful his post about his dad was and how many people had approached me about it to say they couldn't even find the words to comment on it. Him telling me that he'd cried while writing it. Watching him fight tears again at his table as he re-read it and the comments he'd received. (If you read it, don't worry -- he is safe; these memories are from a long time ago and his dad is far away now.)

Spotting a huddle of sobbing girls and going over to find that they were crying about how one had written about how hard it is to live far away from her mom. When her squad leader had read it, written her a kind comment, and personally gone over to tell her that she was there for her, they'd all lost it.

Bursting into tears at my desk on only the second day of the challenge at S.'s poignant post about being a child when Syria's Civil War started. Watching set after set of wet eyes boil over around the room when I shared it with the class as a mentor text. Seeing her put her face in her hands and weep as she read all of the wonderful comments she received on that post and subsequent installments of her story.

Stories of ruined friendships, divorced parents, injuries, fears, mistakes. And yes, joyful stories too: baby siblings, loving families, cherished moments, future dreams.

My students have worked on writing all year, but they have truly become writers this month. Writers discovering their voices, connecting with each other, and making realizations like this one:
"...when I write things down I feel better." <3
There is power in the stories, and there is power in the telling of the stories.

"Everything is held together with stories. That is all that is holding us together, stories and compassion." -- Barry Lopez

Monday, March 19, 2018

Sweet love

Day 19 of 31 at TWT!
"Do you see what this is?" I hold my phone up so Sweetie can see the picture that has appeared in my Facebook memories for today.

"You!" she squeals.

"Yeah, and what's this?" I point to the middle of the picture.

"A butterfly!" she giggles.

"That's right! See how my belly was big? This is when you lived in my belly! We went to a butterfly house, and a butterfly decided it wanted to meet you, so it landed right on my belly!"

"It wanted to kiss me!" She shrieks, brilliant blue eyes lighting up as she brings both fists up near her cheeks.

"Aw, that's right! It wanted to kiss and snuggle you!" That was the moment I was sure you were going to be something truly special.

"Can I send it 'mojis?"

"What?" I'm not sure if I heard her right.

"Can I send it 'mojis?"

"Oh, umm, no... you can't send emojis to the butterfly." Sparks fly above her head as Husband and I twinkle our eyes at each other, trying to contain our laughter.

"Why I can't type 'mojis to it?"

"Well, it's just a picture..." I sputter, "... and butterflies don't have phones!" And it's probably dead, since this was 3 years ago and I butterflies probably don't live that long! I can't hold back the giggling anymore, so I just let myself laugh and rub her sweet little back. "If you could text the butterfly, what would you say?"

"I love it." Her already-sweet voice takes on the serenely sugary tone she reserves for moments like this.

"Awww, that's so nice!" I lean forward, gaze into those cerulean eyes, and rub my nose against hers. "You're very cute."

"Can I say that?" she leans toward my phone.

"What? Um, sure! You want to say that to the butterfly? Ok..." My eyes dance across at Husband's again as I hold the phone closer to her.

"I don't see the microphone." She switches to her imperial commanding tone and points at the corner of the screen, where the dictation microphone appears if you are texting someone. (She loves sending voice messages to Daddy and Meemaw.) It isn't there, of course, because we are not. actually. texting. the butterfly. from 3 years ago.

"Oh, Sweetie, remember, we can't text the butterfly! It's just a picture!" She's the sweetest thing in the world. How can we pretend to do this? "I know! What if Daddy gets out his phone and takes a video of you telling the butterfly that you love it?" Bonus: we'll have captured this adorableness forever.

"Ok!" She flashes her toothy grin.

I hold my phone with the picture close to her while Husband records the moment with his phone. "What do you want to say to the butterfly?"

"I love him!" She squeezes her little fists so hard her arms shake. "I love you, Butterfly!"

Sunday, March 18, 2018

Unexpected delight

Day 18 of 31 at TWT!
"When I started my shift, I was actually walking behind you guys out of the parking garage, and I thought, 'I bet I'll end up being their server!'" With twinkling eyes, our waiter flashes an open-mouthed smile and reaches out with a tattoo-covered arm to set a little plate of carrots & ranch in front of Sweetie.

Wow! Carrots as soon as we sit down? A sticker when we walked in? This place is awesome! I'd been a little apprehensive bringing a toddler to a new brewery on St. Patrick's Day: would it be crazy? Would they think we were crazy? Apparently, there was not only no need to worry, but we should have come here months ago!

I zone out as he recites the drink specials and which ones can be made green, watching Sweetie mow down carrots like a little machine. "Ok, tell him what you want to drink," I prod her.

"Milk!" she beams up at him proudly.

"I can make that green, if you want!" He grins and winks at her.

"Ooh! Do you want GREEN milk for St. Patrick's Day?!" I lean close and bop her nose with mine. This place is amazing!!! Since our town decided to have its celebration last Saturday for some weird reason, I was afraid we wouldn't really get to celebrate today other than wearing green clothes. So glad I didn't talk myself out of coming here! 

"Yeah!!! Green milk!"
What fun! Maybe I should've gotten milk too... that wouldn't be weird with a toddler with me as an excuse, right? Maybe next year?
I pour over the lengthy kids' menu and start reading out all of things she might like: "They have a burger, grilled cheese, mini corn dogs, quesadilla, fish, pasta with red sauce, mac & cheese, or pizza!"

"Mac & cheese!" Of course, but at least there is a huge variety!

The waiter offers to put in Sweetie's order right away, while we're still perusing the rest of the menu. I've been so dazzled by our experience so far that I've barely started figuring out what I want. Husband ends up getting a burger that has corned beef on top and a pretzel bun, and I go for the fish & chips. "We might have to come here every year on St. Patrick's Day!" I chirp.

Periodic glances at my phone show me that we've timed it perfectly for the main reason we came. Sure enough, as we finish up a "skillet brownie", cheers go up from near the door. I swoop Sweetie out of the booth and scurry down toward the corner by the door, where I can see them: a little troupe of Irish dancers!

There's not much room, but we sneak up to the edge of the first table and kneel down so we don't block that couple's view. "Dancers!" Delight spreads across Sweetie's face and her already-bright eyes widen as they begin stomping and bouncing.

"You can clap!" I nudge, and her little hands come together.
Mesmerized! <3
Over at the bar, people grin down at her enthralled face, elbowing their friends to point out her joy. One of the hostesses comes over to give her an extra bead necklace. They don't even know that ever since the Irish Festival in August, we've had to listen to Irish music in the car every day!

Pounding feet and graceful, nimble legs fly in front of us, but I'm concentrating on the sweet little body leaning against my shoulder, timidly clapping her sticky hands and staring, transfixed.

Finally, as the third or fourth song winds down, she beams up at me. "Can we invite Daddy?"

We go running back to the table, and he's just finished paying the bill. "Daddy!!! Come see the Irish dancers!!!" she squeals, and pulls him back toward the clamor.

Friday, March 16, 2018

A brave new thing

Day 16 of 31 at TWT!
"How do you envision your classroom culture? On the best days, what does it feel like?"

It's late in the afternoon on the day before winter break, but my brain is on fire.

I'm tired of seeing kids flounder because they don't have the necessary academic skills to be successful. I've stepped up my work with goal-setting and reflection every year, and something is still missing. More kids with more problematic backgrounds are muddling their way through school, weighed down by innumerable challenges combined with a concerning lack of work ethic.

Sparks that have been smoldering through months of Tuesday morning R-Factor sessions are blazing bright as I sit in my new colleague's office, furiously typing a blend of notes and my own fluttering ideas.

"I want it to be like a family, where we're all working together to learn and grow. I hope my kids could all tell you our motto is 'Be Your Best Self'," I answer him.

"When it feels that way, what's happening?"

I try to describe my favorite times of the year: Global Cafe, the March Challenge, some of our goal-setting and reflection work. I wish he knew my teaching better... this is not what I came here to talk about. I'm a little annoyed to be finding myself trying to prove that I'm a good teacher. I work so hard to create so many authentic learning experiences, and the kids respond well to them. But it's not good enough!

"How many of your kids do you think are actively working to be the best version of themselves?"

I start counting on my fingers, naming them in my head. "Um, like 20%?"

"That's pretty good! Better than 10-80-10!"

Yeah, but it's more like 20-60-20, or even worse on the bottom end too... I want so badly to make more of a difference, to find a way to reach those struggling kids better. And to not have them ruin things for everyone else!

"How can you leverage them to lift everyone else?" He tells me how Urban Meyer stopped letting one of his hardest working linemen come in to lift weights early in the morning until he brought a teammate with him. "What if you created groups in your classes, with your elite kids as group leaders? The power of the unit?"

Ummm. That sounds like a daunting shift. But I really want to truly create that classroom family focused on learning and mutual support that I've always dreamed of. Something starts to awaken in the part of me that was a five-year member of The Best Damn Band in the Land.

By the time pretty much everyone else in the building has zoomed off to enjoy their breaks, he's convinced me to try it. A Brave New Thing. I will dig back out my TBDBITL squad leader self and implement a "squad" group structure in my classroom. My hardest-working students will be MY "squad leaders", responsible for leading and inspiring their classmates.

As I spend winter break wrangling a toddler and grading exams, my brain is spinning. I haven't been this pumped up since I was head squad leader of my row my last year in band. I get my head into gear, knowing that our class culture is fully my responsibility, and I need to establish the line better and hold it better. I am determined to RISE and take my kids with me.

I come back from break, begin typing a frighteningly long email to my colleague with way too many questions and thoughts, delete it, and ask instead if we can check in soon. We get snowed out. I almost talk myself out of rescheduling because I'm afraid to take up more of his time. I pour over his R-Factor slides and his notes from Urban Meyer's Above the Line, order the book even though I've always been way too loyal to Jim Tressel to be much of a Meyer fan, and end up devouring it in less than a week once it arrives.

I choose my squad leaders and approach them individually, explaining what I want to try, why I've picked them, and what their responsibilities would be. 2 of the 9, natural leaders in the traditional sense, are excited, honored, and raring to go. The other 7, the kind of quietly hardworking students who sneak through their school day being awesome without sticking out, look at me like I'm completely insane, shake their heads, and try to refuse, firmly convinced that they won't be good enough. "Come on," I cajole. "You can do this!" I talk about leading by example and explain how I was fairly shy and timid, and how I never would have taken on leadership roles that eventually lead me to teaching if people hadn't believed in me. "It'll be good for you." After varying amounts of gentle nudging, they all agree to give it a try.

I plan to pull them all in for a meeting one morning before school with doughnuts. We get snowed out. I scramble to grab them the next day during homeroom instead, feed them the day-old doughnuts, give them my best TBDBITL-esque speech, and introduce the idea to my whole classes later that day. It's hard. There's heavy resistance from the bottom. The middle are disappointed to lose their comfort. The squad leaders need training. I have to create all kinds of new materials to get it all going. Two weeks into the new semester, I'm running on empty and winter break is a distant memory.

But something amazing is happening. And my classroom, my kids, and I will never be the same again.

Thursday, March 15, 2018

Examples

Day 15 of 31 at TWT!
"Mrs. M, I loved your post about your daughter with the stickers!"

"Oh yeah, I read that one too! She's so cute!" D. chimes in. "I remember she was so sweet at the Global Cafe!"

"Yeah, we're pretty much covered in stickers by dinnertime most evenings!" I giggle. I love that my kids are really reading my posts this year! 

I talk about my writing with my students all the time, I write in front of them, and I sometimes use my posts as mentor texts in class, but I've never had this many students independently visit my blog, even though I've linked here on our class blog during past March Challenges as well. This year, as I weave through the room during the time I give my students to leave comments, I've been frequently spying the familiar sunset background of my blog up on at least one or two screens.

Maybe it's that commenting has finally taken hold this year the way I've always wanted it to. Maybe it's that our new squad group format (which I seriously promise, again, to write more about soon!) and refined goal work have intensely strengthened the feeling that we are all learners working together to live our class motto of "being our best selves".

(Last week, after sharing how I hadn't met my weekly reading goal, one of my students remarked, "Wait, teachers have learning goals too?"As I started to wonder where he'd been all the other days and weeks I've modeled talking about my goals, another student jumped in: "Mrs. M always works on what we're working on!" Looking back, while the first student isn't exactly known for his stellar attention, I wonder if all that modeling just hadn't seemed as real until he noticed that I was sharing about NOT reaching a goal.)

Maybe living through my personal struggles this fall right in front my students helped them view me more as someone who works hard to persevere through obstacles, just like them.

Maybe this group of students would have just been particularly invested in the March Challenge anyway. But I'd like to think that some of that other work has made a difference. Regardless, it's really fun to see them reading and responding to my posts as a fellow writer and fellow member of our class community.

This morning, when I logged into our class blog to approve comments, this sweet one was waiting for me on the post where I link to my posts here, in response to yesterday's reflection on writing and running, and identity:
Don't you just love that she's encouraging me and giving me advice? She's one of my squad leaders, and I just chose her for our school's special "Celebration of Excellence" award. See why? She has been a major turning point in our class.
"You are one of my biggest examples in life, therefore I believe if you could do something I could do something as you do!" Her words echo in my head.

This is why I teach. This is why I write. This is why I share my reader-writer-learner self-who-is-working-to-get-better with my students.

Tuesday, March 13, 2018

Writer! Runner?

Day 13 of 31 at TWT!
Some of you know that I've been trying to be a runner. Or, if I'm using the same logic that Stacey Shubitz taught us years ago about being writers, I suppose I AM a runner. If a writer is a person who writes (as opposed to a "real" published writer), then a runner is a person who runs, right? And I run three times a week. Not particularly fast, and not particularly far, but I run.

I'm not sure why I can so easily call myself a writer but find it so hard to try on the identity of "runner".

Partly, it feels like I should be good at something in order to own that title. I know I'm good at writing. I've gotten feedback throughout my life that I'm good at writing in a variety of situations, so I know other people also believe I'm good at writing. Therefore, I'm a writer.

I'm not particularly good at running, although I'm not overly bad either. (In fact, I've even gotten encouraging feedback that I run like a runner!) But with running, I feel like I need to achieve some sort of objective accomplishment to claim the title of "runner". If I can run an __-minute mile, I'll be a real runner. If I I can run a 5K someday, I'll be a real runner. Right? Yet, I don't feel like I need to publish a book to call myself a writer. I don't tell myself that because I "only" write blog posts, I'm not a writer. I don't believe there's some sort of objective number of posts per week that I have to write in order to be a writer.

I don't do that with any other title I claim. I don't feel like I'm not a reader if I don't read a certain amount of pages every week. No matter what, I'm a marching band girl, even though the most we've participated in the Alumni Band lately is a couple of parades.

Ultimately, I think the difference is that writing has felt like a piece of my heart for so long that it really is an integral part of who I am. I pretty much can't not write. As long as I can remember, I've kept a notepad by my bed for those times when I wake up in the middle of the night with a burning idea that I JUST HAVE TO WRITE, right then. I often decide to write "just a short post" and find myself coming up for air an hour and a half later, shaking myself back into the real world like I've been in some kind of haze. I've always been a writer.

This running thing is new. It doesn't pull at my heart like writing does. I certainly don't wake up in the middle of the night with a sudden urge to go running! Sometimes, I look ahead and think, "Ugh, I have to run again tomorrow." But even as I think that, I'll flex my muscles and feel a slight pulse, like my legs and arms are saying, "Let's go!" I'll feel a little tightness in my muscles or notice them getting stronger and more defined, and I'll stand up a little straighter and walk with a little more pride, wishing I was wearing a sign that said "I'M A RUNNER NOW!" so everyone could see the small differences I feel. I'll start to feel bogged down with the stress of school and life and my thoughts will shift to, "Oh good, I'm running tomorrow!" as I anticipate that glorious clear-headed floating feeling that's an added bonus to just plain running the knots out.

So I suppose it pulls at my heart, but differently. I have to make myself run... but I sometimes have to make myself write, too! That just means it's hard, not that it's not part of who I am. It's a newer part of who I am, but I watch students become readers and writers in my class every year, and I don't discount their new identities. If I feel moved to write poetry about it, it has absolutely taken hold in my heart.

I write. I am a writer. I run. I am a runner.

Saturday, March 10, 2018

Bouncing bee-boppers

Day 10 of 31 at TWT!
"Do you remember what we're going to do today?" It's 6:30 a.m. on a Saturday and a small person has scampered into our room, but I don't quite mind today.

A wider grin slowly creeps across Sweetie's face and she raises her eyebrows in expectation. "Go to the pancake breakfast!"

"That's right! And what will we do at the pancake breakfast?"

"Eat green syrup! With Granddaddy! I love Granddaddy!"

We choose our greenest clothes, bead necklaces, and "bee-boppers", grab warm coats and blankets for the parade, put on Irish songs in the car, and head down to my old middle school. "This was Mommy's school in two ways: Mommy was a student here and a teacher here!" So many memories always hit me when we walk through those doors, but today is really all about family traditions.

Oh boy, green syrup!
The breakfast is put on by the Lion's Club, so there's always a friendly lion!
She loves Irish songs so much I had to download a bunch after the Irish Festival this summer!
"A great big hat!"
What's coming now?
Bagpipes!
"Look, Granddaddy!"
"What was your favorite thing?" "The dragon!!!"
I've loved our town's St. Patrick's celebration for longer than I can remember, but it's so much sweeter to share it with a pair of bouncing bee-boppers on a little blonde head!

Friday, March 9, 2018

Stepping out of the past

Day 9 of 31 at TWT!
"I remember this room!" A cheerful voice from behind my shoulder pulls me out of responding to student work.

Spinning my chair around, I have to blink to make sure my eyes are really seeing what they thought they saw: I am greeted by an almost-ghost: one of my former students from nearly 6 years ago, my first year teaching ELLs. "Oh my gosh! How ARE you?!" His first name pops into my head almost instantly, but I don't want to mess up, and my brain is spinning excessively, so I hold off for a minute as I scan him to figure out what on earth he's doing here.

"I'm working as an interpreter now! I had a meeting here, and I figured I'd stop by!" Taller, skinnier, exuding more confidence and insight than I ever would have imagined back then... but that slightly ornery twinkle is still hiding in the corner of his eye.

I wasn't sure this kid would make it. He was so sweet, but would barely do any work. He failed the last quarter of my class that year, and you have to try pretty darn hard to fail my class. The next fall, I found out he'd moved out of state over the summer, and I figured that was it. Now, here he was, all grown up into a young man with an agency interpreter ID badge around his neck. Did he really make it through high school?

"So you're back around here? I remember you'd moved to Georgia, right? How do you like being back?"

He talks enthusiastically about his interpreter job, then explains that he's been back here for just a few months and just started working at a local restaurant with another of my former students. "She said you come there a lot, so I knew you were still here, and after my meeting, I thought I'd see if you were down here!"

"I'm so glad you stopped in, R.!" I slip in his name now to make sure he knows I remember. How do I gently find out what I really want to know? "So, are you taking classes or anything?"

He sighs. "I actually dropped out of high school down there. I made it to my junior year, but money was tight, and I had to choose between school and work... I chose work. Besides, I was failing. I didn't want to do any schoolwork." Yep, that's the kid I was worried about. "You know, here, I felt like I had teachers pushing me to keep going. But down there, nobody cared. If I wanted to just sit in class and sleep, that was my choice, they told me."

"I'm sorry, R." If he would have stayed here, would we have gotten him through? I'm trying to reconcile that struggling kid with the mature young man standing in front of me. "But you've obviously have made some good choices to get yourself to where you are now!"

"Everything was so expensive there! My brother and I were working two construction jobs, and there still wasn't enough at the end of the month. So I came back here, and now I have my own apartment, and I'm doing mostly medical interpreting. I'm trying to study these manuals with only a 10th-grade education. But I really like it. These people, their stories are always different. The reason they call is the same, but what led to their need is always something different!"

His brother... "That's great! I'm so proud of you! How is G., anyway?"

His smile disappears. "You're not going to like this..." he looks sideways. "He turned into a drug addict. He's got all these tattoos all over now. If you saw him, you wouldn't even recognize him."

I put my hand over my mouth. "Oh, R! I'm so sorry." Out of the two of them, I thought his brother was the one who'd end up being successful. He had his rough spots, but he seemed so much more driven.

"I'm the only one who came back. My mom and everyone else are still down there. It's hard, because I'm alone, but I'm getting along."

My heart is starting to shred itself. That chubby, ornery kid, all grown up by things too hard to bear, doing his very best in spite of it all. One of my colleagues is at the door, waiting to update me on a new student, so I have to say goodbye to this almost-ghost from a past that seems very long ago to me, but probably so much longer ago to him. "I'm so glad you stopped by. You should be so proud of everything you're doing. I'll see you at the restaurant sometime soon!"

The rest of the night, I keep remembering snippets that year: him asking if I liked "kids like [them]",  discovering that "reading a book is just like watching TV", joking and making our class more fun. Me diving into the world of ELL, shocked at how hard our students work just to get by, frustrated by just how daunting this job is, amazed at their resilience through unspeakable challenges, and trying to establish myself as a teacher of readers and writers. I've grown so much as a teacher since then, but some things never change: it's kids like him who are really teaching me.

Wednesday, March 7, 2018

A million times

Day 7 of 31 at TWT!
Fingers splayed, scrawny arms locked straight and opened wide, straining against her carseat straps, M&M's eyes crinkle as a huge grin displays her perfect teeth. I've just flipped back my seat to reach across and let her out of the car, but instead I find myself climbing into the backseat. Who could resist those outstretched little arms?

"Mmmm, I love you, Mommy! I love you a million times!" she squeals, yanking my neck to smush my head against her face. "I miss you when you're at work!"

"Awww, I love you too, Sweetie! And I miss you when I'm at work!" I pat her soft hair, close my eyes, breathe deeply to capture the scent of watermelon shampoo, and relish her little wriggles as she continues murmuring, "Mmm, I love you!"

Later, as I'm halfway through dinner, the clattering of toy kitchen tools, balls, and musical toys comes to an abrupt halt. Thud-thud-thud-thud-thud. "Who wants a sticker?"

"Oh, I would love a sticker!" I keep stirring the ground beef that's browning on the stove.

Thud-thud-thud-thud-thud. A blonde blur presses a crinkly rectangle against my hip. Thud-thud-thud-thud-thud. "Who would like another sticker?"

"Oh boy, sure! I love stickers!"

Thud-thud-thud-thud-thud. (Whoever coined the phrase, "the pitter-patter of little feet" had never met my daughter. She only has one speed, and it does not result in a soft pitter-patter!) Little fingers smooth another rectangle onto my back.

By the time the shepherd's pie is in the oven, I'm a masterpiece of My Little Pony-themed modern art.

"I gave you lots of stickers 'cause you love stickers!" She is so proud to be able to make me happy. I'm so proud that she's so sweet.
Well decorated... I ended up discovering 12 when I peeled them off just now!
"I love you, Mommy! I love you a million times!"

Tuesday, March 6, 2018

Rising strong anyway

Day 6 of 31 at TWT!
Last night I went running instead of blogging. On purpose. I did not write, on only the 5th day of the March Challenge. I chose not to write.

That's a big deal for me, the ultimate perfectionist. To make a conscious decision to not be perfect. I was perfect for the first 3 Marches I blogged. Then, when I was pregnant with my daughter, I was decidedly not perfect. I just couldn't be, for a variety of reasons, and that was hard. However, I did write 14 posts and ended up feeling proud of myself anyway, because it was much better than not trying at all.

The next March, when she was 10 months old, I somehow managed to be perfect again! I have no idea how I pulled that off! It seems so impossible that I actually didn't remember doing it until I looked at my archives today to see how many posts I'd written the past few Marches. Did I seriously blog for 31 days in a row with a baby while still teaching full-time? I apparently did, because there they all are! (Clearly, that whole year was such a whirlwind that I have no recollection of that accomplishment though, so...)

Then there was last year. We won't even talk about last year. 9 posts total, and none in March. (I also didn't remember that until I looked back at my archives... how did I not even manage to write a single post all month?! How on earth did I talk to my students about writing if I wasn't doing it myself? I mean, I know it was a rough time, but yikes!)

And here we are, in 2018. Could I have written a post last night and pushed myself to write every single day this March? Yes, but I chose balance instead.

To write last night, I would have had to miss out on:

  • reading and responding to incredible student slices and sending them out for our staff to read
  • spending quality time with Little Sweetie before dinner ("Mommy, can we read this book together? Mommy, can you play with me? Mommy, can we snuggle on the snuggle couch and watch Daniel Tiger? ")
  • running (and therefore feeling like SuperGirl!)
  • a glorious bubble bath after running
  • texting my best friend to support him through a challenge, as he has for me so many times
  • snuggling up to Husband to scroll through the photos of Sweetie that my mom posted while we were at work
  • enough sleep (honestly, this still didn't even quite happen!)

Could I have written, and missed some of that? Yes. Would it have been worth it? No way.

One of my colleagues loves to say that being elite is being the best version of you. In a discussion after school today, he reminded a group of us again that if you are seriously doing everything you can to be your best, then you are working to be elite. It's not about outside markers of success or how you compare to other people. It's about doing your work relentlessly, to be incrementally better every day, not just in one part of your life, but in all the parts that matter most.

So I'm not perfect this year, but I am doing my absolute best. And that's actually better than when I was perfect.

Right now, my best is to make time for writing every day that I can do it without sacrificing something else essential. To avoid the trap of perfectionism and roll all of my "one little words" from the past few years together: to LOVE hard and stay STRONG, ANYWAY, and to RISE in all areas of my life.

Sunday, March 4, 2018

Finding their voices

Day 4 of 31 at TWT! 
"So we can write about anything?" Gears are obviously turning in D.'s head as she stares at her blank heart map.

I grin. "Pretty much! Anything about your life or a topic that's important enough to you that it's part of your life!"

"What about a political topic? Like, there are wars some places that nobody cares about, like Venezuela and Palestine?"

I nod, knowing that even though she lived in Jordan for a longer time, Palestine is closest to her heart. "Of course! This is a chance for you to tell those stories and make your voices heard!"

This year, as my students started brainstorming ideas for the Slice of Life Challenge, I shared a few of my favorite quotes about writing, including this one from Neil Gaiman: "Tell your story. Don't try and tell the stories that other people can tell... But as quickly as you can, start telling the stories only you can tell -- because there will always be better writers than you, there will always be smarter writers than you, but you are the only you."

And wow, have they taken that to heart right away! Often, it takes awhile before anyone writes a truly courageous, serious post, and students are usually reluctant to publish publicly instead of just within our class.

Not this year! Not only do these students have stories truly only they can tell, they are not afraid to share them! S. has followed up her first poignant post about life in Syria (you know, the one that had me sobbing at my desk!) with a riveting cliff-hanger that makes me keep refreshing my feed to see if she's written another post yet. (She's actually drafting it as I write this, but I won't peek until she publishes it!) M. shared his family's memories of the dictatorship in Argentina. D. made her love for Palestine come alive in an alluring description of Jerusalem.

Sometimes it takes days or weeks to get some momentum going for this challenge. Some years, it honestly never really seems to take hold deeply at all, or only a few students really run with it. Many years, I'm excited if one or two students post on the weekends. This weekend, with only two school days of the challenge under their belts, 6 different students have written or drafted a total of 11 posts! The rising tide of student comments from earlier in the semester is still going strong, and a variety of colleagues have left heartfelt words of encouragement, too!

More than any other year, these students are finding their voices. And their voices are incredible.
S.'s reply to my comment on her 1st post... this is why I teach!
D.'s comment to S.'s 2nd post about the war in Syria
S.'s comment to M.'s post about the dictatorship in Argentina

Those who are shocked and incredulous about the Parkland students' gun-reform initiative must not have spent much time getting to know teenagers. Teenagers are resilient, hopeful, determined, and all-around amazing, especially once they realize the power of their own voices. I'm proud and honored to work with them every day, and I'm so excited to go to school tomorrow and encourage them to keep sharing their stories!


(If you'd like to leave comments for my students, please do so! Just don't be scared when they seem to disappear -- I just have to approve them!)

Saturday, March 3, 2018

Belief and bravery

Day 3 of 31 at TWT!
"Mrs. M, can you come read this?" H. is staring at a draft on his Chromebook.

"Sure, what's up? Is there a certain part you'd like me to look at?"

"Um..." He hesitantly waves his hand across the whole screen. "I just want you to see if it's ok to post..."

"What?! H?!" I grin incredulously. "Why?! I'm sure it's fine! You're an awesome writer!"

"Well, it's just different than most other things I've written, and I don't know... Maybe it's confusing or something..." His voice trails off.

I peek over his shoulder to scan the first few lines, smiling at the flow of his usual strong, creative voice. Imperfect grammar, as is often the case, but not to the point of distraction or interference with meaning. "You're a good writer. Go ahead and publish it!" I nudge his elbow with mine and circulate back to another part of the room.

Later, as we're transitioning to the next activity, I notice that his Chromebook is still open, with that draft still sitting there. "H! You still didn't publish that? Push that button!"

"I, um..."

His squad leader D. leans across the table, smoothing her hijab. "What's going on?"

"H. is having trouble convincing himself to publish his post."

"You're such a good writer!" she exclaims, eyes lighting up. "Before I knew you [we've only been in these squad groups this semester], when Mrs. M would have us leave comments, I'd always look for your posts first! I don't know why, I mean..." She takes a deep breath, as if momentarily realizing that this is not the kind of thing most high schoolers say to each other, but then plunges ahead. "Your writing is really fun to read!"

He shifts in his seat, then reaches toward his Chromebook. "Really?"

"See?!" I grin at him, then turn to D. with an overflowing heart. I can't believe she just said that! I love these kids, and I love what blogging does for our classroom community. "Thank you for those kind words, D. That was really nice of you."

I open my stance to address the whole class. "You guys don't need me to tell you that your writing is ok. Be brave! Put it out there!" But then I fix my eyes back on H. "But sometimes I'm scared to hit that publish button, too! I still have days that I have to sit and stare at the screen for awhile, take some deep breaths, and talk myself into pushing that button! It's a big deal, sharing your words with the world! But it's also really awesome."