Baby, You're a Firework

Our family recently got a dog. We rescued him from a local shelter and he has apparently never lived in a home before. He is skittish and nervous. He is perplexed by our TV. He paces and flinches and cowers at noises despite our constant assurances that we are his people. My husband calls him 50 First Dates because every morning we start over- walking and petting, brushing and reassuring, hoping that today will be the day that he settles down and gets on with the business of being part of our family.

Yesterday was a great day. We even got him in the living room with us as we were watching a movie and the kids had him running around in the backyard before bedtime. And then...somebody started shooting off fireworks.

Suffice it to say that he couldn't get in the house soon enough. He wedged his way under our bed and did not come out until this morning. He whimpered, covered his face, and no promise of treats could assuage him out from under the bed. This morning, as I laid there aware of his presence under us, I kept humming Katy Perry's song, "Firework." I thought about how that song is supposed to be empowering and liberating. My nine year-old daughter belts it out as an anthem. It's a great song...if you like fireworks.

But what if you hate fireworks?

If there's one thing I have learned as an instructional coach, it is that disagreement is just part of life. Some people love flexible seating, some think it's distracting. Some educators are frightened of technology, some embrace every device, app, and extension that is tweeted out. Some teachers lean toward literacy, some math. There are leaders who are outspoken and boisterous, others prefer a more quiet approach.

And what if we pan out past the educators in a school building and look closely at the kids? My daughter and son are as different as two students can be. The needs, preferences, and learning styles of kids in any given classroom are as varied as the adults in the building. Teachers often lament how difficult it is to differentiate for each student. Not just the kiddos with IEPs and 504 plans, or those with a GT label or medical considerations, but all the kids. My son has a GT label, but my daughter does not. Don't I want her teachers to consider her needs just as much as a kid that is identified with a label? Don't all of our children deserve to be planned for, thought of, and honored as we make educational decisions?

As we gear up for another busy end-of-year season, it is my hope that we will all work a little harder to consider the perspectives of the people we encounter each day. It is so hard to look past the bubble of our classroom, our office, our laptop, but may we work towards empathy, understanding, and grace as we work to provide students (and adults) with the best educational experience possible. I want to support those who love technology and those that are frightened by it. I will extend support to the teacher that asks for help and the one who won't ask, but will accept it if I offer it. I will try and anticipate the fears, hopes, and dreams of all of the people with whom I work, and if someone needs to hide under the bed for awhile when things get overwhelming, that's OK.

But, I will be there when they decide to come out.

The Space Between: Dave Matthews and Public Education

I am a word girl. I appreciate stories and poems and lyrics and speeches. I love reading clever books, I enjoy snarky stand-up, and I love having fast-paced conversations with people who are smart and sharp and funny. I treasure the familiar refrains of stories I have read to children for years and years; the two that I have raised, and the countless others that I have loved, fought for, even grieved over, one academic year at a time. I even asked a new teacher this week if I could share a Valentine read-aloud with her class because the thought of not reading Roses are Pink, Your Feet Really Stink by Diane deGroat to a class for the first time in 18 years almost made me weepy.

Every once in awhile, however, familiar pedagogy collides with satellite radio, and a song I have heard over and over finds me in a new way. Perhaps a result of nostalgia or frustration or grief, maybe a byproduct of love or hopefulness or joy, a song will sometimes reach out and pull at the parts of me that I often hide- from my acquaintances, my friends, and maybe even myself. Not to sound dramatic (ha), but songs get to me. I will laugh out loud at a lyric and I will silently sob to a song that hits me in a weird way, whether it be from my past, my present, or what I think may be my future.

Today, I heard, "The Space Between," by Dave Matthews. A song originally released just two years into my teaching career hit me in a new way as it played in my car leaving the school parking lot. As an instructional coach, I have so many opportunities to experience the things that are hard about education. Too many expectations, too little time, too many meetings, not enough funding for resources or training or support. Teachers are often exhausted and struggle with EVER PRESENT guilt: they feel guilty that they are not doing more for their students, or they feel guilty that doing it means they are not devoting fair amounts of time to their own lives: their own families and friends and interests.

Teachers have to battle with the expectations of a Pinterest world: perfect lessons and papers with darling fonts, activities that are inquiry-based and hands-on and differentiated and scaffolded. Classrooms must be stocked with materials that are pleasing to the eye and functional, but not cluttered. Oh, and buy all the materials yourself, because the bookshelf that comes with the classroom is nice, but the alphabet that hangs on the wall must be purchased by the teacher. The school day must include enough movement opportunities to meet the needs of your kinesthetic learners, but three others prefer calm, quiet environments, so kindly do your part to meet the needs of each child's unique learning style. Please also make kids care about non-renewable resources, dividing decimals, and that M really does come before N in the alphabet. And do it with a smile, with an even, composed spirit, and answer all of the e-mails you get about transportation changes and reading level changes and home-life changes in a timely manner. And do not mix anything up.

What does this have to do with Dave Matthews? Nothing really, except that the teachers I know keep showing up for more. Some move locations and some move on, but very few of the people I do education with can stay away from school. WHY? Why do so many teachers stay, when it's such an overwhelming career?

"The Space Between."

It really makes such good, good sense. 

"You cannot quit me so quickly...The space between the tears we cry, is the laughter that keeps us coming back for more."

I love school. I love talking to kids and the adults that care for them each day. Today I got to hear about stock shows and fractions and how to find the main idea and what sound the sh-digraph makes. I got to give no less than 76 hugs to kids that think I am a custodian because I help with lunch duty. I got to help a gravel-dusted boy get an ice pack, hold a baby brother, and calm a mom who was having a hard time with her kindergartner having a hard time.

And I laughed. I laughed with teachers and parents and to myself as I overheard kid conversations at lunch and while fifth graders filmed a PSA about renewable energy sources. I was photobombed by a former student. A first grader snuck up behind me to scare me. Awhile back, I wrote a post that explored the identity crisis I was facing as I prepared to leave the classroom. It has been hard and weird. It has also been rewarding and exciting and so fascinating. I have learned SO STINKING MUCH. What has surprised me the most is that there is a much broader picture now that my world is over 600 children instead of just 22. I have learned that it takes parents and teachers and administrators and support staff to provide an environment that is good for kids. I was recently reminded by an education mentor that, "You're not a fixer. You're a leader. Lead people to love this profession again."

Beautiful, right? It's the space between. 

"The space between the bullets in our firefight is where I'll be hiding, waiting for you." 

I have chosen to believe that means that with all that is wrong in education, there is so very much that is right. The right people. The right passion. Finding the joy in a job that matters. Because our kids matter. They deserve grown-ups that will fight. Maybe not with fire, but with a burning desire to try. To the teachers and the others that I serve in this position that I am still struggling to figure out, what I can promise is the last line of the first stanza of a song that hit me today...

"But I got all the time for you, Love,"

Who am I, if not a Teacher?

This is first day fake. My desk only looked like that for 13 minutes.

I am a teacher. It is not just what I do, it is who I am. I gather books and resources all summer long, I write student names on desk tags and bulletin boards and folders and notebooks. I read reports, I input grades, I make phone calls, I pour my heart and soul into twenty two lives a year. I carefully watch for what students will not show, I listen closely to what students will not say, and I love. I love on those kids so hard that when our time together is finished, I am emotionally depleted, mentally exhausted, but wholly satisfied that the way I have chosen to spend my days, my months, my years...has mattered.

“You’re such a natural teacher,” people say.

No. It’s not natural. Intentional, maybe. Pre-ordained, possibly. But, in no way is this career choice, “natural.” To choose minds over money. Fulfillment over power. Disrespect over accolades. It is not easy to neglect your own children for those belonging to other people. It is not normal to go to work sick because there are not enough substitutes. It is not natural to spend your own money to buy books or use your vacation money to go to professional training because you know it will benefit your students, but the system does not have the money to send you.

Dave Burgess, author of, “Teach Like a Pirate,” says,

“I’ve worked my butt off to build a class that is outrageously engaging, fun, educationally sound, and dearly loved by students. It wasn’t easy when I started, it wasn’t easy last week, and it won’t be easy next week either. It’s not supposed to be easy–it’s supposed to be worth it. You can build something incredible if you put the effort in on the front end, and then keep putting the effort in until you turn the lights off and close your door for the last time. But it won’t be, “easy.”

So then, what if I have turned the lights off and closed the door for the last time? I have accepted a new position as an instructional coach, which means I will work with teachers, but I will not have my own classroom of kids. I will still have lights. I think I will still have a door. But who am I if I no longer have a class of twenty two babies wearing my name on the back of their class T-shirts? What is my purpose if I am not at my classroom door each morning, welcoming children, asking about baseball games and dance recitals, calming worried parents or consoling kids who had a rough morning? Will my work still matter if I cannot easily point to a moment when I was there the first time a child found a book they loved or used manners when they asked for something, or found a calm way to disagree with a peer? What about on field day during tug-of-war? Somebody hold me.

I mean, seriously.

As I transition into a new position, a new career, a new role, I find myself with more questions than answers. I am more nervous than self-assured. Let’s just be real- I am actually scared to death. Even though teaching has never been, “easy,” it has provided me with things I have come to value: structure, routine, predictability, a reason to buy school supplies…

For now, I am enjoying working with the Central Texas Writing Project at Texas State University, where my summer days are spent in professional development sessions, journal writing, participating in demonstration lessons presented by committed, brave teachers who are putting the needs of themselves and their students at the forefront. I am presenting, reading books, having collegial conversations, eating all kinds of naughty foods, and laughing about this ridiculous job that I love.

Mayson and I (One of my former third graders)

But when August comes, and you see me wandering around in the school supply aisle at Target, or through the halls at Back-to-School night, please avoid direct eye contact. You can smile and shoulder-pat, even ask how my summer went or where the 4th grade hall is located. But, please do not let your gaze linger...because if you really look closely, you will see a teacher without a class who will be desperately searching for her place in this world.