In recent years, a number of people have mistaken me for one of my brothers. I suppose it’s easy to do. All three of us stand a little more than six feet tall, have brown hair, and have voices that are eerily similar. The other mistake people make is assuming that two of us are actually twins. Now this is one that I don’t quite understand. It’s one thing to mix up a name, but to wonder if we’re twins is a bit of a stretch.
I’ve had people ask if Mike and I are twins, even though he’s five years older and we look alike about as much as Ben and Casey Affleck do. People have also thought that Bobby and I are twins, despite the fact that we’re actually six years apart and that Bobby has roughly 8% of the amount of facial hair that I have.
Seriously, if only I had a dollar for every time someone has assumed that two of us were actually twins…
I’d have somewhere in the neighborhood of $14.
Unfortunately, as his memory has slowly deteriorated over the last decade, my granddad has become someone who has frequently mistaken us for one another. A few years ago I walked up to him, and his first question was, “How are the stocks?”, a question meant for Mike, the Chicago businessman. I politely reminded him that he was talking to me, the schoolteacher. Then, there was the birthday letter he wrote to me two years ago. Halfway through the letter, he began asking me questions about college that were actually meant for Bobby, who was attending the University of Nebraska-Lincoln at the time. Thankfully, Granddad’s learned not to worry about it too much when he confuses us brothers for one another. Internally, I can tell he feels terrible, yet he smiles, laughs, and doesn’t allow it to get in the way of spending time with his grandsons. This is a lesson I’ll get back to in a minute.
During my time as a teacher, I’ve learned that I too can be mistaken. One instance involves two mischievous seven-year old boys and a surprising vocabulary. The second is a rather sad realization that I’ve made during the first two weeks of the current school year.
We’ll start with the story of the two boys. Like I did last week, I’ll use different names for the students I mention in order to protect them from the attention they may otherwise receive when this blog becomes an international success (I was hoping it would have by now. Perhaps one of these days a reader from a city like Copenhagen will post a comment about what an awesome blog this is, and then we’ll all celebrate).
It was late April of my second year of teaching, and I was attempting to teach my first graders about American Indians one afternoon. We were learning about what they did for food, shelter, clothes, etc. As I stood in front of the class trying my best to keep their attention from wandering to the recess that was quickly approaching, William raised his hand to tell me that his mom spoke the language of the Cherokee people. William had a habit for coming up with elaborate stories that he would try to convince the class were absolutely true. He had been doing this all year, and I had learned that if I called him out on it, he’d then try to pass it off as a joke that he was trying to pull on the rest of the class. When he made the claim that his mother could speak Cherokee, I couldn’t help but laugh. (At that point in the year, I’d gotten to know his mom and knew there was about a 0.2% chance that his claim was true). I then responded with a sarcastic, “Oh, really?” William, realizing that there was no way of backing up his statement, began to laugh. The rest of the class started laughing as well.
Among the other students was a boy named Matthew. Now, you have to know that Matthew was about as ornery as they come, was incredibly impulsive, and possessed one of the biggest hearts of any student I’ve had. As William and the rest of the class began laughing, Matthew, with his back turned to William, shouted what I thought was an insult that shouldn’t be in the vocabulary of a seven-year old (or anyone else’s for that matter). In the interest of being politically correct, I won’t write what I thought was said. Let’s just say that what I thought I heard starts with an F and rhymes with quag.
Instinctually, I said, “Matthew, you can’t say something like that.” Matthew then turned around with a grin spread from ear to ear and said, “What?! I called him a fab. You know, a fabricator!”
Needless to say, I was more than a little relieved. Here it was, I was about to reprimand Matthew for saying a word that he had no business using, and it turned out that he had actually used a word I couldn’t believe he knew and understood well enough to use it in proper context. My guess is, given his orneriness, he’d been called a “fab” once or twice himself.
I wish I had a funny story for every time I’ve been mistaken in the classroom. In a previous post, I mentioned my interest in teaching in a diverse environment and how that desire played an important role in my decision to accept a job at Franklin Elementary in Omaha.
When the annual state reading scores were made public last week, I realized the mistake I’d made. The Omaha World Herald included a breakdown of how the 145 elementary schools in Douglas and Sarpy counties had scored. While I was surprised at just how low Franklin scored (we were 143rd), something other than our score was what truly caught my attention. The far right-hand column of the report listed the percentage of low-income students for each school. Do you know where Franklin ranked? In a competition no one wants to win, we came in first with 96% of our students coming from low-income households.
Think about that for a minute. That means 96% of students attending Franklin are eligible for free or reduced lunches. It also means that most of the entire school eats breakfast in the school’s cafeteria every morning. Sadly, for some students breakfast is the first meal they’ve had since lunch the previous day.
Here it was I thought I was going to a school where everyone was going to be different. Unfortunately, the poverty in which most of the students come from makes them similar.
Like Granddad, I’ve learned that being mistaken can be something to laugh about, and, as I’m learning this year, it can also be something that tears you up inside. The key is to follow Granddad’s lead. If I can’t smile and get on with the day, then what good would I be to my kids. Their lives are hard enough already. They don’t need to deal with their teacher getting choked up every time he thinks about the difficulties they're faced with on a daily basis.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Sunday, August 22, 2010
No Balance Palace
When I made the decision to start this blog, I made a personal vow to keep any form of venting to an absolute minimum. Complaining rarely ever accomplishes anything other than being divisive, and it’s usually a road to unhappiness and discontent. In my relatively brief time as a teacher (going on six years), I’ve seen the effects of negativity on the overall morale of a school building. It can seep in slowly at first, and before long, people are avoiding the staff lounge at all costs, eating lunch in their rooms, and exchanging only the occasional, half-hearted, “Hey, how’s it going?” as they pass one another in the hall.
On the flipside, I’ve also seen what positivity and frequent, clear communication amongst staff can do for a learning environment. Students are happier, parents are happier, and teachers and administrators are happier. Everyone wins. Therefore, I want to refrain from turning this blog into my soapbox for everything that I find to be wrong with education.
And truth be told, I also happen to want you to continue coming back to read what I have to say, so I’ll do my best to keep it positive, constructive, and, with some help from my students, a place to read some rather entertaining and crazy stories.
Having said all of that, from time to time I will walk the fine line between constructive criticism and complaining. This happens to be one of those times.
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
January 8, 2002 is a date that lives in infamy in education circles across this fine country of ours (given that this blog is barely a week old, I’m guessing none of you guys live outside the U.S. Perhaps by next week the blog will be read internationally). That day was the final step in the lawmaking process for one of this country’s most well-intended, yet completely misguided, attempts at “fixing” the American educational system.
It’s a law that is so despised by teachers that its name is rarely spoken by educators everywhere. It’s become the Lord Voldemort of public education.
That’s right. I’m talking about the one and only, No Child Left Behind.
Without going too in depth, No Child Left Behind is the cause behind the annoyingly heavy burden of assessments that educators constantly shoulder as they balance all of the other responsibilities that come along with helping students succeed. And tied ever so tightly to the assessments is a large portion of the funding that is vital to the ability of a school to function properly.
Now, I know I promised to avoid falling into the trap of complaining and venting. Therefore, it’s at this point that I’d like to introduce to you an incredibly likable student I had my first year of teaching.
In the interest of protecting the student’s identity when this blog becomes an international success next week, I’ll be considerate and refer to him as Caleb.
Caleb possessed one of the most unique and magnetic personalities of any student I’ve been around. To go with his electric personality, he had an adorable mop of long, curly blonde hair that he frequently had to brush out of his blue eyes. Caleb stood a few inches shorter than most of his classmates, but his attitude and nonstop enthusiasm made up for his lack of height.
What made Caleb’s outlook even more admirable was the fact that he was living with a neurological disorder that affected his ability to learn. Despite his eagerness, learning was not something that came easily for him. The majority of his school day was spent struggling to learn and remember concepts many of his classmates had very little trouble with.
Fortunately, there was one part of school that Caleb truly excelled at more than his fellow first graders.
The subject: Recess.
You see, when it came to making friends and interacting in a social setting like recess, Caleb’s personality allowed him to thrive. On some days, recess was the only part of the school day that offered Caleb a chance to experience success like an average 6-year old.
In late April of Caleb’s first grade year, I received a phone call from his mom a couple of minutes before school was to start. If I remember correctly, it was the first time all year that she had initiated a phone conversation, so I was a bit caught off guard. She began the conversation by apologizing for bothering me and then asked if I’d noticed Caleb having “accidents” at school. She said that he hadn’t had any trouble with it until recently. She also mentioned that she was dealing with the same issue when Caleb went to play at the park. On more than one occasion, he’d been too busy playing to stop and run home to use the bathroom.
She was slightly embarrassed to be calling to talk to me about such an issue, but I assured her that accidents in first grade aren’t completely uncommon. At the same time, I was feeling like a fool for having failed to notice the times an accident had occurred at school.
In order to help solve the problem, I told Caleb’s mom that I would simply make sure he went to the bathroom before going out to each recess. She thought that sounded like a good idea, and we ended the conversation both hoping that it would help prevent any further personal hygiene issues.
When it came time for the class to go outside for morning recess, I asked Caleb if he needed to use the bathroom. He said he did, so he stopped by the restroom on our way outside. Then, as lunch recess approached, I once again asked Caleb if he needed to use the bathroom before going outside to play. Once again, he said he did, so he ran to use it before heading outside.
When afternoon recess rolled around, I had forgotten about the arrangement I’d made with Caleb’s mom until I was holding the door open as my first graders were sprinting outside towards the playground. Caleb happened to be at the back of the line, so I was able to catch him before he made the mad dash to the monkey bars. I said, “Hey Caleb, do you need to use the bathroom?” I’ll never forget what happened next.
Caleb looked at me with the most astounded look on his face before practically screaming, “How do you always know?!”
He quickly went back inside, used the bathroom, and the accident prevention plan was successful the rest of the year.
At this point, you may be wondering what Caleb and the story of my mind reading abilities have to do with Lord Voldemort (a.k.a. No Child Left Behind). The answer is, the story really doesn’t have anything to do with it. On the other hand, Caleb and the success a kid like him experiences at recess is becoming an unfortunate afterthought in the educational system. With so much emphasis placed on what a child is or isn’t able to do academically and little attention given to the social side of education, No Child Left Behind has created an unbalanced educational experience. And correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t the goal of education to prepare our children to become successful members of society? If that’s the case, we should be valuing the social side of school far more than what No Child Left Behind currently allows.
For someone like Caleb, meeting grade-level standards may never be something that is a realistic goal. However, if success is measured by an individual’s level of happiness and fulfillment, Caleb’s personality and ability to relate to others in a social setting will make him as successful as any of us.
On the flipside, I’ve also seen what positivity and frequent, clear communication amongst staff can do for a learning environment. Students are happier, parents are happier, and teachers and administrators are happier. Everyone wins. Therefore, I want to refrain from turning this blog into my soapbox for everything that I find to be wrong with education.
And truth be told, I also happen to want you to continue coming back to read what I have to say, so I’ll do my best to keep it positive, constructive, and, with some help from my students, a place to read some rather entertaining and crazy stories.
Having said all of that, from time to time I will walk the fine line between constructive criticism and complaining. This happens to be one of those times.
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
January 8, 2002 is a date that lives in infamy in education circles across this fine country of ours (given that this blog is barely a week old, I’m guessing none of you guys live outside the U.S. Perhaps by next week the blog will be read internationally). That day was the final step in the lawmaking process for one of this country’s most well-intended, yet completely misguided, attempts at “fixing” the American educational system.
It’s a law that is so despised by teachers that its name is rarely spoken by educators everywhere. It’s become the Lord Voldemort of public education.
That’s right. I’m talking about the one and only, No Child Left Behind.
Without going too in depth, No Child Left Behind is the cause behind the annoyingly heavy burden of assessments that educators constantly shoulder as they balance all of the other responsibilities that come along with helping students succeed. And tied ever so tightly to the assessments is a large portion of the funding that is vital to the ability of a school to function properly.
Now, I know I promised to avoid falling into the trap of complaining and venting. Therefore, it’s at this point that I’d like to introduce to you an incredibly likable student I had my first year of teaching.
In the interest of protecting the student’s identity when this blog becomes an international success next week, I’ll be considerate and refer to him as Caleb.
Caleb possessed one of the most unique and magnetic personalities of any student I’ve been around. To go with his electric personality, he had an adorable mop of long, curly blonde hair that he frequently had to brush out of his blue eyes. Caleb stood a few inches shorter than most of his classmates, but his attitude and nonstop enthusiasm made up for his lack of height.
What made Caleb’s outlook even more admirable was the fact that he was living with a neurological disorder that affected his ability to learn. Despite his eagerness, learning was not something that came easily for him. The majority of his school day was spent struggling to learn and remember concepts many of his classmates had very little trouble with.
Fortunately, there was one part of school that Caleb truly excelled at more than his fellow first graders.
The subject: Recess.
You see, when it came to making friends and interacting in a social setting like recess, Caleb’s personality allowed him to thrive. On some days, recess was the only part of the school day that offered Caleb a chance to experience success like an average 6-year old.
In late April of Caleb’s first grade year, I received a phone call from his mom a couple of minutes before school was to start. If I remember correctly, it was the first time all year that she had initiated a phone conversation, so I was a bit caught off guard. She began the conversation by apologizing for bothering me and then asked if I’d noticed Caleb having “accidents” at school. She said that he hadn’t had any trouble with it until recently. She also mentioned that she was dealing with the same issue when Caleb went to play at the park. On more than one occasion, he’d been too busy playing to stop and run home to use the bathroom.
She was slightly embarrassed to be calling to talk to me about such an issue, but I assured her that accidents in first grade aren’t completely uncommon. At the same time, I was feeling like a fool for having failed to notice the times an accident had occurred at school.
In order to help solve the problem, I told Caleb’s mom that I would simply make sure he went to the bathroom before going out to each recess. She thought that sounded like a good idea, and we ended the conversation both hoping that it would help prevent any further personal hygiene issues.
When it came time for the class to go outside for morning recess, I asked Caleb if he needed to use the bathroom. He said he did, so he stopped by the restroom on our way outside. Then, as lunch recess approached, I once again asked Caleb if he needed to use the bathroom before going outside to play. Once again, he said he did, so he ran to use it before heading outside.
When afternoon recess rolled around, I had forgotten about the arrangement I’d made with Caleb’s mom until I was holding the door open as my first graders were sprinting outside towards the playground. Caleb happened to be at the back of the line, so I was able to catch him before he made the mad dash to the monkey bars. I said, “Hey Caleb, do you need to use the bathroom?” I’ll never forget what happened next.
Caleb looked at me with the most astounded look on his face before practically screaming, “How do you always know?!”
He quickly went back inside, used the bathroom, and the accident prevention plan was successful the rest of the year.
At this point, you may be wondering what Caleb and the story of my mind reading abilities have to do with Lord Voldemort (a.k.a. No Child Left Behind). The answer is, the story really doesn’t have anything to do with it. On the other hand, Caleb and the success a kid like him experiences at recess is becoming an unfortunate afterthought in the educational system. With so much emphasis placed on what a child is or isn’t able to do academically and little attention given to the social side of education, No Child Left Behind has created an unbalanced educational experience. And correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t the goal of education to prepare our children to become successful members of society? If that’s the case, we should be valuing the social side of school far more than what No Child Left Behind currently allows.
For someone like Caleb, meeting grade-level standards may never be something that is a realistic goal. However, if success is measured by an individual’s level of happiness and fulfillment, Caleb’s personality and ability to relate to others in a social setting will make him as successful as any of us.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
My Old, Familiar Friend
Change. Sometimes it's easy. Sometimes it's not so easy. I'd like to say that I'm always open to change. That I thrive anytime change is involved. That I willingly accept the opportunity to change. The truth is, I'm not all that good at change. What can I say? I'm a creature of habit. Case in point, I've gone to the same dentist my entire life. You may be thinking, "Wow, when was the last time you had your teeth cleaned?" Answer: sometime within the last year. Or, you may be saying to yourself, "What's the big deal? So you've had the same dentist all of your life." Did I mention that the dentist I write of happens to work on smiles in a small town 234 miles from where I currently live? I like to justify it by saying that he's a perfectionist, and that's the type of person I want working on my teeth. While that's true, the fact that it's easiest not to change is just as responsible for my 3-hour drive to get to a dentist appointment.
Last October I sat at my teacher's desk having made it through the worst part of the school year. (Quick tangent - The first quarter of first grade is always the worst. First graders make so much progress during the year that it's a shock to see how helpless the incoming class is at the beginning of the next year. I'm not kidding. Go find any first grade teacher. They'll agree with me. And if they don't, they're lying. Anyway...) As I was logging into my email account, I was thinking about my job and the level of fulfillment it offered. After teaching in Bellevue, NE for a little over four years, I was coming to the conclusion that I had a decent job that was going to allow me to lead a comfortable life. However, I wasn't exactly thrilled by the possibility of waking up 20 years from now in order to teach the same grade, in the same classroom, in the same school. Simply put, my job allowed me to use my ability to relate to kids to earn a paycheck, and that was about it. Then an unexpected thing happened; I realized that my inbox contained a recent email from the human resources department of Omaha Public Schools (OPS).
You see, the previous school year I had mustered up the courage and applied to OPS in an attempt to reverse my life's trend of change resistance. From the moment I began considering a career as a teacher, I had envisioned teaching in an urban setting with a classroom full of students who didn't look, talk, or act like me. A number of schools in OPS fit the description of what I had deemed my ideal classroom, so I had applied. The only problem with my attempt to initiate change had been the fact that I hadn't heard back from OPS. They hadn't even bothered to let me know they'd received my application. I didn't date much in high school or else I'd attempt to illustrate how being rejected by OPS left me feeling just like I did freshman year when I got shot down after asking out (Insert name of girl who looked a little like Katie Holmes).
As the months went by, I grew less and less optimistic about a change in career path. Slowly, I was resigned to the thought that maybe I was just another apple in the gigantic OPS orchard of teaching applicants, and perhaps I wasn't going to get picked.
In all honesty, I felt a slight sense of relief. Not hearing back from OPS would allow me to avoid change for at least a little while longer, and I'd be able to go back to my comfortable existence. At this point, I was growing ever closer to letting go of my dream to teach in an urban school.
Back to October. As I sat at my desk reading the email from OPS, I was pleasantly surprised by the second line. It read:
"Are you interested in remaining in the pool of candidates considered for employment second semester or the 10-11 school year?"
I'd like to say that I immediately replied with an ecstatic "Yes!" Instead, I sat on the email for seven weeks without sending a response. SEVEN WEEKS!! Here it was, I had heard from a school district that could offer me a chance to achieve my dream, and I wasn't sure what I should say. In my head I knew what I should do. I should have sent back a reply as soon as I was finished reading the email. In reality, I was struggling with the idea that I would be faced with my old, familiar friend, change. A reply saying that I would like to be in the "pool of candidates considered for employment" with OPS would potentially be opening up the floodgates for change to come rushing into my life.
The seven weeks I took to respond were spent praying for direction (even though direction was staring me right in the face), talking to my fiance (she couldn't understand my hesitation), and generally trying to figure out why I was taking so long to make a decision that was clearly very simple.
At the end of the seven weeks, I had come to the conclusion that I knew was the right one all along. I responded with an apology for my slow response (an understatement) and said that I would in fact like to remain "in the pool" (If you're like me, upon hearing the word pool, you automatically think of a swimming pool).
A month after I replied to the first email, I received another email asking me to go in for a formal interview. I did so in February of this year, and then spent four months waiting to hear if I was going to be called out of "the pool" and offered a job (Fortunately for me, I wasn't actually in a swimming pool. I'd hate to think how wrinkled my skin would have gotten if I had been waiting in one all of that time).
Anyway, I eventually was offered a job teaching second grade at Franklin Elementary, a school exactly like the one I've had pictured in my head since the day I first considered becoming a teacher. Unlike when I received the first email from OPS, I didn't take seven weeks to accept the job offer. The job was offered on a Thursday, and I called Human Resources on the following Monday to let them know that I would in fact take the position.
So that brings us to the present. It's the eve of the new school year. Since making the commitment to teach at Franklin, my life's been turned over to the uncomfortable force of change. I left a school, colleagues, and students that I was comfortable with and stepped out into the unknown. Somewhere along the way, I realized that, in order to live out my dream, I was going to have to face change head on. I was going to have to embrace change and everything that it would bring with it into my life.
Here I sit with a steady ball of anxiety building in the pit of my stomach. I don't know exactly how this next year is going to play out. I can't say that I know for sure that I'm going to love teaching at Franklin. However, I do know one thing. I won't be spending this year feeling disappointed with myself for letting a dream slowly slip away.
And who do I have to thank for that? Change.
Who knows? If this school year goes well, maybe I'll have to listen to change a little more often. And maybe, just maybe, I'll let it talk me into finding a new dentist.
Last October I sat at my teacher's desk having made it through the worst part of the school year. (Quick tangent - The first quarter of first grade is always the worst. First graders make so much progress during the year that it's a shock to see how helpless the incoming class is at the beginning of the next year. I'm not kidding. Go find any first grade teacher. They'll agree with me. And if they don't, they're lying. Anyway...) As I was logging into my email account, I was thinking about my job and the level of fulfillment it offered. After teaching in Bellevue, NE for a little over four years, I was coming to the conclusion that I had a decent job that was going to allow me to lead a comfortable life. However, I wasn't exactly thrilled by the possibility of waking up 20 years from now in order to teach the same grade, in the same classroom, in the same school. Simply put, my job allowed me to use my ability to relate to kids to earn a paycheck, and that was about it. Then an unexpected thing happened; I realized that my inbox contained a recent email from the human resources department of Omaha Public Schools (OPS).
You see, the previous school year I had mustered up the courage and applied to OPS in an attempt to reverse my life's trend of change resistance. From the moment I began considering a career as a teacher, I had envisioned teaching in an urban setting with a classroom full of students who didn't look, talk, or act like me. A number of schools in OPS fit the description of what I had deemed my ideal classroom, so I had applied. The only problem with my attempt to initiate change had been the fact that I hadn't heard back from OPS. They hadn't even bothered to let me know they'd received my application. I didn't date much in high school or else I'd attempt to illustrate how being rejected by OPS left me feeling just like I did freshman year when I got shot down after asking out (Insert name of girl who looked a little like Katie Holmes).
As the months went by, I grew less and less optimistic about a change in career path. Slowly, I was resigned to the thought that maybe I was just another apple in the gigantic OPS orchard of teaching applicants, and perhaps I wasn't going to get picked.
In all honesty, I felt a slight sense of relief. Not hearing back from OPS would allow me to avoid change for at least a little while longer, and I'd be able to go back to my comfortable existence. At this point, I was growing ever closer to letting go of my dream to teach in an urban school.
Back to October. As I sat at my desk reading the email from OPS, I was pleasantly surprised by the second line. It read:
"Are you interested in remaining in the pool of candidates considered for employment second semester or the 10-11 school year?"
I'd like to say that I immediately replied with an ecstatic "Yes!" Instead, I sat on the email for seven weeks without sending a response. SEVEN WEEKS!! Here it was, I had heard from a school district that could offer me a chance to achieve my dream, and I wasn't sure what I should say. In my head I knew what I should do. I should have sent back a reply as soon as I was finished reading the email. In reality, I was struggling with the idea that I would be faced with my old, familiar friend, change. A reply saying that I would like to be in the "pool of candidates considered for employment" with OPS would potentially be opening up the floodgates for change to come rushing into my life.
The seven weeks I took to respond were spent praying for direction (even though direction was staring me right in the face), talking to my fiance (she couldn't understand my hesitation), and generally trying to figure out why I was taking so long to make a decision that was clearly very simple.
At the end of the seven weeks, I had come to the conclusion that I knew was the right one all along. I responded with an apology for my slow response (an understatement) and said that I would in fact like to remain "in the pool" (If you're like me, upon hearing the word pool, you automatically think of a swimming pool).
A month after I replied to the first email, I received another email asking me to go in for a formal interview. I did so in February of this year, and then spent four months waiting to hear if I was going to be called out of "the pool" and offered a job (Fortunately for me, I wasn't actually in a swimming pool. I'd hate to think how wrinkled my skin would have gotten if I had been waiting in one all of that time).
Anyway, I eventually was offered a job teaching second grade at Franklin Elementary, a school exactly like the one I've had pictured in my head since the day I first considered becoming a teacher. Unlike when I received the first email from OPS, I didn't take seven weeks to accept the job offer. The job was offered on a Thursday, and I called Human Resources on the following Monday to let them know that I would in fact take the position.
So that brings us to the present. It's the eve of the new school year. Since making the commitment to teach at Franklin, my life's been turned over to the uncomfortable force of change. I left a school, colleagues, and students that I was comfortable with and stepped out into the unknown. Somewhere along the way, I realized that, in order to live out my dream, I was going to have to face change head on. I was going to have to embrace change and everything that it would bring with it into my life.
Here I sit with a steady ball of anxiety building in the pit of my stomach. I don't know exactly how this next year is going to play out. I can't say that I know for sure that I'm going to love teaching at Franklin. However, I do know one thing. I won't be spending this year feeling disappointed with myself for letting a dream slowly slip away.
And who do I have to thank for that? Change.
Who knows? If this school year goes well, maybe I'll have to listen to change a little more often. And maybe, just maybe, I'll let it talk me into finding a new dentist.
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