We're All Fugitives

Have you ever ran from a group of U.S. Marshals like your life and freedom depended on it?  Yeah, me neither.  But I did watch The Fugitive last night.  And it got me thinking about the importance of having the right people believe in you.

For those of you who haven't seen The Fugitive (may God have mercy on your souls), it's the story of a Chicago doctor who is wrongfully convicted of murdering his wife, escapes imprisonment, and spends nearly the entire movie scrambling to figure out how he can prove his innocence before being caught by the U.S. Marshals.  Han Solo, I mean, Harrison Ford plays the lead role of Dr. Richard Kimble and Tommy Lee Jones portrays Deputy U.S. Marshall Sam Gerard, the man in charge of hunting down Kimble.  

Throughout the movie, Dr. Kimble relies on former colleagues and friends from his past life to help him piece together clues and information in order to figure out how he was framed and by whom.

Each step of his journey to proving his innocence, Dr. Kimble is helped by someone who believes in him in spite of his circumstance.  They look beyond the conviction.  They look beyond public opinion.  They look beyond the media.  And they do this because they believe in their friend.  

Their belief in Dr. Kimble compels them to do things they wouldn't do for just anyone, let alone a convicted murderer.

Believing in and supporting someone who is faced with seemingly insurmountable adversity is one of my favorite themes from this movie.

Why?  Because I have 16 students in my second grade classroom who are fighting against the odds every single day.

They're fighting to escape the grasp of poverty.  And not just poverty that means you're poor.  We're talking about deeply-rooted, cyclical poverty.  The kind that affects generation after generation.  The kind of poverty that causes a kid to grow up oblivious to the possibility of escaping it.

People don't just happen to overcome this type of poverty.  They need people who will believe in them and support them even when the rays of hope are dim.

Despite all of the help Dr. Kimble receives from his network of friends and colleagues, he still needs the support of one very important individual.  Deputy U.S. Marshal Sam Gerard.

There's a turning point in the final scene when Dr. Kimble realizes Deputy Gerard is no longer out to get him.  Instead, Gerard believes him and believes in him to the point of wanting to help see Dr. Kimble through to the finish line.

This week at parent-teacher conferences, guess how many of my students had their father show up?

One.

That means 94% of my class didn't have a father show up for conferences.*  To be fair, I understand some may have had to work, may have been at home watching the kids, etc.  So taking that into consideration, I looked at how many of my students realistically could have had fathers show up.  The number rose from 1 to 7.  Better, but still not great.

*Pointing this out is not meant to discredit the role a mother plays.  A mother is every bit as crucial to the development of a child as a father is.  It's simply looking at the absence of fathers.  By the way, 14 out of 16 mothers attended conferences.  Go moms!

In the movie, Dr. Kimble didn't expect his colleagues or Deputy Gerard to prove his innocence for him.  He was going to do that.  He just needed them to believe in him and help him along the way.

My students don't need their fathers or anyone else doing everything for them.  They want to learn and succeed.  They just need people in their lives to believe in them and help them along the way.  

We all need people in our lives who will believe in us in order for us to succeed.

Over the course of your life, who has impacted your life by believing in you?

Now ask yourself, who could say my name if asked that very same question?

Mine Is Yours

My principal recently released the demographic breakdown of our school for the current school year.  If you've read some of the blogposts prior to this one, you know how proud I am to work in a culturally diverse school.  Diversity is the reason I teach where I teach.

Anyway, over 40% of our students are African-American.  The second highest percentage is Hispanic (Mexican, Guatemalan, and Honduran).  Followed by Asian, Caucasian, Native American, African and mixed race.  We're sort of like Walgreens.  We have a little of everything.

Needless to say, we're diverse.

But like I've written about before, there is one common thread that links all of the students together.  It's the chain that bonds them together.

Poverty.

Of our 268 students, 99.6% qualify for our free or reduced lunch program.  I'll save you the long division.  We have one student in the entire school that doesn't qualify for free or reduced lunches.

Now I could take you on a journey through the daily struggles of poverty.  But I don't know anything about living in poverty.  I've never come close to experiencing it personally.   I wouldn't be able to do much more than retell stories I've heard students tell.

I could try to influence you to do something to help those living near you who are in desperate need of help.  But that's not what I'm going to do either.  You're probably already aware of people in need and places to serve.

Instead, there's a lesson to be learned from these children living in poverty.  It catches me off-guard time and time again.

My students love to give.

Despite not having much to give, they give.  It doesn't matter that they are coming from homes that qualify for free or reduced lunches.  They give.

And you know what, they never give begrudgingly.  They never give as if their mom or dad is making them give.  They never give to satisfy some sense of guilt.

They give because they want to.  They want to show that they care about you.

Last week, one of my students brought in a plastic sack filled with what appeared to be an object the size of a NBA basketball wrapped in layers of newspaper.  On the top layer of newspaper, it was evident that he'd had a little trouble figuring out exactly how he wanted to address the gift.  After a few attempts that had been scribbled out, he'd written "Merry Christmmas" in black ink.  He proudly gave it to me and told me it was for "Ms. Tiffany" (my wife) and me.  I gladly accepted the gift and told him I was anxious to see what it was.

Fearing that the other students might make fun of what was underneath all of the newspaper, I waited to open the gift until my students were at music class.  When I began to open the gift, I found the newspaper to be carefully wrapped and taped.  I peeled back layer upon layer.  The basketball-sized gift kept getting smaller and smaller with each piece of newspaper I removed.

Finally, I reached the center of the newspaper and found the gift my student so eagerly gave.  It was a well-worn, stuffed, pink bunny.  Why he thought I needed it, I'm not exactly sure.  But I appreciated it nonetheless.

I wish I could say that the well-worn bunny was some long, lost treasure that I'd been searching for.  Or that it was at the top of my Christmas list.  It wasn't.

But I appreciate everything that it symbolizes.

It reaches far beyond the tradition of giving Christmas gifts.  It's about sacrificing something of value (your time, your possessions, your talents) for the benefit of someone else.

Despite his circumstances, this boy gave up something he had in order to try to make someone else's day better.  You may not have a worn out, slightly filthy, pink bunny that can make a difference in someone's life.  But you certainly have something to give.  So do it.

Give.

Turn Off This Song and Go Outside

The students at Franklin begin every school day singing a song during the opening announcements.  It's usually patriotic in nature or something that celebrates a specific culture being highlighted during the month.  Through the first eight weeks of school, we sang "God Bless America".  This week, we switched to an uptempo and ridiculously high version of the classic Woody Guthrie tune, "This Land Is Your Land" (& when I say fast & ridiculously high, I mean Alvin-and-the-Chipmunks-hopped-up-on-5-hour-energy-and-sucking-helium fast & ridiculously high).

Anyway, after two days of this nonsense, one of my second grade girls has had enough.  She told me this morning that she didn't want to sing "This Land is Your Land" anymore.

Instead, she said she'd rather listen to Lil Wayne.

Lovely.

That got me to thinking about what song I'd want to sing every morning.  I haven't settled on one just yet.  Got any suggestions?

Music Monday: I Still Remember

Last week, a good friend of mine was trying to sell me on Spotify.  You know, the new music site that lets you listen to 3 trillion songs, in multiple languages, all at once.  At least I think that's how it works (There's a slight chance I could be wrong.  If I am, be sure to let me know in the comment section.).  Given that I'm a little protective of my music-listening habits, I wasn't quite ready to jump on the Spotify bandwagon.  After all, I could be potentially drastically altering one of my most treasured pastimes, consuming music.

Anyway, after discussing it with my buddy for awhile, I could tell just how much he's enjoyed discovering all that Spotify has to offer.  So I left the conversation agreeing to check out Spotify within the next couple of weeks and getting back to him with my reaction to it.

One thing that is keeping me from embracing the never-ending library of songs is the possibility of judging music too quickly in order to move on to something that is more immediately satisfying.  I'm worried that I might overlook music that would eventually mean a great deal to me simply because I wasn't initially impressed by it.

Nearly a week later, I've yet to download even the free version of Spotify.  Like I said, I'm hesitant to have so many songs at my disposal.  I'll get around to checking it out eventually.  But in the meantime, I've been wondering what bands/albums/songs I might have passed over if I would have had access to Spotify over the last few years.


Case in point: British band Bloc Party's second album, A Weekend in the City.  I admittedly was completely disappointed by the album the first dozen times I listened to it after purchasing it.  If I had listened to it on Spotify, I imagine I would have listened to it, been unimpressed, and moved on.  There wouldn't have been the same desire to give the album an extended opportunity to catch my attention.  Because I had purchased the album and it thus became part of a relatively small library of music, I gave A Weekend a 27th chance.  And I'm glad I did.  I now consider it one of my top five favorite albums and home to an absolutely beautiful guitar riff that has an indescribable effect on me every time I hear it.

I'll get around to trying Spotify, and it'll be sooner rather than later.  But when I do, it'll be with a sense of caution.  After all, I still remember each album I own and it's place within my library.  When I open the door on Spotify, I'm afraid that will no longer be the case.

Music Monday: Singing In My Sleep

Late on a Sunday night back in November of 2007, I left a Thanksgiving party with friends and colleagues to venture across town to catch a solo set by Dan Wilson, the former lead singer of Semisonic. He was opening for Sondre Lerche (who was touring in support of his work on the Dan in Real Life soundtrack) at the Waiting Room in downtown Benson. I had debated whether or not to leave the party. Given that I was one of the organizers of the shindig, I felt it might be a little rude to take off. But on the other hand, I decided it'd be even more rude of me to skip out on seeing the guy who wrote one of the most clever verses in recorded music history.*

So with a digestive system full of turducken, I made my way over to the Waiting Room and witnessed one incredibly crisp performance. Wilson took to the stage without a backing band and played a set full of songs that were as timeless as black and white photographs.

As Sondre Lerche went on stage, I spotted Wilson standing off to the side near a big window that looks out on Maple St. I went over to shake his hand, and he was gracious enough to engage me in conversation for a few minutes. I let him know that I had been playing some of songs for my first grade students and that they loved his music, which made him smile. I thanked him for his music, shook his hand, and left.

As I walked to my car, I thought about how I could have stayed home that night. Instead, I went out and caught a show that was an education on what every songwriter strives for--making music that is the soundtrack other people make their memories to.

*For those of you wondering about the claim I made at the end of the first paragraph, check out the second verse of Singing In My Sleep by Semisonic

Ships In the Night, Part 2

**This post is an update on the situation described in the previous post, Ships In the Night.**

Data made it to school the next day.  Despite the anxiety and the imagination that had gotten the best of him, he had survived the night.  I asked him about the pirates, and he responded with a look of confusion.  Not because he didn't remember our conversation.  He did.  The confusion was more from his inability to fully express is thoughts and ideas.  Remember, his English is far from perfect, so he may not have had the words to offer his true thoughts on the matter.  After some time and some thought, he explained that he and his friend had made the desperate decision to break the pirate treasure they had found in hopes that the pirates would then be satisfied and leave them alone.  It was his perception that this decision, no matter how difficult, had saved them from enduring the wrath of the revenge-seeking pirates.

I have to admit, I absolutely admire Data's imagination.  As you and I grow older, life can make it more and more difficult to maintain our childlike imaginations.  In some regards, that can be a good thing.  But in many other instances, it's rather unfortunate that we let it slip away from us.  We get caught up in the rigor of our day-to-day lives and fail to fully utilize one of the great gifts given to us as humans.

I'm obviously not encouraging each one of us to let our imaginations get the best of us to the point that we lose sleep over the possibility that pirates are after us.  But I'm guessing each of our lives would become a little more interesting if we let our imaginations run a little more freely, like we did when we were young.  When we imagined having superpowers, rather than focusing on our flaws.  When we imagined taking part in adventures that took us to the ends of the earth, rather than being worn down by the grind of everyday life.

Data's imagination transformed these last few days from ordinary to extraordinary.  They may be days he talks about for years to come.  The days he thought he was fleeing angry pirates.  It'll be a great story.  One that will probably get even better with each passing retelling.

I want to hear from you.  What stories do you have?  When did your imagination get the best of you?

Ships In the Night

After school today, I had a rather serious conversation with a student I taught last year.  The subject matter caught me by surprise and I wasn't sure how to react to what he was telling me, so I basically stood there and listened to what he had to say.  When the conversation was over, I walked away questioning if I handled it the right way.  Let me fill you in on the details, and I'll let you decide if I was right or wrong.

To give you some idea of the type of kid I was dealing with, picture a second grade version of Data, the Asian gadgets expert from The Goonies.  He has the same imperfect English, wittiness, and personality that other kids his age gravitate towards.  In fact, it's such an accurate comparison that I'll just refer to the kid as Data to simplify things.

So Data and I were standing outside the front of our school when he mentioned that he was scared for tonight.  This was something I'd never heard him say before.  But I knew he has a sibling and a cousin who have been battling some health issues lately, so I was concerned that perhaps one of them had gotten worse.

I asked him what he had to be scared of.

He looked at me and, with complete seriousness, said, "I'm afraid pirates might get me."

He was honestly worried that pirates were after him.

Stunned by what I'd just heard, I suppressed the urge to laugh and asked him what he'd done to upset the pirates.  He then went on to explain that he and a neighbor friend had discovered part of a "treasure" buried in the ground near his home (which is located in north Omaha).  It apparently had a skull and crossbones pirate symbol on it, which gave him cause for concern.

As our conversation went on, I could tell that Data wasn't joking about any of it.  He and his friend had even created a map to detail where they'd found the treasure.  Or perhaps it was to where they had reburied the lost loot.  Data didn't clarify.  He also went on to explain that he'd had a nightmare the night before of a pirate chasing after him (I should have asked him if the pirate running after him happened to be wearing an eye patch and going by the name One-Eyed Willie).

As he finished filling me in on all of the details, I found myself not knowing if I should break it to him that he and his friend have nothing to worry about.  I could have explained that, due to the proximity to the nearest large body of water, the chances of buried pirate treasure being found in Omaha, NE are slim to none.

Instead, I made the decision to let him sweat it out for the night.

Before turning to head back inside the school, I looked Data in the eye with all of the seriousness I could muster and said, "Good luck tonight."  He said thanks and started walking home, unsure of who or what might be waiting for him.

So what do you think?  What would you have done if you were in my shoes?