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?

Music Monday: Sing

Push play before reading.

As summer comes to a close and a preview of the coming fall air can be felt on the walk out of my apartment building toward my car each morning, the soundtrack in my head regularly turns to the sounds of Travis.  As soon as I open the door to step outside and feel the crisp, cool air, my mental soundtrack begins playing the intro to the song "Sing".  Perhaps the sweeping wind-like sound of the opening few moments of the song reminds me of the fall breeze.  I can't quite put my finger on it.

My friends and family probably get tired of this, but I have a habit of making comments like, "If there's ever a movie made about my life, I want this song to be included."  (It's not like I actually expect a movie to be made about me.  I'm not that interesting.  I guess it's just my way of saying that a band's music has meant a great deal to me.  But then again, maybe, just maybe, this blog will take off and become so popular that a movie actually is made about my life.  Don't worry, you'll be able to say you were reading me way back before anyone else!  And moving on...)

Give Travis a listen if you haven't already.  Your life will be better off because of it.  And if by the slim chance you don't actually like their music, try having a food fight like the one above.  That's guaranteed to make your life more enjoyable.

We Are Going To Be Friends

Last night, I was driving around Omaha with my wife and two of our friends scouting out different locations for their engagement pictures.  We were going to be passing within a few blocks of the school where I teach, so I thought I'd show our friends where I spend each day molding the minds of the future.

(Do you ever get annoyed by annoying cliches like the one I just used about molding the minds of the future?  Yeah, I do, too.  I'm so annoyed with myself right now.)

As we pulled up to the school, I spotted two of my students from last year, one of their younger brothers, and a cousin walking along the sidewalk.  I honked my horn and waved.  Surprised to see their teacher on a Friday evening, they yelled my name and began racing over to our car.  I pulled into a parking space and jumped out to talk to them for a few minutes.

We went to give each other high fives, but I noticed some sort of red substance all of their hands and quickly pulled my hand away.  I basically pulled one of those "I'm baiting you into a high five but then I move my hand away and slide it down the back of my head because I'm too cool" high fives.  What was this red substance covering their fingers?

Flamin' Hot Cheetos seasoning.

I asked them where they came up with their large bag of Flamin' Hot Cheetos.  With smiles spread across each of their faces, they told me one of them had found a basketball in the neighborhood and traded it to a friend straight up for the bag of Flamin' Hot Cheetos.

I couldn't help but laugh and admire the savvy decision made by the boy who found the basketball in order to make the rest of the group happy.  He didn't necessarily make a huge sacrifice.  His fingers were just as red as any.  But he did take into account how the trade would affect his friends, and made his decision accordingly.

We should all be so fortunate as to have friends that look out for one another like the Flamin' Hot Cheetos boys.

What is something someone has done for you recently that let you know you matter to them?

Mistaken for Strangers

Ever been mistaken for someone far more daring and dangerous than you actually are?

I have.  Multiple times, in fact.

During my first year of teaching while reading a book about a boy who wanted to be a pirate, one of my girls was in awe of my ability to speak "pirate".  I didn't bother to tell her that it's not typically recognized as an actual language.  Or that I picked it up simply by reading what the author had written.  I wish I could have claimed to have learned to speak "pirate" while spending months on a pirate ship off the cost of Bora Bora with the one and only Captain Braid Beard.  But sadly, that never happened.  Internally, I was kicking myself for never having done something that dangerous.

For the longest time, that story topped the Times I Wished My Student's Perception Was Actually Reality List (TIWMSPWARL for short...or rather, for slightly less long).

Last week, a casual conversation took a turn that ultimately landed the top spot on the TIWMSPWARL (note to self: create simpler names for lists that only exist inside my head).

On Monday, I was walking in the hall when one of my students from last year came up to say hi.  I had seen her sitting on her porch with her mom as I drove by her house on the way home after school the previous Friday.  I had honked and waved at them, and they both waved back.   

So as we began to talk, I mentioned seeing her and her mom as I drove past their house on Friday.  At first, she smiled and said, "Oh yeah!  We saw you, too."  Then her face changed, and I could tell that she was confused about something.  She looked up at me and asked, "Were those real guns on your car?"

At first, I wasn't exactly sure what she meant, but then I quickly realized what she was referring to.  My "real guns" were actually just my bike rack.

As I explained to her what a bike rack is and why I have one on my car, I was kicking myself once again for being far less dangerous than I appeared.  This time, I was bummed out by the fact that I drive just an average Corolla and not the Batmobile.

Someday, maybe someday, I'll be as daring and dangerous as my students perceive me to be.

Gimme Some Motivation

Contrary to popular belief, the most important job a teacher has is not to help their students pass standardized tests.  I know, I know.  That may sound like a radical idea.  After all, the job security for teachers and principals is largely based on the performance of their students on standardized tests.  So it may seem a bit odd that I’m telling you that one of the most important factors that will get a teacher’s contract renewed (or not renewed) each year isn’t necessarily what the teacher needs to devote his focus to.

(By the way, it’s worth noting that I’m not completely against standardized tests.  There has to be some sort of way for comparing students & schools to determine who is being successful and who’s not.  In a perfect world, there wouldn’t be a need for tests.  Every student would thrive.  Every school would give Disneyland competition for the title of the Happiest Place On Earth.  However, given that students are all unique and no two schools are the same, there really isn’t a standardized test that is accurately going to assess every child.  In truth, standardized tests aren’t completely worthless.  If used correctly, the data gained from standardized tests can have an incredibly positive impact on improving teacher instruction.  Anyway, back to the point of this post…)

What should a teacher’s number one priority be?  Well, I’m glad you asked! 

A teacher’s priority numero uno is to instill a sense of hope into each and every child he interacts with.

I don’t care if we’re talking about a kid growing up in middle-class suburbia or one growing up in the ghetto getting by on food stamps.  Hope is essential for either one to experience success.

Hope is what every child needs, yet, unfortunately, too many children are living without any sense of hope that their life will be successful and fulfilling.

The causes for this are too numerous to list.  Growing up without a father or living in the seemingly never-ending cycle of poverty are two causes of this sense of hopeless that quickly come to mind.  If you don’t have a father to look up to and model what being successful is, what is there that will propel you to overcome this and become successful in your own right?  Likewise, if you’re born into poverty that has been passed down from generation to generation, what is there that’s going to make you feel like you’re going to be any different?

The answer is hope.

It’s not about teaching to the test so your students can pass.  It’s not about taking pity on the hopeless.

When it comes to hope, I don’t mean telling a student they can be anything they want to be as long as they’re willing to work really hard.  If I would have had a teacher tell me I could have been the NBA’s next dominant center as long as I spent enough time in the gym, I would have wound up severely depressed that all of my time and energy spent in the gym went completely to waste simply because my parents didn’t give me the right combination of genes to grow to be more than 6’2”.  I would have grown bitter towards my parents and would be holding a 7-foot 2-inch, 280-pound grudge against them to this very day.

There’s a term for that: false hope.

Last year, I had a student who as a second grader had yet to experience much success in school.  She was very young for the grade level.  She was one of the smallest kids in the school.  And she didn’t exactly get a lot of support at home.  Needless to say, she could be a handful.

For the better part of the first three quarters of the school year, she and I didn’t see eye to eye.  She was at school to be social and didn’t show much of an interest in learning.  Like I said, she hadn’t really been successful at school.  And who likes to spend 6 ½ hours a day doing something they haven’t been very good at?

One day I spent a few minutes talking with this girl about what she wanted to do when she grew up.  It took her a little bit of time before she opened up, but when she did, she said she wanted to work at Burger King or Taco Bell.  Upon hearing this, I was impressed.  To give you some idea of the aspirations of some of my students from last year:  more than one told me they didn’t want to do anything when they grow up.  So for this girl to say she wanted to work at Burger King or Taco Bell was at least admitting to having some sort of goal in life.

At that time, I could have applauded her for having a dream and leaving it at that.  However, I pushed her to dream a little bit bigger.  I asked her what she thought about potentially being the manager or owner of a Burger King instead of just working there.  As I said this, I could see her processing it and a smile spread across her face.  She said that she thought that’d be pretty cool and that she would give me free burgers if I came to her Burger King.

I’d like to say that everything magically changed for her at that point, that she became a model student, and that she passed every standardized test she took from that point on.  The reality is, certain areas of school are most likely always going to be a struggle for her and that she isn’t going to have a perfect record of behavior.  But she did improve academically and behaviorally throughout the fourth quarter.  She now has a dream that is attainable and a hope that she just might actually achieve it.

I want nothing more than for her to cling to the hope that she has a real opportunity to achieve her dream.  It is that hope that will ultimately lead her to be more successful in school.  And it is that hope that will help her see the relevance in doing her best in school and on standardized tests.

I hope to one day walk into my former student’s Burger King and score some free burgers.  And when I do, perhaps we’ll have the opportunity to reminisce about the conversation we had that gave her some hope for her future.  And when we finish, I’ll let her know how proud of her I am and refer to her just as she had referred to me in the days following our pivotal conversation, as “my homey”. 

Who is someone in your life that has encouraged you and given you hope?

Yellow

Today, a student asked if we could watch a 3D movie in class. He was kind enough to bring the movie and a pair of "3D glasses". Unfortunately, I had to tell him no. With only one pair of glasses, he would have been the only student who would have been able to watch the movie in yellow...uh, I mean, 3D.

Upon informing him of my decision, he responded with a phrase I've heard all too often throughout my teaching career, "That's not fair."

Goldmine

I'm waiting outside the front of the school building just after school's let out for the day, and I'm talking to one of my students. We'll call her Goldmine (as in, she's a gold mine for memorable quotes). She's quickly become one of the most entertaining students I've ever come across.

So, Goldmine and I are sitting on a short cement wall waiting for her mom to arrive to pick her up when I ask her what she wants to be when she grows up. She responds with, "I'm gonna be in the military!" Given that I've never heard that response from a 7-year old girl before, I was curious as to why she'd want to join the military, not that there's anything wrong with it. It's really quite admirable. So I asked her why she wants to join the military when she gets older. Her two reasons: "'Cause you get to hold guns!" and "You can yell at people!" Solid.

Coming up this weekend, I'm going to write about the importance of finding the silver lining in life. It'll contain a gem of a one-liner from Goldmine. You won't want to miss it. It'll be worth your time.

Until then, God bless you, faithful followers.

Out Loud

From the beginning, it’s been my intention to post to The Classroom of Life on a weekly basis. I had been going strong through the first four weeks. I’d find a couple of hours on the weekend or on Monday evening to sit down at the computer and write, but then life got in the way (or rather, a ridiculous two-day headache and then the birth of my niece, Lorelai, happened on consecutive weekends and threw off my writing schedule). Fortunately, the past couple of weeks have given me a chance to come up with some ideas for posts that I’ll roll out over the coming weeks and months.

I’ve also decided to start posting some of the classic quotes that come from my current crop of second graders as they happen throughout each week. For example, one of my students mentioned last week that his birthday is coming up in February (Can it really be considered “coming up” if it’s still four months away?). Then a girl who talks kind of slowly and with a hint of a southern drawl (even though she’s not from the south) said, “I wish my birthday was December 25th ‘cause then it’d be the same as God’s.” I just smiled and admired her wish.

I’m sure I’ll use some of the quotes again as illustrations. However, there will be sayings and stories that I find worth sharing that may never wind up as an illustration in a longer post. So by posting them as they happen, they won’t be left untold just because they don’t fit with the theme of something bigger that I’m trying to say.

Anyway, after saying all of that, I wish I had a new piece of writing to throw at you. The truth is, I haven’t had any time this weekend with which to sit down and write. Instead, the weekend was dedicated to going through my grandparents’ home in order to divide up some of their belongings and get it ready to sell. It’s worth noting for those who don’t already know: My grandmother passed away in July, and my granddad has since moved from their home in Kearney, NE to an assisted living facility in my hometown of Cozad, NE. At some point in the future, I imagine I will dig a little deeper into some of the lessons I learned from my grandparents. The two of them have impacted my life in such a way that I could write an entire book about them. But for now, I’m going to offer up the speech I gave at Grandma’s funeral this summer.

Before you read it, you may need to know a few things (I’m talking to you, international readers!). I’ve added titles in parentheses that will help with understanding the names mentioned in the writing. Also, the final paragraph mentions two family members that left us all too soon, my aunt, Mary, and my father, Bruce. So you can be in on the inside joke, the mention of a swift kick in the fanny is in reference to a threat my dad was famous for. It was his way of letting us kids know in a joking manner who was the boss, as if we really needed a reminder.

Without further ado, here’s what I wrote to honor one of the most spectacular individuals I’ve ever had the pleasure to be around:

Grandma Hunt

When a person lives to be 89-years old, they come to be known by many different names. For Betty Jo Hunt, she became known as: Jo, Mrs. Hunt, Mother, Great-Grandmother. I had the honor of calling her Grandma.

Grandma made the most of her 89 years of life. I won’t be able to cover everything in the time I have in front of you today. It is my hope that all of you will join us for lunch afterwards and take that opportunity to share your thoughts and stories of Grandma with one another.

Over the years, one of my favorite stories about Grandma and Granddad was about how they first met. They were both majoring in business administration at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Granddad recalls sitting in a Bus. Law class of about 90 students, and he fondly remembers a certain female that would walk by him each day on the way to her seat down in front of him. He likes to recall the way she would swing her hips as she walked past him. He was convinced that he just had to meet this young gal. Not long passed before one day, Granddad spotted Grandma in the student union talking to a couple of other girls. Fortunately for Granddad, he was friends with one of the girls Grandma was talking to. Once he realized that, the light bulb went off in his head and he thought to himself, “I’m gonna get me an introduction!”

When it came time to get married, Grandma and Granddad chose a Methodist church on South Street in Lincoln. It wasn’t a big ceremony, but both of their mothers were able to make it, along with a few of their friends. They didn’t have a car at the time, so they had their wedding early enough in the day in order to catch a bus and then a train to Kansas City for a 3-day honeymoon.

In the first few years of marriage, Grandma and Granddad lived in 13 small towns. Granddad was the crafty businessman, doing anything from running dry cleaning routes around south central Nebraska to selling fireworks. And Grandma was always by his side supporting each business venture. Eventually, Grandma and Granddad moved to Cozad and purchased Hart Cleaners. They renamed it Hunt Cleaners and became a staple of the Cozad business community until they retired and moved to Kearney.

The success of their business allowed Grandma and Granddad the luxury of traveling the world. They took numerous trips throughout their marriage. Often times they would travel with friends or family. Their travels took them all over the U.S., to China twice, and to Europe five times. Grandma recently spoke fondly of their trips to Europe, including one with (my cousins) Dana and Annette while Dana was studying at Oxford and also another time when they visited France, Germany, and Austria with (Aunt) Annie and (Uncle) Don.

When thinking of words to describe Grandma, the first to come to mind is caring. She was always looking out for other people. Whether it was raising three daughters as well as any mother ever has, coloring with the grandkids and great-grandkids, giving the granddaughters dresses at Christmastime, or making sure there were cookies and ice cream in the house for guests, Grandma was always caring for other people. My brother, Mike, and cousin, Becky, remember the time they spent with grandparents while attending UNK. They both spent time at grandparents’ hanging out and doing laundry. Mike also remembers the added incentive he had for attending church with Grandma and Granddad. Anytime he went to church with them, he knew he could look forward to going out to eat with them at Grandpa’s Steakhouse afterward. He enjoyed it enough that once he transferred to Hastings College, he and his future wife, Jenn, would make the trip to Kearney for church and lunch at Grandpa’s every so often.

Along the lines of being caring, Grandma was also a bit of a worrier. This was evident one Sunday in church when Granddad stood up during a time to share joys and concerns with the congregation. Dana and James (her husband) had just found out that they were expecting triplets. So Granddad stood up and said, “Well, I’ve got a joy, and Jo has a concern, and they’re the same thing!”

Grandma was also extremely proud of her family. She regularly attended sporting events, musical performances, plays, weddings, and graduations. If it involved family, she was there.

Grandma enjoyed nothing more than the time she spent with her 10 great-grandkids. She was so proud of the fact that she shared a birthday with the oldest of the great-grandkids, Caleb. As our family has grown over the years, family gatherings have grown more and more chaotic…and far more entertaining. Grandma was always thrilled to have the great-grandkids over. Recently, as Grandma’s health declined, she had to have in-home care. One day, she and a caregiver got to talking about the great-grandkids, and in particular my niece, Greta, and Grandma made the comment, “If you haven’t met Greta, you haven’t lived.”

One part of Grandma that would sometimes go unnoticed was just how smart she really was. She was quick-witted and had a great sense of humor. She wasn’t the type of person who wanted to be the center of attention, but if you listened closely, she had some great one-liners. For instance, Grandma and Granddad were at our house for a visit once, and a few of us were gathered in the kitchen talking. Holly (my sister), a member of the high school dance team at the time, was practicing a routine in the middle of the kitchen. For those of you who know Holly, I’m sure this is hard to imagine. Anyway, as Holly was dancing and spinning around the room, Grandma leaned over to me and joked, “Is that girl havin’ a seizure?”

As Grandma’s time was winding down, she never lost her quick wit and sense of humor. Not long ago as I was sitting with Grandma and Granddad, Granddad began telling a story I’ve heard him tell a number of times. He was boasting about how my brother, Bobby, won a competition for the longest drive at a golf tournament a few years ago. As Granddad began the story, Grandma kind of smirked and said, “I’m sure you’ve heard this one a few times.” Granddad continued the story, and as with most good stories, the details weren’t quite the same as the last time the story had been told. When Granddad finished the story, Grandma just smiled and said to me, “It gets better every time.”

Grandma lived an incredible life. A life devoted to her family and faith. A life full of great stories and memories. A life of love.

Jonathan Foreman says, “If it doesn’t break your heart, it isn’t love.” The last six months have been a heartbreaking realization of just how much we all loved Grandma, and how much she loved us.

In closing, I’d just like to say, “Grandma, you were one of a kind. We’re all better for having had you in our lives. Please give Mary Lee a hug and a kiss for us, and give my dad a swift kick in the fanny. We love you. We’ll miss you. Rest in peace.”

The Pursuit of Misery

In order for a TV show, movie, or book to be deemed great, there has to be character development. Without fascinating character development, the TV show "Lost" would not have captured people's attention like it did. Fans of the show were drawn to the evolution of the show's characters. Sure, there were the unprecedented special effects for a TV show, mystery and intrigue surrounding the island, and the storytelling that always seemed to conjure up more questions than answers. But at the heart of the show were the characters-Jack, Locke, Kate, Hurley, and everyone else. The reason "Lost" wound up with such an obsessive fan base was because its fans became attached to the characters, and they stayed attached to the characters because of the evolution of each one as the show progressed over the course of its six seasons.

Character development has been on my mind ever since I read Donald Miller's book, A Million Miles In a Thousand Years, at the end of last year. In the book, Miller chronicles his journey towards discovering what makes a story captivating. He sort of stumbles into exploring the elements of story when he's approached by two filmmakers who want to turn his first book, a memoir titled Blue Like Jazz, into a movie. Upon beginning work on the movie's story arc, he realizes that his actual life isn't nearly interesting enough to be made into a movie. Some editing was going to have to be done.

From that point on, the book is an incredible read about living your life in a way that, if there was an audience watching it as a movie, they would invest into the story being told and actually care about its outcome.

(I don't want to simply regurgitate Miller's book. My cliffs notes version wouldn't do it justice. If you're looking to read something that might change your life...other than this blog, of course...check out A Million Miles. I've read it twice, and I'll read it again.)

When watching a show like "Lost" or reading a book like A Million Miles, it becomes clear that character development doesn’t come easily. A character has to be faced with conflict, a struggle, something that is going to cause the character to do something. The same is true in real life. We grow the most when we’re forced to. Our own character development doesn’t just happen on its own. Sometimes what causes us to grow is beyond our control (a tragedy, sickness, etc), and other times it’s the choices we make that create an opportunity for us to be challenged.

As I wrote about in the first post on this blog, I made a conscious decision to usher change into my life when I accepted a teaching position with Omaha Public Schools. So far, it would be an understatement to say that the new job has been overwhelming. I’ve been working longer hours than ever before, dealing with issues I’ve never faced in the classroom, and struggling to maintain my sanity during recess-less afternoons (which is something I may have to write about in the future). But I’m not here to complain. After all, the job situation is something I brought upon myself. Instead, I’d like to relay what I’m being reminded of as I work through the challenges that have come along with the new job.

One morning last week, I woke up with thoughts racing through my head about everything I needed to accomplish at work that day. I had papers to grade, forms to fill out, parents to call, lesson plans to complete, and the list went on. With my mind already busy with work, I got ready for the day and began walking down the stairs of my apartment building on the way to my car. I opened the door to the outside and was unexpectedly hit with a moment of clarity. As I stepped outside, the thoughts that had been racing around my head quickly disappeared and were replaced with the phrase, “Keep your eyes on the big picture.” Depending on your beliefs, you may or may not agree with me, but it felt as if God was speaking directly to me. I’m not saying it was spoken with a loud, booming baritone of a voice. The words actually sounded like they were spoken by myself. But I sensed that God felt the need to draw my focus away from all of the details of the day, offer a chance to relax, and remind me of the end result.

If I allow myself to be consumed solely with teaching and everything I have to get done, I’ll be defeated by it all. The stress and the pressure will eventually be too much to handle, and I’ll wind up burned out and disappointed with the move to OPS.

As I turned my attention to the big picture, I began to realize that come May, I’m not going to remember all of the specific tasks that were consuming my first few weeks with OPS. Instead, I hope to see a distinct change in who I am. I hope to find I’m a more effective teacher. I hope to be able to say that I’m better off for having taken the job at Franklin. I hope to be able to say that I’m actually doing something about the poverty and suffering present in the city I call home.

Now, let’s pretend for a brief moment that my life was being made into a movie. One of the scenes that might not make the final cut, but would at least be on the blooper reel that runs during the credits, would be an incident that involved a girl from my first year of teaching and a pencil eraser. You see, she had stuck her pencil up her nose (for what reason, I'm not sure, but I have a guess), and the eraser from the end of her pencil had gotten lodged up her right nostril.

Once the girl realized what had happened, she ran up to my desk in a panic. Tears were beginning to form as she tried to explain to me what was wrong. As I did my best to repress my urge to laugh, I placed my hand on her shoulder and told her to relax.

My first attempt didn’t do much to calm her worries, so I again tried assuring her that it would all be okay and that she just needed to relax so we could try to figure out how to get the eraser out of her nose. With each passing second, the girl was becoming more and more panicked. As soon as I began my second attempt at assuring her everything would be okay, she sneezed and the eraser came flying out of her nose! Once she saw the eraser lying on the floor, she burst into laughter and so did I.

The moral of the story: Don’t panic when you (life) stick an eraser (chaos of a new job) up your nose. In the end, you (the developed character) will sneeze, laugh, and live to tell about it.

Man In Uniform

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.

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.
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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.

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.