Like many of you, I've been glued to my social media outlet of choice on and off since Friday, staring at the television news, and trying to tear myself away from the side of my five year-old son. I've been trying to rationalize away my fears, to explain what may have gone so horrifically wrong in the mind of a young man, and to have some comprehension. I've thought about what I would write here. I've thought about many different things, but quite simply I don't want this space to be about what happened in Connecticut, because I am not part of the story. It wouldn't be right for me to write about people I do not know, and experience I have not had, when I am not a trained journalist writing for assignment.
Then this morning we had on our usual CBS Sunday Morning in the background and I heard a story about a public school music teacher and a principal harpist in The Atlanta Symphony Orchestra who had formed a group for youth-The Urban Harp Youth Ensemble. I listened to the story as I dressed for the day, and it got the wheels in my head turning. Teachers like Roselyn Lewis changed my life. From kindergarten through junior high school I was a shy and, okay I'll admit it, dorky kid. I had a few friends, but never was a social butterfly. I envied those girls. The ones who had perfectly matched outfits. The ones who played some mysterious game of tag by the fire escape on the playground. The ones who sat with the boys on the junior high school bus. The ones who got to wear cheerleading sweaters to school on game days. I was always buried in a book, giant glasses slipping down my nose, hair never quite right, re-wearing the same quasi-cool sweater to school. Then I discovered band. I started by playing the flute. Worked my way through the level books early on. By high school I was fully-immersed in the world of band nerds. If my entire day could've been spent in that band room, which occupied its own floor in my first high school, I would have been thrilled. These were my people. Music was my language. I was finally in a place where I felt appreciated. Loved. Accepted.
During my sophomore year of high school my dad started working at a high school just for kids like me. A music & performing arts magnet school. He tried to get me to go in 10th grade, but I wouldn't budge. Don't ask me why, but one day the bug bit, and I found myself auditioning for a spot. Little did I know it would be the single most important decision I have made on the fly. I may have started there with the intention of becoming a concert flutist, but I left having discovered my voice.
My choir director Basil Kochan, my band director Steve Hadgis, my English teacher Mary Styslinger, and many others were beacons of light for a young, awkward girl. I hadn't ever sung a note outside my bedroom before Mr. Kochan. I hadn't ever played a solo on my flute before Mr. Hadgis. I hadn't ever written my own words for publication before Ms. Styslinger. Suddenly I blossomed. They provided me the confidence I needed to move forward in life.
There are teachers out there in this world that do the very same thing every day. Teachers, principals, counselors, coaches, and many others who work with our young people that inspire greatness in many ways. These people are willing to do whatever it takes to help them on the path to their own destiny. Even if it means sacrificing their own. Tomorrow I will head back to my office in a school building. I will not be fearful. I will love my students even more than I did last week, or the week before. I am one of many surrogate caretakers they have while they are in our presence. Just as my son will enter his classroom tomorrow and his teachers will care for him in the same way. We will carry on. We will continue to work to build a safer country for our children. It is what must happen to honor those who have gone before.
notes from the middle
Showing posts with label Education. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Education. Show all posts
Sunday, December 16, 2012
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Old vs New
I work part of my weeks in an old building. Not as old as some of the buildings I've spent time in. (1920's era anyone?) This mass of blocks, terrazzo floor, replacement windows, boilers, and actual slate chalkboards was built during the Post-WWII boom. The other part of my week is in a school that was completed the winter of 2007. It is shiny and new. Climate controlled.
I'm kind of, really, meh about the new place.
Not that new isn't good. I get that we needed a new building. Sweaty teens in August, September, May and June is not conducive to optimal learning conditions. Neither is asbestos. Having working WiFi helps teachers and students alike when using new iPad technologies in the classroom. We have a better cafeteria that can quickly serve half the student body each lunch period. We have an auditorium that has an actual stage for musical performances.
But these old school buildings are so filled with character. The wooden doors that creak when you open them. The way the sunlight pour through the large glass foyer each morning onto polished floors. The rattle of the pipes as the heat cranks up in the boilers. In the building where I used to teach English (which is no longer standing) we had transom windows that would let daylight into the hallways from the classrooms. The key hole for my storage closet was a skeleton key. I had pine floors that gleamed golden. Yes the classroom was the temperature of a warm oven in the summer and the windows seeped in chilly winds during the winter months. But I swear, you could hear the echoes of the hundreds of teens who came before when the halls were empty.
Someday the new building I work in will no longer be new. The old one where I am now will no longer stand. We will cut the ribbon on the renovations that are happening this year and move back into a school that is only a shell of its former self. That may be the building that suits me best of all. Something old made new again. Saving those bricks, that hallway, those doors, for students yet to come and from the wrecking ball that haunts so many other buildings I've walked through. Yes, progress must be made. Our students deserve good places to learn. But I still mourn the beautiful buildings filled with craftsmanship we will never get back.
I'm kind of, really, meh about the new place.
Not that new isn't good. I get that we needed a new building. Sweaty teens in August, September, May and June is not conducive to optimal learning conditions. Neither is asbestos. Having working WiFi helps teachers and students alike when using new iPad technologies in the classroom. We have a better cafeteria that can quickly serve half the student body each lunch period. We have an auditorium that has an actual stage for musical performances.
But these old school buildings are so filled with character. The wooden doors that creak when you open them. The way the sunlight pour through the large glass foyer each morning onto polished floors. The rattle of the pipes as the heat cranks up in the boilers. In the building where I used to teach English (which is no longer standing) we had transom windows that would let daylight into the hallways from the classrooms. The key hole for my storage closet was a skeleton key. I had pine floors that gleamed golden. Yes the classroom was the temperature of a warm oven in the summer and the windows seeped in chilly winds during the winter months. But I swear, you could hear the echoes of the hundreds of teens who came before when the halls were empty.
Someday the new building I work in will no longer be new. The old one where I am now will no longer stand. We will cut the ribbon on the renovations that are happening this year and move back into a school that is only a shell of its former self. That may be the building that suits me best of all. Something old made new again. Saving those bricks, that hallway, those doors, for students yet to come and from the wrecking ball that haunts so many other buildings I've walked through. Yes, progress must be made. Our students deserve good places to learn. But I still mourn the beautiful buildings filled with craftsmanship we will never get back.
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
11 years
I've been in education for 11 years. I remember this because the fall of my first year as an educator was the fall of September 11. Before that day I still felt like a child. I felt foolish often in front of my senior English classes-as if I were an impostor and not a teacher. It was like playing dress-up each day. Only a few short months before I had been a student. Now I was standing at the board, instructing students a mere five years my junior. The first literature unit we dove into was Beowulf. The epic struggle in British Literature between good and evil. Between a hero and a monster. How appropriate.
September 11 was the date of the very first exam I gave as a teacher. I arrived early that day to make sure everything was ready. Stacks of Beowulf exams were at attention on my front table. Different ones for each block. (I may have been a new teacher, but I felt I was wise to the ways of students) I even had extra pens stacked in neat piles just in case anyone conveniently forgot theirs. I am positive I was more anxious than my students were. As the morning wore on, I sat at my table, watching their heads bent in concentration, hoping the knowledge I had imparted stuck in their brains and shone on the essays their pens were scratching on paper.
Across the hall, the Senior Government teacher was showing a film, so I gave permission to my students to go watch as they completed their exams. We were down to the final two test-takers when the entire class showed back up at my door. One of my male students, an entire head taller than me, said "a plane crashed into the twin towers!" I did not believe him at all. He was known for trying to pull my leg, and I was not about to let this be an exception. As I was trying to argue with him our principal came over the PA to explain what happened. Before I knew it, fingers resting in a dusty chalk tray, I crossed the great divide from green and young teacher to adult shepherding scared teenagers through a national crisis.
Each year I remember the faces of my Senior English students. I remember their wide eyes as we listened to the announcements that morning. I remember huddling around televisions in the classrooms that had them. I remember fear crackling in the air. I remember sitting on my hands to hide their shaking. I remember seeing the same feelings reflected back at me in the eyes of educators 30 years my senior.
I have been an educator for 11 years. Passing from classroom to guidance office. Moving from newbie to veteran. In these 11 years I have had more students than I can count. More students than I can possibly remember. I still have those exams I gave that day in 2001. That group of seniors will always remain with me. We all became adults together 12 years ago. We all remember.
September 11 was the date of the very first exam I gave as a teacher. I arrived early that day to make sure everything was ready. Stacks of Beowulf exams were at attention on my front table. Different ones for each block. (I may have been a new teacher, but I felt I was wise to the ways of students) I even had extra pens stacked in neat piles just in case anyone conveniently forgot theirs. I am positive I was more anxious than my students were. As the morning wore on, I sat at my table, watching their heads bent in concentration, hoping the knowledge I had imparted stuck in their brains and shone on the essays their pens were scratching on paper.
Across the hall, the Senior Government teacher was showing a film, so I gave permission to my students to go watch as they completed their exams. We were down to the final two test-takers when the entire class showed back up at my door. One of my male students, an entire head taller than me, said "a plane crashed into the twin towers!" I did not believe him at all. He was known for trying to pull my leg, and I was not about to let this be an exception. As I was trying to argue with him our principal came over the PA to explain what happened. Before I knew it, fingers resting in a dusty chalk tray, I crossed the great divide from green and young teacher to adult shepherding scared teenagers through a national crisis.
Each year I remember the faces of my Senior English students. I remember their wide eyes as we listened to the announcements that morning. I remember huddling around televisions in the classrooms that had them. I remember fear crackling in the air. I remember sitting on my hands to hide their shaking. I remember seeing the same feelings reflected back at me in the eyes of educators 30 years my senior.
I have been an educator for 11 years. Passing from classroom to guidance office. Moving from newbie to veteran. In these 11 years I have had more students than I can count. More students than I can possibly remember. I still have those exams I gave that day in 2001. That group of seniors will always remain with me. We all became adults together 12 years ago. We all remember.
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
Always a Comet
Yesterday evening I checked my Facebook feed randomly as we drove home and saw the news that a teacher I had, who later became a co-worker of mine, suddenly passed away. I sat in stunned silence for a moment, unsure if it was even true. The more posts I saw, the more real it became. Yet Dave McCormick has a personality that is larger than life. It is difficult to fathom someone who is filled with so much life is simply not here.
I met Dave in the fall of 1995 as a high school junior; then Mr. McCormick to me. I was new to Coventry High School. Choosing to leave behind the school district where I had been since kindergarten to attend CHS for a music program. I rode to school each morning with my dad, one of the guidance counselors (I know, talk about following in footsteps...). Because dad went in early (we left the house at 4:30am, yikes!) I was always there before all the other students. My hangout of preference was the cafeteria. Our high school was converted from a former entertainment complex, and our cafeteria was the old restaurant. We had booths for tables. It was fabulous. My neighbor (who had also chosen to transfer districts) and I would sit there alone for over an hour, doing our hair, makeup, eating breakfast treats from the cooks, and chatting with Mr. McCormick-the first teacher to arrive most every day. He was hysterical. Told us jokes. Was loud. Called me Wronkie-which stuck. He made us feel part of the school culture. We were two new kids that weren't quite sure where we fit in at the beginning. But that is how he was with every student at CHS-made sure they belonged.
Next school year in Senior Government, I witnessed the same thing in action. My Government class fell during the final block of the day for me. I was usually droopy-eyed, but you couldn't doze off in Mr. McCormick's class. Nope. He was every bit a big personality in front of his classroom as he was out of it. He would teach us about laws and governing through stories. And they stuck. I still remember an example about why school property is searchable-having something to do with a student dropping cherry bombs down a toilet and causing horrific damage. We were in tears as he told us about the "victim" of the story. And he never told a story sitting down. More like standing on his table.
Years later I accepted a teaching position right out of college in the English department at CHS. I would be teaching Senior English, Speech, and Yearbook. When I showed up that summer to begin to get my classroom and office ready, who was there to greet me but Dave? A giant bear hug and exuberant welcome. Watching him from my new perspective it was clear just how important he was to the student body. The amazing pep rallies he ran that included everyone. The personality that dominated our wing as students passed by. The energy he brought to all the after school events. He promoted student activities tirelessly-from athletics, student council, to music and drama. If it was happening in the school, Dave was there.
I left CHS after one school year to move across the state for a new teaching position and to begin graduate school. Eventually I got married, finished graduate school, became a school counselor, and have put down roots here. But a very large part of me will always be a Coventry Comet. Yes, I attended a different school district for 11 years. Yet the two years I spent at Coventry changed me in profound ways. When I think about high school I always call to mind the hallways at the North Campus. The friends I have kept in touch with from high school are the ones I made sitting in the booths of our cafeteria or in the back hallways of the music wing. Dave McCormick is an inseparable part of those memories. Farewell teacher, mentor, friend. You shall be among the stars now-so fitting for a Comet.
For those wanting information, here is a link to the obituary.
I met Dave in the fall of 1995 as a high school junior; then Mr. McCormick to me. I was new to Coventry High School. Choosing to leave behind the school district where I had been since kindergarten to attend CHS for a music program. I rode to school each morning with my dad, one of the guidance counselors (I know, talk about following in footsteps...). Because dad went in early (we left the house at 4:30am, yikes!) I was always there before all the other students. My hangout of preference was the cafeteria. Our high school was converted from a former entertainment complex, and our cafeteria was the old restaurant. We had booths for tables. It was fabulous. My neighbor (who had also chosen to transfer districts) and I would sit there alone for over an hour, doing our hair, makeup, eating breakfast treats from the cooks, and chatting with Mr. McCormick-the first teacher to arrive most every day. He was hysterical. Told us jokes. Was loud. Called me Wronkie-which stuck. He made us feel part of the school culture. We were two new kids that weren't quite sure where we fit in at the beginning. But that is how he was with every student at CHS-made sure they belonged.
Next school year in Senior Government, I witnessed the same thing in action. My Government class fell during the final block of the day for me. I was usually droopy-eyed, but you couldn't doze off in Mr. McCormick's class. Nope. He was every bit a big personality in front of his classroom as he was out of it. He would teach us about laws and governing through stories. And they stuck. I still remember an example about why school property is searchable-having something to do with a student dropping cherry bombs down a toilet and causing horrific damage. We were in tears as he told us about the "victim" of the story. And he never told a story sitting down. More like standing on his table.
Years later I accepted a teaching position right out of college in the English department at CHS. I would be teaching Senior English, Speech, and Yearbook. When I showed up that summer to begin to get my classroom and office ready, who was there to greet me but Dave? A giant bear hug and exuberant welcome. Watching him from my new perspective it was clear just how important he was to the student body. The amazing pep rallies he ran that included everyone. The personality that dominated our wing as students passed by. The energy he brought to all the after school events. He promoted student activities tirelessly-from athletics, student council, to music and drama. If it was happening in the school, Dave was there.
I left CHS after one school year to move across the state for a new teaching position and to begin graduate school. Eventually I got married, finished graduate school, became a school counselor, and have put down roots here. But a very large part of me will always be a Coventry Comet. Yes, I attended a different school district for 11 years. Yet the two years I spent at Coventry changed me in profound ways. When I think about high school I always call to mind the hallways at the North Campus. The friends I have kept in touch with from high school are the ones I made sitting in the booths of our cafeteria or in the back hallways of the music wing. Dave McCormick is an inseparable part of those memories. Farewell teacher, mentor, friend. You shall be among the stars now-so fitting for a Comet.
For those wanting information, here is a link to the obituary.
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
Without Teachers...
...where would I be?
I wouldn't have discovered how to make butter out of heavy cream and a marble inside of a plastic tub. Shake, shake, shake...pass to a classmate, cheer them on, poof! Butter! Spread on some saltine crackers and enjoy. Teamwork makes the best treats. Thank you Mrs. Billings.
I wouldn't have learned the power of friendship between a spider and a runty pig. Or how the smallest voice could be the most powerful in a sea of chocolate. From Charlotte's Web to Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, chapter books became my friends thanks to Mrs. Krusinski.
While I may be a bookworm at heart, a simple "I believe in you" powered me through long division. Math became my friend (for a while) and a teacher that frightened me at the beginning of the year was now my super hero. Mrs. Kerby, you made me feel I could accomplish anything.
At the end of a hallway was tucked a room-dusty, crowded, and noisy. It was a sanctuary for middle school students like me who didn't seem to fit anywhere else. With our instrument cases and giant music folders, Mrs. Grom and Mr. Santelli coaxed us from rocky scales in sixth grade to eighth grade band where we were convinced we were master musicians. A gift of music is one that stays forever.
She was the "Ms." in the sea of "Mrs." She made us read short stories filled with gore and horror. We tackled American poets and playwrights with appetites fit for college lit classes. We wrote analysis essays and sat wherever we pleased. We felt respected and rasied our own standards. I've never worked harder for a teacher-in high school or college. Mary Styslinger (now Dr. Styslinger), you showed me what it meant to be a powerful, strong, and amazing English teacher. You were my model when I ventured into my first classroom. You fanned my own flames.
I never had a voice. Suddenly I was a soprano. I was shy. Now I had a solo. I trembled like a leaf. Now someone belived in my talents. I lacked confidence. I now belonged. We sang in Latin. We swayed to American Gospel. We improved to Jazz. We sang in the dark while standing on our chairs-to be "in" the song. Mr. Kochan, you gave me a voice. You gave me the gift of my song.
Without the teachers I have named, I would not be the woman I am today. The woman who loves discovering new foods. The woman who reads voraciously. The woman who has confidence in herself. The woman who can play the flute still and loves to sit and listen to a symphony orchestra, high school band, or jazz combo. The woman who taught High School English, will analyize literature, and loves to edit essays. The woman who sings in the car, even with the top down, because she knows she has the chops. My teachers all gave me gifts I am forever changed by. Today is Teacher Appreciation Day, and while I am always thankful for what they have all done for me-I am taking a moment today to pause and give them their time in the sun. Thank a teacher today-thank them for what they have done for you. Thank them for what they have done for your child. Or just thank one for what they do for any child. Just thank a teacher and make their day a little sunnier.
I wouldn't have discovered how to make butter out of heavy cream and a marble inside of a plastic tub. Shake, shake, shake...pass to a classmate, cheer them on, poof! Butter! Spread on some saltine crackers and enjoy. Teamwork makes the best treats. Thank you Mrs. Billings.
I wouldn't have learned the power of friendship between a spider and a runty pig. Or how the smallest voice could be the most powerful in a sea of chocolate. From Charlotte's Web to Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, chapter books became my friends thanks to Mrs. Krusinski.
While I may be a bookworm at heart, a simple "I believe in you" powered me through long division. Math became my friend (for a while) and a teacher that frightened me at the beginning of the year was now my super hero. Mrs. Kerby, you made me feel I could accomplish anything.
At the end of a hallway was tucked a room-dusty, crowded, and noisy. It was a sanctuary for middle school students like me who didn't seem to fit anywhere else. With our instrument cases and giant music folders, Mrs. Grom and Mr. Santelli coaxed us from rocky scales in sixth grade to eighth grade band where we were convinced we were master musicians. A gift of music is one that stays forever.
She was the "Ms." in the sea of "Mrs." She made us read short stories filled with gore and horror. We tackled American poets and playwrights with appetites fit for college lit classes. We wrote analysis essays and sat wherever we pleased. We felt respected and rasied our own standards. I've never worked harder for a teacher-in high school or college. Mary Styslinger (now Dr. Styslinger), you showed me what it meant to be a powerful, strong, and amazing English teacher. You were my model when I ventured into my first classroom. You fanned my own flames.
I never had a voice. Suddenly I was a soprano. I was shy. Now I had a solo. I trembled like a leaf. Now someone belived in my talents. I lacked confidence. I now belonged. We sang in Latin. We swayed to American Gospel. We improved to Jazz. We sang in the dark while standing on our chairs-to be "in" the song. Mr. Kochan, you gave me a voice. You gave me the gift of my song.
Without the teachers I have named, I would not be the woman I am today. The woman who loves discovering new foods. The woman who reads voraciously. The woman who has confidence in herself. The woman who can play the flute still and loves to sit and listen to a symphony orchestra, high school band, or jazz combo. The woman who taught High School English, will analyize literature, and loves to edit essays. The woman who sings in the car, even with the top down, because she knows she has the chops. My teachers all gave me gifts I am forever changed by. Today is Teacher Appreciation Day, and while I am always thankful for what they have all done for me-I am taking a moment today to pause and give them their time in the sun. Thank a teacher today-thank them for what they have done for you. Thank them for what they have done for your child. Or just thank one for what they do for any child. Just thank a teacher and make their day a little sunnier.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
The Long Goodbye
We are in the homestretch of the school year here. I look at my 60-day planner on my office wall and see that I have only May left (and a teensy-bit of April). For me, May is a crazy, hectic, mad dash of a month. You blink and it is over. You start your day with a to-do list five miles long and end your day with a to-do list that is ten miles longer. As a school counselor who serves students in grades 7, 8, 9 and all of our career tech kids (that would be 10-12 grades for those of you who aren't in the school business) I am in the middle of excitement, elation and sadness.
My youngest group remind me of the ping-pong balls in a lottery machine right now-all bouncing against the clear glass furiously as each tries to shoot up the cylinder into importance. The 7th grade teens know in a matter of moments they will rule the building. They will carry the mantle of seniority. The 8th graders want to blast into high school with aplomb-some dragging their junior high popularity with them, some dreaming of remaking their image in a new setting (even if it is mere steps next door). Oh to be fourteen...
The ninth grade students are anxious to shed the freshman label and move right into the category of experience and knowledge. They wish to be bored sophomores, with that "been here, done that" air. The ones who stand idly by during pep rallies rolling their eyes and folding their arms. The class who rarely, if ever, wins a cheer contest. They have conquered the freshman year and are so over it.
Now, my teens at our career tech school are upperclassmen-affixed with the sense of responsibility and purpose. They see the end is near. Some wish to grasp that ring and fling themselves into the world yesterday. Some are terrified of it. Tomorrow I will be meeting with this fantastic group of students for the final time of the school year and I will see all of this in their eyes.
My last large group meeting is always bittersweet for me. I have had some of these students since they were little thirteen year-old seventh graders. Entering that world of junior high, filled with anxiety. Tomorrow's stated purpose is to discuss prom, post prom and graduation information. But for me it is also a chance to see all of their faces at one time, for one last time. I end this meeting with just my seniors-having sent the juniors on their merry way. When I tell them it is the last time we will all be in a room together as a group, I always get emotional. I feel like their mother hen. I am bursting with pride over their accomplishments, yet once they leave the nest of school, we lose track of them-not getting to see all the wonderful things they do in the world. This is what makes me wistful and a bit sad.
May is truly a long goodbye for those of us in the school business. Yes, it is filled to the brim with activity, ceremonies, events and more. Yet it is also a month where we do everything "one last time." I may get frustrated with my students, irritated, fed up, but this month I am reminded again why I do what I do. And it is because I want nothing more than to be a cheerleader on the sideline of their lives. Hoping to be a little part of who they become as they step out of childhood and into the wide, wide world of adulthood. So May, bring it. I can totally do this (again). Just bring a few boxes of tissues with you.
My youngest group remind me of the ping-pong balls in a lottery machine right now-all bouncing against the clear glass furiously as each tries to shoot up the cylinder into importance. The 7th grade teens know in a matter of moments they will rule the building. They will carry the mantle of seniority. The 8th graders want to blast into high school with aplomb-some dragging their junior high popularity with them, some dreaming of remaking their image in a new setting (even if it is mere steps next door). Oh to be fourteen...
The ninth grade students are anxious to shed the freshman label and move right into the category of experience and knowledge. They wish to be bored sophomores, with that "been here, done that" air. The ones who stand idly by during pep rallies rolling their eyes and folding their arms. The class who rarely, if ever, wins a cheer contest. They have conquered the freshman year and are so over it.
Now, my teens at our career tech school are upperclassmen-affixed with the sense of responsibility and purpose. They see the end is near. Some wish to grasp that ring and fling themselves into the world yesterday. Some are terrified of it. Tomorrow I will be meeting with this fantastic group of students for the final time of the school year and I will see all of this in their eyes.
My last large group meeting is always bittersweet for me. I have had some of these students since they were little thirteen year-old seventh graders. Entering that world of junior high, filled with anxiety. Tomorrow's stated purpose is to discuss prom, post prom and graduation information. But for me it is also a chance to see all of their faces at one time, for one last time. I end this meeting with just my seniors-having sent the juniors on their merry way. When I tell them it is the last time we will all be in a room together as a group, I always get emotional. I feel like their mother hen. I am bursting with pride over their accomplishments, yet once they leave the nest of school, we lose track of them-not getting to see all the wonderful things they do in the world. This is what makes me wistful and a bit sad.
May is truly a long goodbye for those of us in the school business. Yes, it is filled to the brim with activity, ceremonies, events and more. Yet it is also a month where we do everything "one last time." I may get frustrated with my students, irritated, fed up, but this month I am reminded again why I do what I do. And it is because I want nothing more than to be a cheerleader on the sideline of their lives. Hoping to be a little part of who they become as they step out of childhood and into the wide, wide world of adulthood. So May, bring it. I can totally do this (again). Just bring a few boxes of tissues with you.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Orentating
When you do something over and over you tend to forget the unique newness of events. Today is registration for high school freshmen. I, as the ninth grade counselor, am spending my day in a computer lab, doing a lot of hand holding, question answering, and assisting them as they choose their very first classes.
And I am answering the same questions over and over and over and over and over and over and...
Well, you get the picture.
But what I have to keep reminding myself is that they are on the cusp. The cusp of high school. Buzzing with anticipation over the newness of it all. Watching them rush around this lab, course request sheets in hand, asking questions of their friends is rather endearing. I remember this age so well. Nervousness blended with excitement. When I was in my Junior English class, my teacher told us one day that she envied us our teenaged ability to emote. That we were so intense-intensely in love, intensely in hate, intensely nervous, happy, sad, or even simply intensely bored. We were just extreme beings. I didn't get it then. Yet now, watching my students in this room I completely understand what she said. The girls squeal about choosing classes. The boys howl with laughter over bodily functions. There is not a student who simply sits down. They plop, flop, slam, leap, slide, slink. It is an entirely different energy.
While I am so frustrated answering the same questions over and over-this is my sixth year of orientating fourteen year-old students to the newness of high school-I also understand that they are new at this. I am the old and learned one. I may understand the intricacies of credits, graduation requirements, prerequisites, eligibility and more but they do not. And this is only the mundane academic part. This isn't the important stuff of high school life. Just wait until August when locker assignments go out, complete schedules are distributed, homecoming week schedule is announced, cafeteria tables are claimed, positions in athletic teams and band/choir are posted...that is what matters to the life of our students. The exterior of teens may look different, but after being an observant educator and school counselor for eleven years I can say that high school is exactly as you remember it.
And I am answering the same questions over and over and over and over and over and over and...
Well, you get the picture.
But what I have to keep reminding myself is that they are on the cusp. The cusp of high school. Buzzing with anticipation over the newness of it all. Watching them rush around this lab, course request sheets in hand, asking questions of their friends is rather endearing. I remember this age so well. Nervousness blended with excitement. When I was in my Junior English class, my teacher told us one day that she envied us our teenaged ability to emote. That we were so intense-intensely in love, intensely in hate, intensely nervous, happy, sad, or even simply intensely bored. We were just extreme beings. I didn't get it then. Yet now, watching my students in this room I completely understand what she said. The girls squeal about choosing classes. The boys howl with laughter over bodily functions. There is not a student who simply sits down. They plop, flop, slam, leap, slide, slink. It is an entirely different energy.
While I am so frustrated answering the same questions over and over-this is my sixth year of orientating fourteen year-old students to the newness of high school-I also understand that they are new at this. I am the old and learned one. I may understand the intricacies of credits, graduation requirements, prerequisites, eligibility and more but they do not. And this is only the mundane academic part. This isn't the important stuff of high school life. Just wait until August when locker assignments go out, complete schedules are distributed, homecoming week schedule is announced, cafeteria tables are claimed, positions in athletic teams and band/choir are posted...that is what matters to the life of our students. The exterior of teens may look different, but after being an observant educator and school counselor for eleven years I can say that high school is exactly as you remember it.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
What I do when I'm not here
Happy National Teacher Appreciation Week! If you've been with me from the beginning, you're well aware that I'm an educator. A school counselor, to be exact. However, I started my career 10 years ago in the English classroom. I can't even tell you when I knew I wanted to become a teacher/educator, because it was just always so. There wasn't another career I considered. Well, somewhere in there my mom tells me I was going to be a ballerina in the evenings and a firewoman in the daytime. I had big dreams for a little thing!
I've been out of the classroom technically for longer than I was in, but those years I spent teaching English seem bigger in my memory than the past six I've spent in the counseling office. Maybe because I can remember my students by name. Maybe because I still read the novels I used to teach. Maybe because I still have artwork from my former students' projects hanging on my office wall. Maybe because I just loved it so much. Don't get me wrong, I love, love, love this job. But it is just so different than the classroom, I cannot explain it.
Because this is National Teacher Appreciation Week. Because a former teacher of mine posted on Facebook to thank a teacher we had in our past. Because I love teachers with my whole heart, I am filled with memories this morning of those who led me to this place today. My kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Billings who was the sweetest, most kind and loving woman. Or my second grade teacher, Mrs. Krusinski (that was our first lesson...spelling her name) who introduced me to chapter books like Charlotte's Web and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. My fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Kerby, who held my hand so patiently through long division, no matter how frustrated I became. I was painfully shy in those elementary years, barely speaking above a whisper, but my teachers somehow understood me, and made me feel as though I was okay. I thank them for creating a safe and nurturing place for me to grow.
When I entered the upper grades, it was all about the arts. I set foot into the band room and disappeared into a world unto myself-and kids just like me. Every single band director I had shaped the person I am today. I am eternally grateful to each of them for pushing me to become a better musician, better team player, better person. Because of my love for music, I chose to finish out school in a music conservatory and landed in choir simply because my mean guidance counselor (dad) wouldn't let me take a study hall. Mr. Kochan changed me yet again. The painfully shy girl who felt comfortable with a musical instrument attached to her face discovered she loved to sing. There are days now I find myself wandering down to the choir room of my school just to listen-I miss that so.
Finally, there was my junior English class. With Mary Styslinger. It was years later we found out she despised teaching American Literature, preferring Brit Lit, but we couldn't have known. She opened my eyes to all that was the rich tradition of American writers. It was in her room that I read Shirley Jackson's The Lottery and Kate Chopin's The Awakening for the first time. We performed The Crucible. We wrote literary analysis papers till our fingers bled. She forced our thoughts to twist and turn into directions we didn't know they could go. I loved it. I ate it up with a spoon. Then I got a ladle because I couldn't get enough of it. Before that semester ended I knew I wanted to teach English more than anything. It became my mantra as I taught my own teens years later-am I giving them the same thirst for knowledge that Ms. Styslinger gave me?
I give thanks to all of the teachers who shaped me. The teachers who left their thumbprints on my path to adulthood. I couldn't have gotten here without you. Many (if not all) of you won't read this today, or ever. But I know that our jobs come with little thanks, and much grief. If you know a teacher, love a teacher, or appreciate a teacher, make a point to simply tell them "thank you" before they leave for the summer. We live on those words. Tonight I will take some time to go through all the notes, cards, and pictures I have saved over the last 10 years. It seems like a fitting time to re-read my treasures.
I've been out of the classroom technically for longer than I was in, but those years I spent teaching English seem bigger in my memory than the past six I've spent in the counseling office. Maybe because I can remember my students by name. Maybe because I still read the novels I used to teach. Maybe because I still have artwork from my former students' projects hanging on my office wall. Maybe because I just loved it so much. Don't get me wrong, I love, love, love this job. But it is just so different than the classroom, I cannot explain it.
Because this is National Teacher Appreciation Week. Because a former teacher of mine posted on Facebook to thank a teacher we had in our past. Because I love teachers with my whole heart, I am filled with memories this morning of those who led me to this place today. My kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Billings who was the sweetest, most kind and loving woman. Or my second grade teacher, Mrs. Krusinski (that was our first lesson...spelling her name) who introduced me to chapter books like Charlotte's Web and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. My fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Kerby, who held my hand so patiently through long division, no matter how frustrated I became. I was painfully shy in those elementary years, barely speaking above a whisper, but my teachers somehow understood me, and made me feel as though I was okay. I thank them for creating a safe and nurturing place for me to grow.
When I entered the upper grades, it was all about the arts. I set foot into the band room and disappeared into a world unto myself-and kids just like me. Every single band director I had shaped the person I am today. I am eternally grateful to each of them for pushing me to become a better musician, better team player, better person. Because of my love for music, I chose to finish out school in a music conservatory and landed in choir simply because my mean guidance counselor (dad) wouldn't let me take a study hall. Mr. Kochan changed me yet again. The painfully shy girl who felt comfortable with a musical instrument attached to her face discovered she loved to sing. There are days now I find myself wandering down to the choir room of my school just to listen-I miss that so.
Finally, there was my junior English class. With Mary Styslinger. It was years later we found out she despised teaching American Literature, preferring Brit Lit, but we couldn't have known. She opened my eyes to all that was the rich tradition of American writers. It was in her room that I read Shirley Jackson's The Lottery and Kate Chopin's The Awakening for the first time. We performed The Crucible. We wrote literary analysis papers till our fingers bled. She forced our thoughts to twist and turn into directions we didn't know they could go. I loved it. I ate it up with a spoon. Then I got a ladle because I couldn't get enough of it. Before that semester ended I knew I wanted to teach English more than anything. It became my mantra as I taught my own teens years later-am I giving them the same thirst for knowledge that Ms. Styslinger gave me?
I give thanks to all of the teachers who shaped me. The teachers who left their thumbprints on my path to adulthood. I couldn't have gotten here without you. Many (if not all) of you won't read this today, or ever. But I know that our jobs come with little thanks, and much grief. If you know a teacher, love a teacher, or appreciate a teacher, make a point to simply tell them "thank you" before they leave for the summer. We live on those words. Tonight I will take some time to go through all the notes, cards, and pictures I have saved over the last 10 years. It seems like a fitting time to re-read my treasures.
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