Those Who Can

Posted on by stilllearning2b

I never planned on becoming a teacher. My initial goal was architecture, but I veered away from that field as fewer and fewer opportunities were available within the profession.  My next choice was physical therapy – it offered the blend of science and social interaction I desired plus I was drawn to the idea of helping others (I had therapists after the surgery on my hand that were very influential ). While still living in Texas, I earned over 120 hours of college credit, both through AP exams and coursework. I was in the process of applying to a program that would allow me to complete my degree in physical therapy.

And then I moved to Georgia and lost all my hours.

My ex never went to college. He was a brilliant guy, yet he didn’t “do” school very well. He started off doing manual work, mainly carpentry related. He wasn’t content to stay in low wage jobs that didn’t stimulate him. He always wanted to learn and grow. Unfortunately, San Antonio was not exactly a hotbed of opportunities for him. As long as we stayed in our childhood city, his income would be low and he would be bored. He found a job in Atlanta and moved in October of 1998. I stayed behind until June, finishing out the lease and my year of school.

I never hesitated to move. Being with him was more important than a program in school or a dot on the map. At the time it was a no-brainer. I packed up my life, said goodbye to friends and family and drove 24 hours in a Ryder truck with a pug on my lap and a sedated kitten by my feet.

I had decided to take the fall semester off school to give me time to locate a new job and to get an idea of the city and its universities. During my second week here, I ventured out onto the interstates to tour Georgia State, located smack in the middle of downtown. By the time I pulled into a parking spot in the garage, I was in tears, shaking from the overwhelming traffic and confusing road signs. Over the next few months, I grew comfortable with the traffic and started to learn the city.

I fell in love with the campus at Oglethorpe on my first visit. It’s gothic architecture captivated me and I had romantic images of studying in its grand spaces. The grant they offered me for my academic record secured the deal. That semester was great and terrible. I was newly married. We had purchased a home. I loved being back in school and I enjoyed the classes. I was volunteering at a physical therapy clinic to learn the craft and complete the required hours for admission into a program. But then my ex’s company folded and I learned that all my credits had transferred as electives, leaving me with a seemingly endless program until I would have me degree.

I had to make a decision. Physical therapy requires a master’s degree. With my credits disappearing  like bubbles in the wind, that would take another 6 years. Six years where I would only be able to pull in minimal wages at some part time job. I made a decision to change my major, to sacrifice my dream for the financial well being of the marriage. I needed a program that I could complete at night and online, freeing up more hours for employment. I needed something that only required a bachelor’s degree. I needed a career that was stable to balance my ex’s career path, which tended towards ups and downs.

I became a teacher.

This was my choice. I was never forced. I was not coerced. I made the decision for us, for the marriage.

It turned out that I was a good teacher. I was the youngest ever recipient of the Teacher of the Year award at my former school. I quickly gained leadership roles and was considered a mentor teacher. I obtained my master’s degree in education, mainly to help bring my paycheck up to more reasonable levels. I loved creating creative and varied lessons that were engaging. I basked in the rewards of thank you notes and visits from former students. It was always a hard job, but I never questioned it.

He was always very supportive of me and helped lessen the load of my job. He would assist in the packing and unpacking that bookends every school year. He would carry in flats of water and snacks for me after Costco runs. He would prepare dinner and rub my feet after long days. He showed up at science fairs and PTA meetings. He listened to “teacher talk” when we were out with friends and sympathized with our trials. He helped to make a hard job easier.

And then he left.

And I grew angry.

It wasn’t fair. I felt trapped in a career that I had chosen for us. I made decisions that were the best for the marriage and he chose to throw the marriage away. I started to regret my choices from long ago that started me on this path. It became easier to focus on the negative aspects of teaching and fail to recognize the blessings.

I looked at options, looking to see if I could make a change. It was hard to accept that, in many ways, it was too late. My science classes were too old to count. I would have to become a fulltime student again for many years to complete the required courses. I simply couldn’t leave the known paycheck of teaching, especially while facing the debt he left me with, in order to make that kind of schooling happen.

I grew angrier.

I wanted recognition for my sacrifice. I wanted him to thank me for putting the marriage first. I wanted sympathy for the position in which he left me.

That wasn’t going to happen.

Although he was supportive during the marriage, that support stopped when he walked out the door.

As time moved on, my life began to fill with new friends and a new partner. None of them are teachers or have much experience with schooling apart from their own.  I bristled at the comments about how lucky I was to have summers off or how teachers have it easy, getting off before 5:00 pm. When someone mentioned a lunch hour, I would snap.

I began to be resentful of my days with little to no breaks, 15 minute lunches in a room with 300 teenagers and endless hours on my feet.  I wanted to be understood. I wanted to be recognized.

But not by them, the friends which were speaking from lack of knowledge.  By my ex.

I still struggle with this, especially as the demands on educators increase and the compensation decreases. I find the resentment creeping in when I come home to Brock napping on the couch. I feel it when I open my paycheck to find yet another furlough. It rears its ugly head when I am tired and overwhelmed.

I don’t want to be this way. I made the choice to be teacher and I need to stop blaming him for that decision. It has been a very rewarding career in so many ways. I have been successful and, more importantly, have influenced thousands of lives. I don’t want to be angry about it. I don’t want to feel stuck. I don’t want to get frustrated when I don’t feel understood. And I don’t want to have to find external validation and affirmation for the challenges.

I’ve addressed the feeling of being stuck by pursuing other avenues – wellness coaching and writing. Although these do not bring in enough income to replace teaching, they give me an outlet and help to pad my paycheck.

I’m better on the anger. I made the best decisions I could have in those moments. I would make those same decisions again. I need to remember the husband who was supportive and understanding, not the one who spent my paycheck on a wedding ring for the other wife.

Now, I need to address the frustration. The need for validation and commiseration. Yeah, it’s a tough job. Lots of jobs are. I’d love it if it would pay more. But I’m nowhere near alone in that complaint. I tire of the bell that drives my life, but most jobs have deadline of some sort (mine just happens to come every 55 minutes!). The days are long and the breaks are short.

But the rewards are wonderful. Every year, I get to know over a hundred teenagers at the brink of adulthood. I get to hear their stories and shape their lives. Although I am not a mother, I now have well over a thousand “kids” that write me and visit me, sharing the successes of their lives. I get to help people overcome their fear of math, often turning it into a favorite subject. I get to wear jeans on Fridays and drink coffee from an endless selection of gifted mugs. I can act silly and stupid with no fear.  In fact, the sillier I am, the more they learn. I can help new teachers learn the craft and I can share my lessons with others (I was recently filmed by the Department of Education for a database of exemplary teaching!). I can use my skills to help improve the status of teachers in our society, bringing professionalism to a job that is frequently underappreciated.

I am choosing to let go of the anger and frustration. I am choosing to be thankful for a career that has allowed me to grow as a person and help others grow as well. I am choosing to not seek what I want from ex from the others around me; that’s not their burden to carry.

It is often said that those who can’t, teach. I disagree.

Well, I can. And I choose to teach.

But I’ll still take a foot rub if one is offered:)

You Up For Something New?

Posted on by stilllearning2b

That was the text that came to my phone at 3:30 this afternoon. Of course, there’s only one appropriate response:

“Sure.”

The text came from a friend of mine that I frequently refer to as my “sprinting buddy.” We first met at the gym a couple of years ago. He was in the early stages of trying to regain his fitness after a knee surgery that ended with a staph infection and landed him in the hospital. When we met, he had been cleared by the physical therapist to lift weights again but his leg was still weak and shaky. I admired his spirit from our first meeting. He wasn’t moaning about the years he lost fighting for his leg. He didn’t complain about the loss of fitness he once had. Instead, he talked about his dream to play tennis again and, even more, to sprint again.

Our casual gym discussion eventually turned into a weekly “leg day” workout. I delighted in coming up with exercises that would challenge him and his strengthening leg. He never complained (only would text me the next day to let me know if his legs were sore or not). Although, I did sense a wary look when I pulled out the Bosu Ball or the kettlebell:)  We did squats and lunges. We balanced and jumped. And his leg grew stronger while we shared giggles over the customs associated with our mutual Norwegian roots.

Throughout that time, he still dreamed of sprinting, something he enjoyed and excelled at in high school when he was on the track team. His first tries that year fell flat. He just wasn’t ready.

At the end of that school year, I switched jobs and gyms. We lost touch for a few months. Then, I got a text asking if I wanted to meet up to run sprints. I was thrilled. We met at a nearby park where I watched as he wrapped his knee in a couple of layers of protective gear and jogged a couple of test laps. The mind was ready to run, but the body still needed convincing.

The look on his face while running that day was amazing as he ran the dream that had kept him going through the ordeal with his knee. The joy was contagious. I found myself pushing myself harder and having more fun than I ever had before while sprinting.

We continue to meet up to run sprints whenever we can. He has since well surpassed me (I think there may be some cheetah mixed in with that Scandinavian blood). Every time we run, it leaves me feeling so refreshed and relaxed, even through the wheezes as I struggle for air.

The parallels between our recoveries these past couple years have been interesting. He was cleared by his physical therapist about the same time I was cleared by my psychiatrist. We were no longer “sick” yet we had quite a ways to go before we were fully operational at the levels we were accustomed to. We both tried to push the healing process along on our own timelines only to be reminded that it wasn’t within our control. And finally, we both came through the other side stronger and more grateful than ever before.

So, what was with the something different? Normally, we run 100 yard sprints. He had worked his way to 200 yarders while I was training and recovering from the marathon (sneaky!). Today was my first stab at them. And, I gotta say, they were pretty awesome.

I love the feeling of running while giving 100%. I love the satisfied exhaustion I feel after sprinting. I love having friends in my life that are an inspiration. But most of all, I love to see people accomplish their goals and delight in the fruition of a dream.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to finish catching my breath:)

 

En Guarde: Lessons From the Fencing Strip

Posted on by stilllearning2b

I was never an athletic child.  I always had various bodily complaints: asthma, joint problems, allergies, and I found it way too easy to pass on physical exertion due to these issues.  Strangely enough; however, one of my long-standing complaints ushered me in to the world of sports and exercise.

I had always had pain and weakness in my hands and wrists.  When I was 14, I had a carpal tunnel release done on the right hand after a nerve conduction test revealed a substantial decrease in nerve function.  I had a hard road back from the surgery and I needed rehab beyond physical therapy.  I had always loved the Monkees (RIP Davy Jones, my first crush) and was particularly enamoured of the episode where they fenced.  (Okay, so maybe I was also influenced by Cary Elwes in tight pants in The Princess Bride.  Back to the story…)

The Princess Bride (film)

So in my 14-year-old brain, I came up with the following:

play with swords + strengthen my hand + get to hit people + hot guys in tight pants + mask to hide bad hair day = “mom…I want to try fencing”

Luckily, she agreed.  I began to train at Salle Pouj, run by Gerard Poujardieu, a French fencer with a sharp wit and a tongue to match.  My years training with Pouj were amazing.  He knew how to support me and encourage me at the same time (translation: a swift kick in the butt).  I learned what my body was capable of as I began to gather medals and I learned what my mind is capable of as I worked to overcome fear and pain.  Here are just a few of the lessons I learned on the strips of the salle.

Commit

The big day had arrived.  All of the fencing gear that I had ordered had come in.  Pouj was going through each item, describing it and inventorying it.  When he was through, he picked up a patch from his desk and showed my mom and I where it needed to be placed on the shoulder of my jacket.  “KTB?,” my mom asked, “What does that stand for?”  With partially chagrined look (yes partial, if you had known Pouj, you would know that he would never be fully chagrined about ANYTHING), he replied, “Kill the Bastards.”  My pacifist-leaning mom looked shocked.  I grinned.

He went on to explain that it meant to not do anything half way, to commit to your actions.  In a lesson, he would say “through the spine,” meaning not to hesitate or back off.  If you’re going to do it, do it right.  Sometimes when I doubt myself, I can be heard muttering, “KTB” under my breath.

If you’re in a battle, it is a battle against yourself

Fencing is a bit deceptive.  You face off across a thin strip, mano y mano, waving swords in each other’s faces.  It would seem clear that your opponent is the masked person on the other end of the strip.  I soon learned that my true opponent was myself.  Each bout I strove to be better than I was before, regardless of who held the other weapon.  They were almost inconsequential.

The true battle was in my mind.  Against my own fears.  My own voice telling me I couldn’t do it.  I discovered that if I worked to win the battle in my head, the one on the strip usually worked out in my favor.

This is Pouj BEFORE a competition. He was touching each medal in turn, saying, “This one’s mine…and this one’s mine…” He was highly confident:)

Sometimes, you simply cannot prepare enough

I ended up being pretty good at fencing.  I frequently placed in the top 3 in the state for my division.  One year, Pouj convinced me to compete in the Junior Olympics.  I was confronted with the reality that Texas is not the fencing center of the country (I mean, who knew?).  I trained hard for that competition, but it was not enough.  I faced three left-handed in a row, and I had very little experience with the topsy-turvy world of fencing against lefties.  All those fancy moves?  Yeah, they don’t work anymore.

It was a hard lesson to learn.  I had gone from being near the top to being inconsequential, a mere blip on the screen as my opponents continued to advance.  I realized I had to let it go.  Some situations are not winnable no matter how much you prepare.

Size doesn’t matter

Okay, get your head out of the gutter.  We are talking about when I was in high school, after all.

As you may be able to tell from my photos, I am rather vertically challenged.  Fencing is a great equalizer amongst athletes of all sizes.  I routinely beat men who topped me by a foot and were much stronger.  I learned to become confident in my body and feel strong and powerful, regardless of my pants size.  How big you feel is so much more important than how big you are.

Don’t be too predictable

There was one particular pattern Pouj taught me that I really liked.  It worked well with my height and my unexpected strength (in fact, I routinely disarmed Pouj with this particular move, which was no small feat!).  As you can imagine, I used this sequence a lot.  Too much, as it turns out, as my opponents began to anticipate its use.  I had grown too comfortable, too predictable.

For my next trick, I taught myself to beat one rhythm with my left hand on my back leg while I fenced to an entirely different drummer.  That kept them guessing:)

Analyze the slow and trust instinct when the speed picks up

In a lesson, Pouj would have me analyze and practice a move over and over, first in slow motion and then at speed.  This was comfortable to me, as I like to think and stay in my brain-space.  I did well, until the day of my first bout came.  I tried to think through every attack and plan every counter-attack.  The problem?  I was still analyzing the initial attack and my opponent would be on his second.

I had to learn to trust my instincts.  Believe that the body knew what to do.

If you hold on too tightly, you lose your ability to move

I fenced with what was called a French grip (which Pouj insisted on, go figure).  The grip was a singular piece of metal, about a quarter of an inch on each rectangular side.  My instinct when I first held the weapon was to grasp the hold tightly in a fist, especially because the 2 1/2 pound weight of the foil was quite a burden for my rehabbing hand.  Pouj shook his head at me.  “No, no.  Not like that at all.”  He pinched the grip between my thumb and forefinger and coached the other fingers to lightly wrap around.  He explained that this limited grip was where all of my movement and control came from.  If I was to hold on too tightly, I would not be able to move.  By letting go, I gained more strength.

Hmmm…I think that lesson wasn’t fully mastered in the salle.  Maybe that’s why I’ve had to repeat it.

And, finally, don’t drink too much water before putting on all of the safety and scoring gear for a bout

Pretty self explanatory.

In memory of Pouj, who taught me more than he ever knew.