I Never Learned This in School

Posted on by stilllearning2b

So December 2013 is another month marked by yet another school shooting. It’s almost commonplace now yet as I looked around the excited faces of our middle schoolers at their annual basketball pep rally this afternoon, it’s unimaginable. I cannot envision one of them turning on their classmates and teachers with a deadly weapon. I cannot picture an armed intruder entering our school.

And I don’t want to.

After Brock heard about the latest incident on the news, he brought up the idea of doing some pro bono training for teachers. This is a man who has made his life’s passion about protection and defense. I have no doubt that his empty hands against a gun would at least result in a fight. He wants to share his expertise so that teachers could be better prepared. I appreciate and understand his motivation and intent.

But I don’t want to.

I don’t like assuming the role of a security officer at school. I am stretched enough as teacher and counselor and social worker and nurse and cheerleader. And playing police defeats those other roles. The roles I signed up for. I don’t know if I possess the capacity for the duplicity required. Middle schoolers don’t respond to clinical detachment; you have to form relationships. But how do you build a relationship at the same time you train how to take them out? Perhaps it is something that can be learned.

ButI don’t want to.

It makes Brock upset. And, I’m sure, scared every time he hears those reports. He knows techniques and strategies that could potentially help. It frustrates him that I don’t want to learn those operations. But I don’t know if I can and continue to work in my role as a teacher.

I never learned this in school. I was taught how to attack curriculum, not people. I was taught how to motivate kids, not take out adversaries. I learned how to break apart the processes of math, not the bones of others. I am sure I could learn these other lessons,  these techniques more suited to SWAT than pep rally.

But I don’t want to.

Maybe it’s my way of keeping my head in the sand. Keeping the possibility at a safe enough distance. Maybe it’s because being a teacher is overwhelming enough and I can’t imagine adding another layer to balance. Perhaps I’m just not made of the right stuff to be able to respond tactically in chaos. Maybe it seems futile because I can not (will not?) dedicate the time needed for real training.

I don’t know.

But I do know that these reports always shake me to the core.

The hard slap of reality delivered with a frightening regularity.

I do know it makes me want to hug my students.

And assure them they’re not alone.

I do know it changes the way I feel, walking into my job every day.

It puts the little things in perspective.

I just read an article today that discussed the first national summit on school shootings. Those involved were trying to come with a profile that would fit the classic perpetrator. And basically, what they came up with was a pretty typical teenage boy. Not necessarily a loner, no more likely to come from a single parent home. Just a kid.

The kind that move through my classroom every day by the dozens.

I don’t want to view each of those kids as a potential shooter.

I can’t.

What I can do is try my best to see each one as an individual. To build relationships. To reach out. To listen. To get help when needed. To reassure and motivate. To build community and trust.

I may not know how to wrestle a gun from someone’s hands. But maybe I can do a little bit to keep it from those hands in the first place.

And hope that is enough.

Pin the Tail on the Victim

Posted on by stilllearning2b

It’s rare that a news story makes me angry. But this one managed to get under my skin and infuriate me.

A teacher in California has been fired after her abusive and threatening ex husband showed up at her school, violating his restraining order. The school was forced to go into lockdown until the ex was apprehended by police.

After the incident, the private school put her on leave (and removed her children from the school) and refused to issue her a contract for the next school year. They cite their fears of the potential threat that the ex has to the students and faculty of the school once he is released from jail.

Deep breath.

I get the fear. It is extremely frightening to have an unstable person show up at the school, threatening students and faculty. I know. I’ve been there.

I’ve been there with the biological father with no parental rights shows up and tries to kidnap his daughter from the school cafeteria.

I’ve been there when the parent lashes out at the child in a conference, breaking his arm.

I’ve been there when the mom comes in to change the address of record to a battered women’s shelter and files the paperwork to remove the father from the approved pick up list.

I’ve been there as one who had to alert her principal to the possibility of an unstable ex showing up at the school. I felt so embarrassed and so ashamed having to tell my principal about my marital issues and making sure that the front office staff knew his name and what he looked like.

Schools are large organizations with hundreds if not thousands of people that come from all types of backgrounds. It’s only logical that domestic situations sometimes bleed into the school. It is a romantic notion to think that we can insulate our schools from this sort of episode, but unless we remove all of the people – faculty and students – from the school, it is an impossibility.

From everything we know about this particular story, the teacher did everything right. She divorced him, secured a restraining order and alerted the school when he threatened to approach her there.

Yet the school pinned the tail on her.

I worry about the message implied in the school’s response. It may encourage the abused to not seek help. To stay quiet. To stay a victim. By firing her, the school reinforced the ex husband’s power. They may have gussied up their threats on letterhead and refrained from foul language, but they are just as abusive by punishing someone asking for help.

It’s time to stop blaming those who try to get out. To get help. To speak out. Let’s pin the tail on the real asses.

 

Can’t Get No Satisfaction

Posted on by stilllearning2b

In yoga the other day, the instructor guided us into some complicated pose. I think it was called half-twist Bavarian pretzel with a side of mustard. Or something like that. After we had been twisted and balanced for what seemed like a decade, she said,

“Notice where you are in the pose today. Are you satisfied?”

(No.)

“Are you ever satisfied?”

(No. Damn it, why does she have to go all insightful on me when I am just struggling to not fall over and make a fool of myself?)

I walked out of the class an hour later, legs shaky and my mind still contemplating the question of satisfaction.

Do I have it? Do I even want it?

I know I have moments of satisfaction. That feeling after a good meal or the contentment I had looking at my friends on the picnic blanket last weekend. I experience it when I teach a good lesson and I see lots of “ah ha’s.” I feel it when my book sales go up or when Brock and I seem particularly close. I am satisfied with my performance in the gym when I hit my goals and with my achievement on the trails when I make good time.

So why did I immediately think “no” when the yoga instructor asked if I was ever satisfied?

Because it never lasts. Fulfillment in one moment becomes a lack in the next. The contentment is fleeting, taking over the body with its big sigh and then moving on, leaving a void behind with its big exhale. A need to be fulfilled.

Being satisfied with everything as it is sounds wonderful. One hundred percent permanent acceptance sounds like some wise yogic key to happiness.

But would that really be so great? Like eating one meal and never again feeling hunger. There would be no drive, no growth, no purpose.

To be fully satisfied would be to be completely stagnate.

My answer to the instructor is still “no,” I am never really satisfied. But that’s okay. It means I will always have something to work towards.

Like a full twist Bavarian pretzel with a side of mustard pose:)

 

The End.

Posted on by stilllearning2b

You would think that I would be used to endings by now. I finish several books a week, following the tales to their final word. I run races, keeping my eye on the finish line. My weekdays are filled with bells that signal the end of a class period seven times a day. I’ve been through 29 last days of school – some as a student, some as a teacher and a few as both. Hell, even my blog is about an end.

So why do endings, even the ones I look forward to, still manage to feel abrupt? Too soon? A premature conclusion reached before resolution?

This past Friday was the last day of school with kids. I had been waiting for that day, counting down since the end of the spring testing season. Many days, it felt like the end would never come. The days felt longer, the children squirrelier.

But then, that final bell did ring.

As I watched those faces pull away in the school buses for one last time, I felt a loss. For the past nine months, I have laughed and cried with those kids. I have driven them crazy and they have driven me crazier. I’ve struggled to help them make sense of algebra and we have struggled together to make sense of tragedy. For nine months, those 120 teenagers are part of my extended family. And then they’re gone. I will never see or hear from most of them ever again. In one day, they go from constant presence to memory.

Eighth grade is a crossroads year. It is time when teenagers are beginning to develop themselves apart from their parents. They are learning to make choices and beginning to understand the nature of consequences. They try on different personas as often as outfits, going from class clown to teacher’s pet and back again in a blink of an. I call them 150 lb two-year-olds, as they test boundaries yet want to know that you’re still looking out for them. I see them develop over the year into more independent beings but I don’t get to see the conclusion. In May, many of them are still at a crossroads and I am unsure which path they will choose.

It often feels unfinished. I find myself, years later, wondering about certain students. Hoping they did okay yet fearing that they did not. I have to trust in them and relinquish any influence. Sometimes, I receive the gift of an update when former students track me down. It’s funny – I can see the echo of the eighth grader I knew in these adults, yet there are years of experiences that have shaped them after they left me. In some ways, they are frozen in time for me: middle school in perpetuum (now that’s a nightmare!).

I think we all struggle with endings, even those that we initiate or those which we welcome. Every ending has elements that we relish leaving behind and facets that we will miss. Every ending brings uncertainty and transition. Every ending requires a re-scripting and reappraisal as we disentangle ourselves from the past and set course for the future. Every ending has opportunity.

My school year begins with a list of names. Monikers with no faces, no personalities. My year ends with a list of names, as I file reports and stuff report cards. Only now these names have meaning. Visages. Character. The year may have ended, but its impact has not. Those nine months together have influenced us all regardless of what our collective futures hold.

We tend to see endings as a termination, a conclusion. Perhaps it more accurate to think of them as a transition, a sign of change. It may be over, but its reverberations carry forth.

Do You Ever Hear That Voice?

Posted on by stilllearning2b

Do you ever hear that voice? The one that tells you that you’re not (good/smart/strong/thin/pretty/rich) enough?

The voice that finds your insecurities and broadcasts them back to you?

The voice that makes you question your choices. Your life. Your worth.

Do you ever hear it? Do you listen?

I’ve been listening to it lately.

It started innocently enough. I needed to buy a new pair of sandals to replace a pair that self-destructed. I made a stop at the shoe store on my way to gym. At the store, I took off my gym shoes and peeled off my socks only to discover that the polish on my toenails was chipped and half rubbed off (the natural consequence of spending more time running than on toe painting).

I looked up and noticed that all of the other women in the store were perfectly polished – nails and otherwise.

I felt embarrassed. I felt ashamed.

The voice whispered to me that I was not good enough.

I got over it enough to locate a pair of sandals and escape to gym, where I thought I would be safe.

But the voice followed.

It watched the other women in the gym and was quick to point out comparisons.

“Look at that! She can squat 140 pounds. You can’t do that!”

“Oh, look. She’s wearing that cute Athleta outfit you wanted. Too bad you only have your old race t-shirt on.”

“Look at her form on leg lifts! You’ll never be flexible enough to do that.”

Over the next couple weeks, the voice was like a malignant parrot on my shoulder. I’d shake it off for a time, but it kept coming home to roost. It seemed to feel the need to comment on every area of my life:

When a pair of shorts I wore last summer wouldn’t quite make the journey over my hips, “Well, look at that. Getting a little chunky there, are we?”

When one of my students complained about a boring lesson, “Wow, you can’t even make M&Ms entertaining. That’s pretty bad.”

When I looked at my book sales and saw that they had slipped, “What did you expect? It’s not like you’re any good at this.”

When another week went by and I hadn’t finished a piece I started for Huffpo, “You’re just a fraud anyways. Just give up on it.”

Yesterday, after more than a week of this verbal abuse by my own critical mind, I decided I would take some action. I stopped at Walmart on the way to yoga, thinking that some new makeup would do the trick. Maybe eye liner has some magical gag order action. The eyeliner is nice (and much easier to apply than the broken, stubby pencil I had been using that always threatened to leave splinters along with its color) but it didn’t shut up the voice.

That’s because I was allowing the voice to distract me from the true insecurities.

I wasn’t really upset about unpainted toenails or curvier hips.

It’s bigger than that.

The life of a teacher has a rhythm: frantic action in August and September settle into a routine that slowly builds in intensity until it peaks in May. And then we breathe.

Except I’m not content to simply breathe.

I’m not content to simply be a teacher.

I want more.

But I don’t know how.

Last summer, I was singularly focused on finishing the book and getting the wellness coaching business up and running.

I succeeded on both fronts.

This year, I have so much I want to do.

But I also have doubts. Am I wasting my time and energy? Which paths do I explore and which should I ignore?

Last summer, I posted four small bulletin boards above my desk, labeled body (marathon training), book (notes, etc. for writing it), blog (goals and post ideas) and business (goals and info for the coaching). I have not altered the boards much since the summer. As I look through the pages tacked to the squares, I realize that I am accomplished most of what I intended last summer.

So why is it not enough?

photo-238

Change is scary. Risk is scarier still. My inner critic is telling me to maintain the status quo, to not dare to post bigger goals and intentions. The voice tells me not to try so that I do not risk failure.

Today, I am telling my inner voice to shove it.

I am dedicating today to rebuilding my boards. I am committing to posting bigger goals and aspirations than before. I am pledging to sort through my ideas and clarify my paths. I am promising to use those boards as inspiration and motivation this summer.

So, yeah, I hear that voice. But today, I’m telling it to shut up. After I paint my toenails, that is:)

(This post makes me think of that old SNL skit with Stewart Smally: “I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and gosh darn it, people like me.” 🙂 )