Practicing What I Teach

So this week I've assigned my students to write a reflective narrative essay. Here's the prompt:

Think of a moment that is central to your identity. In a personal narrative essay, explore how this experience has shaped who you are and reflect on how it has defined your role in the world.

I've never been much of a creative writer, but personal narrative has always appealed to me. So in an attempt to do rather than just teach, I thought I'd take a stab at it. My word count requirement was a max of 650 words -- a nod to the Common Application essay prompts, for which I hope some of them will be able to repurpose their essays. My first draft came in at 895 words. After two revisions, I was able to pare mine down to 623.

I haven't decided yet if I'm going to share mine with my students or not. It's fairly hypocritical of me not to; I spoke to them yesterday about the importance of vulnerability in good personal narrative writing. I guess I just don't feel comfortable making myself vulnerable to two classes full of teenagers who already judge me on a daily basis for everything I do.

At any rate, for your reading pleasure, here is my personal narrative, along with accompanying illustration.

Going for the Goal (lame title, I know -- I'll work on that ... suggestions welcome)

At mile 26 of a marathon, even a slight incline can feel like Mount Everest. My breath came in short, desperate puffs as I pushed toward the finish line. As I turned the corner and began my final sprint, every muscle in my body screamed out as I demanded it to push beyond the pain.

I first started running right after college as a way to lose weight. Other than playing a bit of tennis, I was completely non-athletic. Team sports had always intimidated me; I feared that my poor performance would someday cost the team a game. But in running, I only competed for (or against) myself. Running also appealed to my Type A personality, allowing me to set tangible, achievable goals and, once I checked them off, to set more.

After a few years of shorter races I decided it was time for a bigger challenge. In January 1998 I signed up for my first marathon: Marine Corps, held in Washington, D.C., in October. After surviving my 26.2 debut, I was hooked. In the years that followed I ran marathons in Nashville, Buffalo, and Madison, Wisconsin; as well as closer-to-home races in Potter County and Johnstown, Pennsylvania. In all, I ran six marathons in five years. I was in my early 30s with few responsibilities. I had a job I could leave at the office and a boyfriend (eventually my husband) I could drag to the race. Never again would circumstances allow me to devote myself to achieving such a self-gratifying goal. I decided to train and qualify for the Boston Marathon.

Age and gender worked in my favor: As a 33-year-old woman I needed to finish a qualifying marathon in 3 hours and 40 minutes. Men my age needed a 3:10 or better. With a marathon PR of 3:55, I was confident that with training, discipline, and the right race I could do it. I increased my mileage from 20 to 30 to 40 miles a week and introduced speed workouts, which I had never done before. I picked a small marathon at the end of November on Maryland’s Northern Central rail trail, a flat out-and-back course I hoped would offer the best chance to reach my goal.

So as I rounded that last corner, I could just make out the numbers on the clock: 3:35:38. I had more than four minutes to cover the last 300 yards. Even if I crawled on my hands and knees I could still make it. But I pushed on right to the end, oblivious to all else. My husband tells me that I looked him right in the eye in those last few yards but didn’t register any sign of recognition. The professional photographer’s shot of me crossing the finish line captured a look of determination on my face I barely recognize. The clock over my shoulder reads 3:36:50.

Five months later, I lined up in Hopkinton with 20,000 other runners on an unseasonably warm April day. Throughout the afternoon as the temperature rose into the 80s, the first aid tents filled with dehydrated runners unable to finish. At some point around Heartbreak Hill, I abandoned my pace chart and slowed down to ensure I could finish. As I hobbled the last quarter mile down Copley Street, I managed to high-five my mom and my husband as I passed, mumbling an incoherent phrase of thanks as I forced my cramped, exhausted legs back into motion. I crossed the finish line, exhausted but exhilarated, at 4:10. The professional photographer’s shot that day captured the hint of my triumphant smile, but with my eyes gazing off into the distance, already thinking ahead to my next goal.

Thoughts on Proctoring

As I look out at the top of 22 adolescent heads, bent attentively over their test booklets and answer sheets, my heart swells.

At moments when they glance up, I can catch glimpses of their younger selves. The second-grade versions of these high school juniors. They are short and sweet, with clearer skin and smaller feet. They are still hopeful and eager -- most of them -- at least. Their world is so much smaller and simpler, the scope of their desires so much narrower and easier to satisfy. Some of them still believe in the Tooth Fairy.

There is still room for such hope in their hearts. Hope that the world can offer possibilities they have yet to explore.

As I watch the 22 bowed heads, frowning as they read, scribbling and erasing, propping their chins in their palms as they struggle to pick the one "best" answer or to translate their thoughts into just the right words, I see those same kids learning to read, who still confuse their lower-case "b's" and "d's" when they print, but whose hearts still are open to learning. They sit, criss-cross-applesauce, on the carpet square and listen with rapt attention as their teacher reads to them from Charlotte's Web. They are unashamed to show emotion: they exclaim, laugh, and cry uninhibited by the judgment of their peers.

They want so much to make her happy. To see the star or smiley face or sticker she puts at the top of the paper. They crave her affirmation and affection; they long to hear her say "great job!" or "good work!" For some of them, these are the only encouraging words they will hear all day.

As I watch them now, in the rows of maroon and gray desks, the tall boys in the back of the row, legs sprawled out to the sides, I can see hints at the circumstances that shaped them. Some of them struggle to stay awake; last night's sleep interrupted by their mother's boyfriend who barges drunkenly through the living room where they sleep with their siblings on a pull-out couch. Some of them stare off into space blankly, their hunger distracting them from staying "on task"; no one was awake yet at home to make sure they had any breakfast before they walked to school. Some of them squirm and fidget in their seats, they no longer take the ADHD meds because their dad's job refuses to pay for his insurance. The kids have changed, but the circumstances have stayed the same. They have made it through twelve years of school in spite of all these things and manage, somehow, to continue because, really, what other choice do they have?

These kids still want to do their best and get that approval, even if it now comes on a form letter saying "Proficient" rather than on a smiley face in the top margin. But their open hearts have closed up, their desire to learn slowly sapped away by years of seeing "Below Basic" or memories of the teacher who believed that they were only capable of what the data showed they were.

As I watch these 22 bowed heads I see all that is terrible and wonderful about public education. As they so earnestly scrawl their constructed responses, I know that, unlike their younger selves, they realize the significance of these tests. They have come to realize that, for the most part, "Below Basic" means that they are a failure and, after years of form letters, they've come to believe it.

But here's the wonderful part: despite all this, a tiny spark of hope remains. All it needs is a whisper of encouragement to get it to glow and more kindling to make it ignite. Even though it may be too late to make up for years of low reading scores, it is not too late to make up for years of low expectations. Even as high school juniors, it is possible to intervene and convince these kids that, despite their test scores or their sixth-grade teacher's hurtful words, they can still be successful. That even though they may not be able to figure out the difference between a noun and a verb, that they can still figure out the difference between truth and lies. They can still analyze a situation and determine right from wrong. They can still be the kind of person who chooses the best answer when it really counts.

As I watch these 22 kids, I think of the millions of other kids who are sitting in rows of desks in some other school in some other state, with the very same story. But then I also think of the millions of others who are sitting, criss-cross-applesauce, with open hearts and minds, who look up at their teacher with the hope only a child can have. And I know that we have another chance.

Single Parenthood

I could never do it. Not in a million years.

My husband travels for his job on a regular basis. Not every other week, but at least 6-8 times per year. This is one of those weeks. And it's one of those times that I have to step back and stand in awe of those parents who raise their children on their own. I could never do it all the time.

This also happens to be the week we go back to school after a wonderful, 10-day holiday break and the week we get the first measurable snow of the winter on a school day (the school day that for some inexplicable reason they chose not to delay the start of school by two hours). Not to mention the below-zero wind chill that makes me clench my Reynaud's-prone fingers into a tight fist. It's hard enough to get out of bed to go to school on a semi-pleasant winter morning, let alone on one of the ones we've had this week.

And then there's the overall emotional tone of the winter so far -- one of grieving and loss. Starting on Thanksgiving with the loss of a friend way too young, followed by the death of my grandfather at 91, then three weeks later the death of my daughter's preschool director after a prolonged battle with cancer. Three funerals in two months.

The losses continue for me through colleagues, two of whom have suffered sudden and devastating deaths of loved ones. We are a family of sorts where I work and I am the faculty welfare committee representative -- the one who sends out the cards and flowers for staff "life events." But although I am mailing out those two sympathy cards with a heavy heart, at the same time I am mailing "Congratulations!" cards for two staff members with brand new babies. Life does go on.

And so must I. In the scheme of things a week of solo parenting isn't all that terrible. Exhausting, yes. Unfair, perhaps. But in the scheme of things I must try to find a way to be thankful that I have these beautiful children to parent -- even by myself. And I must again acknowledge the amazing feat that is raising a child (or children) on one's own.

So as my husband returns on Saturday (while his parents are staying overnight watching the kids while I'm away at an all-day speech team competition for which we depart at 6:30 AM) I give thanks that my stint as a single parent is a temporary one. And I send as much of my strength and patience as I can spare to those parents who have to do it all the time.

Intentions (not Resolutions) for 2015

I'm not sure what it is about January that magnetically draws me back to my orphaned blogs. I suppose it's the desire to reflect on the year that has just ended and, perhaps, to look ahead to what I hope to accomplish in the year ahead. Today I think it's just that I don't want to grade the 36 essays that I've been procrastinating for longer than I care to admit.

I truly wish that I had the time to blog; I think it would probably be beneficial for me to step back from the moment and reflect in writing. As typical of a teacher, I profess the importance of doing this to my students but I ignore it in my own life. I've learned better than to make promises or resolutions, but I can at least set some intentions, to use a yoga phrase.

So, here then are some of my intentions for the year ahead (in no particular order):

1. To read more novels.

I know this sounds ridiculous coming from a high school English teacher, but I honestly can't seem to find the time to read books. I read lots of news stories and articles and essays, but I have been neglecting (and missing) the pleasure of escaping into a good fictional narrative. And there are so many good ones out there. (Recommendations welcome, BTW.)

2. To maintain the tenuous grasp on health and fitness I currently enjoy.

I am happy to say that I have been able to continue running throughout the past few years more or less without interruption. I seem to have found a balance -- a minimum to keep in shape, but not too much to injure myself. I managed to run 760 miles in 2014. Not too shabby. I still would like to run a half-marathon in the spring as well as one in the fall to keep me motivated. I'll probably continue to run on the treadmill over the winter; one of the concessions I have made to old age is my reluctance to go out in the freezing cold or rain.

Yoga continues to bring me strength and focus. Even though I have only been practicing for 30 minutes once a week, I know that it has helped me. My body craves whatever it is that yoga provides. I need to devote more time to pursuing it. I have committed to scheduling one private lesson a month with my beloved yoga teacher. The iPad app is great, but it does not provide the full experience, nor does it help me to grow in my practice. I know I need a teacher for that. Even though I can't commit to crossing the river for a weekly class, at least this will be a regular part of my life. If (as I hope) the school will offer classes at the new Mechanicsburg location, then I hope to start attending on a more regular basis. This summer I will reevaluate and, I hope, be able to focus more on yoga.

My eating habits seem to be working as well. I'm maintaining a decent weight. I actually was OK with the few pounds I put on at the end of the fall as it got colder. I feel like it was my body's way of giving me a little added insulation against the cold. I need to be less obsessed with the number on the scale, of course, but old habits die hard.

I do need to think about the amount of coffee, chocolate, beer, and wine I'm consuming, but that's probably a topic for another venue. Suffice it to say that I do what I need to do in order to survive my current circumstances.

3. To continue to indulge in my passion for playing music.

I am so thankful that I have been able to get back to playing the oboe over the past few years. It has brought me great joy. I at first was reticent to take on playing the first chair oboe part, but the past two concerts have been very fulfilling (if stressful) for me. I am very much looking forward to the spring program and the chance to perform some war horses of the repertoire. I also am so very happy to finally have acquired an English Horn. I need to be more dedicated in perfecting my technique, though, and not just hope for the best whenever I need to switch instruments.

4. To find the time to knit.

This has been very challenging. I don't know why. There are 24 hours in the day and I only spend about 6 of them asleep. Other working mothers somehow find the time to do it ... I'm not sure why I can't. I'm not trying to be too hard on myself; I honestly think I need to do an audit of how I am spending my time. I'm afraid that (ahem) I waste a lot of it just staring at a computer screen when I could be doing something not involving pixels.

5. To resist the urge to spend money without true need and purpose.

I spent the better part of yesterday examining my finances and trying to figure out how it is that I still can't seem to end the pay period with a surplus in my bank account. I found that my Depression-era mentality of buying things when on sale (and overstuffing my pantry) probably has something to do with it. I do know that I am sometimes drawn to shop as a sort of "retail therapy" (as much as I hate that phrase) but I hope that I can shift my focus during that time to something more productive (and less expensive). I think #1 and #4 above are good options.

6. To practice mindfulness and attempt to live more in the moment. (I know, I know.)

This is probably the most cliched intention ever. But that's probably because all of us need to make it and then revisit it every day. I know that the root of many of my frustrations stems directly from my failure to appreciate where and when I am at any given time. I know that it's something I have struggled with perpetually and now, sadly, I see that it is something I have passed on to my children. I hear my daughter spending more time thinking and planning what will happen the end of the day than what she is about to experience; my son talking in detail about what fourth grade will be like when he is not even halfway through second. I hope that I can begin to model a better example for them.

Meditation may be something for me to explore. I think that it may fill another need in my life as well. I need to do some more investigation. I know that meditation should be a regular part of my yoga practice, but it has always been one that I have neglected. I hope that this might be the year that I begin to take dedicated steps toward realizing its benefits.

7. To appreciate the time I have to spend with my friends and family.

The loss of a family member, a friend, and an acquaintance over the past few months has made this especially real to me. I know that I take the people I care about too much for granted. I am blessed to have a wonderful, if small, circle of people who care about me and whom I care about deeply. I hope that I can be more aware of this blessing and begin to find meaningful ways to express my appreciation for these people.

8. To seek intellectual fulfillment through existing opportunities and to begin to explore new outlets for my talent and energy.

I love my job and I know that I do it well. I also know, however, that I could do it better. There are lots of ways I could attempt to do this and I need to begin to prioritize and take steps to put those plans into action.

I have been thinking about the possibility of National Board Certification and I may start looking into that opportunity. I also want to continue to expand my role as a mentor with the Capital Area Writing Project and advocate for writing instruction. As I finish the last course in my Writing Instruction Certification at Penn State Harrisburg this spring, I also hope to look into the possibility of teaching composition at the college level -- probably at HACC or maybe at Penn State Harrisburg over the summer. Ultimately, I would love if there were a way that we could begin some kind of a dual enrollment program at the high school so I could do both. We'll see what happens with that.

9. To resist the urge to be obsessive and come up with two more intentions just so I can have 10. I think this one speaks to the larger issue of needing to let go of my preconceived ideas of the ideal. I need to realize that not everything has to fit neatly into a template and that a little bit of chaos or mess is acceptable. If I spent less time attempting to satisfy my obsessive desire to keep everything looking neat on the surface, maybe I could spend more time focused on the not-so-orderly but much more important substance underneath.

So there it is. My published intentions for bettering myself in the year ahead. Not resolutions, but intentions. Not to get too etymological, but connecting these nouns to their verb forms is important here: resolution comes from "resolve," which to me means to fix or to clear up. That's not realistic. Intention comes from "intend," which to me is much more active and achievable. I will choose to conveniently forget that old adage about what paves the road to hell.

So here's to being intentional in 2015. Cheers!

Reflection and Looking Forward

So. It's been, well, six months or so since I posted. I had such good intentions of joining Slice of Life back in March, but it just didn't happen. But at least it got me to set up a blog again. It's been such a long time since I've written reflectively. Perhaps it's time to try again. It is the eve of our departure for a three-week trip to California during which I should have some time for reflection. It is the last hurrah before heading back to school at the end of August. This will be the third year in a row we've made this trip and the second that we'll be spending in Ojai, the place I consider to be the most beautiful, magical on earth. I should have at least a fair amount of time to myself for relaxation and reflection while we are there. Most mothers of small children (mine are 5 and 2) do not enjoy such a luxury, but I am so blessed to have a nanny who travels with us. Her presence gives me the opportunity to actually have some time to myself and to enjoy the peace that quiet reflection can bring. I should be packing. The laundry is almost done in the dryer. It's 1 AM and I know I should be in bed. But here I sit writing this post. Perhaps I can keep up with blogging, perhaps not. As I begin to contemplate how I want to spend these last three weeks of my summer, though, I think that written reflection is important. I hope that I can follow through and use this blog as a venue to do so.

Jean-ology

So here's a slice of my life from today. Not a monumental one, but I'll try to build up to something more meaningful.

Just two inches taller. That's all I ask. Five foot six inches instead of five foot four.

Tonight I tried to hem a pair of jeans I bought last weekend in Toronto. I say "tried" because I actually did not accomplish my sartorial goal for the evening. In my haste to complete the task, I ended up sewing the cuff on the outside of the jeans instead of the inside. So now, to add seam-ripping to sewing, I need to redo the whole thing. Serves me right. 

Despite my relative handiness with a treadle and thread, I resent the fact that I have to hem my jeans. I am just the wrong height. 5'4" means that I am right on the cusp of the "petite" sizes but definitely (as the DKNY pair I bought at 75% off last weekend proves) not a "regular." One of the reasons I even bought the jeans, in fact, was that the pair I had brought on the trip (my husband and I had a wonderful long weekend vacation in Canada for my 40th birthday) were a "petite" size and, therefore, too short. I found myself hyper-conscious of the fact that the tops of my shoes were visible as I walked and irrationally envied slightly taller women I saw whose jeans I thought were just the right length.

So I snatched the DKNY pair off the rack, paid for them, and actually went so far as to change in the mall bathroom. Here I was, a woman on the cusp of her fourth decade, acting like some kind of neurotic teenager. As I balanced myself precariously in the thankfully private Canadian stall, I wondered to myself what it might say about me that I was being so vain.

In retrospect, I don't regret the purchase. Even with the ridiculous Canadian sales tax, the jeans were only $22. A steal. Although I did end up traipsing through the cold, wet sidewalks of Toronto with the cuff of my jeans lapping over the heel of my shoe, once I get them to the right length they might just become that elusive pair of perfect jeans that everyone else besides me seems to have.

Since I haven't grown an inch since 6th grade, I doubt I'm likely to start shooting up any time soon. So I guess I'll just have to keep my sewing machine in working order and hope for the best.

T minus two ...

OK, so it's midnight and I'm exhausted and I'm contemplating the thought of having to write a blog post. I really don't want this to become something I dread -- or worse yet, feel guilty about because I can't accomplish what I set out to do. But still, I am going to make the attempt. So here I go.

A slice of my life for today: I am forever doomed to suffer the curse of being "too nice." I hate the word "nice." In fact, I started smoking as a senior in high school just to escape the "nice" label. That, combined with dating an edgy skater-type helped to diminish but not entirely dispel it. (Note to impressionable youth: SMOKING IS BAD. Don't do it.)

Nice came back to bite me in the butt yet again today. I seem to have lost the authority in one of my classes. As fond as I am of these rambunctious students, it became all too clear to me today that at the moment it is they -- not I -- who are running the show. Now granted, we are reading The Great Gatsby and they are rebelling against the very idea of English class, but that should not give them license to behave the way they did in class today.

So ... now I have to regain the upper hand. This is an uncomfortable but not altogether unfamiliar process. I've been through this before. As my principal always says, though, it's so much easier to start out as a hard-ass and then taper off than to have to move in the other direction to regain control. That is unfortunately where I am right now.

Not to make it all about power, because it is not. But as the adult and the "lead learner" (to use an educational catch phrase) I need to ensure that students' behavior does not impede their learning or anyone else's in the class. I think I came to the somewhat uncomfortable realization today that my loss of control had allowed this to happen.

So, after a day off tomorrow for literacy training, I will return to the classroom on Wednesday morning and gain back my authority. The secret will be doing it so subtly that they don't even notice. I'll let you all know how thiat goes.