As I was being held hostage in the dentist's chair, I picked up a magazine to read. There was only one that I could reach, being that I was tethered by that chain/clip/napkin thing. Who ever got a patent for that invention was one sorry soul. But I digress. Guess which periodical was in my grasp? The one entitled, 'InShape' which is one thing that I am not. Sweet. A root canal and dieting suggestions all in one afternoon.
I turned to the first article which involved the reader doing a pencil test. This was simple: put a pencil under one's breast and if it stays put, then breasts are perky. Really? I am sixty-one years old. I could put a pencil, stapler, 3-ring hole punch and a tape dispenser under these babies and they would stay put. Sagging bosoms do that, you know. Lost desk articles does not equate with perky. It gets better. Or worse.
One motivating article was called, "Shape Up or Ship Out" and I knew that I would be leaving the dock. I like shapes: round, oval, triangle, but the shapes they were suggesting require work. Now...mention 'take-out' and I am on board; 'work-out', umm not so much. But this writer was dropping words like 'six-packs' and while I dreamed of root beer, she went on to discuss 'ab-controllers'. Hey, my mom used those: she called them girdles. I think they now call them 'Spanx' but wrapping oneself in latex is not going to hide one bitter fact: some of us are no longer skinny. You can stuff all of our flab in rubbery, sheath-like garments but that cellulite will break free when you least expect it. Or worse: the fat will come slithering out of the openings. Stick with sweats (the ones you wear). Now...I will share that I used to go to the gym. But that was when I was in middle school and was assigned to P.E., third period. I've done my time. And even have 'gym suits' night terrors. Oh come on...you looked as bad in them as I did.
I truly feel that fitness should be everyone's goal. I mean, if you try it on and it doesn't fit, buy a larger size. That is fitness to me. Ladies, we have to own the fact that we are all not built like Jennifer Anniston. And if we are breathing, circulating blood, and have a pulse we are in some kinda shape.
As I skimmed thorough the article like milk (see what I did there? Skimmed milk...I am already thinking healthy foods) and saw the word 'Pil-o-Eats' I was thrilled! Reading about a 'pile of eats' was my kind of literature. Imagine my surprise when I reread that title to be: 'Pilates'. The writer expected me to bend and stretch and hold--like I was elastic or something. I could only think of these possible outcomes: tendonitis, bursitis, arthritis, and other itis's I have not yet encountered. See what I mean? Exercising is not medically safe.
Well, the dentist sauntered in and saved me from the rest of the magazine. I am sure the other patients thought I had gone mad when the hygienist commented, "Hey have you lost some weight?" and I danced around giving her a hug and a high five. That magazine had worked! It was a miracle! I was shaping up just by reading about it!
Maybe next time I will read Forbes and become a millionaire....just like the guy who invented the napkin/clip/chain thing. He must have known it was the shape of things to come....and I am not kidding.
Tuesday, December 20, 2016
Tuesday, November 29, 2016
Forever Young: On Burying Yet Another Student
Another of my students will be buried this week. As a seasoned educator, it never gets easier. The news comes over the local channels, we wait for the identification, and then the email from administration verifies that indeed, it was one of ours. As a staff, we gather details, put a grievance plan in place for the surviving student body, and pretend we have answers to an event that we can barely wrap our heads around.
I cannot tell you the number of students that, over a 36 year career span, I have said the most final good-bye to. (And yes, I did end that sentence with a preposition, but frankly, grammar is not foremost on my mind). Some of 'my kids' have lost a battle with cancer, cystic fibrosis, military deployment, drug overdose, car accident, and murder; the toughest is suicide. That one kicks me in the gut and never lets go. Years later, this veteran teacher will ponder every harsh word, punishment, and the ultimate insult: treating that kid as if he/she were invisible. Want to punish kids? Shun them. If there are established relationships---and I would like to think that relationship is my strongest suit inside the walls of public education--those students whom I have pushed to the far edge of my attention, will do anything to get in my good stead. It may sound harsh, but it is good for us both to get that much-needed space to reflect on our next step. Besides that, I am lousy at pushing them away for long. I miss them too much. The point here is this: once that kid is gone I question whether I gave him/her my best or my leftovers. It is both humbling and haunting.
Today, this boy became a hand-gun statistic. A fifteen year old, making all the wrong choices, when daily-- we preached to him about making right ones. Our best, impassioned sermons of embracing life and living it to the absolute fullest, pales in the bombardment of obtaining what Hollywood dictates, combined with the acceptance that these young folks crave. Every message that coats their brain can be obtained in one easy accessory: a gun. Guns denote power, status, protection. Firearms are as easy for kids to get as buying or stealing a loaf of bread. If rims on a car, gold chains around the neck, a cell phone replete with apps, or shoes that cost more than their textbook rental is important: this stuff will become a young person's god. Young folks will sacrifice future for the immediate.
Oh, and before we utter, "Kids these days!" we must remember: we also repeated the mantra of youth: "It will never happen to me." This is what pushed us to drive too fast, date the bad boyfriend, lie to our parents when we came home too late. and perhaps, shoplift that jewelry that never would end up under the Christmas tree. Youth clouds our thinking. And then the trigger is pulled. Reality is the voice that calls the time of death. All of our best lectures about hope bleed out of that child and our hugs, high fives, kind words, will join him in the grave. Yet, never are we sorry that we took a moment to make that student feel valued; time spent on a child is never wasted. We must never stop loving those pupils who file into our classrooms, sizing us up, reluctant to taste what we are feeding them. I was that student who hated the walls of every school I attended. Life takes funny turns, and now I would rather be in a school room with your kids than any place else.
But, I want all of my kids to be there, too. Yes, the one that died on Sunday morning. The school picture flashed on the T.V. screen does not reveal his laugh, his ninja-like leap to hang up a peer's artwork for this short teacher, or his joy at challenging me to a basketball jump shot towards the trash can. When he volunteered to read aloud, I knew he was being brave and feeling secure in our class. School was a struggle and reading skills slumped in comparison to his athletic abilities. Yet, he got brave and maneuvered through challenging literature while this teacher hid her smile at his courage. So much I will miss, but his future is the thing I would trade my life for. He was fifteen, I am sixty-one. He could have had my unused minutes.
Today, I help pitch-in for his burial clothes. My memories of him are like filters to my every thought. I cannot believe that this kid, frozen in time, will forever be my former 8th grade student. Like the old song by Rod Stewart, 'Forever Young' this is how it is with students. Most do grow up, graduate, marry, become parents; but in my mind, they are still that 2nd, 5th 6th, 7th, 8th grader that stole my heart.
He came to me young and left me young. I pointed him towards tomorrow but he chose that crazy, violent moment to stay 'Forever Young'. Another child I had to say goodbye to, way, way too soon.
I cannot tell you the number of students that, over a 36 year career span, I have said the most final good-bye to. (And yes, I did end that sentence with a preposition, but frankly, grammar is not foremost on my mind). Some of 'my kids' have lost a battle with cancer, cystic fibrosis, military deployment, drug overdose, car accident, and murder; the toughest is suicide. That one kicks me in the gut and never lets go. Years later, this veteran teacher will ponder every harsh word, punishment, and the ultimate insult: treating that kid as if he/she were invisible. Want to punish kids? Shun them. If there are established relationships---and I would like to think that relationship is my strongest suit inside the walls of public education--those students whom I have pushed to the far edge of my attention, will do anything to get in my good stead. It may sound harsh, but it is good for us both to get that much-needed space to reflect on our next step. Besides that, I am lousy at pushing them away for long. I miss them too much. The point here is this: once that kid is gone I question whether I gave him/her my best or my leftovers. It is both humbling and haunting.
Today, this boy became a hand-gun statistic. A fifteen year old, making all the wrong choices, when daily-- we preached to him about making right ones. Our best, impassioned sermons of embracing life and living it to the absolute fullest, pales in the bombardment of obtaining what Hollywood dictates, combined with the acceptance that these young folks crave. Every message that coats their brain can be obtained in one easy accessory: a gun. Guns denote power, status, protection. Firearms are as easy for kids to get as buying or stealing a loaf of bread. If rims on a car, gold chains around the neck, a cell phone replete with apps, or shoes that cost more than their textbook rental is important: this stuff will become a young person's god. Young folks will sacrifice future for the immediate.
Oh, and before we utter, "Kids these days!" we must remember: we also repeated the mantra of youth: "It will never happen to me." This is what pushed us to drive too fast, date the bad boyfriend, lie to our parents when we came home too late. and perhaps, shoplift that jewelry that never would end up under the Christmas tree. Youth clouds our thinking. And then the trigger is pulled. Reality is the voice that calls the time of death. All of our best lectures about hope bleed out of that child and our hugs, high fives, kind words, will join him in the grave. Yet, never are we sorry that we took a moment to make that student feel valued; time spent on a child is never wasted. We must never stop loving those pupils who file into our classrooms, sizing us up, reluctant to taste what we are feeding them. I was that student who hated the walls of every school I attended. Life takes funny turns, and now I would rather be in a school room with your kids than any place else.
But, I want all of my kids to be there, too. Yes, the one that died on Sunday morning. The school picture flashed on the T.V. screen does not reveal his laugh, his ninja-like leap to hang up a peer's artwork for this short teacher, or his joy at challenging me to a basketball jump shot towards the trash can. When he volunteered to read aloud, I knew he was being brave and feeling secure in our class. School was a struggle and reading skills slumped in comparison to his athletic abilities. Yet, he got brave and maneuvered through challenging literature while this teacher hid her smile at his courage. So much I will miss, but his future is the thing I would trade my life for. He was fifteen, I am sixty-one. He could have had my unused minutes.
Today, I help pitch-in for his burial clothes. My memories of him are like filters to my every thought. I cannot believe that this kid, frozen in time, will forever be my former 8th grade student. Like the old song by Rod Stewart, 'Forever Young' this is how it is with students. Most do grow up, graduate, marry, become parents; but in my mind, they are still that 2nd, 5th 6th, 7th, 8th grader that stole my heart.
He came to me young and left me young. I pointed him towards tomorrow but he chose that crazy, violent moment to stay 'Forever Young'. Another child I had to say goodbye to, way, way too soon.
Saturday, September 10, 2016
The Lambs Cannot Be Silenced: This Teacher Looks Back at September 11th
The classroom is an enchanting niche. It is indeed a workplace but the tools are: wonder, questions, giggles and glue. Young minds processing curriculum--juggling it all with innocence, imperfect behavior, unlimited potential, and incredible wit.
But Tuesday, September 11th, 2001, I unraveled the work of terrorists to my fifth grade students. In the midst of calamity, I cradled the hope of the world. They looked right at me for answers, restored trust, to make it go away. I could find no wise words in the Teacher's Edition. State standards were never designed to address heartbreak and this issue of accountability was baffling to my kids. Who would do this? Who is to blame? Will the masterminds be caught? My students waited for my clarification, instructions, and answers for the this awful, awful test.
As humanity huddled together we connected ourselves by television, computers, cell phones. My innocent lambs were witnessing slaughter. What I said could make or break their delicate spirits even more. I needed help. This was scary stuff.
So there I stood, defining terrorism, confused thinking, the shape and purpose of the Pentagon, the function and structure of the World Trade Center. But I was not alone. The Almighty, who fails me never, whispered in my ear. I heard words coming from my mouth that became bandages to young souls. My voice was stacking up words of calm, healing and reason. I expounded to my pupils, "They can take our lives but they cannot take our hope."
An assignment was given to my charges that I know some kids scribbled on their hearts: use your brilliance to prevent these acts. Love and forgive. Seek justice. I know that children can see grand colors in broken crayons, so I empowered them to bring a new balance to this skewed world.
How I wanted to lift each student onto my lap and rock him or her as my own, dispelling their fears, and restoring their trust. But my job was to be an interpreter--a guide through the rubble, a finger pointing towards tomorrow. How blessed I am that God is at my side in the classroom (which is my mission field). I was an instrument of peace that September day, even though inside I felt broken, confused, and afraid.
I end with the thought that came to me as my class was humming along with the song, 'America the Beautiful'. Terrorists may interrupt the song, but they can never silence the singing. My lambs know the melody of hope. I invite the entire world to sing along with them: they know all the words.
But Tuesday, September 11th, 2001, I unraveled the work of terrorists to my fifth grade students. In the midst of calamity, I cradled the hope of the world. They looked right at me for answers, restored trust, to make it go away. I could find no wise words in the Teacher's Edition. State standards were never designed to address heartbreak and this issue of accountability was baffling to my kids. Who would do this? Who is to blame? Will the masterminds be caught? My students waited for my clarification, instructions, and answers for the this awful, awful test.
As humanity huddled together we connected ourselves by television, computers, cell phones. My innocent lambs were witnessing slaughter. What I said could make or break their delicate spirits even more. I needed help. This was scary stuff.
So there I stood, defining terrorism, confused thinking, the shape and purpose of the Pentagon, the function and structure of the World Trade Center. But I was not alone. The Almighty, who fails me never, whispered in my ear. I heard words coming from my mouth that became bandages to young souls. My voice was stacking up words of calm, healing and reason. I expounded to my pupils, "They can take our lives but they cannot take our hope."
An assignment was given to my charges that I know some kids scribbled on their hearts: use your brilliance to prevent these acts. Love and forgive. Seek justice. I know that children can see grand colors in broken crayons, so I empowered them to bring a new balance to this skewed world.
How I wanted to lift each student onto my lap and rock him or her as my own, dispelling their fears, and restoring their trust. But my job was to be an interpreter--a guide through the rubble, a finger pointing towards tomorrow. How blessed I am that God is at my side in the classroom (which is my mission field). I was an instrument of peace that September day, even though inside I felt broken, confused, and afraid.
I end with the thought that came to me as my class was humming along with the song, 'America the Beautiful'. Terrorists may interrupt the song, but they can never silence the singing. My lambs know the melody of hope. I invite the entire world to sing along with them: they know all the words.
Wednesday, June 29, 2016
Orlando Strong: Through Dance, Spoken Word and Song
I am visiting my sisters in Orlando, Florida, an annual ritual. But this time, I feel the sadness of a madman's vengeance, taking forty-nine lives in a nightclub shooting. I must say national headlines take on a whole new tone when faced with the sad reality of actual names, photos, sentiments.
Last evening, my family attended a memorial tribute at the Dr. Phillips Center of Performing Arts, entitled, 'Beautiful Together'.
It was an evening of choral music, dance, poetry, but mostly, healing. Yes, it was a fundraiser, no, it was not framed for entertainment. It was a time for folks to gather inside this lovely venue to reflect, connect, and honor those lost souls. Outside, ordinary faces of the murdered, dotting the landscape, love notes grappling with the loss of loved ones, all now famous in a gruesome, statistical mass shooting. Let me begin by saying that I was moved by the expressions of sympathy from around the world. Authentic words, lovely-yet-dying-flowers, and a somber atmosphere. It was like an ecumenical funeral. Strangers by face, ethnicity, addresses....yet pressed into one soul as hearts continued to hum that drone of grief. To me, it was fitting that every life lost that night was being honored unanimously, on many corners of this city. Outside the Pulse Nightclub, the Orlando Regional Medical Center, and now, outside this center for the performing arts.
Is not music and dance the language of the gods? As those young folks gathered to celebrate in revelry they never dreamt that one, so full of hate and confused thinking, would exchange the Latin beat of 'musica' to the horror of rapid-fire, military-built weapons of execution. But the gathering of the 'Orlando Strong-Orlando United-Beautiful Together' was lovely. Petals fell from the ceiling onto the stage as each name was read.
When the symphony, conducted by Eric Jacobsen, began their musical story, those opening notes sounded, well, much like a pulse. I do not believe I imagined that. The soloist sang in Spanish, and while the words were foreign to my ears my heart understood completely. The conductor/cellist accompanied a ballerina in an elegant performance which---when she slipped on one of the petals, drew a gasp from the audience. Did you gasp with the the world when the breaking news of massacre flashed across our screens?
The vocal musicians tugged at our hearts with amazing arrangements of 'Somewhere Over the Rainbow','You'll Never Walk Alone','Bridge Over Troubled Waters','True Colors', 'Let There Be Peace on Earth','Simple Gifts, 'Let it Be'. I only wish that for a brief refrain, we all could have sung 'Over the Rainbow' with the choirs. Why? Because as we gathered at the center, a huge rainbow had crept out of torrential rains, reminding us that love wins. The profound words of Maya Angelou, "I Will Rise" made us think, giggle, and utter a silent "Amen." The 'Adagio for Strings' by Berber, put this listener at Heaven's gate.
I am ever grateful that folks donned their angel costumes following the performance, and encircled the memorial yard. These are the same folks who stood, side by side, to prevent hate-filled zealots' appearance to mar the victims' funerals. It was sure privilege to thank them individually for their presence; a simple gift indeed. I share this story to tell the families, whose lives will forever be changed, that strangers stand with them in the silent darkness, with heavy hearts and authentic prayers. We may not share the same god, politics, languages, yet have we all not buried that person our world cannot live without?
This incident picks the scab and scar of us all. Grief is very universal. And in these times of unexplainable circumstances, I too, turn to music. The old hymn, penned in the 1800's by: George Croly, entitled, Spirit of' God, Descend Upon my Heart' gave me this directive:
"Spirit of God, descend upon my heart,
Wean it from earth, through all its pulses move;
Stoop to my weakness, mighty as Thou art
And make me love Thee as I ought to love."
It is pretty simple theology that we cannot love God and hate man...and this may be the most life-changing lesson of all. The city of Orlando is to be commended for taking a horrific incident and weaving it into a rather lovely tapestry of humanity. When the performance was over, we were thanked for coming. Conductor, Mr. Jacobsen, turned and humbly uttered the words, "Beautiful together." Beautiful indeed.
It was an evening of choral music, dance, poetry, but mostly, healing. Yes, it was a fundraiser, no, it was not framed for entertainment. It was a time for folks to gather inside this lovely venue to reflect, connect, and honor those lost souls. Outside, ordinary faces of the murdered, dotting the landscape, love notes grappling with the loss of loved ones, all now famous in a gruesome, statistical mass shooting. Let me begin by saying that I was moved by the expressions of sympathy from around the world. Authentic words, lovely-yet-dying-flowers, and a somber atmosphere. It was like an ecumenical funeral. Strangers by face, ethnicity, addresses....yet pressed into one soul as hearts continued to hum that drone of grief. To me, it was fitting that every life lost that night was being honored unanimously, on many corners of this city. Outside the Pulse Nightclub, the Orlando Regional Medical Center, and now, outside this center for the performing arts.
Is not music and dance the language of the gods? As those young folks gathered to celebrate in revelry they never dreamt that one, so full of hate and confused thinking, would exchange the Latin beat of 'musica' to the horror of rapid-fire, military-built weapons of execution. But the gathering of the 'Orlando Strong-Orlando United-Beautiful Together' was lovely. Petals fell from the ceiling onto the stage as each name was read.
When the symphony, conducted by Eric Jacobsen, began their musical story, those opening notes sounded, well, much like a pulse. I do not believe I imagined that. The soloist sang in Spanish, and while the words were foreign to my ears my heart understood completely. The conductor/cellist accompanied a ballerina in an elegant performance which---when she slipped on one of the petals, drew a gasp from the audience. Did you gasp with the the world when the breaking news of massacre flashed across our screens?
The vocal musicians tugged at our hearts with amazing arrangements of 'Somewhere Over the Rainbow','You'll Never Walk Alone','Bridge Over Troubled Waters','True Colors', 'Let There Be Peace on Earth','Simple Gifts, 'Let it Be'. I only wish that for a brief refrain, we all could have sung 'Over the Rainbow' with the choirs. Why? Because as we gathered at the center, a huge rainbow had crept out of torrential rains, reminding us that love wins. The profound words of Maya Angelou, "I Will Rise" made us think, giggle, and utter a silent "Amen." The 'Adagio for Strings' by Berber, put this listener at Heaven's gate.
I am ever grateful that folks donned their angel costumes following the performance, and encircled the memorial yard. These are the same folks who stood, side by side, to prevent hate-filled zealots' appearance to mar the victims' funerals. It was sure privilege to thank them individually for their presence; a simple gift indeed. I share this story to tell the families, whose lives will forever be changed, that strangers stand with them in the silent darkness, with heavy hearts and authentic prayers. We may not share the same god, politics, languages, yet have we all not buried that person our world cannot live without?
This incident picks the scab and scar of us all. Grief is very universal. And in these times of unexplainable circumstances, I too, turn to music. The old hymn, penned in the 1800's by: George Croly, entitled, Spirit of' God, Descend Upon my Heart' gave me this directive:
"Spirit of God, descend upon my heart,
Wean it from earth, through all its pulses move;
Stoop to my weakness, mighty as Thou art
And make me love Thee as I ought to love."
It is pretty simple theology that we cannot love God and hate man...and this may be the most life-changing lesson of all. The city of Orlando is to be commended for taking a horrific incident and weaving it into a rather lovely tapestry of humanity. When the performance was over, we were thanked for coming. Conductor, Mr. Jacobsen, turned and humbly uttered the words, "Beautiful together." Beautiful indeed.
Sunday, March 20, 2016
March Madness: Crazy Fun!
March is here. Saint Patrick's Day is done and the first day of Spring is tomorrow. But I live in Indiana so the only thing that matters is basketball. Now, if you have heard folks say that everyone in Indiana eats and breathes basketball, then I am headed to the coroner's. Other than a little 'pig' or 'horse' basketball games in my backyard, or cheering on the grandsons at their games, I am pretty much ignorant to the NCAA hoop-la. I know. Hoosier Hysteria heresy. So why, you may ask, am I writing a blog about something I know little about? Think about that for a second. Yeah. Knew it would come to you: this is pretty much how I roll. 'Ongoing Stories of My Soul' is a blog written by a 4 foot ten lady who thinks she has something to say about most everything. Doesn't mean it is wisdom writing. Look at it like this...I am a combination of Wikipedia on crack, mothers' wit, and an old school teacher who tells every stranger her life story. See? And you take a moment to listen/read. God love ya. Back to basketball. Referring to my height, I think of that old rap tune, "If I were a little taller, I would be a baller..."
March madness is a time for crazy fun. My oldest son has been getting together with his buddies to watch the games. I think it has been about twenty years.. For most of those gatherings they have been at the house of one (brave) guy. And someplace along the line, probably if I wanted to see my son, I showed up at the party with an NCAA cake. That was years ago. Now The Cake is expected. This is an ordinary chocolate cake with various b-ball related junk plunked down in the icing. I am no cake decorator. Nope. But the guys love it, and I love doing it. I stop by, meet and greet, and leave this pitiful pastry that they probably don't eat. I would not miss it for the world.
Recently, at the middle school where I teach, the staff put the kids on the bus and met to fill out their bracket sheets. There was fun, food, and speculation on who would win. But there was so much more. It was a much-need stress reliever for educators who have had to maneuver through standardized testing, parent conferences, report cards, and the daily grind of dealing with 6th, 7th and 8th graders. Those silly brackets put a new and fresh spin on another wearing school day. But that's not all. These same great teachers used the Final Four as lessons involving math calculations, probability, diagramming, and brought a new learning objective to that reluctant student: a lesson with meaning and a touch of fun. Oh my! When that kid said to me, "I can't wait for Tuesday---the brackets begin!" he eagerly set out to finish his homework related to this event. Game on.
When it comes to March, a little bit of madness keeps us sane. The presidential campaigns are lunacy and tax day is less than a month away. Spring breaks are upon us and parents are figuring out how to keep their jobs and kids happy, in tandem. Oh, did I mention that those campaigns and debates keep the bile rising into our throats? Give us basketball, baseball, even curling-- if it takes our mind off that political debacle.
We've come a long way since Naismith nailed a peach basket to the barn and threw a ball in it. I bet he is proud. And surprised. High schools, colleges, even pick-up games in the alley create the balance we need to a stressful existence. Big business? Oh yeah. I mean, we have the Pacers, the NCAA Headquarters and games in my hometown. The movie, 'Hoosiers' was based on the Milan team that had an unbelievable victory during Indiana high school basketball tourney time. You mention IU, Purdue, Notre Dame, Butler, and you have to be talking about Indy. That Ferrell kid from IU has done pretty well. Our local newspaper had a sweet photo of him after the IU victory. I cut it out of the paper to take to his little sister (she attends my school). Just a cute picture of her big brother who happens to play basketball. In Indiana. At IU. In March. And wins.
I would love to go on and impress you even more with my March Madness Memories. But I will close with this observation. As cheesy as it sounds, those brackets fasten us to some great traditions, and many have little to do with winning a game. Face it....the March Madness keeps us a little bit sane. It is a good diversion to our layered days; a time for friends to reconnect, employees to choose teams while they become a closer team, themselves. A game where colleges are show-cased and the buzzer makes or breaks victories. It is basketball; pure and simple fun.
And to think that I am a wee bit part of it. All I have to do is bring the cake.
March madness is a time for crazy fun. My oldest son has been getting together with his buddies to watch the games. I think it has been about twenty years.. For most of those gatherings they have been at the house of one (brave) guy. And someplace along the line, probably if I wanted to see my son, I showed up at the party with an NCAA cake. That was years ago. Now The Cake is expected. This is an ordinary chocolate cake with various b-ball related junk plunked down in the icing. I am no cake decorator. Nope. But the guys love it, and I love doing it. I stop by, meet and greet, and leave this pitiful pastry that they probably don't eat. I would not miss it for the world.
Recently, at the middle school where I teach, the staff put the kids on the bus and met to fill out their bracket sheets. There was fun, food, and speculation on who would win. But there was so much more. It was a much-need stress reliever for educators who have had to maneuver through standardized testing, parent conferences, report cards, and the daily grind of dealing with 6th, 7th and 8th graders. Those silly brackets put a new and fresh spin on another wearing school day. But that's not all. These same great teachers used the Final Four as lessons involving math calculations, probability, diagramming, and brought a new learning objective to that reluctant student: a lesson with meaning and a touch of fun. Oh my! When that kid said to me, "I can't wait for Tuesday---the brackets begin!" he eagerly set out to finish his homework related to this event. Game on.
When it comes to March, a little bit of madness keeps us sane. The presidential campaigns are lunacy and tax day is less than a month away. Spring breaks are upon us and parents are figuring out how to keep their jobs and kids happy, in tandem. Oh, did I mention that those campaigns and debates keep the bile rising into our throats? Give us basketball, baseball, even curling-- if it takes our mind off that political debacle.
We've come a long way since Naismith nailed a peach basket to the barn and threw a ball in it. I bet he is proud. And surprised. High schools, colleges, even pick-up games in the alley create the balance we need to a stressful existence. Big business? Oh yeah. I mean, we have the Pacers, the NCAA Headquarters and games in my hometown. The movie, 'Hoosiers' was based on the Milan team that had an unbelievable victory during Indiana high school basketball tourney time. You mention IU, Purdue, Notre Dame, Butler, and you have to be talking about Indy. That Ferrell kid from IU has done pretty well. Our local newspaper had a sweet photo of him after the IU victory. I cut it out of the paper to take to his little sister (she attends my school). Just a cute picture of her big brother who happens to play basketball. In Indiana. At IU. In March. And wins.
I would love to go on and impress you even more with my March Madness Memories. But I will close with this observation. As cheesy as it sounds, those brackets fasten us to some great traditions, and many have little to do with winning a game. Face it....the March Madness keeps us a little bit sane. It is a good diversion to our layered days; a time for friends to reconnect, employees to choose teams while they become a closer team, themselves. A game where colleges are show-cased and the buzzer makes or breaks victories. It is basketball; pure and simple fun.
And to think that I am a wee bit part of it. All I have to do is bring the cake.
Sunday, March 6, 2016
If Dr. Seuss Took ISTEP (Or Any Other Standardized Test)
Well, this past week was one of polar opposites. Grades 3-8 students were immersed in taking the ISTEP, which is Indiana's standardized test. The children in K-2 classrooms were celebrating Dr. Seuss's birthday, which was March 2nd, and is always part of the 'Read Across America' initiative complete with Seuss activities galore. See what I mean? The same day in which Indiana kids were either celebrating reading, or plodding through it to place in a certain percentile.
With four of my grandchildren, I was reminding them to go to bed early, get a good breakfast and have that number two pencil, well-sharpened and ready to go. With my other grandchildren, I was hunting up my Dr. Seuss hats, books, t-shirts, and shoes. Why, yes I do have a pair of tennis shoes with the Cat in the Hat picture and Seuss's name emblazoned on them. Am I rich or what? No Jimmy Choos in this closet, but I am rocking my Seuss shoes. I know you are jealous. But back to the debacle at hand.
As I delved into that ISTEP abyss, I saw the pressure, fear of failure, and stress my sixth graders exhibited. My jovial, loving connection with these kids would soon be replaced by educational alienation. I read directions. I proctor. I write the time on the board. I am a jail warden without the uniform. I feel as though I am betraying them when I am asked a question I cannot answer. The mantra is the same: "I can't answer that. Just do your best." And we all know, they can't do their best without me. I hate every second of standardized testing.
But then my imagination pulled me to the Seuss side. I wondered what it would look like if Dr. Seuss---albeit, any of his characters took a test like ISTEP? Let's give it a whirl.
Dr. Seuss Takes a Standardized Test
On the second of March in the Jungle of School
Dr Seuss was waiting to begin the I Test Like a Fool;
He had his crayons: purple, orange, and bright blue
But all were replaced with a pencil named Two.
"I am so excited to show what I know
And describe to the Testers all the places I'll go;
I'll tell them great jokes and rock this room with laughter-
I'm certain that joy is what they are after.
I'll show them I'm loving and that I am kind,
And share all my answers to those who fall behind.
I'll bring out my glitter, my sequins and glue
And show my creativity to the Testers and you!
And if we get scared-from our shirts to our pants-
I'll lead the class in a brave and bold dance;
We'll whistle and wiggle and I'll play the kazoo
The Testers will thrill at the dances we'll do!"
But the teacher glared at Seuss, and said, "We'll have none of that-
The I Test Like a Fool is not 'Cat in the Hat'
It is dark, hard, confusing and strains your brainy
It is serious and stuffy, like cloudy and rainy.
You must not speak, but instead, think and plot
If you are nervous, the Testers care not.
I will read strange directions and stare at the clock
I will wring my hands and pace like a fox.
Some will do well, and others will plummet
To the depths of percentiles 'cause you simply can't 'sum' it;
The story you write must fit on these lines
Even though the best parts are still in your minds.
Now I am your teacher and I know you 'by heart'
I marvel at your compassion and know you are smart;
And if you don't pass, don't think you are dull
Because these numbers don't measure the whole YOU at all.
I know you may struggle, but when I look in your eyes
I do not see failure, but instead I see 'tries'
So do not think you're worthless if you botch up this test
You will do just fine because you are the best!"
Well, my apologies to the great Theodor Geisel who penned books with fun and nonsense so kids would cuddle up to their grown-ups and plead, "Read it to me again!" And in the process these little ones' minds were mastering receptive language and unraveling this ominous process called literacy. I have taught reading for thirty-six years, and I am amazed any of us can do it---and in thousands of languages! Our brain is so amazing! And so much more fun when wearing a Dr. Seuss hat.
If Horton Hears a Who, it probably will be me. "A person's a person's no matter how small"-- but 'Do Not Pass' a standardized test and that's not true at all. Tomorrow is a new day. Time to put the Grinch to bed and look forward to all of the 'creachas' coming into my classroom eager to use their glue, glitter, and goofy selves to rock my world.
You Testers don't know what you're missing.
With four of my grandchildren, I was reminding them to go to bed early, get a good breakfast and have that number two pencil, well-sharpened and ready to go. With my other grandchildren, I was hunting up my Dr. Seuss hats, books, t-shirts, and shoes. Why, yes I do have a pair of tennis shoes with the Cat in the Hat picture and Seuss's name emblazoned on them. Am I rich or what? No Jimmy Choos in this closet, but I am rocking my Seuss shoes. I know you are jealous. But back to the debacle at hand.
As I delved into that ISTEP abyss, I saw the pressure, fear of failure, and stress my sixth graders exhibited. My jovial, loving connection with these kids would soon be replaced by educational alienation. I read directions. I proctor. I write the time on the board. I am a jail warden without the uniform. I feel as though I am betraying them when I am asked a question I cannot answer. The mantra is the same: "I can't answer that. Just do your best." And we all know, they can't do their best without me. I hate every second of standardized testing.
But then my imagination pulled me to the Seuss side. I wondered what it would look like if Dr. Seuss---albeit, any of his characters took a test like ISTEP? Let's give it a whirl.
Dr. Seuss Takes a Standardized Test
On the second of March in the Jungle of School
Dr Seuss was waiting to begin the I Test Like a Fool;
He had his crayons: purple, orange, and bright blue
But all were replaced with a pencil named Two.
"I am so excited to show what I know
And describe to the Testers all the places I'll go;
I'll tell them great jokes and rock this room with laughter-
I'm certain that joy is what they are after.
I'll show them I'm loving and that I am kind,
And share all my answers to those who fall behind.
I'll bring out my glitter, my sequins and glue
And show my creativity to the Testers and you!
And if we get scared-from our shirts to our pants-
I'll lead the class in a brave and bold dance;
We'll whistle and wiggle and I'll play the kazoo
The Testers will thrill at the dances we'll do!"
But the teacher glared at Seuss, and said, "We'll have none of that-
The I Test Like a Fool is not 'Cat in the Hat'
It is dark, hard, confusing and strains your brainy
It is serious and stuffy, like cloudy and rainy.
You must not speak, but instead, think and plot
If you are nervous, the Testers care not.
I will read strange directions and stare at the clock
I will wring my hands and pace like a fox.
Some will do well, and others will plummet
To the depths of percentiles 'cause you simply can't 'sum' it;
The story you write must fit on these lines
Even though the best parts are still in your minds.
Now I am your teacher and I know you 'by heart'
I marvel at your compassion and know you are smart;
And if you don't pass, don't think you are dull
Because these numbers don't measure the whole YOU at all.
I know you may struggle, but when I look in your eyes
I do not see failure, but instead I see 'tries'
So do not think you're worthless if you botch up this test
You will do just fine because you are the best!"
Well, my apologies to the great Theodor Geisel who penned books with fun and nonsense so kids would cuddle up to their grown-ups and plead, "Read it to me again!" And in the process these little ones' minds were mastering receptive language and unraveling this ominous process called literacy. I have taught reading for thirty-six years, and I am amazed any of us can do it---and in thousands of languages! Our brain is so amazing! And so much more fun when wearing a Dr. Seuss hat.
If Horton Hears a Who, it probably will be me. "A person's a person's no matter how small"-- but 'Do Not Pass' a standardized test and that's not true at all. Tomorrow is a new day. Time to put the Grinch to bed and look forward to all of the 'creachas' coming into my classroom eager to use their glue, glitter, and goofy selves to rock my world.
You Testers don't know what you're missing.
Thursday, February 11, 2016
Lyrics to Live By: Valentine's Day and Beyond
Every now and then it happens. Song lyrics float across our auditory neurons and pretty soon we are singing, swaying and smiling. As they used to say on American Bandstand, "I give it a 95 because it has a good beat and is easy to dance to." And that is a good summation if one dances. I don't. Nope. I am the musical connoisseur who defaults right to the lyric. Perhaps it is the writer in me, but I've gotta know what the folks are saying. If the rapping, yapping, tapping, dabbing slops over the lyrics, I'm gone. Am I willing to give it a second chance? Oh sure. My musical repertoire is quite eclectic. I bounce around from Frank Sinatra to Bruno Mars, Selah, off to Adele, Journey and Tony Bennett and twirl back around to John Mayer with a touch of Johnny Swim. Twist my arm and I may listen to country, but it really needs to be a crossover like Carrie Underwood. Okay, open the door for Dolly and Reba and a few measures from Glen Campbell.
Enough on the 'Life and Times of Deb Hall's Music Collection'. I will move on to the real thinking behind, 'Lyrics to Live By'. Once upon a time I heard a song, 'Forever Young' recorded by Rod Stewart. In an instant, I felt that this work should be in every church hymnal. And I know that this view is substantiated by the fact that I used this song in many classroom musical/video presentations. Why? Because in a teacher's eyes and heart, that kid is 'forever young' as they kind of remain a permanent third grader, sixth grader, or whatever 'grader' they are when they steal our hearts. It's how we are wired. The gal with whom I am now Facebook friends may have a husband and three kids, but to me she remains little Lisa, third row, class of 1986. See? Forever young.
The lyric that has captured my heart and soul is the tune recorded by Meghan Trainor and John Legend, 'Like I'm Gonna Lose You'. It has a swell sound and catchy beat if you are prone to power up your boogie shoes. But the words! The words take on a life of their own and remind us to own our life. Let me help you here. The gist of the tune is to love someone like you might lose them. Pretty simple, right? Morbid.....no. Yet the lyricist begs us to savor the moment with those we love. Here's a taste:
So I'm gonna love you
Like I'm gonna lose you
I'm gonna hold you
Like I'm saying goodbye
Wherever we're standin'
I won't take you for granted
Cause we'll never know when
We'll run out of time
So I'm gonna love you
Like I'm gonna lose you
In the blink of an eye
Just a whisper of smoke
You could lose everything
The truth is you never know
So I'll kiss you longer
Any chance that I get
I'll make the most of the minutes
And love with no regrets
Let's take our time
To say what we want
Use what we got
Before it's all gone
'Cause no, we're not promised tomorrow
Is it not a universal fear that we may lose those folks we cherish? Haven't all our journeys been overshadowed by making mistakes, messing up, and creating a rubble of regrets? This song, with its edgy and funky riffs delivers a classic statement: I am loving you with the passion and urgency as if it were our last moment on Earth. Because it very will might be.
I remember an old Richard Marx song that had this line: "If the angels call tomorrow there is nothing that we haven't said." Can't say I remember much else about that recording, but man, that one line has framed my life. It prodded me to put the silly note in my kids' lunch boxes, make the phone call to apologize, or scrawl a love note on the mirror in bright red lipstick. Never let the good stuff go unsaid. Indeed, I often say that when I enter Heaven I want to have empty pockets....that I saved no love, compassion, kind words, good deeds, talents; that I am all used up.
I admit that this song truly time-stamps my heart. My son is a cop. My sister is in hospice care. My oldest granddaughter will soon be driving, and I have a new grandchild arriving any day now. When my youngest son calls me as he walks from the subway in New York, I shudder at the cacophony of the urban chaos. When the media reports that a youth suffered "fatal wounds" I whisper a prayer before I read the name. The truth is this: our worlds can change in one phone call.
Yet I don't want my words here to mar an affirming song and darken it with worry and the 'what-ifs'. I am way too joyous and hopeful for that stance. Rather, I share a philosophy that simply reminds us to stay in the moment, cherish that boy behind the badge; rock that baby a bit longer and smile because, as Carl Sandburg wrote, "A new baby is God's opinion that the world should go on."
Trust that we never run out of time for kisses and hugs, and when love-filled words are on our lips, we let them go with wild abandon. Love. Now. Say it. Now. Forgive. Now. Savor it. Now.
"If the angels call tomorrow, there is nothing that we hadn't said."
And now....I am going to love you, like I just might lose you.
Because there is no better way to say hello or good-bye than with words laced in love.
Enough on the 'Life and Times of Deb Hall's Music Collection'. I will move on to the real thinking behind, 'Lyrics to Live By'. Once upon a time I heard a song, 'Forever Young' recorded by Rod Stewart. In an instant, I felt that this work should be in every church hymnal. And I know that this view is substantiated by the fact that I used this song in many classroom musical/video presentations. Why? Because in a teacher's eyes and heart, that kid is 'forever young' as they kind of remain a permanent third grader, sixth grader, or whatever 'grader' they are when they steal our hearts. It's how we are wired. The gal with whom I am now Facebook friends may have a husband and three kids, but to me she remains little Lisa, third row, class of 1986. See? Forever young.
The lyric that has captured my heart and soul is the tune recorded by Meghan Trainor and John Legend, 'Like I'm Gonna Lose You'. It has a swell sound and catchy beat if you are prone to power up your boogie shoes. But the words! The words take on a life of their own and remind us to own our life. Let me help you here. The gist of the tune is to love someone like you might lose them. Pretty simple, right? Morbid.....no. Yet the lyricist begs us to savor the moment with those we love. Here's a taste:
So I'm gonna love you
Like I'm gonna lose you
I'm gonna hold you
Like I'm saying goodbye
Wherever we're standin'
I won't take you for granted
Cause we'll never know when
We'll run out of time
So I'm gonna love you
Like I'm gonna lose you
In the blink of an eye
Just a whisper of smoke
You could lose everything
The truth is you never know
So I'll kiss you longer
Any chance that I get
I'll make the most of the minutes
And love with no regrets
Let's take our time
To say what we want
Use what we got
Before it's all gone
'Cause no, we're not promised tomorrow
Is it not a universal fear that we may lose those folks we cherish? Haven't all our journeys been overshadowed by making mistakes, messing up, and creating a rubble of regrets? This song, with its edgy and funky riffs delivers a classic statement: I am loving you with the passion and urgency as if it were our last moment on Earth. Because it very will might be.
I remember an old Richard Marx song that had this line: "If the angels call tomorrow there is nothing that we haven't said." Can't say I remember much else about that recording, but man, that one line has framed my life. It prodded me to put the silly note in my kids' lunch boxes, make the phone call to apologize, or scrawl a love note on the mirror in bright red lipstick. Never let the good stuff go unsaid. Indeed, I often say that when I enter Heaven I want to have empty pockets....that I saved no love, compassion, kind words, good deeds, talents; that I am all used up.
I admit that this song truly time-stamps my heart. My son is a cop. My sister is in hospice care. My oldest granddaughter will soon be driving, and I have a new grandchild arriving any day now. When my youngest son calls me as he walks from the subway in New York, I shudder at the cacophony of the urban chaos. When the media reports that a youth suffered "fatal wounds" I whisper a prayer before I read the name. The truth is this: our worlds can change in one phone call.
Yet I don't want my words here to mar an affirming song and darken it with worry and the 'what-ifs'. I am way too joyous and hopeful for that stance. Rather, I share a philosophy that simply reminds us to stay in the moment, cherish that boy behind the badge; rock that baby a bit longer and smile because, as Carl Sandburg wrote, "A new baby is God's opinion that the world should go on."
Trust that we never run out of time for kisses and hugs, and when love-filled words are on our lips, we let them go with wild abandon. Love. Now. Say it. Now. Forgive. Now. Savor it. Now.
"If the angels call tomorrow, there is nothing that we hadn't said."
And now....I am going to love you, like I just might lose you.
Because there is no better way to say hello or good-bye than with words laced in love.
Wednesday, January 6, 2016
"But Your Honor....I was Just Singing in the Shower!"
I am a dreamer. Oh, not in that romantic, weepy, swooning, Coke commercial kind of dreamer way.
Well...now that I put it in print and re-read it, yeah, I am. But what I am trying to tell you is that I dream every night when I sleep. And I remember the dreams. All bazillion of them. I do believe this is the reason I awaken tired, with crazy hair, and the animals have fled my bed because they can't take it anymore. If you really know me, this is no big news. You have already heard about my bizarre adventures during my night-night time. I think my sandman is on crack.
I also love to sing. And if I am a bad dreamer, I am even a badder singer. (It's my blog. My bad grammar. I am not in the classroom at the moment, so get over it).
How do I know I sing badly? Well, folks let me tell you. When my four children were young, I would sing them lullabies. You know, lyrics from Broadway musicals, church songs, and holiday songs. My little ones would place their hands over their ears and beg, "Mommy, we promise we will go to sleep if you will stop singing." I got the hint.
Which brings me to my bad singing and bad dreams.
I dreamt the other night that I was singing in my shower and a scary male person threw open the shower curtain and assaulted me. Suddenly, as dreams go, I was in the courtroom facing my assailant. The judge asked me to tell what happened on that fateful morning. I replied that I was taking a shower and singing. I saw the guy, freaked out, and remembered nothing after that. The judge was peering at me and asked what I had been singing. I innocently responded that I was crooning, 'I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas'. She then asked me to sing a few measures.
Well, I'll be darned. I had hardly gotten to the good part when she slammed down her gavel and bellowed, "CASE DISMISSED!"
What??? I had a bad dream that I sang so bad that the case was dismissed because the attacker had to be subjected to my vocals?
Where's the justice in that?
Maybe tonight I will get a good night's sleep and just stick to snoring.
That's so much safer.
Well...now that I put it in print and re-read it, yeah, I am. But what I am trying to tell you is that I dream every night when I sleep. And I remember the dreams. All bazillion of them. I do believe this is the reason I awaken tired, with crazy hair, and the animals have fled my bed because they can't take it anymore. If you really know me, this is no big news. You have already heard about my bizarre adventures during my night-night time. I think my sandman is on crack.
I also love to sing. And if I am a bad dreamer, I am even a badder singer. (It's my blog. My bad grammar. I am not in the classroom at the moment, so get over it).
How do I know I sing badly? Well, folks let me tell you. When my four children were young, I would sing them lullabies. You know, lyrics from Broadway musicals, church songs, and holiday songs. My little ones would place their hands over their ears and beg, "Mommy, we promise we will go to sleep if you will stop singing." I got the hint.
Which brings me to my bad singing and bad dreams.
I dreamt the other night that I was singing in my shower and a scary male person threw open the shower curtain and assaulted me. Suddenly, as dreams go, I was in the courtroom facing my assailant. The judge asked me to tell what happened on that fateful morning. I replied that I was taking a shower and singing. I saw the guy, freaked out, and remembered nothing after that. The judge was peering at me and asked what I had been singing. I innocently responded that I was crooning, 'I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas'. She then asked me to sing a few measures.
Well, I'll be darned. I had hardly gotten to the good part when she slammed down her gavel and bellowed, "CASE DISMISSED!"
What??? I had a bad dream that I sang so bad that the case was dismissed because the attacker had to be subjected to my vocals?
Where's the justice in that?
Maybe tonight I will get a good night's sleep and just stick to snoring.
That's so much safer.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)