a day in the life of... or ... the musings of the middle...

April 13, 2011 marked the third annual Hobby Day exhibition at the middle school. This is a day where teachers have been asked to indicate a hobby that they are interested in paired with a brief elaboration of what that hobby entails. Then this list is dispersed to students who rank from 1-10 the hobbies that they would like to experience. A fabulous and dedicated colleague organizes and creates a schedule for each individual student in our building (over 700!) and we prepare for the great adventure that is Hobby Day.

When I received the email months ago during the preliminary stages of this planning, I contemplated and critiqued my hobby. "Creative Writing" -- Will any of the students even be interested (especially amongst the other choices of tie dye, bags, storm chasing etc)? What exercises can I do that will stimulate their brains? Will they engage? Is is possible for me to create a sense of community in 90 minute sessions with students that I don't necessarily know? Should I tone down my enthusiasm which takes most students at least a few months to get used to...if not, do I run the risk of scaring them into silence?

Ultimately, my anxiety lead me to two conclusions: 1.) I would embrace this hobby regardless of the outcome and 2.) I will purchase food and candy to help prevent potential mutiny.

The evening prior, I called a colleague to run my proposed agenda of the day by her and procure some feedback. I swear that even as a teacher of 20/30 years I will forever be doing this -- I'm so thankful for those who like to talk shop! -- Unfortunately the reception in my building was poor and she only heard bits and pieces of the ideas I had prepared; however, She told me what I really needed to hear at 8:30pm at night, still on the job, eyes puffy and red, body operating in robotic mode, she said simply: "It will all be fine."

Sometimes we just need to trust a little more in that.

On the morning of April 13, I arrived at school earlier than usual, which is saying something. I arranged the room with the attention as that of a painter to an easel: desks stacked in the corners making the room seem quite spacious, front table cleaned and including a bucket of my favorite pencils , nostalgic yellow notepads and of course, as planned, an abounding arrangement of cookies and laffy-taffy. A colleague graciously granted me the use of her carpet squares, of which I arranged in an expansive circle. I pressed play on my "creative writing" list on itunes and let the musical stylings of Cloud Cult and the look of the newly transformed classroom send me to a hopeful place...projections of a productive day.

What continues to be an overwhelming sight for me, even after year four of education and it being April of this school year, is the spectacle of students who round the hallway corner after getting off the bus. The abrupt change of the once barren space between the walls to the growing boisterous voices of effervescent 8th graders always gives me the illusion of a heightening wave about to crash on the sandy shore. Today, just like any other day, the shore greets the crash with a "Good morning and thanks for coming!"

As the students designated to be in my room arrive, I try to read their faces to make an initial impression. Are they tired? Are they curious? Excited? The unfamiliar students politely sit in a circle, grabbing a cookie or two and a stack of laffy taffys on their way to their seats. The door closes. The show begins. The truth of the day only moments away.

We opened up the discussion with introductions of our names and why we like to write and perhaps some idiosyncrasies that make us who we are. I started out with saying that if I didn't write, I think I would burst into a million pieces and attested to the importance of stories. I discussed my insistence on the type of pencils I supplied and how once I get into the writing zone, few can distract me from the trance. As I passed the torch, the responses were so thoughtful I had to write them down, the first entries of my yellow notepad were the words of the insightful learners in our formed community.

"Writing offers up a whole new world for me, a world more fun than this one."
"Writing gives me an outlet, a place I can write it all down when I'm feeling overly emotional"
"Writing is an escape"
"Time can just slip away when I'm writing"
"I look at life like a movie trailer and write in cliff hangers"
"Nobody criticizes me there"
"It's where I can make the impossible possible."
"I want to carry a message, I want to create change with my words."

Wow. 7th and 8th graders. Some with whole novels written already. Some that think only in poetry. Some who excitedly shared their ideas generated in our session and some who responded to those ideas with enthusiasm and support. All of them with the greatest potential in the world.

For the students (and colleagues for that matter) whom I pass by daily and don't necessarily know their stories, I continue to be grateful for the opportunities that allow me to break barriers, for the moments that allow me to connect in meaningful ways. And in a world that can so often yield itself to communication breakdown in and outside of ourselves, to then be in an understood place, for any amount of time, could possibly be the greatest gift.

For K (I fear the loss of)

I'm a teacher. Audience of three, you know this. And so for part of my spring break I digested some adolescent literature -- I have to be that literary bridge, stories that venture from my hands to the students. One of the books was a delectable and quite witty tale entitled, Hope Was Here by Joan Bauer. This book had some of the most noble characters I have come to know. Certainly Good people to pass a few hours with. To give you a taste, one of the main characters, G.T. Stoop, is the proud owner of a fabulous diner in rural Mulhoney Wisconsin. While fighting for his life as he battles leukemia, G.T. also fights for the town that he has lived in his whole life and deeply loves. He learned about the corrupt mayor that has served their town for years and wants more for his beloved neighbors and friends. So he decides to run. As you read, you imagine how absolutely easy it would be to become wrapped up in the messiness of politics. To lose yourself in the rhetoric. To fight so hard that you compromise some of your morals as you do so.

Not G.T. Nope. He remains throughout the entire novel, through and through one of the finest men I have known. To quote, "You want to know why to vote for a man who's fighting for his life? Because no one understands how sweet life can be, how blessed every minute is, how important it is to say and do what's right while you've got the time, more than one person who's living with a short wick." Who wouldn't want to know this guy? It's lines like this that run rampant throughout the text that make the reader reflective on their own lives: How can I be living it better?

In always yearning to be a better person, I'm often reminded of a quote that one of my friends chooses as what I perceive is her life motto: "I cannot believe that the purpose of life is to be happy. I think the purpose of life is to be useful, to be responsible, to be compassionate. It is, above all to matter, to count, to stand for something, to have made some difference that you lived at all." -Leo Rosten

I think G.T. would agree with this quote and I think it helps put matters in perspective. If I want to be the best version of myself, if I want to be the most useful, the most compassionate, I have to let go. I have to forgive myself. I need to not let my self worth rest in the acceptance of one person. As the cursor blinks at me, it seems to say...you have filled in the blank Carolyn. Now actually feel it. You write, let go; now go and do it.

To matter. To count. To stand. To be the difference that makes a difference. I'm grateful to all the G.T.'s in my life and in the world that do well to remind us what it's all really about.