A Public Salute

I'm a product of the public school system...or, mostly, anyway. I did attend a private school from K-5, but I transferred to public after that. So, in the ledger of my formative years, I count the largest number in the public column. I went to traditional state universities for both my undergraduate and post-grad degrees, and I'm better for it. I got a great education and learned that school, while fundamentally about the curriculum of learning, is also about far more...like how to resolve conflict, stand for what I believe, express my discontentment, say, "I don't know" and "I don't understand" (two keys to life, I'm quick to add), and learn the real-life differences between love and lust, speaking your mind and biting your tongue, and saying you're a friend versus actually acting like one.

Now our children are in public school and, roughly 15 years since we last left it, the quality of the system has remarkably improved. And vastly eroded. I know many parents making the switch to private, atypical, or untraditional modes of education: and I think that's dandy. Like most other products of a postmodern generation, I say do what's best for you and yours. But I won't stand for slamming the public school system - especially if you ain't in it. Despite what critics may need to believe, kids aren't necessarily getting poorer educations if they go to public and, let me remind you, kids aren't necessarily getting better ones if they attend private. Schools, like people, are a varied box of chocolates where your favorites depend entirely on your experience of trying them and finding what you like.

Grace doesn't even test on the charts of literacy, math, and science. I don't say this to boast; I say it to make a point. And here it is: God made Grace smart. He took my genes and Craig's genes, and they spliced together quite nicely, I think. But it's Grace who does the work to get smarter: she reads, she studies, she asks questions about her world, the people in it, and how she can impact it. And it's Grace's teachers...all 5 of them, thus far, who have stimulated, cultivated, shaped, and generally spurred on her smarts. We don't take credit for it, we just say "thank you" for it.

Now, as Elijah has entered the system, we're adapting to cultivating an entirely different person than his sister: if you're a parent, you know this is necessary because, despite misconceptions about offspring, they're not all the same...I don't care who's raisin' 'em. So we get to see how he, too, is flourishing in a public school. And hats off to parents who recognize that different children have different needs and so may have multiple children in multiple school settings and refrain from scorning any one system.

So, what's my ultimate point here? Well, it's twofold: first, I want to recognize the "public" teachers who have touched my children's hearts and minds. Amy Amsden, Jamie Minette, Angie Kelley, Kate Motley, Heidi McClure, and Julie Nealy...you're the cream of my crop, literally. You have planted seeds in the field of my precious harvest - my children. And I won't soon forget you and your contribution. I plan to continue telling my children that superb quality doesn't have to come in expensive or elite school packaging - you're a testament to that truth.

Which leads to my second point: don't slam public school. It's an option that for our family, and many others like us, has proved to be a blessing beyond measure - and one I wouldn't trade. Please remember that our history was founded on a public system, on the belief that no child is more important than another whether yours wears a uniform to school or mine wears blue jeans. We're all trying to do what's right for our families and best for our world and teaching, no matter where you do it, is a hard, hard line of work.

So remember the teachers, public or private or otherwise, who have touched and are touching your lives and the lives of your children. We serve and bless ours for all their commitment to leaving a legacy of learning.

I thank you.

And my children thank you, too.

Grace's 2nd grade teacher,

          Mrs. Motley.

Grace's Kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Minette.

"Glee"-full Golden Globes

I know I mentioned this show in my post "My Favorite Things -- TV Land." But the Golden Globe nominations were released yesterday, and I find it's worth mentioning that Glee received the majority of the nods. With four nominations, they received more than any other series in the comedy or musical category. Included in those are the coveted Best Series, Comedy or Musical and, not surprisingly, best actor for Matthew Morrison (Will Schuster) and Best Actress for Lea Michele (Rachel Berry). Jane Lynch (Sue Sylvester) was also noticed in the Best Supporting Actress category.
This is a show many adults shrug off, citing it seems "cheesy" or an updated version of any other teenage-focused comidrama. I admit there is some truth to that: it's quirky, and I found I had to press through the first couple of episodes I tried. And, admittedly, there's a teenage spin on some plot situations; however, this isn't the WB network. You won't find Dawson's Creek or 90210 or Gossip Girls creeping in (um, did I just date myself?), and if you don't like singing and dancing, you're out of luck.

But if you want to indulge a guilty pleasure -- that craving for entertainment that excites the sense with no heavy mental lifting involved -- this will scratch your itch. You can meet Sue, who I'll wager we ALL wish we could be in some moments: that gal who says what you would were you ever totally without ethics, morals, tact, or basic human decency. You can be inspired by the love of teaching and one guy's drive to make sure teens know they matter. You can wish you were friends with the OCD-afflicted but generous-hearted Emma Pillsbury who's just trying to figure out love and life.  And, of course, any show that's got a guy my age breakdancing is a go for me.
Give it a try (locally) on Wednesday nights at 8 pm or check your listings for reruns.

It may surprise you. You may surprise yourself.

A New Moon Date

We went to Forks, WA, to hang out with vampires and werewolves.

What's the matter: cat got your tongue? Not if you've read the Twilight series.

We went to see if the movie remained true to the book (well, Morgan and I did since Michelle doesn't read anything but county assessments and debt-to-income ratios). We were voyeurs, peering into the same love story told countless times throughout literary history (think Romeo & Juliet, Lancelot & Guenevere, David & Bathsheba: I could go on). And the movie was fine.

But that wasn't really why I went to Forks; rather, I went for the memory.

As the numbers in my age tick ever higher, I've come to realize that the best memories aren't about the event itself. The first date, first kiss, graduation, proms, concerts and parties...even the all-nighters in the dorms cramming for finals: they're all about the people, not the event. Now I embrace memory-making with this in mind understanding that, yes, I wanted to see New Moon. But I could have seen it with any one of at least a dozen other friends. I could have seen it on a date (of course, I'd have needed to sedate Craig, first). I could have even seen it by myself. But I wanted to see New Moon with Morgan and Michelle because of the experience of simply going together, of embracing the experience together. Of seeing the movie after discussing the books, sharing what we thought and felt about the story.

Afterward, we went for dinner and ate good food while we laughed and laughed and laughed. We recalled how, sure enough, Morgan couldn't make it through the movie without needing to pee. And, being on Team Edward, we all admitted how we like Jacob more than we thought we would. And we wondered, "What's up with the waiter calling us all honey, baby, dear, and darling?" I'd prefer the werewolves and vampires to creepy Red Robin guy any day. We didn't discuss world peace or boys. Or cheer practice or boys. Or the unemployment rate or boys. We simply dwelled in the moment...

and there's freedom - elation - in that.

All in all, we celebrated friendship that night and have a memory to show for it. A good memory. One that will last us when the days draw long and we've haven't had the opportunity to make another memory. Or when we wonder if we really have pure, honest, intimate relationships where someone else on the planet knows us just as we are...warts and all. When those times come (and most assuredly, they will), we have that memory to sustain us. And to remind us that a date is never merely a date if it's celebrated in love and friendship.

My Favorite Things - TV Land

I titled this post with one of the weirdest Christmas songs in mind: whenever I hear it, I think of the 1950s and picture book children made of sugar and spice and everything nice. And, of course, let's not forget that Oprah has made the once mildly well-known phrase into an uber-phenomena of hot-ticket must-haves. But both get me thinking: what are some of my favorite things?

Each fall, I begin the hunt for television shows: my limit is 5. Yes, just 5. For some, that's excessive. For others, that's ridiculously minimal. Either way, it's the number that keeps me disciplined from over-watching the tube and forces me to consider carefully where I'll lay my time. I mean, come on now, how much tv do we watch purely to veg out -- even if we don't care about the programming itself? And, while I'm all for the vegging, I don't want the porthole to suck me in, either.

Of course, the trick in current cable and network scheduling is filling the gaps: gone are the days when all shows run from September to May. Instead, you've got 13 episodes, late starts, test starts, feature series, and "events"...whatever those are. So, I find my five slightly rotating as one might end and another begins. Here's a sample of my faves...what are yours?

 

He Is Tradition

Some would say they grew up without traditions. I'm convinced we all grew up with traditions: the problem is that we don't label our recurring recollections as such. Instead, we see them in clippings - segmented, cataloged happenings that were caught in the shafts of light we call memory. But if we take a step back and try to loop those segments into a running reel of childhood film, we'd see that some of them are, in fact, traditions that visited us time and again. Certainly, they may not all be happy. But they're probably not all bad, either. And good or bad, they're valuable. They've marked us as who we are, stamped us in some recognizable if not irresistable way.

My brother recently posted on his Facebook wall, "Reflecting on the memories of Christmases past. Some good. Some not so good. Ah, the balance of life." I like his summation not only because its succinctly accurate, but also because it prompted the realization that, though we shared the Christmases of our childhood and all the traditions they entailed, our sense of good and not so good may not be the same. This only goes to show how the components of our childhood -- and the traditions entrenched within them -- are individual and personal like tattoos of the same shape from a different artist's hand.

Some of my childhood traditions I practice today and, in light of the approaching Christmas holiday, I find myself recalling most those surrounding the season of giving. I recall how my mom and I decorated the house the day after Thanksgiving while my brother and dad went deer hunting: my family, which began with just me and my husband, deck the halls and dress the tree the day after Thanksgiving. The only hunting I do is for the best deals on Black Friday: however, I do liken some radicals' behaviors to the crazy wildlife rabidly lurking in the backwoods. As a child, we opened presents on Christmas Eve, not Day, and went to midnight mass in the brittle Midwestern cold. And, point of interest, Craig's family did the same. We still open presents on the Eve, stockings on the Day, and I still hold back the giant, post hectic-day yawns and go to 10:30 pm mass with my mother-in-law. I'm sure you could recite similar lists of memories past and present.

But new life has also made way for new traditions - which is as it should be. As we've had children, we've made room for their joys and imaginations: we build gingerbread houses and frost sugar cookies.  Candy canes go in dark chocolate cocoa and the musical tinklings of snow globes herald bedtimes in bedrooms. There's mistletoe at the front door and a jingly snowman on the back, and one candlelight flickers in every window facing front. And we read Luke throughout December, teaching the story of Christ's birth anew to each little one who asks, "What is Christmas about?" We see Grace and Elijah telling the story to Judsen now,  and we quietly contemplate the blessing of the best tradition of all: family.

Family is the tradition that weaves the tatters of our memories together, whether they be whimsical or bittersweet; raw or raucous; mundane or miraculous. Family is what forms us, whether yours is two or 20 or 200 in number. God isn't keeping stats: He's storing tears in bottles with thoughts that outnumber the sand. That's family. He's family...the best Family of all with the best Father there is. He's the New Year, Easter, Independence Day, and Thanksgiving. He offers fresh starts and new births: He sets us free and inspires gratitude.

And He is Christmas. He is family. He is tradition.

(left, Gingerbread House 2009. Right, wraparound banister's garland)

 

And, this year, it was Elijah's turn to put the angel atop the tree. By the way...Craig made that angel as a gift for me our first Christmas married. Yep, tradition.

We Are All Learning

So this picture is the summation of my life the last two weeks of every semester: grading, grading...and then more grading. Now that it's over, I'm reflecting once again on this intense phase that comes and goes twice a year. Though it leaves me with this heady, rather euphoric feeling (minus the "happy" head that comes with it), it's rather like a relationship you find yourself engaging even if you aren't always on the best of terms. Think Old Man Winter or Spring Fever (or Cabin Fever, for that matter).
But this time of year also reminds me of how much I love to teach. I recall each May and December that I am not only doing what I love, I am doing what I am. I treasure that opportunity because, in a world where dollars and cents often trump worth and bliss, we find ourselves punching the timecard at a place we don't belong doing work we don't value. But I get to start with 20 faces every semester and teach their minds. Teach their minds, I say! What a privilege!

After 10 years in the profession, I've become accustomed to "seeing" these students, even after the first class: I can tell you who's going to drop...and even make a pretty decent wager on why. I can tell you who's hungry, who's thirsting for knowledge and personal betterment: who's wanting to become the person they wish they'd always been, hoped to always be.

Learning is what changes us. Grows us. Takes us someplace we've never seen, been, or dreamed. Learning changes us. And I get to teach them that, above all else.

For we are all students. We are all teachers. When I sit and listen to our pastor's sermon on a Sunday, I am a student of his Biblical knowledge and fervor for the Word. When I help my children resolve conflict without hitting or name-calling, I am a teacher of love beyond self. When you take my childrens' hands and tell them everything's going to be okay, you are a teacher of compassion and mercy and grace above all else.
When I observe my husband's conviction to be a better man, I am a student of his zest for godliness and dying to self. And when you embrace me and tell me you're with me come what may, you are a teacher of loyalty and friendship that never dies.

We are all teaching. Every day.

This semester, I met a woman recently divorced. After decades of marriage, her husband had decided to move on to something...and someone...better. Younger. Fresher. She has three children, one the same age as Grace. She's never been to school, never thought it mattered before. But now she must feed and clothe and nurture these children without a husband. Without their father.

Could this have been you? Could this have been me?

She wasn't a great writer at first: high school is a faint blur in the rearview mirror of her life and there's been no practicing in between: there's not often cause for rhetoric when you're changing diapers and wiping noses between carpool, lunches and mopping the kitchen floor. But, she was determined, this one. She was hungry. She wrote fairly average work, but always applied my feedback, always struggled to grasp every new piece of information - until about midway through the semester. I sat down to read her essay, and I knew it was different. Instantly. She had a new confidence, a bolder stroke with her words. A fervor to communicate beyond the average, you might say.

And I graded her essay.

And I tallied her points.

And I wrote a purple "A" at its bottom.

And I felt rich.

Next class, I asked her to see me for a moment at break. She came up front, her step a bit hesitant, probably worrying the news was not good. I laid her paper face down on the table and said: "I want you to hear this before you look at your grade. I want you to understand what I want to say. I want you to know that you are the reason I teach. I want you to know that you should be proud of this grade...not because I taught you  or because the book helped you. Not because your peer reviewed it or because your computer checked it. You should be proud because you wrote it. You did that. You did it well, and I'm proud of you."
And she turned over that paper and saw her grade. And she cried. She actually cried. And she taught me something in that moment...

We are all learning. Every day.

Soul

In conducting research for another project, I stumbled upon this. Every one of them made me go "Hmmm...." and want to put them on Post-Its so I can ponder them throughout my house. Enjoy.

I have found that among its other

benefits, giving liberates the soul of the giver.
Maya Angelou

It is only to the individual that a soul is given.
Albert Einstein

The devil has put a penalty on all things we enjoy in life. Either we suffer in health or we suffer in soul or we get fat.
Albert Einstein

Begin to see yourself as a soul with a body rather than a body with a soul.
Wayne Dyer

Hollywood is a place where they'll pay you a thousand dollars for a kiss and fifty cents for your soul.
Marilyn Monroe

Loyalty to petrified opinion never yet broke a chain or freed a human soul.
Mark Twain

Be careless in your dress if you will, but keep a tidy soul.
Mark Twain

You don't have a soul. You are a Soul. You have a body.
C. S. Lewis (my favorite, of course)

And check this out: It's called "The Heart and Soul Nebulae" located in a region of the galaxy where astronomers are currently fascinated to find huge numbers of stars now forming. Uh-huh. Tell me again there's no God. And He's got souls.