Cannonball! (The Things Teachers Live For)

On days when the media rains hate on public school teachers, when legislation about education toils and troubles in the cauldron of those whose last moment in a public classroom was that afternoon they stepped out of high school back in June of 1960-whatever, when the elemental forces of standardized tests, national policy, and “merit” (everything out of my hands)-based pay combine to create the perfect storm of stress, apathy, and suicidal tendencies, I have to remember the small and simple things that make being an educator worth it.

Whether you believe it or not, you can look back and find an educator who has made some kind of difference in your life. Unfortunately, the teachers themselves usually never see the end products. They rarely discover just how much impact they have had on their students—just how far the concentric waves slosh over the tiled edge after they have cannonballed into life’s pool. And usually, most teachers go all-out, no holds back, as they scream like Ham Porter (from The Sandlot) into a career where others sit on the side and gawk at what these teachers have willingly done with their lives.    

Now I don’t want this rant to seem cynical or discouraging or like an anti-anti-educator bashing session. I just want to point out a few small things that make everything worth it, at least to me.

Earlier this week, I had the privilege to be assigned to accompany our 9^th graders up to the high school for orientation and a grand bout of rah rah hoopla pep talk and games-to-get-you-fired-up –or-next-year-and-fall-just-short-of-hazing assembly. It wasn’t a bad time—just very loud. At one point, a former honors student (I’ll call him W_____.) came up and put his arm around my shoulder.

“Mr. A, do you remember that A minus you gave me?”

I lied. (Honestly, teachers don’t remember everything; there’s only so much information and so many names you can cram into our craniums at one time.)

            “Well,” W_____ continued, “I just want you to know that you made the right choice. I didn’t deserve the A. I can see that now. Thank you. I learned a lot.” He looked at me, straight and seriously for a moment. I saw no guile. And with that, he ran off to be loud and obnoxious with his buddies.

            Last Friday, I was getting ready to pack up to go home. When I look up, J_____ (another former student) was standing in the doorway. I hadn’t seen him for at least three years. J_____ came to me as a 7^th grader and struggled somewhat with reading. He grumbled all the way through that year, but he improved. He was a likable enough guy, though, so I took him on as my TA as an 8^th grader and put him in charge of my library for a semester. By the time 9^th grade came around, he squeaked into my honors class. Yes, he still struggled, but he worked hard, often revising multiple times until he made a respectable grade.  That Friday he came to personally invite me to the opening of his mission call for the LDS church. I couldn’t attend due to previous obligations, but he told me (paraphrasing) that he wanted to come back to the junior high to make sure he reconnected with two of the teachers who made a difference in his life and helped him work toward his goals. I thought all my pestering just made his life miserable. (The other influence was his Spanish teacher. I tip my hat to you, Senor Moss.)

            Earlier this year I received this email from another student:

Mr. Anson,

My name is M_____, and once upon a time (okay, only two years ago) I was in your ninth grade honors English class. I am now a junior at SFHS, taking an AP Language course. I wanted to inform you that because of your teaching, I was able to proficiently compose a complete rhetorical essay in under forty minutes. I am grateful for the applicable lessons you taught me, and if you ever have students gripe about the demanding "timed writes", show them this email, and let them know that you are teaching them valuable stuff. Thanks for your hard work as an amazing English teacher. 

Her testimonial worked to inspire my current students and to inspire me. I held my head a little higher that day.

            I recently put out an email to former students who never got deleted from my Google contacts, asking for help with a presentation a colleague and I put together for the Utah Council of Teachers of English. I asked for them to reflect on the benefits of when teachers read aloud to students, either in my class or another. Within five days, I had over 60 responses, most packed with stories of reading activities from my classroom and titles of books we explored together, memories of the class itself; some shared how I helped them to find a book that they liked for the first time. One student reminded me of when a good portion of the class shed tears as I read aloud the climax of Choosing Up Sides by John H. Ritter. Keep in mind that I had them as 7^th, 8^th, or 9^th graders, and a couple had never finished a book on their own in their lives. (There are many ways to fake it, as we all know.)

            At that UCTE conference, I ran into two former students (M_____ and S_____) who had since become English teachers in different districts. S_____ sat next to me during a breakout session, excited to whisper that she was teaching The Diary of Anne Frank, and she was using some of the activities that I had her class engage in (role playing and reflective journal writing).

            The other day, I was scrolling through random blogs, and I happen upon another former student (J_____) who had reposted something from my own blog regarding poetry. As a ninth grader he claimed to abhor poetry with a passion. I also had no idea he knew I had a blog.

            These moments just happen, and like shooting stars, the burn brightly for a second—just long enough to brighten your day and fill you with a streak of hope and light before they fade away. Whether these shooting stars are Z_____ as I pull in to get my oil changed, A_____ at the credit union, K_____ at Wal-Mart, or A_____ and B_____ at church with their families, the seemingly trivial comments about what they got out of 8^th grade English many years ago make a lasting impression on me. They radiate back to me, and I catch a glimpse of what I have been trying to do for fifteen years: be a positive influence in the lives of students. Sometimes it has to do with the content of my class, but just as often it does not; it’s about how they felt and what they learned about life that radiates brighter than anything.

            Even when rough and ragged E_____, whom everyone thought would take up residency at the state prison after he dropped out of high school, saw me across the crazy environment of Jumpin’ Jacks and all its boisterous bounce house glory and made it a point to come and say hello and thank me for being a good teacher, made my day. I’ll admit that his beard and tattoos and three kids through me off as to who he was at first, but it didn’t matter. I’ll mix my metaphors here and simply say that the stars that I thought were fleeting still hung in the sky. The wave of my cannonball reverberated of the chipped pool wall and came washing back.

            I don’t share these bits to boast; I’m no better than the majority of underappreciated, underpaid educators in the world. I just want to share a glimpse of why I continue to do what I do. Regardless of what the legislature mandates, or how many parents rise in opposition, I still want to make a difference. Specifically, I want my students to become better readers, better writers, better thinkers; and as a result, better human beings. I feel the way about all public servants, but that’s another tale for another day. Small thank yous from the PTA or parents in the grocery store last longer than you think.

Most days I wish that after fifteen years in my profession and three university degrees, I didn’t (still) have to work a second job to maintain my family. Summers off? Whatever. I’m busier learning and teaching even more; sometimes they are busier than the days I’m in the classroom. For me, and educators everywhere, it’s these small and simple interactions and thank yous make all the media and parent criticism worth it.  that help us crawl up the ladder after a gut-shaking, tooth-jarring belly flop and hobble back to the edge of the pool only to jump back in for more.

Cannonball!

P.S. Take a moment. Look up one of your old teachers, or someone else who made an impression in your life. Call him. Write her an email, or an actual letter. Make someone’s day, someone who helped shape your life, someone who’s ripple of influence crashed into your life. Do it. I dare you.

Put Your Hands on the Dash!

I'm not sure if I've been thinking about people in my past who have meant a lot to me, or if it was because Katie reposted the video of Jon (who just turned 40) dancing like he did back when he was 16, but I thought I'd just share one of many episodes with the posse I ran around with my junior and senior years in Illinois. (One friend dubbed us the DORKS in order to insult us, but we took it in stride.)

It was late 1992; snow had come and gone a few times, leaving the ground with muddy slush and over-saturated grass. The actual occasion eludes me. I'm fairly certain possible we had been on a large group date, at a dance, or we could have just finished a rip-roarin' party at the coop. Maybe someone out there can help refresh my memories. Whatever it was, we had driven all over the base (Scott AFB, Illinois) dropping people off. We had to take two cars: Jon drove his family's full-sized gray van, and Steve drove his little beater. Both cars were full, but this story happened after we had unloaded Josh, Laef, and the girls we were with that night (I think Heather, Marshelle, Jana, Anneliese, Heidi, and a few others). Regardless, a pile of people had piled out of the two-car caravan, and there were four of us left: Jon and I were in the van. Steve and Julie were in the little car. It was between eleven and midnight--not too late, not past curfew.

We had just finished dropping off the folks in the officer's brick housing area and were turning to leave the base and head back to Belleville when red and blue lights flashed from behind. I glanced over at the speedometer (first instinct, Jon), but we were barely crawling over 20 mph. (Speed limit on base was 25.)

Whatever it was, the security policeman (SP) pulled both cars over to the curb. We sat, watching him in the side mirrors, the engine idling. It felt like forever as he checked our plates in his computer. He finally exited his patrol car one hand on his holster, the other craning a mag light toward the back of the van. He took his sweet time peering through the dark back windows, the side windows, and finally approached Jon's window.

"Turn your engine off, sir," he barked. I remember feeling a little confused about the SP's gruffness.

Jon complied.

"Roll down your window, sir."

"I can't. It's automatic."

The MP looked confused, appeared to have a quick conversation with himself, and then spat staccato commands: "Sir! Turn on your engine. Roll down your window. Then turn off your engine."

Jon calmly obeyed, and we shared a perplexed moment. This military cop was intense.

"What's wrong, Officer?" Jon queried.

"Where have you been?" he threw back at my friend.

Jon explained what we had been doing and repeated his question. "What did we do wrong?"

Before our detainer could answer, I cleared my throat. The MP must not have seen me in the passenger seat as his mag light swung straight into my eyes, as he shouted, "Put your hands on the dash!"

Like a puppy smacked by his owner, I did as he said. Jon followed suit.

The policeman's voice quivered, as did his light. "I need to see some I.D. Both of you!"

Simultaneously we reached for our back pockets, but before we could move half a foot, another eruption filled our ears.

"I said, put your hands on the dash!" It was easy to tell that he was fumbling the strap on his sidearm as his body dipped and he almost dropped the flashlight.

A little amused, Jon responded fairly calmly. "It's in my back pocket."

"Mine, too," I added.

The beam of ultra-blinding light swung from Jon's eyes to mine. Back and forth.

"Okay," came the next command, "Take your right hand and get your I.D. Then put your HANDS. BACK. ON. THE. DASH!"

To move this along, we did, and he took our cards, and went back to his patrol car. Just so didn't excite him any further, we left our hands on the dashboard, which was a feat since it was covered in mix tapes and Rally's remains. I vividly remember contemplating reaching for a couple of fries that I could see peeking out from the bottom of a greasy bag. I decided against it. And for a couple of teenage boys being harassed by a young policeman, I thought we behaved impeccably.

We saw the officer harass Steve and Julie for a while, but he seemed to have calmed down some. He wasn't shining the light in their eyes or yelling.

When he finally came back, he handed us our identification, and told us to go. He seemed a little embarrassed. Apparently, Steve and Julie had corroborated our story.

Emboldened a little, I asked, "Officer, may I ask what we were pulled over for?"

Silence.

Jon piped up. "We have a right to know."

His reply solidified our unspoken suspicions. "Well...uh...er...there was a report. Yeah, a report about...uh...two suspicious vehicles...um...a van...." He looks at the side of the van. "Yeah...a gray van and another...and a vehicle...." He reads the model off the back of Steve's car.

While he rambled on, making more lame excuses, I read his name on the front of his camouflage BDUs. Glanced at his rank: Airman First Class. I harrumphed. I knew ROTC kids with more clout. This guy didn't have anything. I don't even think he was supposed to be patrolling alone. I toyed with telling a few other people I knew on the security police detail--the dad of a schoolmate, who was their commanding officer came to mind. But I let it go.

After Jon nodded at him patiently for a while, the airman faked a radio message and left, calling over his shoulder that we could go. He hauled out of there, speeding and swerving around us before we could get the ignition started again. We never really figured that mystery cop stop out. After getting back on the road, we switched the mix tape back on, and coincidentally, a poignant Cypress Hill lyric scratched through the speakers: "Cops come and try and snatch my crops. These pigs wanna blow my house down. Head underground, to the next town. The get mad when I'm out...." Yes, I know it's not the same, but it was somehow fitting.

In retrospect, we didn't have any serious run-ins with law enforcement, but maybe we were a touch obnoxious on occasion. Most of the time received warnings to turn down the music. This group of friends I hung with were pretty tight, but like almost all high school groups (especially in the military circles), we were drawn to different quarters of the earth, or so it seemed. These guys (and girls), I don't see very often, but every once in a while we get together or chat online or on the phone, and it's like nothing has changed. We pick up right where we left off. And if that happens to be with our hands still on the dash, so be it. Good friends are worth it. DORKS rule!

Note: I have nothing against police officers and the wonderful job that most of them do. They, as a whole, are to be praised for their sacrifice and public service. This particular one was just a jerk.

Here is a photo I dug up this morning. I think I might share a few more episodes of DORK adventures over the next little while. Maybe I can find more pictures. I think this one was taken at the party right before the Lunds moved to Germany. It's not the best picture of us, and it doesn't include everyone. If you have better, please share.

Elly, Target Practice, Me, Leah, Anneliese, Josh, Jon, Rob, Laef, Steve: 1993

What LuAnn Shared with Me

(in memory of LuAnn Staheli 1954-2015) 

The first time I met LuAnn, I was a fairly new teacher, only one year of wear and tear--not too many dings or dents caused by 8th and 9th graders. I was freshly aware of this thing called professional development that needed to be done in order to maintain a license, and being the learning nerd that I am, I jumped at the chance to take a short class during the summer.

(from luannslibrary.blogspot.comcom)

So I found a one-day seminar about young adult literature, taught at Payson Junior High by Mrs. LuAnn Staheli. It was a cool presentation (well, for me anyway). In essence, it was a slide show book talk that included 100 new and popular books for middle readers and young adults. LuAnn speedtalked the whole way through. The dozen of us just talked books all day long and got credit for it. The only thing that would have made it better is if the seminar had included bacon.

What stuck out to me the most, though, was the passion with which LuAnn shared her knowledge and expertise about reading and how to put good books into the hands of students, especially reluctant readers. It struck me because that was what I wanted to do. I wanted to share my passion. And for the next several years, I proclaimed that my biggest goal for my 8th graders was to turn them into willing, self-selecting, self-proclaimed readers. And for the most part, it worked because I reengaged myself in reading what the kids were reading; I became that expert that they needed. Because of LuAnn's example of sharing books with passion, it became a part of me. I set goals and monitored the genres I dabbled in, and helped student to do the same. I've worked for 15 years now helping put the right books in the hands of kids who initially said they hated reading. And even though some of them still refuse to acknowledge they have ever read a book on their own, or that they even like stories, you can see the inward smiles hiding in their eyes when I pull out a book to read aloud or give them a recommendation. It still strikes me as funny when a student turns up her nose at a title I pull off the shelf specifically for her, but then I see the sequel to said book tucked under her arm a few days later. It's all about sharing. I still try to share what I read via Goodreads. (I think my book reviews from there automatically post to my Facebook feed, too.)

Sharing good books and turning kids into readers who crave their next fiction fix or dose of poetry is one of many teaching accomplishments I can say that LuAnn played a role in. In a way, she became another mentor for me. Since that first meeting, I have had the opportunity to work with her in many capacities: district assignments, professional conferences, reading, writing, teaching, mentoring. The list goes on. But the one thing that remained constant was that every time we got together, she would share something with me: a new title, a piece of writing she was working on, an experience with an unruly hooligan.

Shortly before she passed, LuAnn messaged me to come over because she wanted to share something--books about teaching and books about writing. She told me that she didn't have any use for them any more and knew that if I couldn't use them, I knew those who did. (Each one has found a home.) As I sat with her for about an hour, she shared even more than pages: memories, family stories (I taught three of her five boys), successes, passages, and encouragement. (She still believes I will be the next Chris Crowe. Don't worry, Chris, I'm still pretty far behind.)

Now, over the fifteen years of my association with LuAnn, we held many frank conversations about curriculum, teaching practices, and even who should be cast in films made from books. We may not have always seen eye to eye philosophically on everything we held in common, which as writers and teachers of literacy is quite a lot, but that's okay. It strengthened everything she shared with me. I can honestly say that I am proud to have known LuAnn Staheli in many roles, arenas, and stages. Even though that ultimate visit in January made me late for other engagements, I am glad I spent the time with my colleague and friend. She will be missed, but her influence will keep radiating. I went to her funeral service this afternoon. Reaffirmation for my friend and her love, her service, and her influence permeated each soul in attendance.

(from www.coachayers.com)

Along this same vein, I want to make sure that I keep sharing. I don't know if my personal influence will be as widespread, but I'd like to think that I have things to share that might affect others. Call me masochistic, but that's why I keep up this pathetic blog. That's why I keep reading. That's why I keep going back for another degree. That's why I won't give up on 9th graders who have already resigned themselves to spending time in prison. That's why I strive to keep my voice, quiet as it may be (or not if you ask the other teachers in my hall), alive. That's what writing can do. That's what teaching can do--even if you don't do it by profession.

Keep talking. Keep listening. Keep writing. Keep a journal. Keep up relationships. Keep your faith.

Keep sharing.

Follow this link to learn more about LuAnn Staheli.

(Yes, I know she'd circle quite a few the sentences in this post and say "I don't buy it.")

...The Whole Truth and Nothing but the Truth

"Recollection, I have found, is usually about half invention, and right now I realize that there is much about (insert whatever or whomever you want here) that I either invented or got secondhand" (61). Wallace Stegner spoke these words to me as I meandered through his Crossing to Safety last night. There is beauty in its language (at least so far), but it is definitely not a plot-driven book, and so it gives me time to ponder while the characters interact and spout truths at each other.

And there is truth in this line.

)from http://eprahaar.in/exploding-gas-cylinders-spark-massive-fire-none-hurt/)

When I read Stegner's passage, my mind was immediately drawn to the story about the Fourth of July I alluded to in yesterday's blog scribble. That incident happened when I lived in Las Vegas--I don't remember which summer. Our family had gone somewhere on Nellis AFB to watch the annual firework show. I usually tell the story that a few smaller rockets went off--a traditional warm-up for a military-grade show. Then a larger rocket streaked low across the sky but fell back earthward, out of sight before exploding in the back of the truck where all the fireworks were stored. A massive flame erupted, destroying the truck, lighting up the sky, and ruining the rest of the night. It's a great story.

However, no one else in my family remembers that night like I do, or at least the way I think I remember it. They were there, but the details aren't quite the same. And when I'm honest with myself, and dig into the shafts of my mind before detonating the charges, I can visualize another not-quite-so-spectacular version of that night's events. The tale starts the same, but after the dud rocket comes back down, nothing happens. And then even more nothing. And then there are just a bunch of disappointed people packing up unused sparklers, ratty lawn chairs, and coolers full of Shasta. I recall hearing at school (later in the fall) that a truck blew up.

So which of the stories is accurate? Which one is the truth? I'm not sure. I know which one makes a better story, though. But does it even matter? I begin to doubt myself. I have touched on the subject of excavating memories to produce writing on more than one occasion, using terms like embellishment and ESPN highlight reels to describe our finished products. And any good storyteller knows that the more you tell a story, the better it gets (usually). Right? Even if some fictional elements weasel their way in. Right? I've been contemplating this for close to 18 hours now, and I am not any closer to a conclusion. Call me non-committal, or chalk it up to working too much with argument writing, but I haven't been convinced one way or another yet. I would love to get your thoughts and feedback.

So let me rephrase: Does it matter which version of the truth you guard in your memories? And then, if you care to elaborate more, how does that affect what we pass on, be it oral or written?

Just promise me you'll tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

Also check out Nothing But the Truth by Avi.

Revitalized

Okay, so my December explosion of blog posts was a dud--worse than the Fourth of July fireworks show that didn't really happen one year because a semi-dud found its way into the back of the truck containing the rest of the explosives...but that's another story. Yes, I know where intentions pave the road, but I did have high aspirations of sharing some bodaciously useful words. I'll keep doing it every once in a while, but I don't think it will be a regular occurrence as I had previously envisioned. Stay tuned.

No, I just need to keep writing, though. I got derailed in December because I let the online class I teach take over my life. Well, actually, I don't think that phrasing is quite right. It was more like a plague of locusts invaded my cyberspace and I had to spend my wakeful hours (and some not so wakeful ones) driving out the pestilence that filled my inbox.

Still, it isn't really a valid excuse. Writing takes time, and I have to make time for it.

In the meantime, I have cleaned up that mess, decided to become healthier (along with my lovely wife), and wrung my hands about red tape and my dissertation (still roadblocked, waiting to hear back from two people). I am planning to teach two writing seminars this summer, and have been asked to submit to a couple of publications (don't know if it will happen right now).

So, my disgruntled followers, the few of you who even bother to check up on this blog, all is not lost. I am revitalizing and re-prioritizing so I can find and make more time to write. I have been reading Kelly Gallagher's book Write Like This, and remembering why I love teaching writing, why I love reading good writing, why I simply love to write.

Along that line, I am undertaking a new long-term project (yes, another one): I have decided, glutton for punishment that I am, to map the writing I have already done and create a personal history. This will allow me to see which parts of my life I have already written about and where serious potholes need to be filled. I want more authentic topics for my students to see me modeling, and this will give me an opportunity to branch away from the same old stuff.

So, in the words of L.L. Cool J, "Don't call it a comeback." I'm still here, but Joe, Version 38.1 is going to share more frequently, more deeply, and more openly (maybe). Prepare yourself. Brace for impact. Whatever. It's coming. Be afraid; be very afraid. (Not really. I just wanted to use one more cliche.)

P.S. Don't tell my other blog this, but I'm down 16.6 lbs. from the beginning of January!