by jphilo | Aug 24, 2011 | Reflections on the Past
The kids around here went back to school on Monday. The teachers officially started work the middle of last week, but most of them have been preparing their rooms and doing some work from home since August began. Last year, I wrote this post about my annual August gut reaction. This summer, the yearly tummy twist has me thinking about how to encourage the teachers in our town. They are ever and always my heroes!
Gut Reaction – Recycled
Ever since 1961, when I set foot in Franklin School as a kindergarten, the same its-almost-time-for-school-to-start-pit-in-the-stomach-reaction occurs at summer’s end.
It doesn’t matter that I graduated from high school in 1974 and college in 1978. It doesn’t matter that I’ve been out of teaching since 2003. It doesn’t matter that my kids’ public school days are a thing of the past. One rustle of the calendar page turning from July to August, one glance at the back-to-school ads in the paper, and my stomach ties up in knots. I can take deep cleansing breathes, engage in positive self-talk, and count my blessings until the cows come home, and my gut still feels queasy.
I tell myself it’s a conditioned response. You know, my personal version of Pavlov’s dogs. Only instead of salivating at the thought of food, my intestines go all grumbly at the thought of entering a classroom. Why is that? I loved reading and learning as a kid. As an adult, I loved teaching and developing relationships with students.
I attribute my annual August gut reaction to one thing. Teaching is hard work physically, emotionally, and mentally. It’s harder than any job I ever did. Detassling corn, working in the Hy-Vee Deli, washing dishes and cooking at a nursing home, being a nurse’s aid at the same home. All of those were child’s play compared to teaching. The same can be said of my present career which involves writing books and speaking to large groups of people.
Here’s why. Every day teachers must be organizational whizzes, entertainers, mind readers, communicators, multi-taskers, disciplinarians, record keepers, clock-watchers, counselors, comforters, problem-solvers, and tough guys in the classroom. But that’s only half the job. The other half involves trying to keep up with the legislative requirements that change and grow more demanding every year.
So say a prayer for teachers this month. Then put your prayers into action by doing something special to. Bake cookies. Send an encouraging email or card. Take them supper. Mow their lawn. Pick a bouquet of flowers. Say thank you.
This August, do something to untwist their tummies.
They’ll be glad you did.
by jphilo | Aug 3, 2011 | Reflections on the Past
A few weeks ago, on one of this summer’s blistering hot July days, three former colleagues and I spent the afternoon together. Vicky, Pat, and Pauline are still teaching, though I jumped ship in May of 2003. We loved teaching fourth grade together, collaborating and sharing ideas freely. But we shared more than work. We shared life, trading recipes, advice about raising teenagers, and how to care for aging parents.
After too many years apart, we gathered in Pauline’s cool and comfy living room and picked up our conversation without missing a beat. We talked about what our kids are doing, and their life journeys so far. We shared disappointments and unexpected joys, sorrows and hopes, our dreams for the future and our fears. Most of all, we encouraged one another, just like we used to do after hard days at work.
Believe me, these women are about the most encouraging people around. Or course, encouragement is second nature to people who teach fourth graders their multiplication facts, persuade unwilling students to write cursive, and can make the geography of the United States interesting. Vicky, Pat, and Pauline – they are masters of the craft.
After a few hours with them, all of us crying a little and laughing a lot, I knew what I miss most about teaching.
Not the paperwork.
Not the politics.
Not the paycheck.
Not even the students so much.
What I miss most are these three, strong women who encouraged me to take a risk and pursue my dream of becoming a writer. And, I envy the students, the parents, and the faculty who will rub elbows with them when school starts in a few weeks.
Do they have any idea of the treasures these women are?
by jphilo | Oct 8, 2010 | Reflections on the Past
Last night I dreamed I was teaching again. At the school I last worked in – the fact that it closed last spring having no bearing on my subconscious mind – pulled into the classroom on an emergency basis.
But the emergency continued, and there I was week after week. The kids were second graders. Very energetic. Confused by my teaching style. Not motivated to rise to my expectations. Cuter than all get out, but noisy too.
I was unprepared. No relationship with the students and thus no control over their behavior. No ingredients for the recipe that was doubling as a science experiment. No lesson plans. No idea of the curriculum. To make it, I would have to devote all my evenings, weekends and energy to planning.
All I could think was, “When will I write my book?” and “How did this happen?” and “Teaching is the hardest work on earth.”
Then the alarm clock beeped, and I was saved by the bell.
But the memory of the dream – perhaps “nightmare” is more accurate – still lingers. And my thoughts fly to the teachers I know. They do the hardest work on earth every day, willingly, lovingly, creatively, and with great passion. They shape the future.
Thank you, teacher friends. You are my heros!
by jphilo | Aug 16, 2010 | Reflections on the Past
Ever since 1961, when I set foot in Franklin School as a kindergarten, the same its-almost-time-for-school-to-start-pit-in-the-stomach-reaction occurs at summer’s end.
It doesn’t matter that I graduated from high school in 1974 and college in 1978. It doesn’t matter that I’ve been out of teaching since 2003. It doesn’t matter that my kids’ public school days are a thing of the past. One rustle of the calendar page turning from July to August, one glance at the back-to-school ads in the paper, and my stomach ties up in knots. I can take deep cleansing breathes, engage in positive self-talk, and count my blessings until the cows come home, and my gut still feels queasy.
I tell myself it’s a conditioned response. You know, my personal version of Pavlov’s dogs. Only instead of salivating at the thought of food, my intestines go all grumbly at the thought of entering a classroom. Why is that? I loved reading and learning as a kid. As an adult, I loved teaching and developing relationships with students.
I attribute my annual August gut reaction to one thing. Teaching is hard work physically, emotionally, and mentally. It’s harder than any job I ever did. Detassling corn, working in the Hy-Vee Deli, washing dishes and cooking at a nursing home, being a nurse’s aid at the same home. All of those were child’s play compared to teaching. The same can be said of my present career which involves writing books and speaking to large groups of people.
Here’s why. Every day teachers must be organizational whizzes, entertainers, mind readers, communicators, multi-taskers, disciplinarians, record keepers, clock-watchers, counselors, comforters, problem-solvers, and tough guys in the classroom. But that’s only half the job. The other half involves trying to keep up with the legislative requirements that change and grow more demanding every year.
So say a prayer for teachers this month. Then put your prayers into action by doing something special to. Bake cookies. Send an encouraging email or card. Take them supper. Mow their lawn. Pick a bouquet of flowers. Say thank you.
This August, do something to untwist their tummies.
They’ll be glad you did.
by jphilo | Apr 29, 2010 | Current Events
Yesterday, one of the sweetest days of spring unfolded. Perfect weather. Crab apple trees in blooms. Tulips swaying in the breeze and lilacs bursting into bloom, their scent wafting through the air like honey.
But best of all was the hour I spent with the high school students who were once my fourth grade students and their parents. We met at Bryant School, where we learned together for nine months some years ago. They were taller than when we said goodbye on a warm June day in 2002. I had more wrinkles.
But yesterday I managed to hold back the tears, just barely, that flowed freely when our little fourth grade family broke up housekeeping way back then. I was determined not to cry because I wanted to be clear-eyed enough to see the people they’d become and to search their faces for traces of the nine and ten-year-olds they used to be.
So while they looked at old pictures and watched videos of their social studies presentations and how-to demonstrations, I watched them. And what did I find behind bravado they’ve cultivated to survive high school or hard times?
Tucked behind their smiles were Alex D’s quiet kindness and Josh’s soft humor. Maddie’s sparkling excitement about life and Hannah’s joyful optimism were written in their eyes. II saw Chuck’s gentleness and Heather’s compassion in the set of their shoulders. Brogan’s determination hid behind his grin, and Alex B’s gaze was as intense as it was the day we first met. Nikki’s shyness was barely visible beneath her confident voice, but it peeked out now and then. Jordan thoughtful nature waited behind her laughter, and Stephanie L was still a natural observer, noticing things in pictures the rest of us missed. Dillan’s childhood inquisitiveness was evident in his career choice, while Erin’s love of words marked her conversation.
They are still there, the children I had loved so much and carried in my heart since we lived fourth grade together so many years ago. My prayer for each of them, the ones present and the ones who didn’t come, as they enter adulthood is simple.
Hold the sweet child you once were close to your heart. Remember who you were and where you’ve been. Build upon the best of your past to create a firm foundation for your future. Rejoice daily. Give thanks hourly. Savour the moment.
Live well, lovely students. Live.
