Not with that attitude, you won't!

This is a true story.
About a month ago I was reading a short story with my freshmen Pre-AP kids. We had been working pretty diligently for the class period, but I really did not see the point in starting a new chapter, discussion, etc. so close to the bell. I announce to the class that there is no way that we can finish today. And then I hear it. A kid that is way too smart for his own good says, "Not with that attitude, Ms. Son!" He was funny, and this has since become his tag line. I would be lying if I said that it had not become mine as well.

Then, about two weeks ago I was at a conference in Austin. I was coming out of the last session of the day and my eyeballs literally hurt. As I turned my phone back on, I see an email in my inbox from a program that seemed pretty nonspecific. I open the email, and it's from NYU. I had already gotten quite alright with not getting into graduate school, but I won't lie; NYU was my top pick. The day I got that rejection letter, I pretty much sank in a hole for 24 hours. So, you can imagine how shocked I was to get an email from NYU telling me that I was being considered for another program... one that feeds into doctoral program(s).

Now, the more I read about it, swallowing and digesting every last bit of information I can find about this program, the more I understand just how naive I had been about applying for graduate school this past fall. Maybe there are no accidents; I've never really been a huge believer in fate, or destiny, or the universe dropping big hints in our laps... But, for about 72 hours, I started to get a little superstitious about "what does it all mean" in regards to this opportunity.

But after that, I just kind of went on living my life.

I mean, yes I would love to live in New York, and I want this. Bad. But I seriously considered just sitting on the invitation as means of recapturing some of the pride that I lost this fall. Just chalk it all up to a lesson I've learned about bravado and bullshit, (mainly that I need to lose both), and not put myself out there again.

And then I thought, "What a coward."

I started to think about regret. People might tell you that there is dignity in regret and that we all grow from our mistakes... yeah, it's crap. All of it. Regret is for people that would rather hold their pride close to them like their mother's dress or a wooby. What I would like to say to those people is, "How brave do you think you are? Now how brave do you hope others think you are?" Because the truth is: regret is for cowards.

I have regrets... but I hope that the majority of them stem from situations that make sense only because I have information now that makes them illuminate something that was once dark, cryptic. I don't wear them like badges of honor. I don't wear them as a scarlet letter, either. I just refuse to knowingly engage in decisions that I can actually see the regret in foresight, rather than hindsight and then have the audacity to lie to myself and say, "I'll be a better person for it. It's better this way... the not knowing" That is when you immediately go from sincere to full of shit. "Who are you kidding?"

This is a question I ask myself constantly.
So I sent off the personal statement. Today, in fact.

Because here's the thing: it doesn't matter if I get in or not. What matters is that I'm not embarrassed or ashamed anymore if I do or don't. I don't care who knows that I applied a second time around. I don't care who knows that I applied to seven graduate schools this fall and was rejected by all of them. And if I don't get into this program, then that will be just fine, too. Because this time I'm not going to make excuses or apologies. For anything.

So maybe I don't get in. Or maybe I do. I just couldn't let my pride get the best of me this time around, knowing that I would always regret, and that I would never be able to fully convince myself that I was justified in taking pride from my cowardice. I'm not going to take that hard road out of fear and pat myself on the back for being so brave to walk away from something so amazing. Because if I did, there would be this cutting voice of a fifteen year old in the back of my mind shouting, "Not with that attitude, you won't."

And the real pain-in-the-ass realization: the fifteen year old is right.

This is something real...

This is something real.

I am horrible with directions. I can live in a town or a city, and never learn the proper names for highways or streets that I drive on every day. I used to think that this was just because I have no sense of direction, but the truth is that I am not a very observant person.

Lately I have gotten quite a few rejection letters for graduate school. It's not an easy thing for me to admit. My whole life I have always believed that I was smart and that if I work hard enough, I'll get what I want... but that's not true. Some things are not meant to be. I do not necessarily think that is applicable to graduate school, but it might be the final answer on the subject... right now. For someone like me, that answer is pretty hard to swallow. I thought that graduate school was what I wanted, but I haven't really pursued the idea of it much in prayer or thought since I submitted the damn applications. I still hate the rejection. A good friend told me recently, "Do I need to remind you that you are ALREADY in graduate school?"

I guess she did.

I hadn't really stopped to be mindful about the fact that I've already been offered quite a few incredible opportunities. I was lucky enough to get offered a graduate degree (for free, no less), a great job (that I try really hard to do well), great friends. My life is pretty great, graduate school or no graduate school. I had lunch with a friend from high school last summer. I hadn't seen him in nine years, but he paid me the nicest compliment that I have ever recieved. He told me, "Jackie, you have a great gift. You have the ability to make people feel like no time has passed in the friendship. I haven't seen you in years, and I still feel like I can tell you anything. I've told you more about my life than some of the people I've seen every day for the past nine years."

I have heard that before, but at that moment it stuck with me. I realized that maybe that's why I love what I do and why I work with kids. I do believe that it is a blessing to be able to make people feel like you are a safe place to visit. My students walk in my room and every day, every class period, we laugh. They have a very cooky English teacher that tells them anecdotes to get them to remember things, that has call and responses like "Hillshire Farms: Go Meat!", and who tries very hard... even though I make mistakes.

I love my job. At a time when teachers feel as though they are underappreciated, understaffed, and overworked, I find joy in what I do. I look forward to working with my students and I love teaching English. I overheard a student I taught last year helping another student with some dual credit homework the other day in the counselor's office. He was helping him with an essay over The Things They Carried, a novel we read last year. The other child who was not a former student of mine asked him, "How do you know any of this?" My former student replied, "I had Ms. Son last year. She had us read it... it was actually my favorite book we read last year. I hate to admit it, but I really liked English last year."

These moments are pretty special to me. I have all of these big plans, but in the end, maybe my purpose is to make a difference with the kids I interact with every day at this level. Maybe that will be in a special library, or a classroom, or with my own kids that I hope to have someday. I want a lot of big things. Some of those dreams are going to come true and some aren't, but until I try I'll never know. I guess it's not so bad to try, to take a leap of faith. I did that with my job in Rockport. I didn't know anyone, but I moved here and I built a life and a relationship with the friends and students that have crossed my path. I can never really be sure that it has made any difference at all in their lives, but it has made all the difference in mine.

I do get lost a lot. I don't always notice the signs in life or when I am driving, but my mom always tells me, "Sometimes when you are lost, it is best to stay right where you are."

Many are the plans in a person's heart, but it is the LORD's purpose that prevails.
Proverbs 19:21

Finding the rite words...

Today in church there was a baptism...and I cried. I cry during all of the sacramental rites: baptisms, ordinations, weddings, funerals, etc. I always feel as though I should be stronger than a person who cries in church. But then I started thinking that if a person is going to cry, church is as good of a place as any.

I don't even know the family. That never seems to stop me. When I was in high school and I would acolyte at weddings and funerals, I always cried. I rarely knew the people that we were marrying or burying. This morning though, I figured out what gets me. It's the words.


As an English teacher, I tell my students to use stronger diction in their writing. We study writers that use a lot of impressive language and syntax, and I understand that it's this language and style that formed them into the writer they became. Sometimes fancy words are necessary. Sometimes they aren't. I think that sometimes just saying what you mean is the fastest way to connect with an audience. Sometimes we don't want to wait fifteen pages to get to something that you could have said in three. Sometimes we don't want to wait a year to hear what you really want to say. And sometimes, people just need to hear simple words.

I was sitting next to the priest's wife and little girl, who is learning to talk. Annie can say things like "baby" "mama" ..."cracker". These are pretty simple words, but they get the message across. Right about that time we all stood to renew our baptismal vows with the family. This is what gets me every time. A group of people saying in unison, "I will with God's help".

I saw Scott Simon, a broadcast journalist for NPR, speak at a conference last year. He said, "People say that a picture is worth a thousand words. You give me a thousand words. I'll give you the Lord's Prayer, the 23rd Psalm, the Hippocratic Oath, a sonnet by Shakespeare, the preamble to the Constitution, Lincoln's Gettysburg Address, the last paragraphs of the speech by Martin Luther King to the march on Washington, and the final entry of Anne Frank's diary. And I wouldn't trade you for any picture on earth."

Sometimes, instead of hearing a lot of complex words and contrived ideas that make a person sound smarter, simple words will do. Things like: "I miss you" "Please" "Thank you" "I forgive you" "I love you" "Forgive me".

Assuming these are things you need to say or do for someone, I hope that their response is "I will with God's help."

Welcome to the jungle...

There comes a day in every person's life when they have to face a dreaded place. You hate it. Everyone hates it... But inevitably, it comes, and we all have to enter those automatic doors.

You've just arrived at the grocery store.

Being a single person, I go to the grocery store maybe three times a year. OK, maybe five... if I need more ketchup or toilet paper.

But when those staples run out, I have to muster every bit of energy I have and every piece of good fortune I've acquired and head to the store.

In the small town where I live, there are two basic options for the grocery store: Walmart or H.E.B. Most of us always choose H.E.B. because we're snobs and we are loyal to our Texas chain. But on this cold Texas night, I thought to myself, "Where am I likely to run into the LEAST amount of my students?" and since I know that half of the student population of where I work is employed at H.E.B., I went with Walmart.

Big mistake.

When I got to Walmart, I should have known that luck was not on my side because I got the cart. You know what cart I'm talking about; the one that has its own mind and absolutely no steering capabilities, and leans a little to the right at all times.
I go ahead and press on... literally, I'm having to press.

Now is as good a time as any to mention that I had just gone running, so I was extremely sweaty and not at all attractive, which I thought would motivate me to move faster. That plan would have worked, except I found out that Walmart is not only the place that children like to hang out, but the place where every child that I have ever written up or sent to the office like to hang out. ALL OF THEM.

I have never been so discouraged to hear my own name, but all of a sudden, there it is. "Ms. Son! What are you doing here?" Gee, what could I be doing here? I did not write this particular child up today... but someone else did. He got his phone taken up for texting in class. His father then turns the corner, and as soon as preciousangel tells dad that I'm a teacher at his school, dad wants to tell me how he thinks it's "Absolutely ridiculous that my son got his phone taken up today! Do you know how much an iPhone costs?" But before I can answer him, he continues to rant about the phone. I want to interrupt and ask if now is a good time to mention that I am actually not the one who wrote up his child, but I just do a lot of nodding and saying the only words I know to say to him: I understand.

After this escapade, I remember that I did in fact make a list. So I begin to look for the bread. And then I realize that they have no bread. And if they do, they are hiding it from me. I start circling the same aisles over and over again, as if the bread will magically appear or drop down from the sky like manna. But I never find it.

I give up on the bread. I'll eat the peanut butter and jelly in a bowl. I don't even care anymore. I'm so sore from the cart... or maybe it was the run, but it's probably the cart, that I wheel it to the checkout lane. My only real concern at this point is that my right bicep is getting more of a workout than my left. I roll into the checkout, and I see that there is a woman buying all the ramen that Walmart has to offer AND bread.

I realize at this point that I could be taking a huge leap of faith and risking my pride to ask, but I figure it doesn't matter. I ask her where she got her bread. She looks at me like I'm crazy, which is fair... but where is the bread?

"The bread aisle."

Thank you, that was very helpful.

The woman checking us out asks her when she is due. She replies, "I'm not pregnant."

This is awkward. It's awkward because there are hardly any people in the store (minus my students, their irate parents, the non-pregnant lady, my cashier, and me). It's awkward because she just committed a huge social no-no and there is no way to recover. But mostly, it's awkward because non-pregnant lady knows that I heard.

Nervous laughter. I blame it ALL on nervous laughter. I have to turn around, and I just want to die. Melting into the ground sounds so much better than finding the bread aisle at this point. I try to pretend like I am interested in the cover of US Weekly, but it's covered in snapshots of pregnant celebrities. I just turn my back and pretend to be interested in my shopping cart. But it's no use. Thank you, cashier. You've just made this lady probably want to cry, and I want to evaporate.

It's finally my turn to check out. Thank you, God. I hope she doesn't ask me when I'm due, but at this point, anything is possible. She is very helpful. So helpful that she puts almost every item in its own bag.

I get to my car and place all 33 bags and 19 items in my car. I arrive home to see that my front door is open. At this point, I hope there is a serial killer in my apartment. Maybe he would help me take in my groceries. No serial killer and no help with groceries. I must have forgotten to lock my door. When I finally get everything put away, my friend calls. I start by telling her, "I went to Walmart tonight for groceries---" She interrupts, "Wait. You went to Walmart? Why didn't you just go to H.E.B.?"

I tell her that I will be going to H.E.B., tomorrow, in fact. I need bread.

Dancing with Myself

I talk to myself. A lot. No, not in public … well not in very public areas. I talk to myself in the car, in the shower, as I grade… well, you get the idea.

I also talk to people/creatures/ things that can’t talk back. You can call me crazy, but I would much rather talk to a dog, a baby, or the guy sitting next to me in traffic playing the air drums than the people I actually encounter in real life half the time. I guess maybe it’s because I don’t really care about the result of the conversation as much as having the conversation, if that makes any sense. Some people are the journaling type… but I always got so distracted, and if no one was ever going to read it, I didn’t really see a point.

I feel as though now is as good a time as any to confess that I used to make fun of people that blogged. “If your stuff is so great, then why aren’t you a published writer?” This was my general (internal) comment to people that would ask me to “follow” them on their blog.

But maybe some of these people feel the same way I do. An ashamed and truthful fact I confess here and now is that I am not the best listener. I always want to finish the other person’s sentence for them, and this MUST drive some people crazy. But it’s not what you think at all. It’s not that I know better than them, that I have the solution to their problem, or that I am an expert. It usually comes from a good place. I usually just want to scream, “I KNOW EXACTLY WHAT YOU MEAN, AND YOU AREN’T CRAZY AT ALL… and let me tell you why…”

I talk all day. And I’m pretty lucky, because I get to talk to kids about a subject I love and adults with whom I have important, silly, and intelligent conversations with. But sometimes, I don’t want to talk about what anyone else wants to talk about. Sometimes, I just want to talk about what I want to talk about… and maybe I want to talk about it for more than five minutes, hence the conversations with myself in free and inconvenient moments. I once got busted talking to myself by a student during my conference period. That’s right about the time I started locking my door during conference period.

An author was writing about being an introvert and he said, “I am something of a recluse by nature. I am that cordless screwdriver that has to charge for twenty hours to earn ten minutes use. I need that much downtime. "

That really is me. I have notoriously, my entire life, picked jobs that require me to be in front of a group. It’s like I turn something “on” when I get in front of people, and suddenly I can speak to a group by using humor or silly charm. But when it’s over, after I teach five periods back to back, I am exhausted. My fellow teachers and I were talking about this the other day. It’s like having a stage act that you perform for your audience…and then there’s the real you. I am an introvert, but you would never know it. I actually prefer to do things by myself, and I have my entire life. So when I start to talk to myself, sometimes it’s the only time in that entire day that anyone has seen or heard the real me… and I guess I might as well be the person who gets to spend time with the real me.

People who are writers, real writers, are doing exactly what I’m doing. They just don’t look crazy because they have their conversations on paper and not in their car like I do. So I decided I would split the difference. I’m not a real writer, but I only look crazy half the time now, instead of most of the time.

The other day I was leaving for work and I was not wide awake yet. I tried TWICE to use my car door clicker to lock my front door before I figured out that it wasn’t going to work. And right there, out loud, in front of the seventy year old dog walker passing by I said, “Jackie, I swear!”

I should be concerned because he looked at me like I was crazy, but I just said hi to his dog and got in my car.

Tales from a Texas School House...

Every morning I grab my coffee cup, I turn down my air conditioner, and I grab my keys. I run through a mental checklist before I leave: Did I make my bed? Did I grab any papers I need to hand back to my students? Did I pray for patience when I woke up? I head to my school, and I say good morning to those I encounter, and I head to room 129.

I turn on all the lights and I immediately start thinking about everything I want to accomplish that day. Sometimes I focus on the emails I need to get out, the copies I need to run, or the conversations I need to have with fellow teachers before I can start first period.

I lead a little life. I teach high school English, but I choose to believe that I make a difference. I belong to a bible study group made up of fellow teachers of every grade level. Before the school year started, we prayed at every campus in our district, and I managed to just listen to the prayers of those around me... until we got to the high school.

I broke down in tears, because I could not contain the joy and the love that I feel for my job, my colleagues, and my kids. I don't remember exactly what I said, but I know the heart of the matter. The fact is, there are days when I would rather not have to be the decision maker, the confident, or the enforcer. There are days when I just want to crawl inside myself and forget that I have any obligation to anyone but myself. But this year, I feel something so much deeper than what I have felt in the past; I feel a true sense of purpose behind what I do. I know that teaching truly is my calling in life. Yes, I lead a little life, but it is one that I feel truly passionate about, and here's why:

I fight for the kid that won't fight for themselves. I look for the child that doesn't speak in class, that takes everything that is given with no refute or rebuttal, the child that evaporates as soon as the louder, more imposing kids walk into the room... and I fight to make them care. I want them to care about themselves, and my class. Sure I want them to love English, but more than that, I want them to love the safe place that I try so desperately, daily to create for them.

I show up. No, this doesn't make me a hero or a celebrity... except to maybe a group of fifteen year-old kids. It's wearing the jersey on game day that a kid has eagerly laid at my doorstep just for me. It's going to the choir concert that no one else will go to for a child, and being the only person in the audience that stands for that particular kid and claps just for them. It's marching next to a band kid at the parent-appreciation game because their parent works two jobs and can't make it. "I came for you just for you," I tell them, and their eyes are overcome with joy... and they feel loved.

I encourage. I force them if I have to, but at the end of the year, I need for them to know a set of skills when they leave room 129 for good. I need for them to know that Homer wrote The Odyssey, that a dictionary is not just a paperweight, and that reading a book for your own enjoyment doesn't make you nerdy, but quite dignified. I also need for them to see and understand all the things I don't say. I want them to know that there are people that care about them, and that they are allowed to care about each other. There is nothing greater that I can do for them than try and show them that the peace that passes all understanding exists for them both inside my classroom and outside in the world, if they are only willing to seek it out.

I work with amazing people. About a year ago, I had a friend call me after school. I was in a horrible meeting where my colleagues and I were forced to spend our time analyzing data in an old copy room, filled with mold and broken trophies. He could barely hear me above the laughter that my colleagues and I were partaking in. When I called him back later that evening he said, "You have no idea how jealous I am. You work with people you enjoy, and you have a great time no matter where you are or what you are doing." He was right. I work with some of the most uplifting, positive, and intelligent people I've ever met. I have a mentor teacher that I adore. A best friend that I can laugh with. A team that I can lean on.

There are two people in my department that I greatly admire. They have been teaching for a number of years, and they are smarter than I will ever be. On two separate occasions this week they both pulled me aside and told me that I have grown into a wonderful teacher. They told me that to watch my development has been a true joy, and that I am confident and strong in my abilities. I was overcome and I thanked them profusely, although I hardly knew what to say. One of them told me, "Of course! Roses for the living!"

I thought about that. Why not offer roses for the living more often? What good are accolades if we save them for after the person changes jobs, chooses a different path, or moves away?

I try very hard. I mess up. I fall apart. But in the back of my mind, I keep thinking of something Reese Witherspoon said when she was accepting her Oscar. She talked about a series of interviews she had with June Carter Cash before she died. Every time Reese Witherspoon would encounter June, she'd ask her how she was doing that day. June would reply, "Oh, I'm just trying to matter."

I'm just trying to matter. Jesus, isn't everyone?