The Work of Remembering

You know that thing that you do when you try to communicate all that you are thinking or feeling after some huge life experience? You know how no matter how hard you try, or how many details you give, or how you try to capture the essence of that moment, you just end up saying, "You had to be there"?

Well, welcome to this post.

***

I just returned from three days at the Leadership School at Camp Kieve with the entire seventh grade of the new school where I am teaching. To say that it was amazing, or incredible, or fantastic really doesn't even come close. In fact, it almost cheapens the whole experience. How do you take three days of challenges, risk taking, group bonding, teacher-student connections, adolescent goofiness, staff connections, and perfect fall weather in Maine and condense it all down to a sound bite for others?

You don't.

Or at least, I don't want to, so as to not miss anything.

I often give my students a collaborative task to complete in class and then step away when they are ready, and even sometimes when they may not be. I find various places to sit, and record all that I can see and hear. I then read the transcript to them, free of any kind of judgment, and they deconstruct the activity based on their observations and mine. It allows them to make connections between the outcome and the process in a way that is authentic. While I did not write anything down while observing, here is some of what I saw and heard during those days at Kieve:

I saw students pour out of four buses at the end of a two hour bus ride, most with smiles on their faces.

I saw students volunteer to be the first to climb rope ladders leading them to a wire spanning two giant pine trees. I saw other students volunteer to clip into a belay rig and literally support their classmate. I heard words of encouragement as the climber quickly made his way up the ladder.

I heard multiple students look over the high-ropes course and say something to the effect of, "Yeah, I'm not doing any of this," only to be found ten minutes later making their way across a wire or up a tree.

I saw endless high-fives and fist bumps as students completed every element of the course.

I saw endless high-fives and fist bumps even after students stopped midway up an element and returned to the ground after exceeding their personal goal.

I heard a student tell me she was terrified of heights after she climbed a 45 foot telephone pole, stood on the top, and then leapt to a trapeze hanging six feet away.

I heard a student say, "That was stupid" when his group reflected on an activity where he was the last to make it out of a maze. I could almost see the proverbial wheels turning as he listened to his group mates reflect on the task. I then heard that same student say, five minutes later, "I get it now" and go on to share why he struggled so much with the task and what he would do differently next time.

I saw students climb past where they thought they could reach.

I heard students performing ridiculous chants celebrating the fact that there was no food wasted at their table.

I saw a student smile nearly all day. This followed a day of no smiling and what was a very concerted effort to not have a good time.

I saw a student climb to the top of the 45 foot pole twice, each time staying up there a bit longer, each time cheered on like crazy to take the last big step, each time cheered as he chose to come back down before making that final step.

I saw students swing, leap, climb, sit, walk, talk, balance, build, reflect, share, write.

Learn.

Grow.

***

I spent a lot of time down at the ropes course, never tiring of watching students push past fear, and, yes, common sense, and climb ladders or trees or poles or homemade contraptions. Against my better judgment and the still-present-after-thirty-nine-years voice of my mom inside my head, I, too, climbed to the top of the telephone pole and made the leap. After I was down, and with the adrenaline still pumping, I commented to my principal, "I'm not that guy who does stuff like that." To which he replied with a huge grin on his face, "Yeah, but you are that guy. You did do that."

Two things occurred to me in that moment and the moments that followed:

The first was that I now had a very real, tangible, shared experience with my students that would connect us in ways that only the truly terrifying and exhilarating experiences can.

The second thing that occurred to me hit me a lot harder. As much as I viewed that 45 foot pole as being "the Big One" to experience and overcome, each of those students around me had a 45 foot pole that they were battling. For some, it was the actual 45 foot pole. For others it was climbing ten feet up a tree. It was sharing in their groups. It was getting on the bus and being away from home for three nights.

Whether I was delusional from all the adrenaline, or was having a cathartic moment, I kept seeing all the "poles" that my students were struggling with overcoming. Some students can't eat in front of others. Other students are convinced that their ideas are stupid and no one cares what they think. For some students, the real obstacle was returning back to their daily life. For others, it was walking back into the school on Tuesday morning.

And then I began to wonder.

Maybe raising a hand in my class is someone's 45 foot pole.

Maybe asking for help in my class is someone else's pole.

Maybe believing that they have anything of any value to contribute in my class is still another's pole.

Maybe someone is trying to conquer their own pole that no one else knows about.

These thoughts stopped me in my tracks.

As I watched one of my students clinging to the pole at Kieve, trying to will himself to take that final step, I kept wondering if my shouts of encouragement mattered to him. Could he hear me? Did he care? Was I making a difference?

I don't know.

He didn't end up taking that last step.

But he climbed up there twice, and battled with that last step longer than anyone else that day, and that in and of itself was a huge victory.

And so now, after the adrenaline has left my system, after the sleeping bag is rolled up and put away, and after the welcome-back-hugs from my amazing wife and crazy boys, I sit and think.

About that pole.

And those other "poles" my students are facing.

***

You know how a good piece of writing builds to an unforgettable climax, where the author wraps it up in a great final line that just draws everything all together and makes sense of all the ramblings, and the doves are released and the sun shines down on the character and the Hallelujah Chorus plays?

Don't hold your breath.

This is a work in progress.

The work of learning what my students are facing, and how I can help. The work of what I can say or do that will cheer them on and convince them that they can indeed take that next step. The work of connecting with and engaging my students in authentic ways, even when all the deadlines and stress and responsibilities compete for my attention.

The work of remembering.

That sometimes the victories and challenges are visible.

Sometimes they are not.

I Hear Them

Milestone: I got to drop off my oldest son at Kindergarten this morning.

It was unexpected since I am normally at school for several hours before he starts his day. However, my wife caught whatever bug is wreaking havoc in Southern Maine and was duking it out all night and morning with the thing.

She lost.

So, it was getting the boys up and fed and out the door that started my day today. It consisted of the normal stuff of six and three year old boys. Sock puppets to urge them out from beneath the covers. Bargains made about how many more bites qualify as "finished." Music that gets things moving, but also gets stuck in your head all day. Toothpaste-splattered sinks. Snacks tucked away in a new camo lunch box. And hugs. Lots and lots of hugs.

But it also consisted of that milestone. For the first time, I got to watch as my son left my embrace and well-wishes for a great day, and skipped, literally skipped, into school. My hope is that the drop-off monitors (my apologies if I am botching the acceptable terminology here) could not see me clearly as I grinned from ear to ear like an idiot watching Eli skip into school. I also hope that the parent in back of me in the SUV wasn't too wound up about my somewhat questionable driving skills as I tried to watch Eli for as long as possible through every mirror and/or window in my car.

So many thoughts crashed through my mind at once. It was like one of those scenes in the movies where they do one of those really fast montages of the dude's life or a significant chunk of time. I saw all the usual stuff: birth, first steps, cuddling with stories, etc, all punctuated by the question, "When did he get old enough for Kindergarten," and the statement, "Take care of him."

Because it hit me. He is going off for the day to learn how to learn. To learn how to communicate. To share. To play. OK, he's got that one nailed, but he's learning to play with his peers. He's off learning for the day. Without me. Without my wife.

I wanted more than ever to go into his classroom to make sure that his teacher knows all that she needs to know to help him succeed. I wanted her to know that he has been sick the past few days and just isn't himself. I wanted her to know that if you want him at his best, give him room to think and create. I wanted her to know that if she wants to see something amazing, give him a bunch of Legos and watch him create something, complete with all the backstory and explanation you could ever dream of. I wanted her to know that he can read way more than what he is being given. I wanted her to know that he needs to be outside, whether it's playing, going for a nature walk, collecting stuff for science, or just standing with eyes closed and head raised breathing in the fresh air. I wanted her to know that sometimes he doesn't stand up for himself. That he's shy around new people, but a born entertainer around people in the inner circle. I wanted her to know that his brain works a mile a minute and he gets swept up in these elaborate plans where he invents mind-blowing contraptions, and that he sometimes tunes out what's around him. I wanted her to know that when he, like all little boys, has sat still for too long he struggles with self-control. I wanted her to know what makes him tick. I wanted her to know how to help him learn best.

And I realized something.

Right there in the parking lot, with Black SUV on my tail.

Nearly every parent of my students that waves goodbye as the bus pulls away from the house, or watches their son or daughter get out of the car and walk into school, is thinking the same thing about their child and me. "Mr. Coleman, my son had a rough weekend at home. He may be a bit out of it today." "Mr. Coleman, my daughter is just longing for more time to read in school." "Mr. Coleman, I know my son can be, well, an annoying 14 year old, because he's, well, a 14 year old. He's got a good heart. Cut him some slack today." "Mr. Coleman, my daughter is loving having more freedom with owning her learning. Keep it coming." "Mr. Coleman, my son is bored. Push him. See what he can do."

"Mr. Coleman, please don't give up on my child just because it would be the easy thing to do..."

I hear them.

I hear my own voice join the chorus of parents, wishing, hoping, praying, for their son to return safely at the end of the day. For their daughter to grow as a learner. For their son to rise to his potential.

I hear them.

I'm listening.

I will do all that I can, knowing that I have your Eli with me today...

To Reflect, or Not Reflect...

"Last published on April 11, 2014."

Those words have haunted me.

I have only recently (March 2015) gone back and read some of my posts that not only captured what I was feeling and dealing with last year, but actually helped me through those times. Those posts meant so much to me, first for what I was reflecting on from my classroom, but also because they helped me process all I was experiencing. The joy, the wonder, the pain, the struggle.

Now, close to a year has gone by without an update or an explanation of either how the year ended, or why there has been such an absence of posts.

So the dilemma of "to reflect or not" is indeed the question.

Or perhaps it's more about "details or no details."

How about results rather than details?

The reality, my reality, was that I left school in late June totally broken. I was exhausted physically and emotionally from a year with many highs and many lows with my students. Yet what occurred in my classroom was not what broke me.

It was everything else.

I was broken by the number of times I walked down the halls feeling that I needed to be ready to defend the changes that I made or strategies I used in my classroom. I was broken by the number of times I actually did have to defend those things. I was broken by rumors, comments, behaviors, and a host of other things that came from stepping out and trying something new and different.

I spent a great deal of effort this summer trying to forget and to move on. I would say I was only marginally successful. To be totally honest, I played out scenarios in my mind when I would confront those who had the negative things to say about me and I would defend my choices and give passionate speeches about Learning vs. Teaching, about Meeting Student Needs vs. Unquestioned Traditions, about Compassion and Grace vs. Strict Adherence to Rules. I was passionate, I remained respectful, I was articulate, I was applauded afterwards.

I was also dreaming.

It is easy to come up with the right thing to say when you are sitting on a lawnmower thinking about it. It is quite another to know how, when, or if to respond in reality.

I wish I could say that I spent more time reflecting on the incredible successes that my students experienced last year, or how they grew so much as learners, or the incredibly supportive and encouraging comments from parents and some colleagues. I wish I could say I extended the same grace to adults that I try so hard to extend to students.

But I can't.

It was a "Glass Is Half Empty" kind of summer.

It kills me to admit that. I lost all positivity and allowed the actions and words of others to define my outlook on myself. What's worse, I was quick to judge, quick to become angry, and slow to forgive.

But that happens, right? I spend everyday in a middle school afterall.

***

Three days before school started this fall, I reached something that, while it can't be called "peace," was in the ballpark of "acceptance." Yes. Three days before school. As a result, I entered the year at about 50% of my usual passion, excitement, and energy level.

It's been a difficult journey with more opposition than I care to mention.

But let me fast forward through all of that because I don't want to add to the mess.

I reached a point a few weeks ago, while emailing a friend and colleague, when it hit me. Even as I wrote, I wasn't exactly sure what the next line would be, only that it was important that I say it, and more important that I do it.

I wrote the words, "So think on this, my friend..." and knew that something was about to happen. Here is an excerpt from the email that not only vaguely summarizes the cause of absence of posts, but more importantly outlines a plan that I hope will lead to healing.

So, think on this, my friend. This is a battle that will keep going whether we lay down our arms, or raise them to attack and defend. I believe that peace is possible in our own hearts even in the midst of the most hellish circumstance provided we lay our weapons down and choose that peace. It is a peace we will never know if we continue to raise our weapons, take aim, and either prepare or actually fire. In many ways it saddens me that there are those who will never know peace. I want to make the choice that will breathe life into me and into my class.

I choose peace.

This is the hard choice as it is counter to our nature, yet it is the choice that leads to life. There is no other way. I must lay down my right to attack or defend. My hope is that I can do this. I know I've got a better chance if I'm not the only one. What do ya say? Join me?

And so today, close to a year after my last post, I put it down in writing that I choose forgiveness and grace. I choose to focus on my students. I choose to lay down my right to defend. I choose to draw my self-worth from within rather than from without.

I choose peace.