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...
Monday, March 30, 2015
Thursday, March 12, 2015
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.
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.
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