However Hard and Long the Road

It isn't often that I write publicly about something relating to my more personal trials, particularly when they are trials of faith. Mostly I find that that type of writing is best saved for journaling and not nearly as conducive to the healthy dose of snark and cheek I like to include in my public writing. (Does mentioning "snark and cheek" in and of itself count? I don't think so.)

But I'm standing on the edge of something that is making me nervous, and I'll never sleep tonight until I write. And since I so rarely share my feelings of faith - I figure now is as good a time as any to start.

From when I was very small, I was told - like many Latter-Day Saints before me, that going to the temple was an important goal. The temple is a very sacred place for members of my church. We believe that temples - there are more than 100 around the world - are the physical representation of God's home on earth. It is where we make covenants with God to live a righteous life and learn more about Him. It is where families are sealed together so that they can be families not just on this earth, but after death as well. It is where we perform sacred ordinances for those who have died so that they too can receive the blessings of covenants. It is a place of prayer and worship and service.

Because of the sacred nature of temples, members are not allowed to enter without first declaring their worthiness before local clergy members. What's more, there are age requirements. Youth can enter at 12 to do baptisms for the dead, but not to make their own covenants or do other work. The rest of the temple is reserved for older members.

As a child, I assumed that I would go to the temple before a mission (at 21) or when I was married (before I graduated from college like everyone else, obviously.) Well, 21 came and went. A mission didn't feel right for me. I watched boys go through at 19 in preparation for their own missions and swallowed a little bit of my frustration, but figured I wouldn't have to wait long.

But 21 came and went, followed by 22. . . 23. . . my fridge was littered with an assortment of wedding invitations that rotated in and out as (what feels like) all of my friends married and I remained home on the weekends more or less content with a me-date of reading and movies. It got harder to be denied a chance to go to the temple, something that I could do, at least, because I was worthy, not because I was waiting on the agency of someone else.

Girls aren't typically recommended to go through the entire temple until they are married, go on a mission or reach the ripe old age of 25 (which honestly, to me, always felt like a subtle euphemism from the church as a woman past hope of ever getting married, so they may as well be sent through.)

Not that this stopped me from asking my leaders to consider anyway. I'm stubborn like that, I suppose. I have always been active in my church. I have lived away from my immediate family for nearly a decade and have remained active on my own in all of that time. I believe that my church is true and good and has blessed my life. I honor the covenants I have made and strive my best to lead the life the Lord would have me lead. But each time I approached a leader I was told without much conversation at all that they wouldn't consider it until I was 25. No conversation about why, or time to think about my worthiness - just a no. So I have a hard time swallowing the pill of watching the circumstances of everyone else be a good enough reason for temple attendance, while my lack of circumstances but great desire has not been sufficient. It has hurt. Greatly.

I do feel a little guilty hurting, actually. You hear so many triumphant stories of starving families in third world countries selling everything they own to go to the temple just once in their lives while I, who know I will eventually get to go at little/no financial inconvenience hundreds of times in my life am only asked to wait until I'm "old". And I know that a good dose of my frustration is that part of my personality speaking that absolutely despises being left behind, particularly when it feels unjust. I also feel that feminist part of my soul just annoyed at the sheer number of immature boys who go through the temple simply because they are going on missions, and spend their whole life just expecting it to happen, so it does. (And then I feel guilty about that too, because missionaries do great things and ought to be blessed in that way no matter their age.) ((And then there are the 18-19 year old girls marrying the boys and that gets my gander up even more. But I digress.))

That quarter-century mark is just around the corner for me. I made my appeal again. This time I was (finally) put through to speak with the Stake President. He gave me about 600 pages of reading to do. Somehow in the middle of working what is essentially two full time jobs and assistant directing the school musical and, you know, trying to keep my sanity, I found time to read it all in about three weeks. This Sunday I will have the chance to speak with the Stake President again to determine my fate.

I'm nervous.

Nervous about getting my hopes up too high after years of disappointment. I'm scared to even hope. Hope is equivalent to joy and I don't dare even let myself think about flying on the wings of anticipation this time because the thud is unthinkable. Honestly, I'm actually praying mostly for the Lord to tell me if it is the wrong choice in advance so that I can have my privacy as I try to move on, instead of having to face someone else with that grief. I know that I am too strong and stubborn to let a "no" break my testimony of the church, but I'm terrified of what will happen if he asks me to wait longer after all the work I have done to prepare and all the prayers I've offered begging for answers, because deep down I know that it isn't my choice to make, or the Stake President's choice - it's His.

In the middle of all this I am hoping either way for a bit of understanding. I don't understand why it has been this way. I don't know why these blessings seem to come as easily as putting socks on in the morning for some people and feel like wandering in the desert with the Children of Israel for me. But with every last fingernail of faith I can find I am clinging to the belief that someday this will all make sense to me, and that I'll have the courage to accept whatever solution is reached on Sunday.

In the mean time: I'm watching this.

Fill in the Blank

I'm starting a new writing assignment next week with my English classes. I've taught the project before which is wonderful - it means a little more security in knowing what I'm doing each day in class. The project is a research paper where they will research words. To get them excited, I wanted to get them playing around with language so that it didn't sound quite so boring. I found a worksheet I was given by another teacher a few years ago that she had used in her junior high classes in a project similar to this one. The paper involves sentences with blanks in them. Students are instructed to find the best word they can to fill in the blank - the most descriptive word is preferable.

Of course, I made the mistake of not reading over the page before I handed it out to my older students, who can sniff a euphemism from a mile away.

It started off normally enough. . .

"When his parachute failed to open, John (precipitated) to earth." (Like Voldemort at the end of the last Harry Potter movie?)

"Mary (flailed) over the cat which was in the middle of the hallway."

But then I started reading the sentences with the blanks and seeing that things just were not going to go anywhere good when you get sentences with awkwardly placed blanks such as. . .

"The class (molested) the teacher onto the bus." (Whoops.)

"The reporters (licked) the celebrity until she gave them a statement."

"The hunters (slapped) their prey until they could get a clear shot."

"The servant (fondled) the lady of the house; she seemed like a goddess to him."

They all left begging for more worksheets like this one. I left thinking that I would make sure to read over papers I used for junior high students a little more carefully before I used them on high school students again. Oh man.

Do What I Know

I have recently decided that I am too talented for my own good.

(I'm mostly being sarcastic.)

((But seriously, though.))

Talented, I suppose, isn't quite the right word for the mess I've found myself in. Interested in far too many things and not trusting enough of other people to do the job the right way (re: my way) is probably a bit closer to the truth, at least some of the time. As a result, I've found myself teaching a full schedule in school (I have one official hour off a week. Most teachers have one of those a day.) I am assistant-director for the school musical. I am helping to set up a new "honors" program for my school and am responsible for looking after the academic requirements/support for said program. I was recently given a calling in church in which I was told by my supervisor "the last person who had this calling was so relieved to be released so that she can spend more time with her family. We're all so excited that you're single so you will have time to help us more!"

Oh, and did I mention that I am co-owner of a company that writes and grades curriculum for home-schooling families? And that I have two shows I intend to audition for before the school year is over? And that I am currently making my way through several books in the hopes of going to the temple this year (finally)?

(Oh, and that I want to keep my sanity?)

So yes. My life is legitimately busy.

Though, of course, I really shouldn't complain at all because a good number of the things listed above are things I volunteered for in the first place.

You'd think that in the middle of all that scheduling madness I wouldn't have time to think about goal setting or adding any more to what I'm already doing, but I did think about it. I thought about setting goals on getting more sleep, for example. On reading a book I want to read but don't have to teach once a month. But I know that putting myself on some kind of schedule for these things will just add stress instead of take it away, so instead I am doing what this woman suggests and am going to put my focus on doing what I know.

For instance, I know that when I make time for the Lord in my life, I find time I need for everything else.

I know that when I am stressed and I make a to-do list and a calendar, then the stress is more manageable and I function better than when I stew in my stress pot.

I know that I'm on the Lord's timing and shouldn't waste (too much) of my time stressing over things I can't control.

I know that I feel better when my day is filled with fruits and veggies and (probably too much) bread.

I know that things are hard for me right now, but that I can do hard things.

I know that no amount of grading and planning for and obsessing about my job will cover for time not spent with people. (Especially adult-like ones after a day of teenagers.)

I know lots of things. And this year (since it is the end of the world and all), I intend to dedicate myself to doing what I know.

Year End Review

I remember reaching the end of 2010 and feeling completely overwhelmed with gratitude for the blessings I'd been given. 2010 was a good year. 2009 was as well, for that matter. I'd gone to England, started and finished my first year of teaching, got a new job and reached the half way point of my second year of teaching - I'd made some incredible, life-changing friendships and had the privilege of performing one of my dream parts on stage. I felt closer to the direction and guidance of the Lord than I ever had been in my life. Things were good.

This year. . .oh this year. My Christmas newsletter write up last year was way too long. This year it looked something like: "Joni worked. . . and worked some more. She hopes next year involves more theater and travel." Two sentences. That's it. I look at the end of 2011 and am quite tempted to spin the clock forward a few hours in an attempt to welcome a new year. 2011 was hard. It was emotionally and physically draining. A year of solid work with very few breaks, even during the summer. No theater. Only minimal travel. A seemingly endless battle with my own emotions and trying to conquer feelings of inadequacy and depression that were almost cruel at times. Not easy. Not fun.

But with all of this not fun-ness and depression comes the opportunity now for me to rest. To stop for a moment and look at how far I've come and realize the hard-won blessings and growth of the year.

For example, I'm learning for the first time in my life to love myself as I am. My talkative and confident public persona often hides a person completely unsure of herself. Combine that with a genetic born desire to please others and you have a recipe for a person easily confused and pressured into doing and feeling things to please others. I don't mean to say that this year has made me more selfish - but I do think I am leaving this year less easily swayed into trying to please everyone around me by being what I think everyone wants me to be. It's a valuable lesson. For the first time in a while, I feel peace with who I am now, not just focussing on who I want to be in the future.

For another, I'm learning to be happy with where I am in life. It is easy - so easy - in this part of the world to look around and feel behind. To feel as though where I am now is less important or valuable to me than if I were to be doing what everyone else around me seems to be doing. But I like what I do. I love teaching. (I love, heaven forbid, being single*.) And instead of seeing these things as temporary or unnecessary or of less worth to me than a life of changing diapers, I've seen the value in embracing the journey I am on, not the one Jane Doe across the street is on. I still have goals and dreams and desires for the future, but not having those things here, now, is no reason to feel guilty about being happy with things I have now that I really do like. I'm done feeling socially guilty.

So, 2011. . .you were a bit of a pain. One of those years that I'll look at years down the road and be really grateful for, I'm sure. But for now, I intend to blow an obnoxious celebratory horn quite loudly at midnight and drink a glass of Martinelli's in honor of your death. Then I'm going to cuddle with 2012 until it succumbs to giving me the theater time I am in desperate need of.

Happy New Year!

*Most of the time. On laundry/cleaning/shopping day, it would definitely be nice to have some help. Also when my bed is a little too cold.

Ode to the Butterflies

Recently I was asked to Assistant Direct the school musical where I teach. (It's not the same as being on stage, and the show is one that I would do just about anything to be in, but it's a step warmer to the stage than I've been for the last year!) Auditions start today. This particular show will involve approximately 25 people - 1/3rd the number of the show from last year. You can feel the anticipation so thickly in the air you can cut through it.

I remember back when I auditioned for my first school play. I was a seventh grader, seasoned from years of pretending to be various characters in my living room and bedroom. I was sure that the director would cast me. Why shouldn't she? I was, quite obviously, the best choice. I remember watching the clock slug its way on all day, waiting for the cast list to be posted. A mere nine people in the entire school were going to be involved. I knew I was going to be one of them.

Except that I wasn't. My first (though certainly not last) great defeat. I was crushed.

The next year things went better. I managed to scrape by as villager number two and snagged myself three short lines by virtue of the fact that I went to every rehearsal whether I was scheduled or not.

Since then I've been involved in many shows and will, I'm assuming, add to that list. But I am very happy to say that my years of auditioning as a student in high school are behind me. Auditioning in community and regional theater is hard, but auditioning in school is worse. So, so much worse. You can't escape it. If you get the part you want, you're walking on air, but if you don't - and the odds are infinitely not in your favor towards getting what you want - then you watch another person do what you wanted to do, and, if you don't get cast, spend the next several months praying for the show to end so that you can move on. You're surrounded by it. Happiness you so wanted, but won't get. There's nothing worse.

So, dear auditioning students, know that I feel your pain. That I have been there. And that I do not envy you even a little. I too will be auditioning at least twice in the next few months. It's hard. It's embarrassing. (It's addicting.) But it is so, so worth it.

A Thrill of Hope

I've always had a great love for Christmas music. As a child I don't think I loved any time of the year more than the time when the sounds of The Carpenters, Andy Williams, Bing Crosby and Mannheim Steamroller. There is joy and hope in Christmas music. (And a fair bit of annoyance when it comes to songs about hippos and Christmas shoes, but I digress.)

The older I get the more appreciation I have for the hymns of Christmas. What Child is This, for example, paints a beautiful parallel between choirs of angels raising "songs on high" while, at the same time, Mary sings a lullaby to an infant. I love the contrast in that. It's poetic. It's peaceful.

This year, though, I've been thinking about the first verse in O, Holy Night over and over again. I think in the midst of the opportunity for showing off and belting that song usually provides, I've never really paused to consider what the message of that song actually is. Look at the first verse again:

O, holy night! The stars are brightly shining,

It is the night of our dear Savior's birth.

Long lay the world in sin and error, pining,

'Til he appeared, and the soul felt its worth.

A thrill of hope, the weary soul rejoices,

For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn!

It's the last four lines of the song that hit me the hardest this year. Last year I felt was one of tremendous blessings from the Lord. I was given wonderful opportunities, new friends, and some wonderful, merciful experiences that were so perfect that I felt likely to burst out of my own skin. Life was so good that my family finally asked me to stop talking about the parts of it I was so happy about because it was getting on their nerves.

This year has been different. I've been battling challenges professionally and personally that have left me feeling trapped inside my own weakness. I've spent much of the year in great debate over much of what I hold most dear. I've battled against the bonds of depression harder and longer than I've ever done in my life. I've been holding on by the tips of my fingers, fighting to keep myself afloat.

It's hard to live the gospel. It is hard for me to be single in a church that doesn't quite know what to do with me all the time. It's hard for me to watch my friends go to the temple when I can't yet because of circumstances out of my control. It's hard for me to try hard to fight against the foibles of the natural man monster in me. But a friend reminded me recently that I am imperfect but not inadequate. I am full of sin and error, but because of the birth of my Savior, my weary soul has worth and great cause to rejoice. This song, then, speaks to me not just of the hope of the night the Savior was born, but the hope of a new year, the hope of Christmas, the hope of the gospel in my life.

One for the Memory Book

When I was young, summertime meant a trip to visit the grandparents. Until the last half a decade, my grandparents lived within a handful of miles of each other, which was incredibly convenient. Inevitably, though, we'd stay with my mom's side of the family. It was a practical choice - they had more room, more toys, and a generally more kid friendly place to be. This meant that visits with dad's side of the family were always more formal, forced and - to a kid wanting a movie to watch that wasn't about airplanes or the history of Utah - quite boring.

It wasn't until I grew up a bit that I started appreciating visits with both sides of the family for the different benefits they provide. Mom's side of the family comes with impulsive trips, casual chaos, and lots of silliness. Dad's side of the family comes with intellectual stimulai, good food, and determination.

It wasn't until I went to college that I think I fully appreciated how lucky I was to have two sets of living grandparents. Even at eighteen they seemed, if not invincible, then at least young enough to not be in any real danger of death anytime soon. The majority of my friends did not have four living grandparents, or at least not four living grandparents who were all still independent and relatively healthy. Grandparents who travel and watch Napoleon Dynamite and buy iPads and Wiis (no joke.)

But in recent years it has slowly dawned on me that I would be naive and ungrateful to ignore the opportunities I have with my grandparents. They are limited, after all. I watch hands shake as they eat at dinner time. I see tables with medicine and hear about more surgeries and count my lucky stars that those days in my life are not in the immediate future. But they will be. Give me another forty years.

I say this because this Thanksgiving I've been with my dad's parents. I've not spent Thanksgiving with them since my uncle died twelve years ago. My dad's parents are particularly appreciative when I come to visit them. Unlike my grandparents in the north who have family decently close by to come visit them often and regular family vacations, my grandparents in the south live in relative seclusion from family. It means a lot to them when I come.

It's not a complete picnic. My grandpa shares my love of language but is often oblivious to the effect that he has on the people around him when he gets on a storytelling spree. The first day I was here, for example, a "quick question" turned into an hour and a half long string of stories and anecdotes. It can be utterly exhausting to keep up with him. He wants me to look at his stories and listen to his poetry and I would selfishly rather spend time quietly reading a book and relaxing from the stresses of my job.

But when I step back from my own selfish desires I realize that the inconvenience of now won't be around forever. I don't want to regret the chance to hear my grandpa's convictions about life and to miss out on the chance to collect some memories from him. So I tried a different tactic this weekend: I started asking him questions before he could ask me. I asked him about how he met my grandma (at a dance). What it was about her that he liked (she could dance well and is, apparently, a good kisser.) I talked to him about the town he grew up in and the traditions of his house. Slowly, I'm starting to get a glimpse of the personalities of my great grandparents, something I've never had before, and what my grandpa was like as a boy.

I can still say with honesty that three hours of conversation with my grandpa too many times in a row can be exhausting - but I can also say that I treasure knowing that my grandpa is proud of me, and cares enough to want to share his story with me. Who could blame him? Everyone wants to be remembered.

Be Not Ashamed

I had the chance yesterday to watch an edited version of The King's Speech after school with the movie club I sponsor at my school. Although I rebelliously prefer the unedited version, the movie is still worth watching either way. I know I've written about this movie before, but each time I see it something new about it touches me. It's a powerful story.

This time I was reminded again of how much effort it took for Bertie to overcome his problems, which he never really overcame, by the way. He spends the entire movie fighting against his speech struggles and comes out of the movie a little better, but still struggling. He is able to gain more confidence in himself and he's able to get through the speech at the end, but he's never on par with his German counterpart, Hitler. That's what most movies would want to do. Pit the underdog against the champion and have the underdog either surpass or at least match the champion at the end. You don't have that luxury in real life. Sometimes there are wounds and weaknesses that never quite go away. Sometimes you have to fight.

I think everyone has a handful of these problems. For me it's a social life.

It seems contradictory, really. I'm very obviously quite verbal. I'm not (or, at least I don't think I am) hugely awkward in social situations. I just have never really liked them - particularly when it comes to dating. I have some kind of overwhelming fear when it comes to dating that I can't seem to get over no matter how hard I try. It always works in the same pattern: I start out excited for the first date, I go on the second date and have a good time, but between the second and third date my brain starts to panic, and by the time the third date call rolls around I'm looking for any excuse not to answer the phone or to delay returning calls or to run. Last time this happened I tried actively to fight against it by forcing myself to agree to a third date, only to spend the rest of the evening in my room with my head under a pillow, frustrated that I can't just be normal and allow myself to enjoy life for once.

I should be complimented, right? I should be flattered that someone deems me interesting and nice enough to take out more than once. I should be able to do what everyone else seems to do and to just have fun. But to be quite frank, dating scares the heck out of me. Just writing about it right now is making my shoulders tense and my stomach turn.

I can come up with all sorts of logical reasons for why I am this way, if I want. Fear of abandonment stemming back to the sixth grade. Few positive dating experiences in high school leaving me unprepared for the serious business of college dating. Too much social or internal pressure. Fighting against the chains of depression and feelings of inadequacy in general, not just in my social life. Circumstances that put me on the spot when I'm much happier when things are casual and I don't feel like I have to act a certain way or feel a certain way when I don't - guilt for not wanting to act a certain way or feel a certain way when I probably should. . . it's all very complicated.

I recognize that many of you who read this could quite easily either relate or think I'm being overly dramatic. I get that. I'm not exactly proud of this side of myself. It's a very conscious battle I'm trying to fight here. But guilt isn't really helping me move on, and pressure to get over fear immediately is only making it worse.

Back to The King's Speech connection - one of my favorite scenes is when Bertie is preparing for his coronation at Westminster. He finds out that his speech therapist (Logue) is not government certified and is frustrated, accusing him of lying and being a fraud, even though Logue argues that he never once claimed to be a doctor and has not advertised himself as such. At one point Bertie turns his back on Logue - when he turns around again Logue is sitting in Saint Edward's chair rather cheekily, which makes Bertie furious. Logue tells Bertie that Bertie himself did just say he's not king, so it shouldn't matter, when Bertie shouts that he has every right because he has a voice. It's a real turning point for Bertie, who has been feeling for what may have been his entire life up to this point that because he struggled with speaking, he could have nothing to say that anyone would want to hear. He believes in himself for the first time. It doesn't cure his problems, but it helps.

I'm not quite there yet. But I am, at least, very tired of feeling ashamed that this is hard for me. It feels on the outside like something very silly to struggle with that is all in my head because so many people around me seem to have the socializing thing down in spades, but feeling guilty is not helping me to find a way to heal. It's time to start being a little more patient with myself.

For Bob

As a warning - I'm not really sure what the purpose of this particular post is. Usually I have some sort of goal or idea I'm focused on.

Today's a little different. It's November. This year marks another anniversary since the death of my uncle way back when I was in junior high. Twelve years.

To be honest, it isn't something I think about all that often. Bob and I didn't have a terribly formal or frequent relationship. I didn't know anything about his personal life and only really remember seeing him two or three times in my life, even though I know it was more than that in actuality. I remember the last time I saw him the Christmas before he died - how excited I was, and how excited he was, to see us. There's a great picture I have of him carrying me and one or two of my cousins all at once. I remember going home that night and feeling so terribly lucky to have an uncle as cool and fun as Bob.

I also remember how still my house seemed the night I came home from a babysitting job just under a year later. It was silent. But not silent because my younger siblings were sleeping - that awful slow motion type of silence. I remember my parents coming downstairs from their bedroom and my dad looking about twenty years older than I thought of him as being. I'd never seen him like that before. It was jarring. Dad never lost control like that - at least not to grief.

I remember going out to the funeral and gradually learning bits and pieces about what had really happened, according to my cousin, at least, who had either heard it from her parents (who didn't censor as much as mine) or made it up for shock value (both of which are very possible.) I remember feeling totally unsure of how to respond to everything, feeling in a kind of limbo because everyone around me was more sad than I was and feeling pressure to do. . .something about it.

In the years that have followed since Bob's death I've learned more about him. He was Bipolar - manic depressant, they call it. Active and reckless, never quite settling down. High on life one day and contemplating suicide the next. He was an avid sportsman and photographer - when I think of Bob, I think of the outdoors. It's kind of laughable to think of him at a cubicle, actually. In my mind, I don't ever picture Bob still. I think he'd be bored by it.

When I was younger I took up photography and my dad let me use Bob's camera. It was a beautiful piece of machinery that camera, and I took care of it like it was sacred and only gave it up last year when I could finally afford a digital camera that could perform as well as the old film one did. Every time I used the old one - and when I use the new one too - I feel like I'm stepping in where my uncle left off. This imaginary relationship I've built with him since his death that I never had with him in life always feels so close when I'm taking pictures. Maybe it is all in my head. But I think he'd like to know that I take pictures for him.

That wasn't all I inherited from Bob, though. I don't suffer from depression the way that he did by a long shot - but there are days every month or so, like yesterday, where I get a glimpse of understanding. Days when I have to step back from the lethargy and despair and recognize that, logically, nothing in the day has been that despair worthy. Days when I force my way through knowing that, for me at least, the next day will be better, because my "dark days" don't last nearly as long, or come nearly as often.

I don't think Bob would be, or is, happy to know that the legacy of depression still runs in the veins of my family. But I do think he would be happy to know that since his death, we have been able to put a name to it, and that makes it easier to fight. I know, now, how suicide rips at a family - but I also know the spiritual strength and care from the Lord that does come when tragedy strikes so unexpectedly. It is an awful way to gain that understanding, but I am glad that I have it.

So, Bob - this November as I spend Thanksgiving with my own brother and your parents, I want you to know that I am grateful for you. Because your memory has inspired me to fight. To not give in when days are hard. To get outside more and tell my family I love them more and - most of all - to love myself enough to tackle my weaknesses honestly and confidently.

It's not a secret, right?

I had a chance to go to Disneyland recently on a whirlwind weekend trip that involved two glorious days away from school, approximately twenty eight hours in the parks themselves, less sleep than I have had in a long time and the best food ever. Given the novelty aspect of this trip and the summer of hard work it represented, I decided that I ought to get some kind of souvenir. Only. . . I don't collect pins. Or wear hats. Or need any more t-shirts. And if I want a Disney movie, I'm not going to buy one in the park, I'm going to buy one used online for half the price or less. So I found a cute ornament for my Christmas tree and. . . being me. . . a book. (That's right. Some people buy all kinds of assorted Disney memorabilia, and I buy a book.)

The book, Brain Storm, is written by Don Hahn, one of the executive producers on many of Disney's most successful films (including Beauty and the Beast.) I've not finished it yet, but it's broken into easily digested sections so odds are I will. His goal is to talk about the creative process and offers some practical advice towards gaining a greater understanding of creativity itself. Coupled with my reading of Ken Robinson's Out of Our Minds, my brain has been working overtime on this idea of creation over the last few months. Not just the idea of creation, but the common misconceptions of it.

For example, I had a parent request of me recently that I send home an example of a "perfect" essay. To be honest, I didn't really know how to respond. As an essayist myself, a "perfect" essay is something of a joke. No essayist that I know of (or have read) would ever admit that such a thing exists, at least not in their own writing. Writing isn't an art that is perfected, it is explored. But this parent didn't see writing as an art form - it was a checklist. Eventually I mailed home an essay from the internet that I didn't even read all the way through.

I give this example because it is a nice symbol of a common problem I see (and others see) cropping up more and more often in the way parents and students (and people in general) talk to me about the way they approach learning. It is a series of things to check off a list. Skills are things that you used to not know and then, after a lesson, you have mastered, and you can move on with "real" life. The "art" of gaining an education in any field, whether it be math, science, English or the arts, are being sacrificed in favor of fake rewards that don't mean much and "skills" that are forgotten within days. Teachers don't assign homework because students won't do it and parents won't make them. (This is, incidentally, one reason why the arts are so valuable in schools - you can't fake your way through the arts. If you can't sing well, everyone knows it.)

In Hahn's book he points out how easy it is to be intimidated by the great thinkers of the past - men like Edison or Disney himself - men like Steve Jobs and DaVinci who seem to have that creativity thing down in spades. But, Hahn argues, the great thinkers of history (with the possible exceptions of Disney and Jobs) didn't have access to the same tools we do. We have the world of information available for free to us so long as we have a computer with the internet on it. In under ten seconds, I can find out nearly any fact I want to know.

But that's part of the problem. It used to be that having knowledge of a subject guaranteed you a job, because having that knowledge alone was rare. But not in this world. To enter any field that involves creative thinking - everything ranging from engineering to graphic designer and back again - employers want people who can come up with ideas and follow through on them. The world is moving too fast for any business to stop evolving, and it takes people to make that happen.

This is good news, really. What it means is that anyone with the right set of skills can find success, college education or no. The tools you need to be successful are pretty simple: it takes hard work, and a passion for what you do that is not swayed by setbacks.

But somehow in our "Occupy ______" nation, those skills are drowning in a sea of excuses and people lazing around from one task to another. Here in the valley, I'm not sure how this functions elsewhere, "stress" has taken on the label of "overwhelmed", which means that parents are now requesting students be excused from assignments or late work (and then wonder why their kid doesn't know how to do basic tasks at the end of the year.) If a student doesn't know how to do something, or has a learning disability, or has problems at home, then all of these things (sometimes combined) become the barrier that keeps a person from even attempting to try. Which is fine. Everyone's got problems. But it's no secret that if you don't do the work you don't get the reward.

Unless, of course, you whine about it long enough that someone gives you a gold star or a cookie or an "everyone wins" trophy to make you feel better about it.

Pay Day Part the Second

Remember all those blog posts I've done recently demanding that teenagers are better than we give them credit for?

I was right.

I've been frustrated for a while by the way one of my classes has been going. The students in the class are great, but something just wasn't registering. Part of the problem was quite clearly in my obsession with organization and inability to just relax and enjoy what I was doing. But that wasn't the entire solution.

Then, today, my wonderful class council did exactly what I've been hoping they would do all year by taking class into their own hands. They were as aware as I was that something wasn't right. And they've presented a perfectly reasonable and well thought out solution that is exactly what the class needs. They were right. And they presented themselves in a way that was very clearly with the intent of working as a team - the whole class, me included. This isn't students against evil teachers who won't see reason or teachers against lazy students just trying to get out of work- this is good, rational human thought from two sides of a problem both trying to reach the same goal: a class that is both fun and challenging and not a waste of time (or a burden of time either.) This is trust on both sides that we can address problems instead of ignoring them. This is maturity.

Class today went better. Students left feeling understood and I'm leaving today feeling a huge weight lifted. I am so very proud and impressed of the way they have handled this. We're pointing in a good direction. We're going to be better because of this. And I'm teaching the best students ever.

Teacher Pay-Day

The universe must know I'm about to go on vacation, because today was rough. Opposition in all things, right?

Today was rough. A particular parent who has been making my life a kind of hell for a while sent (yet another) personal attack email that left me shaking, angry, and thoroughly discouraged. A million angry retorts came into my mind in one boiling flood that I had to stem rather quickly to preserve the professionalism for the class I had to teach. (Side note: I, apparently, need to stop responding to emails in the middle of the day.)

So today it was time for the Teacher Pay-Day folder. Now that I teach mostly high school classes, this folder hasn't been added to quite as often, but I taught junior high English my first year of teaching and the folder got lots of use. This is a hanging file folder where I keep particularly nice notes or artwork or other (paper) trinkets students drop by my desk. I pulled it out today and rifled through a few years worth of letters and cards. The notes - some funny (the girl who wants to be an actress and was inspired by me? She used her acting skills to promote her hypochondria. I kept that note for a laugh), some sincere (the boy who told me that he never liked to read until he came to my class), to heartfelt (the few who told me that I made them feel important and loved.) It was exactly what I needed today. I love that folder.

So it's time to put the frustrations aside and start actively loving what I do, not just saying that I do in an attempt to convince myself. I'll let the school handle this abusive parent, and turn my attentions instead to the things that matter. Like relaxing. Taking some time in the day to enjoy what I do and not worry about the paperwork. To compliment students more often and have fun with them regularly. I'm a better teacher when I do, and they're better students. All the baggage and frustrations and accusations are what they are - but none of them should be allowed to take away from the satisfaction of a room full of teenagers who actually listen to you, trust you, and want to be better because of the time spent with you.

How-To Guide

Sometimes I feel like all I do on this blog is gripe and complain about my career. I swear, I love what I do. 97.4% of the time, my job is wonderful. Part of that 2.6% of annoyance comes in the morning when my alarm goes off too early. Some of it comes in the form of students who are just draining in their pestering. The largest portion comes in the form of parents who seem to misunderstand their role in the relationship of teacher to parent and what the goal of that relationship actually is.

One day I'll write about how much I love what I do.

(Today isn't quite that day.)

What I have for you today is a "How-To" guide of sorts on Parent-Teacher relations:

1) Most important: parents and teachers are on the same team. Both want for the student to succeed. The problem comes when parents and teachers have different ideas of "success". These problems, if they do come up, should not be handled in front of the student.

2) If a parent feels as though the teacher is not a good one, they should either move the student to another class or, if that isn't possible, find ways to compensate for the teacher's deficiencies at home. One of the things that baffles me most about a parent is when they seem to find something I do inadequate or unfair (usually when their student doesn't get a good grade), but they still keep the student in my class. If you don't like the teacher, then find other options. We're not offended. We're actually relieved, usually, to get us off our backs so we can focus on students (and parents) who are doing well with us.

3) That in mind, just because a student doesn't respond to a teacher does not mean that the teacher himself/herself is incompetent. Teachers are human. Students are human. Neither of us are required to get along with everybody.

4) When dealing with a teacher, please remember that we are professionals. Whatever your beliefs about education or educational degrees, the majority of teachers I know do their job because they care about what they do. We have our different personalities and strengths and weaknesses, but we are not ignorant or naive about what our job entails. Please do not treat us like you know better. (If you believe you know better, then refer to rule number two.)

5) While we're talking about professionalism, please keep in mind that a teacher has the right to tell you "no" if your requests are unreasonable or being resolved in other ways. Most teachers are willing to help you, but telling teachers how that help will be given is rarely the best way to get the job done. We respect that you know your student at home, but we see them as students and know that side of them quite well. You may request something of a teacher that is already being done only in a different form. You may also request something of a teacher that doesn't really solve the problem or would make our lives much more difficult than they are already, which brings us to. . .

6) Most teachers are teaching at least two different classes (or preps) these days, often more, depending on the school. At a charter school, I am currently teaching six different classes, four of which involve creating curriculums that I have not taught before. I see around 100 different students a day. (In a public school, this number is likely to triple for your teacher.) Whether your teacher is working with a large number of students or a large number of different classes - we have a lot to remember. We have individual needs of students to keep in mind (particularly those with IEPs.) We have lessons to plan and prepare for and grading to do. I answer dozens of emails a day, and I answer them efficiently. But the strength of our organizational balance often comes from routine and a good deal of practice. This means that if you ask for a teacher to go out of their way to do something - it is no small request. The task itself (sending another email, printing an extra copy, etc.) may seem small to you - but adding it to a lengthy list of things to do is not as easy as it seems for us. Please be patient and reasonable in your requests. If possible, find out what the teacher is already doing, and see if you can come up with a solution that works within the system already in place.

7) Remember that the goal of school is, on its most practical level, to prepare your student for independence, whether in college or in a job. Individual subject matters are secondary to this goal. (We know that not every student will love our subject. We don't love every student - it's only fair.) But this means that every time you turn in an assignment for your student, and every time you request notes from class, and every time you argue a grade on behalf of your student - you are enabling that child to be weak. Teachers know that students need to be led to responsibility occasionally. For some students it does not come naturally. But as a parent, please find ways to make your student accountable for the work that they do and encourage them to take care of problems themselves. If you have to walk them into the room, that's fine, but they should turn in the assignment. If you need to bring them to my room to talk with me about needing more time on something, that's fine - but let them do the talking. Unless you want your student living with you forever - you need to get them used to functioning in the adult world. Doing all this work for them is crippling. (And usually results in requests to me to describe everything we do in class already - I'm not going to re-teach the class to you.)

8) Finally - and this last one may be a bit selfish - but if you appreciate what your teacher is doing for your student, tell them. Silly gifts at Christmas that we can't possibly eat all of are nice and we appreciate them, but not nearly so much as an email during the week that lets us know specifically what we have done that was well received. It helps us to be better teachers, and it encourages us to do more when we know that our efforts are working.

The Perfect Storm

Once upon a time the perfect storm came and tried to ruin everything.

It involved about forty hours of grading essays in a week, doing everything possible to have them done before a trip home.

It involved putting off projects and readings that needed to be done in favor of pushing forward with every last inch of sanity to finish those essays and get them back to students before their next essay test.

It involved death bed repenters and desperate parents wanting to put bandaids on gaping wounds.

It involved a frantic Friday after school rushing to get things done and make it to the airport without falling asleep at the wheel. Boarding a plane and feeling like - finally - I'd have an excuse to relax.

It involved a delayed - and then cancelled flight. Followed by a missed airport shuttle. Followed by a sleepless night in a cold and kitschy hotel room. Followed by a way too early morning. Followed by a flight in the world's smallest airplane. Followed by a two hour ride home instead of a fifteen minute home.

It involved a not nearly as relaxing and enjoyable trip for me or for others in my family as it should have been. Long week + long weekend = an unfortunate conglomeration of out of control events (translation: I was not in the world's most enthusiastic mood. Further translation: I think the weekend was a disappointment for those, including myself, who like me slightly better rested and fed.)

It then involved returning home to an individual blaming me for purposefully grading hard to prove a point and more or less claiming that I am not intelligent enough to do the job I have.

It involved me wanting very much to throw up the proverbial white BANNER of surrender. To yell to the world that I cannot possibly be everything for everyone, or do all the right things, or please anyone, and that I may as well not try any more, because what was the point? My imperfections felt so very close to the surface and frustrating for me and inconvenient for other people, and it was beyond my mental and physical stamina to handle it any more.

But then. . .

I drove home and saw a sight that looked almost identical to this.

I took a little time to visit . . .

(She's been missing me lately. It's been mutual.)

And suddenly life doesn't seem so unconquerable any more.

I'm still imperfect. I'm still overworked. And stubborn. And maybe a little delusional sometimes. But mostly, I think, I'm like the majority of people in the world trying to get by the best they can - sometimes meeting success and sometimes not. Rough weeks happen. Sometimes weeks are more overwhelming than others. But they end. And we move onward and upward and, with any luck, gain more than just some sore muscles by the time we reach the top of the peak.

Dear Students. . .

You may not believe this when you get your first set of essays back, but I believe in you.

I mean it. I see your potential. I see the good that you are doing and the good you have within you to do. I'm not making things up when I tell you you're great. I'm not making things up when I tell you that you should care about your life and do something about it. I wouldn't lie to you about that. It would be cruel.

The world is content with you being substandard, lazy, and self-obsessed. They'll encourage it, actually. It'll be on every magazine and in every teenage drama that focuses only on cheap jokes and "self discovery" that doesn't end up leading to a place of value at all. In fact, the world expects you to be rebellious, lecherous lumps of flesh that only ever look for ways out. Now. . . some of you are. Some of you seem to spend most of your time working to get out of work. You do it magnificently. But most of you - and you know who you are - actually care about who you are and who you are becoming. You have dreams and ambitions and goals that are more important to you than any party you might go to, for example. You have direction and purpose.

I think the thing that amazes me the most as your teacher is the way that, every so often, I see more of your potential than your parents do. I don't mean to suggest that I know you better. Your parents, after all, have lived with you for upwards of thirteen years. They've cleaned up your vomit and taught you how to spell your name and instructed you on how to be a good, functioning human being. But sometimes I think they might love you so much that they're afraid to let you fail. It's why I tell you not to take your writing to them for advice. Most of the time they tell you it's wonderful and you don't learn anything from it.

That's where I come in. See, I love you too. In my own way. Not in the "please add me on Facebook" way, because I won't let you. But in the "I want you to succeed in life, but if you fail you aren't my financial responsibility" way. It's the separation between us that allows me to critique you honestly. That allows me to fight for you to have the opportunity to learn what it is to make a mistake and pay for it. That wants to tear you down a little every now and then because there's no other way you can learn.

Your parents are wonderful people. They care about you and want you to succeed. But they will, every so often, want you to find success in excuses. Excuses don't solve the problem. Knowing you're not good at something doesn't make you good at that something. Relying on weakness to get by will never make you stronger.

(To be honest, I wonder sometimes if this is why God set up the universe the way He did. Giving us parents here that love us and care for us to a fault at times where He - in His wisdom - is able to teach us more honestly because of a slight separation.)

So please - tell your parents that we're all on the same "cheering for you" section. But remind them I'm not in the stands like they are. I'm on the front lines. I'm your coach. And it's my job to fight for you to have the chance to be wrong every now and then, or being right won't mean anything to you.

Love -

Me

Some of Someday

The last few days have been mentally and physically taxing ones for me. I'm drowning in approximately 175 essays to read (in addition to the rest of the homework I need to grade.) I have an online class I need to film for and grade. I have friends who want to spend time with me. I have a bed who dearly misses me. I have a handful of very needy parents to deal with. I have a somewhat neglected spiritual life that I have been making strides to enhance again. I have personal insecurities and outside pressures to somehow conquer or, at least, learn to put up with. My life, at least right now, feels a bit like the trash compactor in Star Wars and I'm doing everything I can to try and stop it, or at least get the trash out, but I've been fighting to stay on top while I do all this and it. is. hard.

Then I read this.

It's written by a good family friend that I knew growing up. I've been a long-time reader of hers because she has such a way with words that I can't help myself. Today she said exactly what I needed to.

Because - the thing is - in the middle of all this cultural pressure, I find myself looking at my own "someday" and feeling, on the whole, quite satisfied with what I have.

It used to be that someday I would graduate and have a job and teach and be financially independent and be married and have a family and do everything well. Now a good portion of that is here. I did graduate. I have a fantastic job. I teach. I am completely financially independent. I'm not married and I don't have a family and I certainly don't do everything well, but I am happy.

And, if I were being perfectly honest, I think I would be absolutely suffocated if I were home right now with children who couldn't speak yet. I'm not ready for that. I'm content with my room full of noisy teenagers who can mostly take care of their own body fluids. (Though, to be fair, this is likely the partial result of a stomach flu going around school that resulted in a hallway mishap recently. I don't hate small children. I'm just glad I don't have any right this second.)

So much of what I've written about in the last several years of having this blog has been about my convictions on love or dating or social lives in general that, for all my trying to escape the pressure, I've only ever been stuck in a world where I have felt inadequate and unappreciated as a single woman. As though my marital status has been a deterrent in my value or worth, or, if not a deterrent, then not as important. It has left me feeling torn and pressured into doing things for the entirely wrong reasons, just to attempt to relieve that pressure. It's no wonder I can't have fun when I go out on dates: I'm not dating to please myself, I'm dating to please others or to meet some cultural standard.

It sounds selfish, but I don't mean it to. I only mean that my mind has always been in the wrong place. It hasn't ever been: "someday I'll find someone that helps me be happy" - it's always been, "someday I'll find someone and that will make _____ happier with me." Or, "someday I will find someone and then I can have a life like ______."

What I'm trying to say is. . . I can wait. I'm ready to shed the pressure and just be for a while. I like where I am. I'm happy where I am. I don't want to live someone else's life. And I think, for a little while, before I dive back into the fray, I need to take a bit of time to appreciate the life that I have. I do look forward to my "someday" when I am not single and have all it entails in my life, but I am, for now, content with the "some" of "someday" I have.

"You with the camera?"

I am an out of the closet theater snob.

I'm actually quite blunt about it. Hopefully not in a way that drives people crazy, but when I go to the theater - even the community variety - I find ways to let the people that I'm going with know that I dress for the occasion. This was something that was instilled in me both by my parents and my high school drama teacher who set the standard. When I saw my first big broadway show (Phantom of the Opera in second grade), my mom made me a new satin dress for the occasion. My high school drama teacher was the one who talked openly and frankly about respect for the arts, and how, even for auditions, you come dressed professionally. To this day, I tend to go to auditions dressed more formally than those around me who come in jeans and a clean shirt instead of the skirt and nice top I tend to wear.

This attitude leads to a healthy amount of frustration in me when those around me don't keep the same standard. To me, a night at the theater (or symphony, or other formal occasions) is something special. It costs a lot of money, it takes a huge amount of time and focus in performing no matter how professional the production, and it's an event that demands a different level of refined behavior.

Granted, I often find myself somewhat alone in this. I remember seeing The Lion King years ago with a friend who had invited me to come and see the show with her on the third row of the theater. You don't get seats much better than that. The man sitting down the row from me? Yeah, he came in a budweiser t-shirt and ripped jeans. I remember seeing a show last spring at a local high school in which a member of the audience had a camera and tripod out and took approximately 43 pictures with flash (not that I counted on my program or anything. . . ) in the second act alone without anyone telling him to stop. Clearly, the "night out to the theater" mentality is not shared by all.

(I suppose I should mention here that very horrible, dark, embarrassing part of my past in which I, as a traveler to London, found myself with tickets to Wicked and no time to take the Tube back to my flat to change before the show started. I attended the show in jeans and heard - because irony is like that - the couple behind us talking about awful tourists who attend shows in jeans. I wanted to jump up and shout "I'm not normally like this!! I'm so embarrassed!" but refrained. . . )

Really, though, I think it all stems back to the honor and love I've always had for the arts. For that time I have to turn off my phone (good luck trying to reach me - ever - if I'm rehearsing for a show) and to dress up and feed my soul. I don't understand why a person would spend upwards of $50 for a night at the theater and then spend it with their nose in a Facebook feed on their smartphone (re: girl next to me last night at the symphony.)

But if you're still reading - this is where it gets good. Last night I witnessed something truly awesome. I've heard of things like this happening (and have felt tempted to do it myself - re: the woman who came to the front of the stage when I was Wilbur in Charlotte's Web and took pictures with a disposable camera), but have never actually seen it until now. It was fantastic. It was so choice. I wish I had a video of it - but that would be somewhat counter-productive, as evidenced by the following:

I went to the symphony last night to hear one of my favorite pieces (Beethoven's Emperor Concerto). The guest artist had just started playing the first movement when I saw him turn his head toward the audience and glare bullets right at. . . something. Couldn't tell what. He mouthed something, but I couldn't tell what it was. I was just looking for the smoke from the ash remains of whoever had just burst into flame under the power of that glare. After the first movement ended, the guest artist paused, turned and looked right at the audience member again, and said quite sternly: "You with the camera? What we are doing is very difficult and takes a great deal of concentration, and you are distracting us and about two thousand other people who are here."

Oooooh yeah.

I clapped along with the rest of the hall and thought rather haughtily that I sincerely hope that said audience member (who had to have been sitting somewhere in the $50 ticket range) was embarrassed. And I hope - one student at a time - I can find a way to make a dent in the culture of theater going. "You will see people there dressed in jeans," I tell my students. "But it will never be you."

But maybe I'm just a snob.

Revisiting Gatsby

I feel like all I write about lately is my experience in my classroom. It is true - much of my life right now is dedicated to what goes on at school. I spend a ridiculous amount of time thinking about and preparing for the hours I spend with my students. I love it. I remember being told that if you could get through the first three years of teaching you could do anything - and while that may be true, I've found it to be a complete joy.

Well, almost complete.

I find that - even more so than when I was in college - I spend more time reading for school than I do for myself. Case in point: I started reading Harry Potter again last spring with the intent of finishing before the last film came out in July. These wonderful books that I finished in under 24 hours each the first time through. . . yeah, I'm stuck in Prisoner of Azkaban.

Not that I haven't been reading. I read (or re-read) several books over the summer in preparation for teaching. I read The Sword in the Stone, Treasure Island, The Scarlet Pimpernel, Anthem, The Hobbit and others. The latest re-read comes in the form of The Great Gatsby.

When I was in high school, I took Early American Literature instead of Late American Literature with the sole intent of escaping Gatsby. I heard absolute horror stories about this book and put up with The Scarlet Letter instead (what was I thinking!?!) I think, though, that I'm glad I didn't read Gatsby until I got to college. I don't know that I would have appreciated the magnificence of Fitzgerald's language until later.

As it is I am absolutely devouring this book. C.S. Lewis said once that words phrased well sound like music, and he was right. Gatsby is symphony. A beautiful, chewy sort of symphony full of more description than a person would ever need, but not nearly as much as I want right now. I am loving this book.

Vivaldi vs. Ives

You'll have to forgive the lack of posting recently. The start of this school year has been a particularly challenging one where time management is concerned. It's a good thing I have a closet full of time turners and an endless supply of energy, right?! (Ha.)

I've been reading Boyd K. Packer's book on teaching recently in an attempt to refine my personal teaching methods so I can more confidently inspire my students to become better, not just to remember facts. A good portion of the beginning of the book (I haven't finished yet) has been about the usefulness of metaphors and similes in teaching difficult, intangible subjects. One symbol he uses is the piano.

The gospel, he says, is like a large piano. If a person were to play only one key (say, the doctrine of faith) without the help of the other keys (works, for example), then that one key would grow out of tune with overuse and the individual playing the key would not benefit from the range of sounds offered by a piano when more keys are played in harmony.

That was the word that stopped me. Harmony.

Small change of topic: I've grown up listening to classical music in my home, and considered myself decently well versed in who composed what and when until a friend of mine started introducing me to the musicians rarely found on your average compilation CD. I went from a love of Vivaldi's soothing, harmonized seasons into the world of Mahler and Charles Ives, a man influenced by what happened when different marching bands played at the same time - a far cry from the typical use of a stringed instrument. Ives is excited by noise. He wants lots of it. He's interested in experimenting with what happens when two things that don't normally belong together are suddenly forced into the same space, and the results are often incredible and inspiring (and insane in the best sense of the word.) And my Ives education is only beginning.

Going back to the word harmony. If the gospel is like a piano, and people want things to be harmonized pleasantly, is there room in the gospel (or, perhaps more specifically, the culture surrounding the gospel) for the Ives' of the world? We are very comfortable and accepting of those who harmonize in normal ways - the Mozarts and Beethovens and Vivaldis and Strauss' of the world but are we as comfortable with the Mahler's and the Ives' who play the gospel piano, just differently? Should we be?

I know my answer.

Broom Cupboards and Ballrooms

I've been thinking a lot this week about an article by Hugh Nibley called "Goods of First and Second Intent." It was from an address given to a group of retired teachers more than twenty years ago, but it is still true. The article discusses the different desires that we can have - goods of first intent that are what make life worth living and you can never get enough of, and goods of second intent that are good for you, but only if you use them to obtain goods of first intent. If they are not used properly, you can become addicted and harmed by them. (Money, for example, is a good of second intent.)

At one point in the article, Nibley points out that most people spend far too much of their time pursuing goods of second intent and neglect the things of eternity - he refers to Arthur Clarke's description of a man who had inherited a magnificent palace but instead preferred to spend all of his time in a broom cupboard.

I've been thinking about this because of an experience I had this week with a parent who, to save you all the frustrating and ridiculous details, pulled her child from my class because I was being too effective. I hold an optional mentoring/study session once a week for students in this class that her son would not be able to attend because of other commitments. After a very interesting conversation the result was pulling the child from the class entirely because she didn't want the child to miss a single breath of what went on in class. (I believe the phrase "I am having difficulty with this 'students are to be responsible' concept" was used.)

This is such a typical attitude in certain circles of my community. They imagine things they way they think it should be, and then one thing shifts or changes or moves the cheese, and the solution is not to adapt, but to throw out everything. The baby, the bathwater, the bathroom, the whole house or neighborhood if necessary - but it all goes.

It baffled me. It still baffles me. It baffles me that this woman would, presumably, have been happier of the study period was a waste of everyone's time instead of a valuable asset. It baffles me that her solution to missing part is to miss all, when her child - as far as I've been able to tell - would be perfectly capable in this class with or without the extra reminders on assignments. It reminds me of an experience I had last year when a student was pulled from my class in the first few weeks of school because the student was stressed about doing well - but mostly because the parent just wanted the kid at home more often. (The kid wanted to stay in class, and would have done well.)

These examples are of parents - who should be the greatest advocates of their children learning and growing in independence and skill - secluding their children away into broom cupboards by force. That makes me feel sick enough as it is. But how often do the rest of us voluntarily turn away from new opportunities or places for growth and stay in symbolic broom cupboards for the rest of our lives? Seems downright claustrophobic to me. There is a world of truth and light out there just waiting to be explored, and I, for one, look better and feel better in a ball gown than I do in rags.