Choose Your Hard

As I stated last week, Rosebro#1 will be driving very soon. It has been a very interesting time as a parent. The thought of him driving puts me in quite the conundrum. I want him to drive. I cannot tell you the number of times he has been the last one picked up from golf practice as I coming barreling in on two wheels. Several times he has been playing golf and a spring or summer storm will quickly form and the "poor" kid has had to hang out with those men in the club house who enjoy, instead of going home, “locker room talk”, lots of beverages, and playing cards- probably fun for him, not so much the fun I wish for him to have.  I am constantly being asked to take him to a friend’s house. I cannot even begin to talk about how much I look forward to him helping me with transporting Rosebro2 to and from his various activities. 

Then I start thinking about the first time he will roll down the driveway without me. The loss of control is enough to make me anxious. I will also miss our talks in the car. In fact, he was so embarrassed about “the talk” that we had to have that talk on I-85 because he refused to discuss these things at home and threatened to jump out of the car anytime I tried to bring it up-the only time he didn’t threaten to jump out was traveling about 80MPH going down the interstate.  I will miss the conversations, seeing the Mom of the friend when I drop him off, reminding him of his behaviors, and singing to our favorite songs. All of this seems like so far away each time I have to drive with him.

As a former special education teacher, one of the skills I learned quickly when trying to help my students was the breaking down of skills. Any skill I needed the student to learn, I had to take away all assumptions that the student knew any of the prerequisite skills necessary to complete the task. Teaching Rosebro1 to drive is really no different. He is 15. At an extremely rough estimate he has been in a car at least 11,000 times in his life. Yet, simple skills such as which way to push the blinker button or how to turn on windshield wipers has gone unnoticed and must be taught. I specifically teach so many skills that are almost subconscious for me now as a driver for thirty+ years. This is hard work. It is hard because I am having to remind myself of things that innate for me but are unknown for him. It is hard because I do not think pharmacists make Xanax strong enough to deal with the levels of anxiety I feel. It is hard because he makes mistakes-even when we discussed and practiced what to do what feels like a million times. It is hard as well because what I never want to get is that phone call that my child has been in an accident that has harmed himself, others, or both. Teaching him is hard. Him not knowing is hard. I choose my hard.

Last week I was talking with a frustrated teacher who stated, “we do this. I don’t know why they don’t know it.”  I started thinking about Rosebro#1 who has been in a car over ten thousand times. If I use that same mentality, then I should hand over the keys and let him go. In order for him to get it, I have to specifically, purposefully, and repeatedly teach him the variety of skills necessary. I have to scaffold information. I now model behavior as I drive and he rides. I speak aloud about the red light, but stopping and paying attention and then turning right. I talk aloud about why I am doing what I am doing not for my benefit but for his. I model good behavior such as keeping my cell phone in the back seat rather than taking phone calls or reading text/emails. After I’ve modeled it and he can talk about it at a level where it seems he understands it, we then allow him to have guided practice. When all of this occurs, there will be a day-much sooner than I am ready-when he will do all of this independently.

 Nike’s famous slogan, “just do it” left out some important steps. As teachers, our students can’t “just do it!” It is one reason why worksheets drive me crazy. Busy students do not indicate students who are learning. Students will not learn information just by doing it. Do they need practice?  Absolutely. But what they need more is modeling and direct, specific, purposeful, and repetitive teaching. Only then can a student be successful independently. This type of teaching is hard. It is hard to establish small groups in your classroom. It is hard to make data driven decisions in your classroom. It is also hard to have students not on grade level. It is hard to scaffold learning. It is also hard to find 8 hours worth of "work" each day for students. It is also hard to work hard every day and not see much progress. Choose your hard.

Making a Dent

As hard as it is to believe, Rosebro#1 will be driving in just three months. We practice some here and there, but during Christmas break, we practiced a lot in my country hometown. I allowed him to drive all over to get real life practice. I can honestly say this was the hardest part of being a parent so far. The balance of not destroying his confidence and keeping us alive was a heavy burden. I was detailing this to my brother who immediately took Rosebro#1 out in the farm vehicle. Those of you “city folk” probably don’t know what a farm vehicle is, but all farms have one. This is the vehicle that is used in any situation, most of the times the car/truck is well over 20 years, and it usually requires much love and attention to get it started. Upon their return my brother was driving. I could tell that it hadn’t gone very well. Rosebro#1 had not done a very good job of  “straightn’ up” while getting into the carport. This caused him to scrape the side of the car on the frame of the carport. I was inspecting the damage and laughed just thinking that my poor son had inherited my driving skills.  

 You see about 20 years ago, my husband purchased a brand new truck. It was so pretty and when it was only 2 weeks old, I had to drive it and as it would go I accidentally ran into the ATM machine at the bank (I’ll pause here for the laughter to stop). When I called to tell him about what I had done, I told him that it was just a dent and not really a problem- I was sure we could buff it out. After inspecting the damage upon my return home, my husband calmly let me know, “That’s not a dent-that’s a difference!” 

All of this came flooding back to me this weekend, when I was having a conversation with a teacher at church who kept stating “I am making such a dent!” The entire time she spoke, I kept thinking about my husband’s truck and the fact that dents go away. They can be buffed, polished, shined, repainted-all at a cost mind you– but soon it will look as if it was never there. What we want to do is make a difference-not just a dent. We are here to put an anchor in the brains of our students so that they will never stray far from learning. We are to build such strong relationships with them that they will always come back for more-more books to read, more hugs, more encouragement, more smiles.

 I’ll never forget my 3rd grade teacher who told me every day, “You will go to college, and we will make it happen today.” She worked so hard to make sure each student in her class worshiped her. In doing so we would have jumped on one leg all day if she had asked. She was an artist and this teaching was her canvas. During the last weeks of preparing to defend my dissertation last year, it was Mrs. Bozard who rang in my head. As I walked into the room with the scholars who were prepared to make me struggle, I took a deep breath, and said “We are going to make it happen today" Mrs. Bozard didn’t make a dent-she made a difference.  As we come upon the 100th day of school Friday, remember to make not just a dent-but make a difference.

If you celebrate the dream today, work to make it a reality tomorrow

I consider my youth a privilege that many do not understand. The lessons I take away from the hard labor and tough times of my family have shaped me in ways that I am just now, as an adult, understanding. I grew up in a lovely little town on a working family farm in the deep south. Besides the twenty some family members who worked on the farm in the variety of duties: dairy, tobacco, feed and seed, and chicken care, we also had a large number of farm hands.  Most of the folks who worked as farm hands were from the same family- sisters, sons, daughters, and cousins of the Lemon family who had worked for the Eaddy family for as long as any Eaddy could remember. Helena Lemon worked in Eaddy’s house. Eaddy was my grandfather. Rumor had it that Helena, who had no idea how old she was, started her work on the farm as a nursemaid to my grandmother when my father was born in 1940. She never missed a day- in fact for years I thought she lived at my grandfather’s house. I thought of her as my grandmother. I loved Helena as I loved my own mother. She always had an afterschool snack waiting on us, she cooked us our favorite supper-even when my mother had requested something different, she wiped away my tears, she braided my hair, she bandaged my scrapes, and she would “switch” me with a branch bit harder than my Dad always proclaiming that she was “gonna make me act right.”  She never helped me with my homework-she couldn’t read, but she was wise. Helena was probably the wisest woman I’ve ever met. Most of my steadfast values come from the lessons and life of Helena Lemon.

One of my first most vivid memories of Helena was at one of our daily family summer lunches when I was about 9. During the summer, each day Helena would cook lunch for everyone- Eaddy, my aunts and uncles, all my cousins, and all the farm hands. Eaddy’s dining room table could fit 20 people and the kids’ table in the kitchen had few chairs but always had room for more children. One such day, I arrived early to lunch after playing in the creek and getting eggs out of the coop. Helena spent much time showing me how to make homemade biscuits. She patiently taught me to kneed the dough, place the flour on the counter and use the rolling pin, carefully cut out the round biscuits, and place them onto a butter rolled baking pan and place into the oven. It was hot in that kitchen but I stood over that oven waiting with much impatience as those delicious biscuits cooked to perfection. I was so proud that I had made the biscuits. I told everyone as they arrived to lunch. No one really commended me other than my mother.  This hurt my feelings because I thought I deserved a noble peace prize for “Best Biscuits Ever Made.”  As I walked discouragingly to the kids’ table with my plate, I glanced into the washroom, a little room off the kitchen that held the kitchen sink. This room was a cement room with screens and steps leading to the kitchen and steps leading down into the meat room. In there I saw Helena sitting alone on the steps eating the lunch she had prepared balancing her plate on her knees.  

I took my plate and went to sit with Helena. I remember not understanding how Helena, who felt so much like my family and had cooked this entire meal, albeit the biscuits, was eating all alone. I asked her to come inside and join us. She just shook her head. So, I took up a seat beside her on the steps. I then told her how upset I was that no one commended me on my biscuits. She just smiled as I continued to lament on my family’s ungratefulness and said, “separate but equal doesn’t feel much like love, it feels much more like hate.” It was at that very moment I understood that Helena probably each day felt the same feelings of rejection from the very people I, and she, loved and claimed to love her. No lesson of history at school or any of my readings, had given me such a lesson. It was at that moment I became to understand division. In my innocent heart, I had never seen Helena as different, as separate, or as lesser than anyone else in my family. Having very few people to talk to about these feelings-ones that even I could not understand or articulate- I did what I have always done in times of confusion. I rode my bike to the local library. I spent the entire day reading about Martin Luther King, Jr. Because MLK,Jr. was really the one part of the Civil Rights Movement that was ever discussed in school. I discovered that, unlike what I had been taught, there were three groups of people during this time- those fighting for equal rights, those fighting against it, and those who did nothing. This group of bystanders fascinated me. My 9 year old self could not handle being a bystander. I will spare you the details of my one child protest against the racism and division in my little farmhouse. I was not victorious-partly because of the beliefs of my family and partly because of the trepidation of Helena. But my little 9 year old self vowed from that day forward to not be a bystander.

Today as my family participated in the MLK,Jr. Day of Service, and sadly, were with a very small number working hard, Rosebro2 began lamenting on the work and wanting to be in bed like most of his friends rather than working hard at 9am on a day off of school. As I looked around the room, and saw my family and 2 others working hard, I simply asked him, “If not us, who would do this?”  Something I’ve asked my non-bystander self many times. My husband started lecturing him on what the day of service meant as well as how we should be doing it with love in our heart. At this point, a very elderly African-American woman, came over to our family and decided to be silent no more. She grabbed Rosebro2’s hands and stated, “Young man, Dr. King once told us that he decided to stick with love because hate is too great a burden to bear.” She, this stranger, was able to stop his complaining and geared his work to the next level, in ways that I was unable. I struck up a conversation with this lady who spoke of her real work through the years with Civil Rights that her age no longer allowed. She asked me what sent me and my family to this location on the Day of Service and I described to her my life altering event at age 9 and what I’ve learned since then. The number one thing I’ve learned is that I don’t have any answers, but I am not silent. I’ve learned that talking about race is not racist. I have learned that racism still exists and it negatively effects everyone; thereby, creating the need to never be that bystander. I have also learned that my work as an educator is far greater than the standards I am certified to teach. As Dr. King stated, “we must remember that intelligence is not enough. Intelligence plus character-that is the goal of true education.” 
So I urge everyone to remember that the Day of Service isn’t just a day. In fact, I have always believed, since that age of 9 sitting on a stoop with Helena, that if you celebrate the dream today, you must work tomorrow to make the dream a reality. 

Rolls and Tea and a Sense of Urgency

For years, I’ve been known to my entire family as the “rolls and tea girl.” No matter the holiday or occasion, when I’ve called to inquire about what I can do to help with the feast, regardless of the hostess, I’m always told “rolls and tea.”  Now I understand that I come with other gifts important to our family. I always have a new game to play that becomes outrageously fun or stories to tell to entertain while those more kitchen savvy than me prepare our family feast. Yet, the last three Thanksgivings, due to my husband and Rosebro2’s football schedule, we have not been able to travel and I have hosted- for neighbors and friends-Thanksgiving at my home.  Successfully I might add.  Due to the health of my parents, my Aunt Susan hosted Christmas dinner this year. I called a few days prior expecting my same “rolls and tea” speech when low and behold I was asked to fix a family sacred recipe-squash casserole- as well as turkey dressing.  Talk about “be careful what you ask for!”  For two days I planned for the day I would cook these tried and true family recipes. I even did a test run-which I am still not sure why since neither the Rosebros nor my husband will eat the squash casserole.  As would be my life, Christmas Eve came and our church service ran late, we ran into friends at church which led to coffee with them, and then we exchanged gifts with our neighbors, and of course Santa cookie baking had to take place as well as some other Christmas Eve Rose family traditions. This left me at 1am in the kitchen, alone, preparing what I had been asked to serve. I immediately became nervous and worried. This had to go right. This had to be perfect. If not, I’d be the rolls and tea girl again. I had figuratively moved from the kids table to the adult table and I didn’t want to go back. I had planned well. I had every ingredient lined up on the kitchen island. I painstakingly went through every step of the family recipes double and triple checking my measurements and steps and watched the oven daring it to burn as the casserole and dressing cooked to perfection.  On Christmas day, as I arrived with my dishes, I watched as my aunt inspected and gave me a nod of approval. I secretly spied as the many family members filled their plates and ate, and was thrilled when the second round began and dressing and squash casserole were again on everyone’s plate.  I felt pride in my job well done.

As we drove home- a three and half hour drive, everyone in my car slept. I thought about that casserole and dressing and I laughed at my sense of urgency. I laughed at how nervous I was and how desperate I was to get it right.  Like with everything I do, I tried to process why this was so important to me. Most of the men in my family kill what they eat so the perfection of my dishes would not really matter in the grand scheme of culinary delicacies. My own parents have a special diet so they weren’t really going to eat my carefully prepared dishes. My own immediate family was not even going to give it a try. So why then was I so desperate to get it right? Then it hit me. I never have, nor will I ever, have room in my life for complacency. While there was some stress put on myself to get it right. It was healthy stress. I had been given a task and I wanted to get it right, for my family and for me. I felt so important at 1am in my kitchen. I had purpose. I had strength in knowing that I had been trusted with sacred family dishes. In complete honesty, I was relaxed and happy that night with Christmas music playing in a quiet house with the dog by my feet begging me to drop any of the multitudes of ingredients as I chopped, shredded and, carefully mixed. I had little time to get a very big job done and I had no time to be complacent. I had to be superior. Others depended on me.

I started thinking about our work here. Not one student here deserves a teacher who is complacent. Our students deserve for us to plan, prepare, and teach with a sense of urgency. That sense of urgency doesn’t have to be stressful. In fact, it needs to be relaxed. It needs to have a direct purpose and needs to be fun. We work with kids after all! Teaching, much like cooking, can be strenuous work. It can be taxing on our minds-and even our bodies. But much like cooking it can be done with enthusiasm, creativity, and preparedness.  Cooks know their recipes and prepare carefully before getting started. Cooks are busy. They don’t sit in the kitchen. They are moving. Cooks are careful with their time-as they know too little or too much time can be a disaster. Cooks watch their work and make adjustments when necessary. Cooks have a sense of urgency and you, as an educator, should as well. A sense of urgency opens up a classroom full of best practice and is an environment where students are highly motivated, inspired, and equipped to learn and grow. As we turn the page to 2017, I beg of you to evaluate your complacency/sense of urgency meter. What can you change to create a sense of urgency in what you do? How can you move away from rolls and tea to important recipes?