Smile If You Love Me, Baby

I've been at a new school for the past 1.5 years, with a network that I didn't think I'd ever work for. One of the most surprising pieces of this puzzle was that I originally came on-board as a Middle School teacher. I had sworn that I would never teach middle school because it would bring up too many painful memories.

Middle School /midl skool/ (n.): that time in a person's life that they try very hard to wipe out of their memory, as it is too hard to imagine someone loving them through it due to the painful level of awkward and uncomfortable.

It was an amazing year in the classroom, where I learned to embrace all the awkward and be extra embarrassing for kids. This year I'm now overseeing a program that has elementary and middle school aged students. While the elementary students are definitely more adorable than the middle schoolers, I do have a special place in my heart for them and their dramatics.

I would like to formally apologize to all my teachers, and especially my parents, for all that I put them through during my teen years. Thank you for loving me through such a horrendous life phase. When I was in middle school, I was your typical, insecure, hypersensitive, blossoming tween. (If you think I'm dramatic now, multiply that by 10 and add a dash of delusional and you've got 13-year-old Ms. Walker.) I was at my wonderful, tiny school, where I was 1 of 5 girls in my grade. In the entire middle school, we had 23 girls total, out of 70(ish) students. A small audience for my endless dramatic performance titled "Puberty: The (Seemingly) Never Ending Train Wreck"

I feel as though everyone has at least 1 vivid memory (if not many) from their developing years, where they were at their most awkward. Tweens not only have changing bodies and hormones, but they aren't even considered full teenagers yet, so the confusion around "growing up" is amplified by the fact that you're supposed to still act like a young child. This often results in painful attempts at flirting. C'mon, I know you have a memory tucked away some where of the first time you thought you were being slick and flirtatious but you really looked like you were suffering from severe constipation and a personality disorder. No? Just me?

It was the second week of 7th grade, and this was the time for the annual Middle School Camping Trip. I had loved it the year before, and had wonderful memories of completing ropes courses, hiking, and playing fun campfire games. So, naturally, I thought I was the bomb-diggity walking up in that cabin as an experienced 7th grader. To top it off, I had just gotten myself some boobs (oh, puberty) and a straightening iron, so I pretty much believed my Grandpa when he said I looked like Brooke Shields (mind you, he called me that because of my dark and well defined eyebrows, NOT my itty-bitty-boobies and frizzy straight hair). This confidence was also inflated by the 7th and 8th grade boys hormone levels, which caused them to say nice things to me and talk to my breasts instead of my face. This may have also been due to the fact that I was 5'8" in 7th grade, and most of the boys were 5'5" or below... you do the math on where their eyes lined up.

After a long day of hiking, ropes courses, trust falls, and dinner, it was time for us to do our campfire games. The entire middle school (all 70 of us) sat in a big circle with our teachers lining the edge of the dining hall. We played games, sang songs, and told stories. One of the games we played was a new game, and I knew I liked it from the moment I heard the name of it: "Smile if you love me, baby." I have always been a pretty jovial person, and with my banging' new tween bod I was feeling more smiley than usual. How the game goes is that the first person goes in the middle, picks someone that they think will "smile". They then walk over to that person and say, "Smile if you love me, baby." Following this, the person has to reply, "I love you, baby, but I just can't smile" with a straight face. If they smile while responding, they are then in the middle. If they don't, the "asker" must go find another person and repeat the quote until they can get someone to smile. I couldn't WAIT to see who would come up to me. I was a natural target, because I smiled and laughed ALL the time, and was looking forward to walking right up to one of the 8th grade boys. 

My moment came when my friend CB walked up to me and said, "Smile if you love me, baby!" in a very dramatic tone while laying on the floor in front of me. I burst out laughing, partly because it was actually funny and partly because I was so nervous. Either way, I obviously ended up in the middle. I then fake-looked around for who I was going to pick, because I couldn't act so obvious that I was going to walk up to this 8th grade boy that I was crushing on... Then, after 3 full turns, I couldn't contain myself and nearly bolted over to him. I kneeled down, leaned forward, and with my best Playboy Bunny impression said very smoothly, "Smile if you love me... baby...." 

That's when he looked right back at me, and with a slight tone of disgust said, "I love you, baby, but I just can't smile..." Then looked at his friend (also cute) and shook his head.

Ok, the reality of what happened (according to a friend who was sitting nearby), was that I pretty much twirled around in the middle a few times looking like I was trying to morph into Captain Planet, and then ran over to The Boy, slid onto my knees, made a face that resembled someone who got kneed in the balls, and sounded like Minnie Mouse when I spoke.

My heart was crushed. However, we ended up dating briefly a few years later, after I had survived my tweens. 

Why I'm Running

This article was written 2 years ago, but somehow missed the publish button.
________________________________________________________________________________
There are many reasons why I don't run. First, I have never been a distance runner. Even when I played sports, I managed to figure out how to sprint and rest, sprint and rest. It wasn't really necessary for me to run long distances. In elementary school, when we had to run the mile, I didn't care about my time and decided walked with my friend who had Cystic Fibrosis (bigger issue: why was she still required to complete the mile??).

Secondly, thanks to a pretty nasty bout of Lyme's Disease when I was in high school, I got early onset arthritis in a few joints. Unfortunately, that means I have arthritis in both of my hips. You can imagine that running is a bit difficult with your hip joints are regularly inflamed and in pain. I could go on with the many reasons, which most of them include the physical pain that happens when I attempt running, but that's boring, so I won't. Hopefully you get the picture. Me running is not pretty.

Naturally, this has caused me to decide that I'm going to run a half-marathon before this year is out. I'm in week 2 of training, and I am mostly just surprised that I've stuck with it for more than 1 workout. I can't run for more than 2 minutes without feeling like I'm suffocating, and my hips were fine until the third workout. (I had trouble walking for two days after that one.) Drinking water doesn't seem to come naturally to me, so I've been getting dehydration headaches some days. It's been a rough two weeks.

I wasn't sure why I chose this as my goal. It wasn't about losing weight, although that will be a nice bonus. It wasn't about proving that I could do it, since I'm honestly not sure if I can. It wasn't about just trying something hard, because there are many other (less painful) options I could have chosen.

Today I realized why I chose this goal. I'm running to get rid of my gut. 

M decided that we needed to do a Circle, where we would all talk about bullying and how we've been impacted by it. My first period is a goofy bunch, all students with either Intellectual Disabilities or Autism Spectrum Disorder. One student has been diagnosed with a Specific Learning Disability, but I'm skeptical of that diagnosis. On a good day they're a bunch of goofballs and giggle their way through class, usually laughing at me. On a bad day, there can be a lot of confusing interactions because they struggle to appropriately express themselves. So when M requested that we do a Circle to talk about bullying, I was a bit nervous about how it was going to go.

As anticipated, it was a bit of a tough start, but after about 15 minutes we got the ball rolling and most of the class was communicating their feelings. Some giggling occurred, and students were checking each other to make sure everyone was remaining respectful. While it wasn't perfect, it was going well overall. The biggest struggle was that A was posturing and was saying comments to try and get a rise out of me. Since I wasn't reacting, he continued to go down the rabbit hole of trying to make me upset. With 2 minutes left in class, he finally cut through enough layers and hit the jugular:

"You come for your paycheck, what do you care? Teachers don't care. They just want to get that check."

Now, let me be clear, I do not take this comment personally. I know that I show up to work every day because I absolutely love working with my students. I know that I care immensely about my students, their education, and their well being. So if that is the case, why is this so upsetting? 

A has been lashing out all year and has unfortunately missed out on a lot of learning time because of his massive amount of behavior concerns. He is rarely in a classroom, and almost never in a seat, primarily due to him being hyperactive. With a  bit of a Napoleon complex, adorable cheeks, and a smile born for a camera, A is theoretically adorable. Unfortunately, he curses like a sailor, and often feels a need to insult you before you could do anything that will make him feel something other than happy. He was placed in my class because he was causing a lot of disruptions in his other first period. Not only was he not learning, but other students' education was being negatively impacted. The transition to my class was difficult, since I'm "just a SPED teacher," and he does not enjoy change in routine.

After months of telling him, "Good morning sunshine! It's so good to see you today!" and "We need to do this because your education is important and a priority. I care about you and your education, you need to as well." and "Please don't treat me disrespectfully, as I treat you with respect every day." I thought I made it clear that I care about him, despite the terrible treatment I received from him. I have been a part of several meetings with other teachers, both formal and informal, brainstorming around how to best serve this student. I have given up a planning period so that I can support him in his reading class, where he already has 2 teachers for the 7 students that are in there. 

All of this has happened because this is a student who has clearly had something happen to him outside of the school building. While I have absolutely no hard evidence, my gut tells me that something is very wrong. I expressed my concern to the social workers, behavior intervention staff, teachers, administrators, etc. The problem is, I can't (in good conscience) file a report based on my gut. However, his behavior patterns scream that something is going on. A is a wonderful kid, and when he chooses to do work, he is an excellent student. He picks up concepts quickly, has a great intuition, and has been a phenomenal leader for students who have more severe disabilities. He feels a need to take them under his wing and ensure that they are also successful. But when it comes to someone caring about it, he cannot allow it, and must shut it down.

With all this in mind, I hope it is clearer why it was so devastating to hear A say that teachers, especially myself, show up for the paycheck, and not because we love and care for our students. Because we could love and care for him. When he said this statement, I became overwhelmingly sad, and was at a loss for words. He tossed the Talking Piece (a stuffed animal) back at me, and I said I didn't want to speak, as I had no words. All the students realized I was very sad, and immediately asked if I was ok, if I was going to cry, or if I was mad. I explained I didn't want to talk, and I was sad that A felt that way.

I might as well have said "I HATE YOU! YOU ARE THE WORST STUDENT EVER!" because that is what he heard. A didn't know how to deal with me being sad. What was decided in his mind, was that I was obviously mad at him. He proceeded to target me the rest of the day. If I walked into a room, or he walking into a room I was in, he would yell comments like, "Why the fuck is she in here?!" and "Get away from me!" and "I don't like you. Get out of my face."

I gave him space, because that was all I could do, but when we have 4 out of 8 classes together every day, it's a bit hard to avoid each other. Other staff tried to intervene, tried to explain to him that I'm there because I care about him, because I want to make sure he learns, etc. It only made it worse. A couldn't handle that I was sad about something he said.

The entire day, my gut ached. I ate my lunch, and immediately regretted it. The idea that a child could not accept that someone loved and cared about him made my gut nearly explode. This child, just like every other child, deserves to be loved and cared about by his school, and he clearly doesn't feel that way, despite the school's best efforts.

Today, all I wanted to do was run. I wanted to run from the sadness of the reality, the pain that is the truth, and the frustration that is my lack of ability to help this student. But I can't run; at least not for more than 2 minutes without taking a break. So instead I went through my day. I did my very best not to look sad, and just held my gut. 

The Rose in the Sidewalk

A few summers ago, AR decided to get another tattoo. He was extremely proud of it, as it had a lot more meaning than his other ones. On his shoulder and arm, the artist drew a beautiful rose coming out of a sidewalk. It's in black ink, with minimal shading, and well done.

Of course, when I saw new ink on his arm, I began drilling him about it. The usual questions of "Is that new?", "Why did you need ANOTHER?", and "Can it be covered by a shirt?" all came firing out of my mouth. After I calmed down, and he calmly answered all of my annoying parent questions, I finally decided to ask, "So... what does it mean?"

"It's me. I'm the rose in the sidewalk. I am a beautiful thing that came out of an impossible place."

I must admit, I got a bit teary. He was absolutely right. AR grew up in Southeast DC, went to (statistically) one of the worst high schools in the country, and had a criminal record by the age of 15. He wasn't supposed to graduate high school, he wasn't supposed to go to college, and in many ways he wasn't supposed to survive.

But here he was, alive, admitted into college, and not just surviving, but thriving. A truly beautiful rose coming out of a cracked and littered sidewalk.

His radiance can make it difficult sometimes to remember that his rose is growing out of a sidewalk. Now that he's about to graduate from college, I sometimes forget the environment that he is surrounded by when he's at home. When he's at school, he's surrounded by academics, like himself, and accomplished athletes, like himself, and kids who are focused on being successful, like himself. When he's home, he is surrounded by people who have trouble holding a job, have criminal records, are in and out of jail, and few who have gone to college. He has wonderful people in his life, but they aren't on the same trajectory as he is, and that's when you realize he's not in a garden, but a sidewalk.

The most painful times I'm reminded of this is when him and I are disagreeing on life decisions. He calls for advice, or I call to ask a myriad of parent-esque questions, and when he doesn't really like what I'm saying it results in him telling me I don't understand. I didn't grow up on a harsh sidewalk, but in the middle of a well-manicured garden bed. Someone was constantly looking after me, ensuring I was in just the right place at just the right time, getting fed regularly and enough space to grow. He's right, I didn't grow up in the same fashion that he did. I am no rose in a sidewalk.

However, this does not discredit me from giving advice. While there are certain things I can't relate to, I had to make many of the life decisions that he's about to make. Upon graduation, I had to make sure my grades were in order, that I was in the process of getting a job (which I mostly can recommend what NOT to do), securing housing after graduation, and trying to make meaning of the 4 years that I was about to complete. Your last semester of college is arguably one of the scariest of your life, and in my overbearing way I want to make sure it's not as scary for him. But that's not fair. It's a right of passage to have to figure it out, to walk on your own, to make big life decisions.

Ultimately, the rose grew in harsher conditions than senior year of college, so I'm sure he's going to be just fine. More importantly, I need to stop acting like it's my job to replant the rose - he can do that all on his own.

Dear Anonymous

Dear Anonymous,

Thank you for your comment about my post "What did they teach me?". While I do my very best to always use person-first language, I unfortunately make mistakes. Person-first language is extremely important when talking about people with disabilities, as they are people first, not a disability. I have made the edit to the post to say "person with schizophrenia." I apologize that I used offensive terminology.

As for the comment about the line "split my attention between the two," I was referring to splitting my attention between educational and psychological needs.

Thank you for your comments, concern, and advocacy for people with disabilities. I always appreciate feedback and hope that you continue to read and comment.

Regards,
Ms. Walker

When the Going Gets Tough, the Tough go to Mom

When I was in 3rd grade, I was an overalls and tie-dye kind of gal. I had crazy, curly brown hair that fell to my shoulders, but I often had it tied back with some awesome scrunchy. Barefoot was my preferred method of travel, but I wore beat up sneakers when I was forced to cover my permanently dirty feet. Watching lots of television was not permitted in the Walker household, so I grew up playing outside with my neighbors, or if it was raining we would dress up or make up plays. Good ol' fashioned fun.

When I was in 4th grade, I was finally told tie-dye was no longer cool, and screen print t-shirts were what everyone wore. That's when I got my favourite t-shirt of all time. It was a picture of these two young girls playing in an overgrown field, and in cursive writing it said "When the going gets tough, the tough go to Mom." I wore this shirt proudly at least 2 times a week, until 6th grade when it resembled a rag more than a shirt.

To be honest, I had no idea what that phrase meant. I read that phrase on my shirt at least twice a week for several years, and couldn't figure out what "the tough" was. I guess I had never heard the original phrase, "When the going gets tough, the tough get going," because then it would have been obvious that "the tough" were people. Instead, I often imagined what "the tough" looked like. I imagined that "the tough" was like a wind, and ultimately your mom was the one who had to deal with all "the tough" that came through your family. Somehow she had the super-human strength to deal with all "the tough."

It wasn't until I was in my second year of teaching that I finally understood what that t-shirt meant. I was on the phone with my dad, and we were talking about the importance of grit. It was a seemingly insignificant moment, when he said, "Well, you know what they say: when the going gets tough, the tough get going!" I burst out laughing. Here I was, 24 years old, almost 13 years after I had gotten rid of my favourite t-shirt, and I finally knew what it meant. He asked what was so funny, and I explained the phrase on the t-shirt, and told him that I finally understood what it meant: that the tough go to their mom for strength, and those little girls were running to their mother. He chuckled and said, "Yep, that t-shirt sums you right up. You're one tough cookie sweetheart, but when things get tough, you always call Mom."

It was a weird compliment. On the one hand, I am a pretty tough broad. I've dealt with some extremely challenging situations in my life, especially in the last 5 years, that many people would have backed away from. I don't give up easily, almost to a fault. I almost always accept a challenge, and I don't let setbacks deter me. On the other hand, I do talk to my mom, a lot. I call her at least once a day, if not more often, primarily depending on if I had a difficult day or not.

I've been having a difficult time with my adjustment to my new school [see previous post]. Naturally, this means I've been calling my mom more than usual over the past few months. Recently, I've been less than satisfied at work, primarily due to the daunting reality that is urban special education in our country, and honestly the world, right now. It came to a head this evening while I was on the phone with her. I was feeling as though I will never be able to claim victory, or determine that I've been successful. Most people's worst fear is failure, and while I'm petrified of the dark, I have an unhealthy fear of failure as well. I've kept my composure about these worries and the general discomfort I've been feeling, and trying to be tough.

The Tough bit my skin and made my eyes tear. The wind was stronger than I could handle, and I gave in.

I cried. I cried for feeling like I'm not making a big enough impact. I cried for thinking that I could solve the problems I had faced at my previous school by going to a new one. I cried for the hopelessness that I feel sometimes about the future of students with Intellectual Disabilities because our system dismisses them. I cried for the kids that won't get a better education if something doesn't change. I cried because everyone wants to write a single prescription for a problem that needs a whole cocktail of medications. I cried because our system has been failing, and it feels as though we're even farther away from fixing it than when I started.

And then The Tough went to Mom.

Mom did what only mom's can do. She shielded me from The Tough wind and reminded me that I am not Atlas, and the world does not rest on my shoulders. Perspective is everything, but keeping a high bar is important. Mom took that tough wind, dried my tears, and gave me a break from being tough.

My fear of failure has not been cured, and I definitely still feel too small, but I'm able to be tough. Mostly because The Tough went to Mom.



Thank you, Mom, for always taking The Tough away when it becomes too strong.

Driving with the Emergency Break On

A lot has changed since April....

- I decided to leave my school and did not renew my contract.
- I was hired by another school to start a program there similar to the one I've been building for the last 5 years.
- I got a puppy (she's adorable and the cats are pissed)
- The class pet, Pepe the hamster, passed away (RIP, furry friend)


Ok, so maybe only a few things have changed, but they are major. And up until recently, I was kind of just plugging along, thinking that not much had changed. But, I was wrong.

I have never handled change well. When I was 15, my family moved. Mind you, we only moved across town and I didn't have to change schools or anything, so this theoretically wasn't that big of a deal. However, I managed to get myself so worked up about it that I became depressed, an insomniac, and had to learn various coping strategies to deal with the stress of transition.

I felt crazy because I should have been excited - I was moving into a much nicer house than the one that I had grown up in, I was going to be in the same town, and I was going to remain close to all of my friends. Not to mention I was moving with both of my parents, not because of a divorce, which seemed statistically impossible to happen with the rate of divorce now a days (let me just say that my parents are fantastic role models for what marriage should look like - thanks guys). But even though this was a fantastic situation, I couldn't stop crying about wanting to be in my old (significantly smaller) room with my Laura Ashley wall paper and double bed. All I wanted to do was walk in the house and sit down at the kitchen island and breath in the smell of my childhood memories. This was no longer an option, and I could not grasp that reality. So I cried. And I laid awake at night feeling insecure and vulnerable, as if I was a baby bird pushed out of the nest too soon.

Obviously I made it out of the transition with minimal scarring, but it opened my eyes to a severe deficit of mine. My tendency to have a meltdown around change, as well as my inability to transition smoothly, has handicapped me my entire young adult, and now adult, life. When I went to college, my inability to handle the transition resulted me in coming home every other weekend and nearly failing all of my classes. When I got my first "real job", an internship in New York City, I practically ran out of that city every Friday to hop on the first train home. I ate lunch by myself because I was petrified about the change happening around me, and missed out on the awesome experience that is New York City in your early 20s. When I graduated from college, I had a full on melt down where I cried hysterically and had to pull over multiple times on my way home to call my mom and calm down. There was a point where I almost had her and my father come meet me on the highway to drive me home because I thought I wasn't going to be able to pull myself together.

While these are extreme situations, these are when I experienced major life changes and just had massively amplified anxiety compared to the average person. Most people would have a healthy dose of anxiety and skepticism about what the future holds. Instead of a healthy dose of skepticism, I have paralyzing fear about the uncertainty that is the future, the possibility of failure and defeat, and about the permanent nature of moving forward and leaving the familiar behind. Of course, so far things have worked out for the better when I make change, which is why I keep doing it, but that does not change that the process is absolutely, positively, terrifying and painful.

As I mentioned earlier, I came to the conclusion that I needed to leave my school. There are many reasons that led me to this decision, but it was not a joyful decision. This decision was made with the heaviest of hearts, and I am still extremely sad that I had to say goodbye to amazing people and students. However, I was blessed with a job offer just a few short weeks after I submitted my intent to not return. As I accepted the new job, the slow paralysis of fear crawled through my brain and has been trying to lay siege.

"What could be so scary," you ask? Well, let me count the ways....

1. I have worked with my closest friends in DC for the last 5 years. I got to go to work every day and see at least 5 of my close friends, which is a luxury not many people have. While I was not besties with everyone in my building, I always had someone I could turn to in a time of need or crisis, and I knew that they would not only listen, but would prioritize me and help me in whatever way they could. That environment was more than familiar, it was family.

2. I have had the freedom to create and design a program for the last 5 years with minimal restraint. I knew that I could go to my principal with an idea, and as long as it logically led to student achievement and positive mental health, I was able to implement it. I was given a lot of liberties that I would not have been afforded in another school as a 1st, 2nd, 3rd, or even 4th year teacher. Of course, by the end of this past year, that freedom started to become restricted due to issues with "downtown", so that freedom was not going to exist anymore.

3. There are many students that I have taught for multiple years. This is rare in a normal teaching situation, but since I worked in a cluster this was not unusual. One of the downfalls of teaching the same kids every year is that if you have a personality clash, it's a long road ahead. However, the most amazing part about teaching students for multiple years is that you get to know them and their families very well, sometimes better than you'd like. There were several students who I said goodbye to this year that I have taught since my very first day of teaching. Each year I said goodbye to students who were ready to leave the nest, but there was always a comfort for them that I would still be at school and they knew where to find me. Despite them having my contact information, it is nerve wracking for all of us that I am the one who left the nest.

4. I was going to a completely new place. Considering that I have taught at one school since I graduated college, I don't know what other environments look, sound, or feel like. The unknown is my worst fear, and I was running towards what, in my mind, looked like a brick wall. Do you like the thought of sprinting straight at a brick wall? I didn't think so.




After about 3 months at my new job, it is fair to say that I'm alive and breathing. I haven't had a major meltdown, which is a sign of maturity, and I have even made a few friends. While I've been enjoying my time there, it has come with some learning challenges. I have been moving forward, but there is a nagging feeling of something resisting the change. I am doing my job, teaching and designing a new program, but still feel as though something is missing.

Feeling unsettled, I spoke to several people about my dilemma a few weeks ago. I was feeling like a car that was driving with the emergency break on, like I was moving forward reluctantly. Based on this comparison, I needed to stop and turn off the break before I started moving again. The only problem was that I couldn't stop doing my job; the school year had begun and kids would be in seats every day. So what could I do? That's when they (I say they because I can't remember who said this originally) stopped me and made me realize what the real problem was. My "emergency break" was my old school and my previous students. I couldn't let go of what I had and move on to the next stage of my life. Whether that's because I had such a great experience, it is my only point of reference for comparison professionally, or it's because of my usual transition anxiety, is unclear.

This caused me to reflect back to my first year of teaching. I journaled a lot that year, so I went back and reread my journal entries from various points in the year. I had forgotten how alone I felt for the first 6 weeks of teaching. I had forgotten the disaster that was our program up until Year 3. I had forgotten that I only slept 3-5 hours each night for two years. I had forgotten that I didn't start to sense a deep attachment to my students until at least December. Some kids... it took years.

It was then that I started to have more forward momentum at work. After reviewing my challenges of my first year of teaching at my previous school, I felt better about my struggles with my new school. Of course, things are still a work in progress, but at least now I'm driving without the emergency break on.

What did they teach me?

What did they teach me? What did I learn in school?
A whole lot of useless stuff, that I've never used a day with a kid
I'm sure it was important at the time, which is why I complied
But then when it came to the big dance? It was miraculous what I did.
They didn't teach me how to potty train an 18 year old
It wasn't in the manual either, go figure, but candy bribery worked just fine
They didn't teach me how to behavior manage a person with schizophrenia
I had to split my attention between the two; now second nature
They didn't teach me what to say when a girl watches her mother get murdered
She came to school the next day, and I cried while she comforted me, so mature
There are a lot of things you don't learn in school
There are even more things they don't tell you
It's your privilege and demise to be introduced to them
At the least convenient time, in the worst location. You won't know what to do.

What separates the Haves from the Have Nots?
It's what my best teachers taught me in school.
The Have Nots don't care, don't listen, and don't worry
About much more than looking cool
To either their colleagues or the students.
The Have Nots are the names of teachers you don't remember
Of the ones that made minimal impact.
They were given a sledge hammer
Only to leave the surface unbroken.

The Haves shattered your perception of realty
Brought you back to the casualty
Of your former self, abandoning your propriety
Making you face the rest of society
With you acting so defiantly
When faced with the difficult decisions, justifiably
Standing up for those who don't know better, who quietly
Sit in the corner, being overlooked, and notably
Look to you to lead them out of the emotionally
Terrifying place they're sitting in: ignorance
The Haves taught me how to educate
They taught me how important it was to celebrate
Myself, because we are only as good as our reflection
You can't love others if you don't show yourself affection.
So once I learned to love myself I opened my eyes
They taught me how to see, I became baptized
In the fountain of knowledge, learning how to dedicate
My life to acquiring and sharing, trying to replicate
A love for learning in others, lighting a fire that would detonate
The bomb that we need to blow up this system
Let the ashes fall and shower everyone with the wisdom
That we are only as good as we make our children.
The Haves taught me how to lead by example
If you don't walk on the right path, The Have Nots will trample
All over you, and no one will win.

Please don't misread this message and think that I'm saying something else.
It's not that the Haves didn't teach me how to read, write, and calculate.
They did - but that is not what made them the Haves.
It was that they taught me how to eradicate the hate.
They taught me how to love someone so deep, in their brain and soul
That you could mistake them as your own family, your child.
They taught me that if you show someone how to value themselves
And help them find their confidence, their imagination will run wild
They will blossom and grow, not like a weed but ivy
That will slowly grow up our stable foundation, and after some time
You become consumed and when you look in the mirror to see your reflection
You see the most beautiful product, a picture truly sublime
As you are no longer looking in a mirror at you
But your accomplishments, the beautiful souls that you fed
The Haves look in the mirror and see the lives that they changed
Not because of the content they taught, but by the example they led.

So what separates the Haves from the Have Nots? It's simple.
Love.
Love of education, love of a challenge, love of the battle
Love of knowing that someone else's life is just slightly better
Because you met them, taught them, lead them on the right path.
When it came to the big dance, it was miraculous what they did.
Because love is a miracle. Love makes a person do crazy things.
Mix love and education, and you have a kid's dream come true.


This piece is dedicated to the staff of The Harvey School from 1998-2005.