 I am the very proud principal of the Hartford Area Career and Technology Center (HACTC). And I have a confession to make.
I am not a good human. Well, not when compared to my dog, Clarabelle. But I suspect no human is a good human when compared to his/her dog. It is just the way it is. #truth #life It is less about the flaws of humans and more about the awesomeness of dogs. My Clarabelle is a Golden Retriever. Who does not retrieve. Preferring the chase to the return. And she is a good dog. A good, good dog. And also, as implied above, a good human. When measured by ‘good human’ standards: Love. Patience. Forgiveness. Compassion. Trust. All on display daily. Especially when walking past the warming shelter residents of The Upper Valley Haven. (Thank God for The Upper Valley Haven and the people that work there). And greeting them as they sit and wait at the Advanced Transit stop. After the beds have been cleared at the shelter. And they simply try to get out of the wind. And the snow. And the cold. Every morning. Every. Morning. No judgement of them from Clarabelle. Like me. Who judges. Ug. No. Clarabelle does not recognize their well-worn clothes. Or their body odor. Or their sunken shoulders. Or their eyes. Staring constantly at their feet. Their shuffling feet. Shuffling, I think, in embarrassment. Or some other emotion I do not understand. Given my good fortune. No. Clarabelle only recognizes love. Just love. Just love. And with that recognition come the wiggles. Clarabelle wiggles when she meets good humans. Despite their appearance. Or smell. Or other traits. Traits I notice. Quickly. But she does not. Because why? No need to notice. No need to judge. Yes. Clarabelle has taught me they are good humans. Because they are human. Human. Alive. And feeling. And seeing all. Including how others meet them. And look at them. And talk to them. So when they meet Clarabelle, they raise their shoulders. Just a bit. And their eyes. A lot. And a smile rises on their face. Because they know. They know. Clarabelle does not care about how much money they have. Or do not have. Or where they slept last night. Or their mistakes. Or anything about their mistakes. They know she just sees a human. A good human. And a friend. A friend. Who will rub her ears. And give her treats. Purchased with the last dollar. Well worth it. To see her wiggle. And sit on their feet. In love. In compassion. In understanding. But not judgement. Thank God for that. For them. And for me. Because if Clarabelle judged me, she would not walk with me anymore. Because I am a mess. A constant mess. Of faith struggles, husband struggles, father struggles, work struggles, and mistakes. Mistakes. But Clarabelle does not care about any of that either. To her, like her friends at the Advanced Transit stop in the morning, I am just a human. So she gives me love. For being so. And I am better for it. Yup. She just gives me love. And wiggles. And sits on my feet. So I can rub her ears. No judgement. Ever. Teaching me what a good human should be. And how a good human should act. Despite my struggles, judgement, mistakes, and flaws. Yeah. Clarabelle would be the greatest principal. But I guess that is covered under being a ‘great human’. Bless you Clarabelle. My friend. My teacher. Just like the others before you. Maude. Lacey. Honey. Cooper. Boomer. Topper. You all were the best kind of humans. And taught me more about life and love than any others. Despite me having to relearn those lessons with every walk. And every hug. Someday I will get it. And will make you proud of how I treat others. Like you would treat them. With no judgement. Just love. Just love.
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 I rode a mountain bike today.
On dirt. Not for long, mind you. Twenty minutes. My wind lost somewhere among last Fall’s leaves and the elevation in the Hurricane Town Forest. The winter was unkind to me this year. Shrinking my riding clothes substantially as they simply hung in the closet. Ha! Funny how that happens. Despite it all being my choice. Oy. But twenty minutes was long enough to clear my head of the rats. Yes, I have rats. In my brain. A phrase coined by an amazing mentor early in my teaching career. Bobby Hagen. When he saw me performing instead of teaching. “You need to get the rats out of your brain, Dougie.” “They have lied to you.” “This isn’t about you. It’s about the kids.” “It’s always about the kids.” “Always.” “You seem anxious. Hyper. And focused on yourself.” He was right. So right. Bless you, Bobby. #life #truth And although I worked really hard to remediate those rats, they still show up from time to time. With different messages. Scurrying around my brain and scratching at the walls of untruth: “Your anxiety is too much. It owns you.” “You are mediocre at your job.” “You make so many mistakes as a father. So many.” “You suck as a husband.” “Leaders do not lack the self-confidence you lack.” Fuck them. Stupid rats. And their untruths. But #circleswithmyfeet puts them in their place. Every time. Exposing their lies. The circles of my feet going faster than their feet. Even when my biking clothes fit too tight from a long winter on the hanger. And my feet are slow in their circles. Like today. So slow. Still the rats cannot keep the pace up. And eventually give up. And end their screeching. And scratching. And eventually their untruths. Which is why I love my mountain bike. And my students. And my job. And my daughter. And my wife. Not in that order. The last is the first. And I love my mountain bike community. Who show up on a Sunday one hundred strong. To improve the trails. #uvmbatrailworkday To sweat. And to work. Hard. So I have the opportunity to get rid of the rats in my head. Is there a better place to live? And connect? With people like that? And a bike shop like that? #masonracingcycles Who understand rats. And how to remediate them. By helping me tell them to ‘fuck off. ‘ Supporting my ability to make #circleswithmyfeet. Gosh, I love my mountain bike. And the community that comes with it. #circleswithmyfeet #proudtoridemybike  When the world is too much with me; late and soon, I walk.
Without Wordsworth. Despite that opening-line plagiarism. No. I do not walk with dead poets. Or their sonnets. Although I do have a tendency to love both. Their iambs metering through my brain at random hours. Sparked by 'cursing my fate', stopping 'the sound of feet', or an anxiety-based fear that I may not get done what God has assigned me to do with the breaths I have left: “When in disgrace with fortune in men’s eyes…” “I have been one acquainted with the night…” “When I have fears that I may cease to be…” And sometimes the spark is not so dire. Just a student telling me how she cut hay over the weekend: “There was never a sound beside the wood but one…” Or maybe even when my daughter, Scout, smiles at me: “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day…” No. I do not walk with dead poets. Nor do I walk with their beautiful lines. Despite an ache to walk with Robert Frost. And his lines. Just once. Just one time. In the woods I played in as a child. Simply to show him how the snow would bend the Evergreen boughs to the ground. Bending low in respect to the weight of the world. And not because someone was playing on them. Like Birches. No. The boughs bend from the weight. Just the weight. Of the snow. Heavy. Not playful. Despite its beauty. I would also show Robert Frost (I may call him ‘Bob’ or ‘Frosty’ or ‘F-Dog’) the beauty of the logging trace leading to the old Punt Farm. And the now empty stone foundations there. With the hay ramp cluttered with quick-growing Poplars. And ramping only to an imaginary barn. The rock work still meticulous. Measured. Even after the years of disuse. Still pentamic in their pattern. Not syllables. But field stones. Iambic Penstoneameter. Those iambs gave the Punts no choices. No ‘Two roads’ diverging in a yellow wood. Just one road. Into Buckthorn. And Pasture Pine. Hardness. That is what I imagined for them. Or they would still be there, right? Not leaving the sap buckets on the Sugar Maples. For me to shoot out their rustiness. When I was eleven. Stealing my Dad’s Dad’s .22 from the barn in the back. And the shells, too. Tucked under the bailing twine. And understanding ‘hardship’ in my own, personal frame of reference. Yes. I would show and speak to Robert about all of those things. Hoping he would be as moved as I am now. Thinking back. And wondering what words and lines to put down. Would he have found them easier than I have? Maybe. Sigh. But that will not happen. No. I will not walk with Robert Frost. Or any other dead poets. Or their beautiful lines. I will just walk. Just. Walk. For walking’s sake. And my own. At weird hours of the night and early morning. To clear my head of the Buckthorn and Pasture Pine. And the heaviness. And the hardness, too. The world being too much with me; late and soon.    I am the very proud principal of the Hartford Area Career and Technology Center (HACTC). And I have a confession to make. And it has nothing to do with my job as a principal. Sorry. This is personal. I am a reader. Yup. That is the confession. I find respite in reading. When my shoulders tense and my hands ring and my leg bounces, I look for words. Words that form a story. A story different than my own. Or a story I wish was my own. A story of redemption. Or forgiveness. (Something so hard for me). Or a story where someone overcomes the longest of odds to do well. You know, when the protagonist wins. I like it when the protagonist wins. Maybe that is the real confession of this blog entry. A Principal’s Confession: I like it when good wins. Like in the Batman comics. Those stories that made me a reader in the first place. No matter the villain, Batman won. Always. Joker. Penguin. Ra’s al Ghul. Hush. Black Mask. All character metaphors for life’s struggles. But which one is the metaphor now? For PANDAS? That cruel fucker of an autoimmune disorder that has stolen my daughter’s childhood. And my marriage. And my happiness. And any night’s sleep that does not have me pacing circles from the kitchen to the living room. #circleswithmyfeet #justadifferentkindofcircle Stubbing my toe on the bottom of the dishwasher, knocking off the cover plate. At 2:00 a.m. Waking the bunny, “Thumper”, in the next room. Making him ‘thump’ his back foot in annoyance. I understand, Thumper. I understand. Or maybe at 5:00 a.m. When I stumble over Clarabelle. Our friend. The best friend. To us all. A Golden Retriever. A better human than any of us. (More on that later). But after the stub and the trip, I eventually give up. Every morning. I give up. Falling to my knees and burying my head in the cushions of the green couch. Cushions that have weathered all of it. All of the PANDAS. Its rage. Its anxiety. Its tears. Its frustration. Its OCD. The cushions are stained with them all. And some yogurt. They are stained with yogurt, too. Could Batman defeat that villain? The PANDA? The villain that comes from nowhere? Unseen. And unclear. Confusing doctors. And vaccine supporters. And anti-vaxxers, too? The Harvey Dent of arguments. Probably. Batman would tough it out, though. And find a solution. The Dark Knight Detective. Something I cannot do. Obviously. Obviously. Because my toughness is gone. As is my grit. And my perseverance. Because whatever villain PANDAS would be, it would be the cruelest. The cruelest. It would be the villain that instantly - with “sudden onset” - takes happiness and turns it into despair. Just like the storm cloud that comes out of nowhere. During a sunny day in the hayfield. When the tedding is done. And the wind rows are made. In their perfect symmetry. Only five minutes of heavy rain. But just enough to ruin things. For a while. Making my Dad start all over again. All. Over. Again. To get all the hay in the barn. Tedding. Again. Wind rows. Again. More work. Back breaking work. Counting on sunshine. To show up. And it did. Eventually. And also a bit of a breeze. Eventually. Eventually, the hay would get in the barn. Dry. But why, Dad? Why cannot I get this hay in the barn? Despite ‘Tedding’ again. And ‘Wind Rowing’ again. Heart-breaking work. Getting this ‘PANDAS’ hay in the barn. You taught me to be tough. Insisted on it, really. To be strong. To persevere. To get up after being knocked down. If you land on one knee, you are good. You have another. Take the punch. Take the hit. Use the other knee. Get on both knees. If need be. Because that’s when prayer happens. But do not fall over. Ever. Like Batman. No matter his villain. He never fell over. Or gave up. You mentioned that one night when I was watering B.B. the cow. After carrying her water in five-gallon pails from the back of the house to the barn. In -10 degree weather. Because you knew Mrs. Manchester gave me the Batman comic. It was obvious then that I was never to give up. Ever. “Do not give up, Dougie.” “Get the hay in the barn.” “Get. It. In. The. Barn.” “The storm will be quick.” “It comes down the river, from the north, but it will not last long.” “It never does.” “But your toughness will. “ “It will last. “ And I have tried. I swear I have tried so hard, Dad. But I cannot do it anymore. It is still raining. And the ‘hay’ is getting moldy. It keeps getting wet. And I have been on one knee. And have come up swinging. Not caring who I hit. Particularly those who say vaccinate your children. “Believe the doctors.” “They know what they are doing.” Easy to say. When your child is not the moldy hay in the field. But I cannot fight any more, Dad. There is nothing left. And maybe that is where God wants me right now. Broken. Completely broken. To fight the yet-to-be-created Batman nemesis with nothing but Faith. You know. Like when Batman fought Bane. And lost. Broken back. Two knees. For sure. But twelve issues later, Batman got the ‘hay in the barn.’ Did this all start when I was six? Did it? Was this God’s plan? Starting when I could not read at all? And just wanted to give up. In Mrs. McGrail’s room? My first-grade teacher. When I was not a reader? And not a Batman fan? Yet. When she put me and Ralph Luce in the back of the room. Reading from the book that had the Caterpillar on the front. With the cowshit still fresh on our boots from morning chores. With the other kids in the class reading from the book with the umbrella on the front. Our smell far away from her. That bitch. The symbolism of the Umbrella and the Caterpillar not lost on Ralph and me. We were slow readers, for sure. Mouthing the words silently. And incorrectly. But not dumb. No, we were not dumb. Umbrellas fly. Caterpillars move slow. We knew. For sure. Fun with Dick and Jane, was no fun for me. Or Ralph. Especially when ‘that bitch’ forced me to read out loud to her. When I was in the back of the room. And she was in the front. Behind her desk. With the umbrella readers between us. Snickering. All of them. At my stammering. Over the multi-syllable words. Harder for me than carrying five-gallon pails of water from the house to the barn and B.B. the cow. Or harder than the whiskey that seems always to be to my left lately when I write. Words that ended with -ch but sounded like a K were particularly hard. So were words that had a -gh but sounded like an F. Yup. Difficult words. That made my classmates snicker. While I read to ‘the bitch’ in the front of the room. Well, not all of my classmates snickered. Tommy didn’t snicker. Tommy Hazen. Thirty-six years later he is still one of my most trusted friends. Long beard. Strong Vermont accent. And an equally strong hug. Both arms. Always with both arms. Every time I see him. Every. Single. Time. I am not necessarily a hugger. But I will never pass up a Hazen hug. Never. No. Tommy didn’t snicker. He just looked back at me and nodded. Encouragement. He nodded encouragement. For me to not flip over the chair and yell at Mrs. McGrail. Again. For the third week in a row. No. Tommy would not snicker. Is that when it all started, God? Dad? To begin prepare me for PANDAS? Because when Mrs. Manchester realized I struggled at reading, she gave me Batman. She did not ridicule. Like Mrs. McGrail. She gave me Batman. Comic books. I loved the pictures and words together. And could not get enough of them. I read and read and read and read and read and read. And then I read and read. Catching up to the Umbrellas. Addicted to reading. And stories. Passing the Umbrellas. Eventually. And becoming an English Teacher. Who would have guessed? Well, maybe you would have, Dad. You, too, Mrs. Manchester. And you, too, Tommy. All the encouragers. Always. With chores, Batman, and hugs. All of them I need now. And you give me now. To stay strong. While my daughter struggles. And fights. PANDAS. The ultimate villain. It did start then, didn’t it? At 6. Maybe God knows what he is doing after all. Yes. Yes. God knows what he is doing. Even in overcoming my unbelief. My reoccurring unbelief. To teach me to rely on love. From Mrs. Manchester. (RIP, my beloved teacher...and my Dad’s beloved teacher, too). From my Dad. From Tommy. With the two-armed hugs. And from my books. From the stories. That give me respite. Stories, love, and hugs. Is there anything better? No. There is not. Well, maybe my Dad and his wind rows. They might be better. And their beautiful symmetry in the fields. Despite any impending storm. Make no mistake, PANDAS can never defeat him. Or his wind rows. Or Mrs. Manchester. Or Tommy. Or Batman. And not me either. Ever. Never. PANDAS will not defeat me. Despite my two-knee kneel every morning. Brought there by a villain. But lifted up by my God. And love.  In describing my Christianity, I often reference that passage in Huckleberry Finn when Miss Watson is talking to Huck about Heaven. Explaining to him that it is full of harps and angels and such:
“Now she had got a start, and she went on and told me all about the good place. She said all a body would have to do there was to go around all day long with a harp and sing, forever and ever. So I didn’t think much of it. But I never said so. I asked her if she reckoned Tom Sawyer would go there, and she said not by a considerable sight. I was glad about that, because I wanted him and me to be together.” _______________________________________________________________________________________________ I am the very proud principal of the Hartford Area Career and Technology Center (HACTC). And I have a confession to make. I am a Christian. The former has nothing to do with the latter - well, sort of - but given the trend in my blog, I figured I would start with that lead. I gave my life to Jesus when I was in college. Well, I was barely still in college. Just weeks before graduating. Ironically, it was a Catholic priest who led me to that point. It was ironic because after being raised Catholic, I distanced myself hard from that faith once ‘Confirmed’. The distance came for many self-created reasons but one of those was because at the Confirmation I was ‘expected’ to kiss the Cardinal’s ring. And I refused. Fuck that. I would still refuse. And would still swear at the request. Another self-created reason. They no longer ask for that to be done. Thank God. But after that request and ceremony, I became an ‘atheist.’ Because I was an idiot. And full of myself. No humility. Conducting a running third person narrative of my life to anyone who would listen. And loved argument more than relationship. Or more than anything, really. And then I attended Saint Michael’s College. A Catholic college in Colchester, Vt. Because I thought I would have more people to argue with. All those Catholics in one place. And I was ready to dissect their faith. Well, that and because St.Mike’s was the only school I got in to. At eighteen my entire life dripped with irony. And hypocrisy. And ego. Gosh, what I mess I was. The lone, splayed bale in a field of tightly-stringed rectangles. The one that could not be neatly stacked on the ‘67 Chevrolet. The farm truck with the green, chipped-paint side rails. And 68,000 miles. All hayfield miles. And some sawdust miles. My goodness, I loved that truck. Regardless, the culture at St. Mike’s wore on me. Despite my self-created angst. And my self righteousness. And any other ‘self’-ish adjective or verb you can think of. They were all present in me. Because it was all about me. All the time. I was my biggest fan. An awesome guy. All you had to do was ask me. And I would confirm. Despite the corrections of Professor John Engels. And Professor John Reiss. Aside #1: I cried so hard and for so long on multiple bike rides at your passing, Professor Reiss. Life can be so unfair. As you often said. There was not a more gentle man on this earth and I still use your thoughts on As I Lay Dying when I teach that book. “It takes two people to make you, and one people to die. That's how the world is going to end.” ― William Faulkner Both John’s loved me enough to call me out for hiding behind false humility (and really bad poetry). And for acting way beyond what was developmentally appropriate egoism and behavior for a college student. Bless them. And then, as a senior, my girlfriend broke up with me. The best thing that could have happened to me. In hindsight. Twenty-six year hindsight. But not the best thing for her. In immediate hindsight. Poor Joanne. A really good human. Just connected, at that time, with a physical man but an emotional boy. A child, really. I was way too immature to handle that relationship and the eventual break up. Without anger. Without alcohol. Without obsession. I am so sorry, Joanne. Thank God there were not cell phones then. Or Facebook. Or Snapchat. Or Twitter. My dysfunction, immaturity, and mistakes would have been ten times worse. And waaaaaaay more public. But after that breakup and a resulting three-day-binge-drinking experience and a loss in a boxing match, I met Father Mike. My three concerned roommates approached him with their worries about me and my behaviors. So Father Mike reached out. And invited me to his office. Aside #2: I should have won the boxing match but didn’t because I was angry. Anger doesn’t win. Ever. Particularly in boxing. And in life. Father Mike didn’t care about anger, alcohol, obsession, boxing, or atheism. He just loved me. And told me how much God loved me, too. And it was hard not to believe him. Given his example. He was not a salesman. No. He did not stand at my door with a briefcase full of gimmicks and one liners, trying to sell me something. Not at all. He never offered to demonstrate the product. To vacuum the carpet in my living room. He knew that was not necessary. God did not need demonstration. God just needed connection. Relationship. A chance to touch fingertips with me. Yes, Father Mike was quite the man. He was the product. And showed me that picture in the Sistine Chapel. Knowing I loved art. And he didn’t care if I was ever a Catholic again. Ironic. For a Catholic priest. Or maybe not. In hindsight. Twenty-six year hindsight. He just wanted me to have a personal relationship with God. Knowing, at that time, that God was the only thing that was going to bring me back. To humanness. And love. I was so far gone. So. Far. Gone. And I was only twenty-one. Aside #3: I was ‘Gone’ again at age 25, 35, 40, and 46. And God always brought me back. From despair. From Depression. From Anxiety. To Humanness. So Father Mike brought me to a ‘non-denominational’ (whatever that means) church in Burlington. In the basement of some building off of Pearl St. where the music was loud, people’s hands were raised, and the Holy Spirit was present. And I did it. I gave my life to Jesus. Praying the sinner’s prayer. Sincerely. Genuinely. Crying. Sobbing. With strangers who smelled like overcrowding, silage, and work clothes. My kind of people. Actually. And Father Mike’s, too. Apparently. As they all knew him. And hugged him in greeting. And after the sinner’s prayer and the giving of my life, it all began. The struggle. Of being a ‘Christian.’ At times, it seemed a harder struggle than being a heathen. Ug. Because even though I ‘gave my life to Christ’, I struggled daily with what that meant. My heart was pure in the ‘giving’, but my struggle did not necessarily change. My behavior did. For sure. But not the struggle. It didn’t take long to notice that my way of connecting and experiencing God did not match with how I was ‘supposed’ to connect and experience God as a ‘Christian.’ I was not fluent in Christianese. The verbs and phrases of that unique language baffled me. “Measuring up.” “Sing your own song to the Lord.” “I’ll pray for you... “ “Let’s transcend what is here….” “Supernatural” “If it be God’s will….” “The Lord works in mysterious ways.” “You just have to put it in God’s hands.” “Go into your prayer closet.” “Just enjoy the Fellowship.” “I’ll pray a hedge of protection around you.” A what kind of “closet”…..? A “hedge” of what….? I did not know what any of that meant. I just knew and experienced God in the woods. And the rink. And the classroom. And didn’t quite understand the Sunday purpose of listening to someone talk about God instead of experiencing him with a fly rod in hand. Staring in wonder at the miraculous colors of a Brook Trout. Or feeling the shoulder comfort of a hunting rifle while pushing through the puckerbrush. Or walking through the Fall moss losing its mallard-head green but gaining its earthy-brown odor. Or recovering the front tire of a mountain bike as it dove unexpectedly into the dirt filtered to the side of the single track. Or hearing the ice chips sail across the rink from the rip of the ½ radius of the skate blade. Or listening to a student righteously admonish Huck for referring to Jim as a ‘Nigger.’ All. All unique in their beauty. The different languages of God. The language that I spoke. Yes. That is the way it was. For twenty-six years. Me. Trying to reconcile the ‘expectation’ from the experience. Aside #4: I know now that the former was anxiety based. And not true at all. Despite my blame. That it was a church. Or a pastor. Or a person. Or my childhood. Until at forty-seven years, by chance, I reread a journal entry from when I was twenty-one and had just met Father Mike and asked Jesus into my heart. There were a lot of words in the entry but the quote from Father Mike that stuck out simply said, “God wants a relationship with you. As you are. Flawed. Sinning. Speaking your language. No matter. He will still love you. Always. If you give your heart to him.” So I simply said ‘Fuck it.’ I am who I am. In God. Flawed. So very flawed. A sinner. A swearer. (Obviously, if you have read this far). A drinker. Aside #5: I love whiskey. But have not been drunk in twenty-five years. A fisherman. A hunter. A walker. A hockey player. A mountain biker. A teacher. And sometimes a non-church goer. Aside #6: My current church and my current pastor (of nine years) are incredibly awesome. Sooooo awesome. So very awesome. And so real. And genuine. And appreciate how I experience and hear from God. So yes, at forty-seven, I am now comfortable in how I speak to and hear from God. Completely comfortable. Father Mike would be proud of me. And that makes me proud. And happy. Bless you, Father Mike. Thank you for helping to save me. When I most needed saving. And indirectly helping to save me again when I was ‘Gone’ at age 25, 35, 40, and 46. And all the future times. You were right. So right. God loves me. Always. Despite my flaws. Despite my sin. Despite my roughness. Despite still not knowing how to speak proper Christanese. Despite all the struggles of this life. Including my daughter’s health. And accepting people’s kindness. Yes, Tom Sawyer is still my kind of ‘Christian.’ As are those who smell of overcrowding, silage, and work. But I am happy. So happy. Knowing that God just loves me. He just loves me. ------------------------------------------------------------------------- Lines that did not make it into this entry. The outtakes, if you will: And yes, I read the Bible. Daily. And use its guidance every second of my life. But I do not worship it. I worship God. Likening the Bible to a Shakespeare play. Not being written to be read. But rather seen. On stage. The stage of life. Played out. And yes, I see God on my bike rides. When I can barely breathe. And am able to process being a mediocre husband. And father. In that processing God shows up. When the #circleswithmyfeet are not at the RPM of the circles in my brain. And yes, I experience God when reading. Getting lost in Billy Collins’ poetry. Poetry Professor Engels would love. “You will always be the bread and the knife, not to mention the crystal goblet and—somehow—the wine.” ― Billy Collins And yes, I do pray. I pray every day. Referring to the handwritten list in my right-hand Carhartt pocket to do so. A list that is renewed and added to every day. Despite its wrinkles and crumples. A list that includes my daughter, my wife (I write their name down daily), my students, and my teammates. Because life can be hard, eh? So my list also includes anyone who I meet on the street or in public. Including the awesome Julio and Mackenzie and Durell and Rand at the Mobile on Route 5. They are such good people. And deserve prayer. But I do not pray with them. Or with others. Or ‘over’ others. That is so very hard for me. Even if it is with my wife or daughter. I do not know why. They are the apple of my eye. My world. My definition of love. Yet, I prefer to pray alone for them. Head sweating. Hands cramping on the handlebars. And breath lost. While my feet make circles. And my nose fills with the smell of mud. #dirtchurch Or #snowchurch. Whenever I can ride. Stumbling over my words. Not knowing what to say. To God. Feeling the words in my heart. And in my hands. My jittering, shaking hands. Making my front wheel a bit unstable. Jittering and shaking every time I come before the Him. Because he is with me. Always. No. I am not a typical Christian. And it shows. Not only in my prayer life. But also in my job. In my fathering. In my husbandry. Despite my brutal, ugly mistakes in all three. Yes, I in large part, I am still a mess. Like I was when I was twenty-one. A more focused mess but a mess nonetheless. Struggling with my flaws. Every day. But not my love. Of God. Of Jesus.  I am the very proud principal of the Hartford Area Career and Technology Center (HACTC). And I have a confession to make.
I hate heroin. And not because my Current students are using. That has happened, for sure. But that is certainly not the norm. No, it is not the Currents but rather the Formers. The ones who have graduated. And are in ‘life’ (whatever that means) by a couple, few, or handful of years. And sometimes who come to see me. To ‘check in’ and say, ‘hello.’ Late in the afternoon on any given day after school, the sun peaking just below the Dogwood on the other side of the parking lot. When the teammates are gone. And it is just me in the office. Tapping away on the computer. Responding to emails. The endless emails. Or praying. Or thinking. They are all a good possibility after five o’clock. Or really anytime after three o’clock. Or anytime, I guess. Nonetheless, the Formers swing around the parking lot in their car and see the light on. And me standing at my desk. So they come in. All smiles and hugs. Unicorns and rainbows. With eye contact. And I love it. And smile and hug them back. It is good to see them. For sure. But within seconds, the unicorns and rainbows disappear. And their smile changes. And the Dementors arrive. And hover. And the Formers stare down at their feet and shuffle their shoes side to side. In an awkward pause. And in the awkwardness and shuffling I notice their shallow cheeks. Their pale cheeks. And pale skin. And the dark bags under their eyes. Like my father’s tea bag on the saucer after finishing a cup. An effort to calm a long day at work. Or a longer evening in the barn. When I was a kid. What a strange memory and analogy. Sorry for that. But after the hug, the eye contact, and the shuffling, I catch a whiff of something on the Formers. And realize it is their breath. It smells chemically. Bleach? Antiseptic? It is so hard to describe. But not hard to notice. Or identify. And then I realize why the Dementors are there. Heroin. That is what I smell on their breath. Heroin. From being smoked rather than injected. Heroin. ‘The evil.’ The 'deceptive friend.' The Formers call it a lot of names. And when the conversation starts, the long pauses between the Formers' words and sentences start, too. So I ask them if they are okay. And they say, ‘No.’ And tears drip down their cheeks and hit their shoes, staining them briefly. So that is when I hug again. The perfect time to hug again. A weak effort to bring back the unicorns and rainbows. And marginalize the Dementors. At least for a minute. A minute for me to ask questions to see if the Formers will possibly tell me the truth: How are you? How are you feeling? Do you know who loves you? Is there anything you want to tell me about your life? Are you in control of you or is something else in control of you? I don’t care either way. And neither do your people. We just love you. We just love you. We just love you. Is there any way I can help you other than a hug? And then they do it. They tell me the truth. And talk about their ‘deceptive friend.’ And tell me that it 'promised relief and relationship but has only brought sorrow.' And 'emptiness.' And they tell me about the 'warmth' that 'deceptive friend' brings. Initially. And then the 'calm.' Initially. Until the shallowness of both disappear. Leaving as quick as they came. Replaced by craving. And itching. And paranoia. And the pursuit of more 'friendship.' Yes, heroin is the worst kind of 'deceptive friend.' According to my Formers. They know. They most certainly know. And when they leave my office and get back in their car, the chemical smell and the Dementors still lingering, I am left wondering what to do. What to do. What to do. I don't know what to do. So I write. This. In the hopes that whoever reads it continues to latch onto grace. And understanding. And courage. And strength. If they have an addict in their family. Or in their close circle of friends. Or as a Former. I hope this reminds them - and myself, too (it is quite possible I am writing this only for myself) - that the 'deceptive friend' does not like us. And it does not like grace, understanding, courage, strength, and the true friend - love. Love. The Patronus. The thing that defeats the Dementors (Thank you, Harry Potter for leading us correctly). And the thing needed to view the addicts as separate from their addiction. And yes, that is so very hard. But when done, the addict's moral compass can be seen to still be intact. Pointing North. And reminds us that they are always worthy for us to use our Patronus to try and protect them. And, ironically, often they are the Patronus. And that is what makes it worth it when they sometimes get clean. Like so many of the Formers have. Because they got their foothold for recovery in love. Appropriately from those that love them. But that doesn't mean the non-recoverers are not loved. Or not protected by our Patronuses. Or do not have a moral compass pointing North. Or have lost their humanness. Or are not strong. That couldn't be farther from the truth. It just means that addiction has no explanation. Or any rhyme or reason. It just is. It just is. So, Formers.... Stop by. And bring your 'deceptive friend.' And the Dementors. Neither really scare me any more. And while I cannot promise anything in terms of your recovery, just know you will always be welcomed and hugged. And will always have access to my Patronus (an owl).  Last week, before school started at the Hartford Area Career and Technology Center, I was standing at my desk answering emails in the office I share with the Assistant Principal when I heard a student in our lobby exclaim loudly that he was ‘fucking sick of being treated like shit by his boss” at work.
The lobby was full of students and also a couple of visitors to our school. So I left my computer. And our office. And entered the lobby with a strong gait and clenched jaw. Confident and secure. Chest puffed. Cheeks red. Hands clenched in themselves. When I entered the lobby, I stared at the student. Tony. Until all was hushed. My ego likes the ‘hush’ when I enter a situation like that. My silly ego. Someday I hope to fully get over myself. And then I ripped the student for his language: “Tony, what are you doing? This is neither the time nor place for that language. Shut your mouth. Shut. Your. Mouth. You got me? Figure it out. What’s your problem???!!!!” Tony stared at me. I stared at him. Everyone in the lobby - visitors and students alike - stared at him. Not at me. At him. Tony. So he looked down at his well-worn logging boots. And got puffy chested. And red cheeked. With clenched hands. But passively and in embarrassment and guilt. So I went back to my office. To continue answering emails. Feeling good. Until another student, Sarah, came into the office. And closed the doors. With a fairly pronounced “slam.” And then with more discretion than I had shown Tony, stared at me. Behind my computer. And my emails. And my ego. For just a moment. In awkward silence. But awkward and long enough that I felt the need to look down at my shoes. Then Sarah spoke respectfully, “What was that, H? (Pause) Tony swore. (Pause) And it was disrespectful. But you corrected him disrespectfully. Respect isn’t taught by handling disrespect disrespectfully. Isn’t that what you always tell us?” I tried to stumble through a response but in the middle of the weak justification of my behavior, seizing a break in my words, she simply opened the door and left. And did so with a strong gait, clenched jaw, and curled hands - righteous indignation essentially dripping from her shoes as she walked away. Whoa. I didn’t know what to do. But I did know I was mad. Soooooooo very mad. But was it because she was wrong? Or because she was right? It didn’t take but a couple of anxious paces in the office and a few sips from the seltzer on the desk for me to realize it was the latter. Tony certainly needed to be corrected but everything about my correction was wrong: My intent. My tone. My words. My posture (Akimbo). With them all in full effect, I embarrassed Tony and made him feel guilty. Embarrassment and guilt do not have the power to correct behavior. Only love, understanding, and relationship do. And I had all three with Tony but didn’t use them. Instead, I gave way to anger and annoyance. Hence, my red cheeks leaving the office to correct him. My goodness, how many times do I have to learn the same lesson? This was the third time in my school leadership that I had to be respectfully corrected by a student for my disrespectful handling of disrespectful language in the lobby. Is there a clearer definition of irony (or hypocrisy) than that last sentence? Unlikely. Oy. No. Respect isn’t taught or learned by handling disrespect disrespectfully. And just because I was right to correct Tony, didn’t give me the right to be disrespectful. Thank you for those reminders, Sarah. And even as I write this, I feel my cheeks reddening, my chest puffing, and my hands getting tense. In embarrassment. And guilt. Neither feel good. Sorry, Tony. And I don’t even have people staring at me - just the cat in my lap and the Golden Retriever on the floor whining to go outside. But this is a confession after all. So I need not to make two mistakes in this situation: addressing you disrespectfully and then being stuck in my guilt and embarrassment. I will struggle to do so but will move quickly through them both to get to what Sarah wanted for me when she addressed me in my office and what I should have wanted for you when I ripped you in the lobby: accountability. Because love, understanding, and relationship comprise accountability. And Sarah had all three with me. But did not choose anger and annoyance. She chose Respect. Even though there was the ‘slam’ of the door. But I think that was simply to get my attention and in hindsight not a bad strategy at all. Something had to snap me out of my false feeling of goodness and bring me back down to earth. Where all school leaders need to be. Grounded. Thank goodness for the students that remind us of that. Particularly my students. Who remind me constantly that I need them for learning as much as they need me. #thisiswhatlearninglookslike #aprincipalsconfessions  At the end of her life, my grandmother was not only homebound but essentially chair bound.
She was ninety-years old and living in my parents first floor bedroom. And when she did get out of her chair, it was to go to the bathroom. Or to get into bed. Both were about four feet away on either side of the chair. And she needed assistance to do either. There were many days that she never even got dressed, despite my mother’s encouragement. She just sat in the chair in her nightgown covered by her velvet green bathrobe. The bathrobe had an intertwined rose pattern at the shoulder points - an unintentional (or maybe not) recognition of her mother. Roseanne. And while she sat in the chair, she would often look out the window to her right, observing the ‘momma’ duck taking care of her ducklings and swimming in the pond across the street. I suspect there was more thought involved in that daily observation than my grandmother shared with me - or anyone - but I don’t know that for certain. Regret? Reflection? Jealousy? Nonetheless, despite her chairboundness, my grandmother still had her pride. And in all of us, pride can take different forms. For her, it was in her appearance. Not vanity. No. That denotation (and connotation) contains too much negativity. No. Not vanity. She simply liked her hair to look nice. And feel nice. And often commented during my too infrequent visits that the thing that made her feel her age the most, and feel like she was no longer a part of the world, was when her hair was unkempt and growing long. Not the immobility. Or the clouded memory. Or the wrinkled flesh. It was her hair. Thinning. And white. But still her connection to humanness. And my mother, knowing how important that connection was, called around to see who would be willing to come to the house and ‘cut’ my grandmother’s hair. And Olivia was willing. Olivia Maville. Olivia was a former student from the Cosmetology program at the Hartford Area Career Technology Center. And at the time was working hard to get her own chair in a local salon. She came. And styled my grandmother’s hair. She didn’t ‘cut’ it. She ‘styled’ it. The former being the physical act. The latter including love. And art. And understanding. And love (did I say that already)? And although I wasn’t there, my grandmother recounted the experience to me on my next infrequent visit. Every detail of the experience. The gentleness in the soft sound of the comb going through her hair, careful not to be pulled or snagged. The tone in Olivia’s voice when she told my grandmother what she was going to do next.. and then next...and then next… so as not to startle or scare. ‘She spoke to me so kindly,' my grandmother said, 'like I was the one doing something nice for her.’ The concern about whether the cape was too tight or irritating around her neck. And the attention to detail when the scissor blades came slowly together again and again so as to have my grandmother's hair ‘look just right.’ My grandmother not only said that Olivia was 'sweet and beautiful' but 'had made her feel human again.' By styling her hair. And listening to her. And treating her the same at “ninety-years old as if I were twenty-years old.” And for the next few days, maybe longer, my grandmother got dressed every morning. And ditched the nightgown. And the robe. She felt ‘a part of life again.’ Is there a more noble result of work? No. There is not. Which is why I have such a hard time with those who happen to prioritize some occupations as more valuable than others. It happens, doesn’t it? Someone thinking that a Cosmetologist only works in hair..or nails...or vanity...... Rather than in encouragement. Or confidence. Or making someone feel 'a part of life again.' It happens that someone thinks a doctor is held in higher value than the Machinist. A lawyer in higher value than the Dishwasher. A principal in higher value than the Farmer. Or, in broader terms, the college graduate in higher value than the Non. But the value in an occupation is not found in the occupation itself. Or in its hourly wage or salary. It is found in the gladness of heart in which the worker does the work. If done with love, caring, gentleness, and attention to detail, then there is value. Great value. And in that way, all work becomes valuable. All.Work. Particularly if the work makes someone ‘feel human again.’ Right, Olivia? In styling my grandmother’s hair - even though you had no idea you did so at the time - you exemplified what the team and me at the HACTC want for all of our students: That whenever anyone asks them ‘what do they want to be when they grow up?’, their mind will wander to the things they can do to help others and they will respond accordingly that they simply want to be ‘happy.’ That is what they want to be when 'they grow up. ' Happy. And to have value in their work. But not value as determined by culture or money. Value as determined by the traits you showed in styling my grandmother's hair. And a value that can only come with a gladness of heart equal to your own. Thank you, Olivia, for being such a good example of work, value, and happiness. Bless you. #thisiswhatlearninglookslike  I am the very proud principal of the Hartford Area Career and Technology Center (HACTC). And I have a confession to make.
I have favorites. But not favorite students. Well, that’s not true. Shit. That is so not true. I did have favorite students. Damn it. That is so embarrassing to write. Knowing what I know now and feeling what I feel now about teaching. And learning. And students. And if this is a true confession, I have to admit that at forty-seven years old and in year twenty-six of my teaching career, it took me five drafts and three weeks to write those first seven lines. That ended with the truth…. I did have favorite students. Which, when I started to write, was not the focus of this entry at all. As shown in the wrong tense and purposeful switch in the second and third lines. Both hint at my lie. My first draft lie. To go elsewhere with this entry. But despite my intent, and my lie, the truth comes out. As it always does. I.Had.Favorites. Me. The teacher who claimed that 'all my students were my favorites.' And in that egoistical and false claim missed the signs of those students who knew the lie. Their clenched hands. Their narrow eyes. Their tightened shoulders. Their bouncing legs under the desk. Their broken pencils from pressing too hard on the paper I just passed out. And the swearing at me under their breath after I questioned them about their life. And their struggles. My insincere questions. The reality that I had favorites took so many drafts and so long to write because I was avoiding the truth. And the hypocrisy. I am really good at both sometimes. Avoidance. And hypocrisy. I avoid my hypocritical truths. Like the fact that I had favorite students. #aprincipalsconfessions I avoided that truth because what I know now is that having favorites as a teacher just sucks. For those who are not the 'favorites.' And that was the majority of students in my classes. And despite what I thought or how I convinced myself otherwise, they knew. They so knew. That they were not my 'favorite.' And hopefully, they didn’t give a damn. Despite their clenched hands, tightened shoulders, bouncing legs, and broken pencils. I hope they had enough defiance or wisdom to know that I was wrong. Because who the fuck was I? A stupid teacher. Whose favorites were the engaged. And the athletes. And the 'popular.' Who still needed a good teacher in their life. But not at the expense of other students. And I pray now that my behavior did not solidify my 'non-favorite student's' belief that they did not belong. In a place where everyone should belong. School. Or did not marginalize them in an environment where there should be no margins. School. I am so sorry. So very sorry. Please forgive me. Because I now look at all my students the same. As equal. And mean it. No lie. And no insincerity. All students are my favorite. Not just the engaged, the traditionally athletic, and the 'popular.' All students. The students hiding in the back of the classroom. Favorites. The students with their hoods on. Constantly. Favorites. The students who are non-traditional athletes that climb, bike, board, ride, and skate like no one's business. Favorites. The students who look a little rough. Favorites. The students that act angry or defiant. Favorites. The disabled. Favorites. Because they are all brilliant. Absolutely fucking brilliant. In every way. Yes, I want to go back. And do it over. And show ALL my former students the same love and sincerity as I showed my favorites. To let them know that they, too, are valuable. And worthy. Of respect. Despite their stupid English teacher. Who didn’t know anything. But now does. Because he is no longer stuck on himself. He hopes. And works that non-stuck-on-himself trait into his leadership. And his hugs. And his respect. And his love. #thisiswhatlearninglookslike And I know all the above because of former students. Who have come back. And told me. That they knew my lie. Because I now have their children in school. And they want better for them. And better from me. And better for me. And they will get all three.  My grandmother’s name was Theresa Moynihan.
My sister and I called her ‘Mesa.’ So named from my sister’s inability as a three year old to say, ‘Theresa.’ And in truth, Mesa was tough and hard. But also gentle and full of love. She was, indeed, an emotional contradiction. A contradiction that was often difficult for those around her to navigate. A contradiction created in her childhood. Out of necessity. And a need to survive. And to provide. Born in Lawrence, Massachusetts in 1924, her father Edmond, left the family for ‘the woods’ when she was a teenager. That was an odd occurrence in the 20’s - a man leaving his family. ‘The whole neighborhood knew’ about Edmond leaving. It was publicly embarrassing. Embarrassing for Roseanne (Mesa's mother), Mesa and Mesa’s brothers and sisters: Anita, Edmond, Roland, Robert, and Dolores. Dolores was ten years old then. Mesa was sixteen. And as quickly as her father left the family, Mesa left high school. Never to finish. Despite her brilliance. She left high school to get a job. To help her mother support the family. And two years after that, Roseanne died unexpectedly - at thirty-eight years old - from a blood clot. She was Mesa’s ‘best friend and favorite person in this world.’ And Mesa was ‘crushed’ by her death. But Mesa was proud to say that in that difficult time, she was not alone. She had her brothers and sisters. They ‘stuck together and took care of one another.’ At nineteen, Mesa married my grandfather - John Moynihan. Grandpa. He was twenty-eight. And a man who, because of his deafness, never made it past the sixth grade. He was ‘the hardest worker she ever knew.’ Together, they ran the Prospect Dairy. Well, my grandfather ran Prospect Dairy and Mesa worked at Raytheon. The former getting its beginning by my grandfather - after being dismissed from the sixth grade - with one cow and a single bottling unit. It ended sixty years later with over three hundred devoted customers, when delivering milk to doorsteps twice a week was a thing. The latter, Raytheon, ended in retirement. After wiring Patriot Missiles, of Gulf War fame, and many other complicated weapons that Raytheon produced. In between, Mesa and Grandpa had two children. My mother and another that died young. And also in between, Mesa had chance encounters with her father. She told me once that when my mother was three and they went to my Aunt Tootsie’s house, Edmond Sr. was there. Aunt Tootsie, Edmond’s sister, had apparently stayed in touch with him after he left Roseanne, Mesa, and the rest of the children. Edmond looked at my Mesa and said, “Do you know who I am?” Mesa responded, “Someone who I am suppose to call my father...but never will.” Yes. Mesa was tough. And hard. And was seemingly pleased to tell me that Edmond, after having a successful career as a ‘hunting guide for many famous politicians’, died from ‘jaw cancer in the woods’. The same woods he left the family for. And when my Grandpa died, my grandmother sold the house in Methuen, Massachusetts and moved to Candlelight Terrace in Wilder, Vt. To be close to my mother, father, sister, and me. Losing my grandfather, selling the house, and moving from Massachusetts was hard for her. So very hard. And after about nine years of living in Candlelight Terrace, at the age of eighty-six, because she could not take care of herself any longer, my grandmother had to move in with my parents. She moved in to the first floor bedroom. And spent her days watching Hallmark movies, Judge Judy, and candlepin bowling, despite the efforts of my mother to get her out of that space and do other things. But in the end, understandably, Mesa could not work through being limited to two-hundred fifty square feet. It was too humbling for her. So she lashed out. With a sharp tongue. And a cloudy memory. (Is there a worse mix at the end of life?) The lashing out was also understandable. But hard. And tough. Again, like she was. ‘Understandable’ being a relative term given that she was not living with me nor was I bringing meals to her three times a day. Mesa died in Brookside Nursing Home on May 21, 2016. She was ninety-one years old. And for some reason, tonight, I am remembering her. Clearly, I am remembering her. Hence, all these words. But why? Why this remembrance now? Is it because I never read her obituary? Or wrote one for her? Like she asked me to do once after reading one of my poems when I was in college. Or maybe it is because I did not have a chance for complete closure after she died. Because, Mesa, in classic fashion, did not want calling hours. Or a funeral. And me, in classic fashion, put off grieving until tonight - more than two years later. Or maybe it is because I am thinking about some of her gentleness and love traits that I inherited from her. Traits that have certainly helped me in my constant pursuit to be a good educator and a good person. I hope I am both. She would like that. But I would be remiss not to mention that I have also chosen to have some of her hard and tough traits, too. A choice that has essentially created my own emotional contradiction for those around me. I know for certain that my family, friends, colleagues, and students sometimes have a hard time navigating those things in me. I am not sure she would like that. I know she didn't like that about herself. I also know that neither do I. Despite it being ‘my choice.’ Well, maybe that is another piece of writing. When I am able to fully deal with all of the emotional choices I have made in my life. Gosh, will I ever be ready to write such a thing? I am not sure Mesa ever did that. Deal with her emotional choices in life. And all her losses: father, mother, child, husband, home, independence, memory. But who knows? Maybe she did. Regardless, she was a good woman. A good woman, for sure. Despite her toughness and hardness. And because of her gentleness and love. Rest easy, Mesa. There is no contradiction now.  I am the very proud principal of the Hartford Area Career and Technology Center (HACTC). And I have a confession to make.
Learning can be hard. And so can humility. I was reminded of both recently when a student landed in my office for his negative behavior in class….again. With a charged tone and palms pressed firmly on the table in our office (I share an office with the Assistant Principal), I found myself saying to the student - with chest and head leaned in his direction, “Come on! I thought you learned this!! You told me you did!! You showed me (and others) that you did!!! For a long time!!! Why? Why!? If you really learned it, then why did you do it again?!!!! What in heck are you doing?!!!” Emphasis on the question marks and exclamation points. I love grammatical symbols. The love of a former English teacher. Nonetheless, I was really, really, really, really, really, really, really annoyed that he was before me for the same reason he was before me two years ago. With the same crimson cheeks. The same sagging shoulders. The same eyes on the floor. And the same shuffling feet. If he ‘learned’ then, why was the mistake repeated and why was he sitting before me once more? But as life goes (well, at least my life), as soon as the student in question crossed the threshold of our office door to sit in the lobby and ‘think about his words and actions’, I opened up my computer to continue a task started before he was sent to our office. The task? Cleaning out files from my Google Drive. A task prompted by a notice in my email that I had ‘exceeded my storage limit.’ So I continued. And I continued feeling really damn good about myself for correctly ‘handling’ the student’s negative behavior. Oh yeah! Changing lives! Through correct discipline! Doug Heavisides! Da man! Da ‘Principal’! Doin' his job! And doin’ it well! Earning his pay! Whoooohooooo!!! That’s the truth. The shitty truth. That is how I felt. Ug. Embarrassing. In hindsight, there should not have been an emphasis on the grammatical symbols, despite my English teacher love. There should have only be a recognition of hypocrisy. And Humility. Because as the student left our office to sit in the lobby, a document came up on my screen from Google Drive asking if it should be deleted or saved. It was named “Things I Have Learned.” Serendipitous. I opened it. It was a list I made eight months into my new job as the school leader of the HACTC. To share with the staff and the students. To show them that I was ‘learning'. I read it. And swallowed hard. And awkwardly. With crimson cheeks. And sagging shoulders. And eyes on the floor. Damn it. There in front of me were twenty-four things that I had ‘learned.’ ‘Learned.’ ‘Learned’ just like the student in the lobby had ‘Learned.’ And I ‘disciplined’ him for. Hence, this confession. More than half of the things on the list, I could easily identify as new learning...just last week. Not six years ago, like I claimed. Conclusion: I did learn those things six years ago but then relearned those things - consistently and repeatedly - in the six years since. And if I had a principal who really understood learning speak to me in regards to my list, she could have said at any point in the last six years, “Good job!! You made a mistake!! I knew you would! And I am glad! Because you are now showing me (and others) that you are learning!!! Relearning. And relearning stays longer than initial learning. For a long time!!! I am so happy that you know what in heck are you doing!!!” With an emphasis on the exclamation points. Regardless if there was a love of grammatical symbols. Or a history as an English teacher. He would not have been annoyed. Really, really, really, really, really, really, really not annoyed. By my mistakes. By my relearning. Well, she might have been annoyed with my definition of ‘Learning.’ A definition carried forth into my teaching and eventually my school leadership. A definition grounded in the following: knowing something that can be used without mistake again and again for the good of the individual or the community at large. I have no idea where that definition came from. But it has been one I have used for twenty-six years. Did it come from my ego? My ambition? Probably. Most likely. Either way, my definition of learning would have been corrected by my principal. And would have been pointed out as inaccurate. And hypocritical. And very close to ridiculous. Hence, my realization in this writing. That learning is a process. A journey. Not a destination. Odysseus knew that. Learning is a journey of things relearned. Mistakes made. Again. And yet again. And again. I knew that. I know Odysseus. And is his journey. I know learning is not on the right of the equal sign but rather the left. A variable. A constant variable. Humility comes in big gulps, eh? On Monday, I will reconnect with the student I sent to the lobby. To apologize. Walking towards him with shuffling feet. And crimson cheeks. To redefine with him what Learning really is. And encourage him not to feel guilty about making mistakes. And having to relearn things learned previously. Despite my charged tone. And my pressed palms. Gosh, learning is hard, eh? And so is humility. And so is leadership.  I am the very proud principal of the Hartford Area Career and Technology Center (HACTC). And I have a confession to make.
I get annoyed when people call our school a ‘Vocational School’ or ‘VoTech.’ I don’t know why I get annoyed. I should be more understanding. Especially as the school leader. After all, when I went there, it was called a ‘Vocational School’ as it was for so many who now use that moniker when referencing us. Back then, as a ‘Vocational School’, people thought the school did only what its name implied: It prepared students for a vocation. However, those same people also thought the preparation was in stand-alone curriculums focused only on getting students ready to enter the world of work. And entry-level work at that. And they also thought the preparation for a vocation was just for students who did not succeed in regular educational settings. Who were sent to the ‘Vocational School’ or ‘VoTech’ to limit their disruption to the college-bound students in the regular high school. In short, we were sent there, to the ‘VoTech’, to make ashtrays and bird houses. And stay out of the way of the ‘smart’ kids. Kids destined for college. Yes, that is a bit of a hyperbole. And a bitter one. And probably inaccurate. Probably. But maybe not. Well, probably not. Never mind. It was accurate. I lived it. And felt it. And I still feel it. As the school leader. For the current students at the HACTC. And admittedly do so thinking back to 1988. And I want more for them. For my students. For their talents. And for their learning style. Then, in 1988, there was a huge misunderstanding of what the ‘Vocational School’ actually did. When I went there, I was not prepared for just the world of work, like its name implied or what ‘those people’ thought. I was prepared for life. And challenges. And successes. And life. Did I say that already? That I was prepared for life? Sorry. I was prepared by Mr. Art Nadeau. My Drafting teacher. Thank you, Art, for not believing the bullshit stereotype for the then 'Vocational Students.’ In your class there were no birdhouses or ashtrays. There were just expectations. High expectations. And rigor. For thinking. For problem solving. For communicating. For collaborating. For learning. You made me feel worthy. And not stupid. And not ‘hyperactive.’ And not crazy. And valued. And loved. Despite my main learning medium: my hands. My consistently dirty hands. From work. Work that soap could not wash away. Yes, you made me feel loved in an educational setting. And that I could go to college. If I wanted to. Or to the world of work. If I wanted to. Or the military. If I wanted to. Because all three had value. Real value. The same value. One was no better than the other two. Despite what the larger educational culture of the time suggested or implied or said. And I was prepared for them all. Just like what happens now for students attending the Hartford Area Career and Technology Center. The HACTC. #thisiswhatlearninglookslike A Career and Technology Center. Career and Technology Education (CTE). Not a ‘Vocational Center' or a 'VoTech.' But still largely misunderstood. Much like 1988. With its now current and incredible educators. My amazing teammates. Who are a lot like Mr. Nadeau. Well, exactly like him, actually. Loving students. And preparing them in shared curriculums between programs and community professionals. For Two-year colleges. Four-year colleges and universities. Post-Secondary Trade Schools. Post-Secondary Technical Schools. NASCAR School. The Military (but not grunt-level service). And yes, the world of employment. But not entry level jobs. Even though there is nothing wrong with that, is there Mr. Nadeau? Preparing students for work. Even entry-level work. 'All work has value. Even the most mundane. As it gives the worker a sense of belonging. And community. And that sense strengthens us all, doesn’t it?' Quote from Mr. Nadeau. My teacher. And also, more or less, from Mike Redington. My predecessor as Director of the HACTC. And my mentor. Like in their time, today's programs at the HACTC have concurrent enrollments - college classes - embedded in the curriculums. Most students leave with at least three (sometimes twelve) college credits transcriptable to colleges and universities. Well, those who are not full of themselves (@UVM, @Middleburycollege @St.Michael's...my alma mater..that I love but am annoyed with). And believe learning can only occur in their environment. Their ‘academic’ environment. Their protected environment. Where theory never meets practicality. Unless accidentally. Accidentally in their 'Privateness.' And HACTC students also leave with multiple Industry Recognized Credentials. And Cooperative Education experiences. And the potential to utilize Articulation Agreements between the HACTC and Post-Secondary colleges and universities. Again, with the good ones. The ones not full of themselves. And HACTC students gain high school credits beyond those identified by their sending high school as simply ‘elective.’ These are all things that CTE has done for forty years. Maybe longer. Things that regular high schools are now just offering and starting to focus on. Vermont Act 77. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, eh? Nice work, CTE. Nice work. Even in 1988. So, in the end, I guess call us whatever you want. ‘Vocational’, ‘VoTech’, or ‘CTE’. My annoyance is my own. Not anyone else's. It is based not in the name, I guess, but in the misunderstanding. The misunderstanding of what our amazing students do in our school and what they learn and is available to them after they graduate. And misunderstanding is... well...understandable. But I do hope it clears up soon. For our students' benefit.  I am the very proud principal of the Hartford Area Career and Technology Center (HACTC). And I have a confession to make.
I Think about my students. Frequently. And I Pray for them, too. More frequently. Yes. More frequently. Thoughts and Prayers, if you will. The phrase connotated lately to mean ‘ineffective.’ Uttered or shouted or hashtagged from elephant to donkey. Or visa versa. From the emotional to the irrational. To signify uselessness. Or inaction. But I don’t care about any of that. That is their ironic, hypocritical conversation. About a symptom. Not the problem. Mental illness is the problem. Most educators know that. If they do not, they are not paying attention. So, I will still Think and Pray. Because both are action. To me. And not ineffective. Or useless. And I will do both frequently. Every day, in fact. Guilt free. Blocking out the uttering. And the shouting. And the hashtagging. Mostly in the morning. On the green couch in my living room. With knees on the carpet and elbows on the middle cushion. Just to the left of the yogurt stain. But I also Think and Pray in school. Before the students arrive. Sitting in their chair. In their classroom. Thinking and Praying for wisdom. For them. So they can know how to handle their struggle with their parents. Who, while drunk, tattooed them with pen ink. Because it was 'fun.' And ‘bonding.’ Bonding is suppose to hurt and embarrass, right? And I Think and Pray about Hope. For them. Because they have just lost a brother. Or another family member. Or a close friend. To heroin. Fucking heroin. And I Think and Pray about strength. For them. When they cut themselves. On their arms. Or their thighs. For the release. Of pain. And emotion. Trying to hide the cuts under baggy sweatshirts and sweatpants. Only to be thankfully betrayed by the blood stains. Or their tears. Or their slow gait. Or their silence. Sometimes I Think and Pray quickly. Three seconds. When I touch their shoulder. Or high five them. When I suspect a struggle. And some of my teammates do it, too. Think and Pray. Sometimes we do it together. So do many educators. Silently crying out for mercy for our students. For them to just catch a break. And yes, we Think and Pray for the good things, too. To play well in their try outs. To ace their test. To get the job they applied for. To be well. And healthy. And happy. Thinking and Praying. Thoughts and Prayers. Thinking and Prayers. Thoughts and Praying. Whatever. Either way is a catalyst for action . Because action begins as a thought first. Does it not? And action changes things. Does it not? And Prayer? Prayer doesn’t work retroactively. I admit that. I have not yet known God to change what has already happened. He will not do that. But he will change it going forward. That I have seen. Consistently. To oppose the effects of others’ Free Will. And support long-term change and growth and strength and influence. Even when it seems those are so very far away. And not what will happen. So I have learned to Think and to Pray. And hope others will, too. Even if their thought is not my thought. Or their God is not my God. Or any God at all. Because both Thinking and Praying are action. And useful. And cause change. And will help with the problem. And eventually with the symptoms. Even if it is only the silencing of the uttering, shouting, and hashtagging. If you are looking to buy a mountain bike for the first time as an adult, don’t do it.
Don’t buy one. Well, at least if your sole focus is going to be on that…buying the mountain bike. And that is really easy to do given the eye-candy design of mountain bikes these days. But if that is all you are looking to do - buy the mountain bike - then you’ll get one. And possibly a good one. Most likely online. And for less money than at your Local Bike Shop. And once purchased, the bike might get a few rides. Then it will rust with good intention. In your garage. Or your basement. Wherever you store your bad purchases. And you will look to sell your first adult mountain bike on Facebook. Or Craigslist. With annoyance. Four years after you bought it. Because of the realization that it is no longer worth what you paid for it. Because the dominant variables in your purchase - the price and its parts - were misguided. And wrong. And not where a first mountain bike’s true worth is determined. Or any mountain bike's worth, actually. The worth is not in its price. Or in the quality of its parts. Or in what a magazine says. Or an online review. But rather in The Community that it introduces you to. The Community. Where people will care about you. And support you. Not only in biking. But in life. Asking about the stresses in your job. And the challenges you face. Inquiring how your daughter is doing. And your wife. Sincerely and genuinely inquiring. At the trailhead. Or at the top of a climb. While looking you in the eye. And touching your arm in understanding. Encouraging you when your bike posture and riding pace show sadness. Not asking questions when you are quiet on a ride. Or fall behind the group because you are tired. So.Very. Tired. Or simply out of shape. Because life has gotten in the way. A Community that accepts you as you are. Flawed. Imperfect. Distracted. Moody. But a work in progress. #dirtchurch #circleswithmyfeet @masonracingcycles A community that high fives you when you finally clear that obstacle that has previously made you dismount. And laughs with you when you fall off your bike, unhurt, and covered in mud. Or snow. And yes, a Community that gives you a beer in the parking lot after the ride. When you do not have one of your own. So…. When you look to buy your first adult mountain bike, look first at the community it will introduce you to. And then consider price. And parts. And reviews. And buy from a Local Bike Shop. That is where community is created. And where it is sustained. Then you will ride. Consistently. And nothing will rust. Or need to be sold. And you will not be annoyed. You will be happy. And cared for. And supported.  I am the very proud principal of the Hartford Area Career and Technology Center (HACTC). And I have a confession to make. I suspend students out of school for their negative behavior. And I hate it. Hate. It. Suspensions do not change behavior. I know that. And that is the goal of discipline, right? To help change student’s behavior? To promote learning? Because change in behavior comes from learning. Not punishment. And removing the student from the community - even for a short while - despite intention, is simply punishment. And punishment creates Guilt. And Shame. And Anger. And Regret. And Separation. Catalysts for bad behavior. Suspensions do not create accountability. Nor ownership. Nor courage. Nor reflection. Nor inclusion. Foundations of learning. And I know there is research that prove suspensions do not change behavior. But I do not need research to show me that. I see it in the slumped shoulders. The bowed head. The tears. The folded, shaking hands. The colored cheeks. From defeat. From embarrassment. When I tell them they are suspended. Out of school. Out of the community. No. I do not need research. The students tell me. Somehow. Even the non-suspended students. Like when a few closed the door in my office and with shaky voices told me that they didn’t understand me suspending a student out of school for a truancy. That it didn’t make sense. Removing a student from the community for not wanting to come to the community. “ ‘Why is that H? Why did he choose not to come to school? That answer is more important than his action. Sending him home to be alone only strengthened his feeling that he is not a part of the HACTC...which is why he didn’t come in the first place...he doesn’t feel he belongs. That’s what needs changing. His belonging. If he belongs, his behavior will change.’“ Wisdom. Or when my Student Advisory Board heard that I suspended a student out of school because he missed the bus to the HACTC and drove himself up from Windsor High School. So in our monthly meeting, they called me on it. And pointed out that I suspended the student for recognizing his mistake (missing the bus) and trying to correct it (driving to the HACTC). In their mind, I essentially suspended him out of school for wanting to come to school. And that was stupid. Really stupid. In hindsight, they were not wrong. It was stupid. Really stupid. Wisdom. So they asked to me think about it. A lot. Both of those instances were last year. And when I got over myself (don’t ask students a question you do not want to know the answer to), I did think. A lot. I thought about why I suspend. Out of school. Knowing what I know. And this is a confession, right? So here is the answer I came up with: It was easy. I suspended out of school because it was easy. Punishment was easy. Separation was easy. And quick. Easier and quicker than learning. Which is sometimes difficult. Like true accountability. Developing of a plan void of punishment that helps students reflect, learn, and restitute is hard. And takes time. And resources. And relationship. None of which I had. Or thought I had. But when I tried it...to create a plan not based in punishment but in learning, it was not as hard as I thought. My HACTC teammates and our community had my back. Or rather the student’s back. #thisiswhatlearninglookslike So a student who told his teacher to ‘Fuck Off’ was not suspended out of school. He was sent to White River Toyota (he had an interest in Automotive Technology) to spend the day with a shop leader. To learn what would happen there if an employee told his boss to ‘Fuck Off.’ And to build relationship. With their employees. With people in our community. Good people. And he did. Coming back to school from that experience owning his behavior. And being reflective. And still a part of our community. The HACTC community and the larger community. Maybe more so than he was before his emotional directive to his teacher. So now I use suspension out of school as a last resort. Making conscious efforts not to suspend and punish but to plan for inclusion and growth. Using my incredible teammates and community partners to do so. ‘It takes a village.’ And now I suspend out of school for only three reasons: weapons, fighting, and substances. When the behavior threatens the safety and well being of all in the community. But now I am even questioning if those instances are justified. So when I do suspend out of school, I call the student. Every night. To maintain the connection. To try and negate the separation. To let him/her know they are not alone. Or forgotten. And I will do that until me and my teammates and our students and our community can determine if there is a better way. Regardless of time or difficulty. To discipline. And learn. And change student's behavior.  My professional life has been shaped and influenced by many great educators.
Dody Manchester. Roger Maynard. Frank Kenison. Mike Stone. Butch Lovering. Peggy Miller. All are worthy - despite their assurances that they are not - of a piece of writing clarifying their influence on me. And I hope someday I will be able to sit down with pen in hand and give them due diligence. Diligence to the belief that teachers are not born; they are created. Through their childhood. Through their school years. Through their learning. And those that influence that learning. And influence their life. Hence, I confess that I was created. By them. By their influence. And given my troubles and struggles as a learner and their individual investment in me to overcome those troubles, that they would be so proud of whatever I wrote about them. Or whatever I wrote. Period. Who knew that the hyperactive, anxious, disruptive child who hated to read, write, and attend school (I would rather hide in the hayloft all day) would become a teacher? An English teacher. And eventually a school leader. With an awesome team. #thisiswhatlearninglookslike Apparently, they did. Bless them. But what made them so important to me, in hindsight, was that they knew that school - and the teachers in it...including themselves - were not the only place where learning occurred. Or where influence occurred. They knew it took a community. To create an educator. To create me. And they encouraged - and sometimes insisted on - that learning and interaction with my community. Dody knew that time with Buzzy Picken in his garage would teach me more than any day in fourth grade. So she looked the other way (as she did with my father when he was in her class) when I struggled to go to school and just ended up bugging Buzzy - after exiting the hayloft - to fix my bicycle in his garage, hanging around to watch him work hard (really hard), interact with customers, and tell jokes. I am still not convinced that Buzzy and Dody were not in cahoots in regards to my education. Bless you, Dody. Bless you, Buzzy. And Coach Stone knew that Bob White was what I needed. More than football. Telling me to honor my commitment. And to go to work. To cut wood. And mow lawns. And build stone walls. And not leave Bob in the lurch. In turn, missing practice. Honoring a commitment was more important than learning plays. The former would serve me well in life. The latter would to, but just to a lesser a degree. What a great coach. To know that. To know that fine line. Bless you, Mike Stone. Bless you, Bob White. And Peggy knew that she could teach me grammar and writing in Junior English but she could not teach me life. Henry Koloski could do that, though. So she encouraged me to miss school and talk to Henry. Again. And again. And write about it. To record it. Somehow. So I wrote a poem. About Henry. And when I was teaching English, I was able to share that poem with his great-grandson. Who re-shared it with me recently. To remind me. That it takes a community. To create educators. To create good humans. Bless you, Peggy. Wherever you are. Where on earth did you get that foresight? So thank you Dody, Roger, Frank, Coach Stone, Coach Lovering, and Peggy. I hope you are proud of what I’ve become. Sometimes I am so unsure of myself and wish you were here to still teach me. But mostly I am confident in what you created. You created me. A teacher. An educator. And I try to honor you in my work. And your investment in me. Every day. Every. Day. _____________________________________________________________________________ Horses, Henry, and Me. (written in Peggy Miller’s Junior English Class) In the summer evenings of my youth, when the horses sauntered down the lane to eat hay and scratch their necks and chests against the barb wire gate, my neighbor Henry sat on his porch steps drinking beer from a can and smoking a cigarette. Some evenings, after chores, (My hands still stinging from the wire handles of the water pails) when I, too, felt only like sauntering, I would make my way up our dirt road, past the old maples and the rusted out Scout, to hear Henry's gentle, raspy greeting: "Dougiemyboy, Whaddayaknow?" (The same greeting he gave my father when he was young). Henry would slide to one side of the step, a sign for me to join him in sitting, and there I passed time with Henry, learning things about 'fishin', 'wahmen', 'cahs' 'huntin', 'tratahs', 'histahry', 'hahses', and 'govment', that I would never learn from school, reading, or Catechism, especially not Catechism.  I am the very proud principal of the Hartford Area Career and Technology Center (HACTC). And I have a confession to make.
I struggle with anxiety. Every day. Every. Single. Day. For those that know me well, that is not necessarily an earth-shattering confession. I am sure you have noticed. Or not. The anxiety tells me you have noticed, despite my own inability to identify it. For years. Since I was eighteen. Maybe earlier. I never knew what it was until just recently. I am also sure you have noticed my attempts to cover it up. Laughter. Joking. Silence. Brooding. Deflection. Distance. Faux confidence. Fading to the corner. Wringing my hands. Bouncing my right leg up and down. Over the top energy and amiability. Particularly while teaching. Or public speaking. The energy and amiability trumped only by the brutal crash of both. At home. Or alone. Or alone on a bike. No energy then. No amiability. No laughter. No joking. Only awkward silence. Or deep brooding. Or a replaying in my mind of scenarios from the day: Conversations had. Conversations not had. Decisions made. Decisions not made. Mistakes made. Perceived mistakes made. Real mistakes made. Replaying over and over. And over again. Mostly at night. Two o’clock a.m. is my particular replay hour. My own little mental highlight show from the day just lived. Or from a day lived last year. Or ten years ago. Or maybe a replay from five weeks in the future. Or a year in the future. Or maybe just tomorrow. My brain does not turn off. Ever. Even in sleep. Yes, I take medication. And see a therapist. Both are new to me in the last couple of years. That was really hard to confess. Two sentences ago. I don’t know why. The medication I hate. The therapist I love. The former makes me feel weak. Like I have given up. And fat. It also makes me feel fat. None of those are true, by the way. That is the anxiety talking. Like you 'noticing' all these years. Anxiety is the biggest liar. The. BIGGEST. Liar. Seeing a therapist makes me feel strong. And confident. And like I am doing the right thing. The therapist. She is great. She helps me realize I am not a lone. My anxiety hates her. All of those are true, by the way. Is this too much information for me to share? As a principal? As a human? Possibly. My anxiety says, ‘Yes.’ It says, “You are suppose to be a ‘leader.’ The ‘confident one.’ Leaders are STRONG…. And don’t have anxiety….therefore, you are not a leader.“ Anxiety is the biggest liar. The. BIGGEST. Fucking. Liar. And I am sorry if you agree with it. Thinking I shouldn’t share all this. And I am sorry I swore. Well, sort of. But the question still remains: Why share? Because I am unique? No. My struggle is not unique. Not by a long shot. My anxiety is nothing compared to others. To my students’, for example. Whose anxiety sometimes shows in negative behavior. In them asking for love - and help - in the most unlovable and unhelpful ways. My team and I give both. Regardless of how they are asked for. Am I sharing for attention? Sympathy? Empathy? Gosh, I hope not. But if I am truthful, I am unsure. Mainly, though, I share because I just think they can handle the truth about me. And not hold it against me. Or judge me. Like the anxiety says they will do. By ‘they’ I mean everyone: Family. Colleagues. Friends. Former students. People I haven’t met yet. That’s why. That’s why I share. Because its the truth: I struggle with anxiety. And anxiety doesn’t like the truth. At all. I also share because anxiety doesn’t like being called out. It does not like exposure. It likes to attack unnoticed. In the background. Making me feel alone. Because it knows it is more effective that way. It is the shadow that doesn’t need the sun to exist. It doesn’t want me to have support. A plus one. It is harder for anxiety to lie and deceive when there is a plus one or...a plus few...a plus team...a plus community. Never mind multiple communities. And so I am calling it out. Because I have communities: Family. Work. Friends. Biking. Students. Hockey. And as I write that last sentence, I feel the anxiety becoming anxious. How’s it feel? Jerk. Knowing that the truth is out, that you are exposed, and now it is not only me you need to deal with but also anyone in my communities who read this. Including people in my biking community. People who make circles with their feet. Every day. Every. Single. Day. Good luck with that. They're a tough lot. Not prone to giving up. Or believing the silly lies you tell me. They are quick with love and long for toughness. Like the rest of my communities’ members. So from here on out, you can keep your attacks and your lies to yourself. I am a leader. And a good person. And not alone. I am definitely not alone.  I am the very proud principal of the Hartford Area Career and Technology Center (HACTC). And I have a confession to make.
I love so many things about my job: greeting students off the bus; giving them birthday cards (and a chocolate bar); supporting them in the mistakes they make; seeing them learn; laughing with them; watching them Grow...Emotionally...Spiritually...Academically. And soooooo very much more. Yet despite those things I love, there are things about my job that I do not love. In fact, there are things about my job that I hate. Like Christmas. I hate Christmas. There. I said it. That is my confession. I hate Christmas not because I am a Grinch. Although I will certainly admit to Grinch-like tendencies. But rather because Christmas proves to be the most difficult time of the year for students. Year in and year out. For the 26 years I have taught. The second hardest time of year for students? Three months later. When the sap runs. And eviction notices can be served. I do not hate sugaring time. Not yet. It’s getting there, though. But back to Christmas. Students simply struggle at Christmas. A lot. Emotionally...Spiritually...Academically. All students? No. Most students? Maybe. Some students? Yes. But even if only some students struggle, I struggle. Emotionally….Spiritually. That is an unfortunate symptom of caring, I guess. My teammates can attest. They do it, too. Caring and struggling. And despite knowing that proportional relationship is unhealthy for us, we still do it. We cannot help it. And why the struggle for students? Not enough presents? No. Not being in school for a week or so? Maybe. Being reminded? Yes. That their mother is not in their life. That their father is not in their life. That their father and mother are in their life but not in a good way. Not a parenting way. That it is hard to love people and not their decisions or their behavior. That they do not have enough food. That they do not have enough love. That they do not have enough stuff. To keep up with the Joneses. That they do not have reliable housing. Or transportation. That they feel guilty for having too much food. Or love. Or a nice house. Or a car. That they have a good life. Especially when their friends do not. Friends they love. That guilt is powerful. And not a good motivator. Or a sustainable one. That compassion is powerful. That compassion can be confusing. That alcohol ruined their family. Or ruined a friend. That heroin ruined their family. Or ruined a friend. That despite the claim marijuana is not addictive, they know it to be habitual. That bad habits are hurtful. And distancing. And hurtful. And distancing. That despite professed love, actions speak louder than words. That self esteem bruises just as easily from words as the body does from violence. That violence sucks. In words or in contact. That neglect is abuse. That abuse is abuse. It is not a grey area. Despite the offender’s opinion. That anger is an epidemic. That sex is supposed to be based in love. But often it is not. It is just not. That their parents work hard, manage their money well, and cannot make ends meet. There are many more than those. That I do not know. But the students do. They know them all. Is the above cliche? Written to provoke an emotion? A response from the reader? No. Maybe. Possibly. That list is real. For some students. But for every principal. And team. That cares. And I do not know any that do not care. Downer of a confession, eh? Probably. Well, maybe not. I hope not. Because there is hope. Where? At the HACTC. And all schools. Students are supported there. At school. By good people. By educators. Who care for them. And love them. And encourage them. And believe in them. And give them the better reminders: they are Strong. Smart. Unique. Courageous. Gritty. Resilient. And do not have to follow the behavior and/or choices of others; they can create their own way. Well, maybe I do not hate Christmas as much as I thought. Or even at all. Hope can do that, I suppose. Change your thinking in only three pages - in 767 words. The struggles students face at Christmas will be handled. And neutralized. And used for good. For Growth. By the students. By my team. By me. By all educators. By us. Merry Christmas, then. Merry Christmas.  I hardly fish anymore.
And I miss it. Not just because I miss being near water or feeling the soft texture of the cork in my right hand, but rather when I don’t fish, I miss out on learning. I didn’t fully realize the depth of that absence until the other day. When I was on the way back to work from the dentist. Instead of taking the speediest path, I chose to drive the back road. The road that brought me aside the hayfields I spent too much time in haying as a kid. But not too much time in haying with my father. If that makes sense. The speediest path also took me past an old fishing hole. Between the O’Hearn’s and the Lund’s trailer. When I stopped and walked across the pavement to get to the hole, I noticed the age cracks in the road’s surface. Had it really been that long since I had been here? The fishing hole was as perfectly deep as it was when I was twelve: the brook feeding it running straight and consistent. Full from the October rain. And the early November rain. The brook ran under the road through a culvert that Mr. Raymond put in while working for the Town. In 1983. I remember because I watched him do it.With fly rod in hand. Impatiently waiting for the water to clear. Later in life, Mr. Raymond’s son took my future wife to the prom. Much later in life, Mr. Raymond’s granddaughter attended the school that I lead. She is an amazing human. Just like her father. And her grandfather. Funny how all that works. The rockscape in the fishing hole was still the same as when Mr. Raymond set the culvert. So without a rod available, I simply reached under the most obvious rock, getting my shirt and tie wet in the process (I now have a job that requires both). But no trout darted out. No trout were to be seen. Unlike when I was twelve. Then I had a four weight Montague rod and was careful not to backcast into the road. The experience as an eleven-year old of clipping a BMW from Quechee cured me of that nonsense. But on that day, that twelve year-old day, I hooked a Brookie. Flip cast. Under the ferns to the left. Gold Ribbed Hare’s Ear. That trout fought. And fought. And fought. And fought. Darting under the barb wire fence across the hole, almost cutting the lead. And then it went home. Hard. Not to the East like Rainbows do, but to the west and under the most obvious. Refusing to budge. Well, not without the tip of the rod bending in a ‘go-farther-and-I’ll-snap’ kind of way. I did get the fish out, though. Eventually. And in the air. And then in my hands. Disappointed that it was not fifteen inches like the fight implied (or twenty). But the disappointment did not last. Again, I was twelve and being challenged in all sorts of ways, none that need exposition or extrapolation here. But when that fish looked at me, its orange belly spots gleaming in the sun, my disappointment waned as did my intent of branching it through the gills and bringing it home to put it in the freezer. It had given me its everything. Its everything. To live. To fight. And that is when I learned about respect. And admiration. I needed to learn both then. So I put the eight inch fighter back in the water, moving it to get oxygen back in through its gills. It was strange I did that because I had never released a trout before. They all ended up in the freezer. From there, some made it to the grill but most got freezer burned and tossed into the trash. I am embarrassed to admit that. Knowing what I know now about giving everything, living, and fighting. But that is the beauty of life I suppose. And learning. And why I now miss fishing. And also my twelve-year old self. Despite his struggles. But like then, I needed to be reminded, at forty-seven, of respect, admiration, giving everything, living, and fighting.   I am the very proud Principal of the Hartford Area Career and Technology Center (HACTC). And I am going to make a confession: I love all of my students. A lot. But there is more. I often find myself in the position of loving my students but not their behavior. Or their choices. I’m okay with that, though. It’s part of the job. A hard part of the job. And if you are not in education, you still know what I meant two sentences ago: loving people but not their behavior is simply hard. Ask the friend or parent or child of an addict; they’ll agree. For sure. However, the focus of this confession is not really about that. Rather, it is about the tension that sometimes exists between the love of a school administrator, the expected school rules that govern student behavior, and student learning and growth. I feel this tension frequently but particularly at this time of year. The Fall. When students are late for school or miss school entirely...to hunt. Yup. There it is. There is the true heart of my confession: I love it when students break the rules but in doing so increase their learning. And their growth. In missing school to hunt, students are technically ‘late’ or ‘unexcused’ in their absence. And the HACTC has a fairly strict attendance policy. A policy I am ultimately in charge of enacting. Or, I guess, enforcing. But when a student hits the fateful twelve days of school missed and an attendance plan needs developing, I review the absences and tardies (three tardies equals one absence) and hope that some of those tardies and/or absences are due to being in the woods. Hunting. Why that ‘hope?’ Because time in the woods teaches students more than being in class. Every time. And that is a big statement considering the teachers and the curriculums at the HACTC are the best. Simply the best. Hands down. But time in the woods - walking slowly, thinking deeply, sitting attentively, listening acutely, examining carefully, acting safely, and patiently waiting…and waiting…and waiting...to sometimes be disappointed...for years...teach more than any class. Or two. Or three. And yes, as an extension of my confession, if there are tardies or absences due to hunting, I do not ‘excuse’ them per se, but certainly understand them. An understanding that plays out with grace in their attendance plan. Am I a hunter and are my thoughts biased? Yes. And also no. I have hunted. A lot. And not successfully if harvested number of deer are the determiner for ‘success’. But success in hunting, as asserted previously, is defined by the experience, the time in the woods, the learning, and the growth. Not necessarily the harvest. In that case, then, I guess I am a ‘successful’ hunter. And, of course, biased. So take that for what it is worth. Certainly, though, my desire for kids to learn is also biased in that I know more learning can occur outside of school than in it. The students at the HACTC that hunt have Respect. Respect for safety and also the animal they harvest. I have seen that time and time again. In current students and also when they leave and become alumni. What more could a principal ask for than that Respect? Not much. Not much at all. So, my awesome students at the HACTC. Hunt if you want to. Respectfully. Safely. And I will work with you in regards to the ‘rules.’ Just as I do with many other student interests that break the rules and create that lovely, welcomed tension in my job that I know causes you to grow and learn. #thisiswhatlearninglookslike #respect #engage #learn #work #serve #grow #missionstatement   Disclaimer: I can be a bit of a nostalgic fool.
For proof of that statement, look no farther than under the seat of my mountain bike. ‘Doug’ says the license plate hanging there: ‘Green Mountain State.’ I was nine years old when I got it. I saved ten box tops from Honeycomb Cereal and mailed those in along with a $1.25. The latter being earned from delivering eggs once a week to Lila Onsruth. Lila paid my parents $1.00 for the eggs and me .25 cents for pedaling them to her house on my bright red Raleigh Chopper. In hindsight, I should have appreciated Lila’s 25% tip a bit more. Not a sweeter woman has the world known. I hope my thoughts of her now, thirty-eight years later, make up that lack. Bless you, Lila. Bless you. It took me a long time to save up that $1.25. I had to use Lila’s tips for more than a few things. The main being the replenishment of dry flies lost from not knowing how to roll cast. There is most certainly a Sugar Maple or two at the trout hole on the White River - across from the old Kelton Complex - that is littered with Gold Ribbed Hare’s Ears. Nonetheless, after a few months of not losing flies (and not buying Coca-Cola from Laro’s Country Store), I saved up enough to buy the license plate and watched the mail for weeks waiting for it to be delivered. Mr. Martin, our mailman, after more than a few disappointing days of me standing at the mailbox in anticipation, shared in my excitement when it finally arrived. He drove a white Jeep Wagoneer and stopped his day for fifteen minutes to not only celebrate with me the license plate’s arrival but to also help fasten it to my bike. Zip-ties were not an accessible commodity then but by chance (or design) Mr. Martin did have some small hose clamps that connected the metal loops of the license plate to the frame of the banana seat on my bike. Bless you Mr. Martin. Bless you. And there it is. Ever since that early July day in 1980, after the first cut of hay was in the barn, that license plate has found its way on every bike I have ever owned. Raleigh Chopper. Kuwahara Apollo. Haro Freestyler. Haro Freesport. Haro Master. Torpado. Trek 520. Specialized Hardrock. Parkpre Scepter Comp, Jamis Dakar Sport, Ritchey NiTi, Trek 850, KHS Solo One, Trek 520, KHS Solo One SE, Salsa Mukluk 3, Salsa Mukluk GX1. And I have been laughed at and ridiculed because of that license plate. I am now forty-seven after all. And it is a bit strange to see on the bike of a middle-aged man. But I have also been complimented. A lot. Either way. I don’t care. It doesn’t matter. It brings me back. To Lila. To Mr. Martin. And to a thousand (maybe ten thousand) smiles of rides forgotten and also some remembered. That silly, young-boy’s license plate is simply a connection and a thread. To my childhood. To the innocence there. To the lack of stress. And responsibility. Things that still disappear quickly when I begin to make circles with my feet. It connects me. From carrying eggs and fly rods to college texts, lesson plans, and my beautiful daughter. And yes, it also connects me to worries, anxiety, and hard times. But such is life. Such is life. What will I carry next? What will it connect me to in the future? I look forward to finding out. #circleswithmyfeet #salsacycles #vaultpedals #wtb  When I was eight years old, my grandfather told me that if I really wanted to know the story of a person, all I had to do was examine that person’s hands - the story would unfold in their texture, depth, and color. I know I was eight years old when I heard this bit of wisdom because it was also the year when I was told who Mr. Albright really was. In addition to a small farm, my parents ran a dog-boarding kennel, and Mr. Albright, living in Woodstock at the time, boarded his two Corgies with us frequently. For a while, I simply knew him as the nice old man who made my mind wonder with stories of the places he visited while his dogs stayed in our kennel. One day, Mr. Albright and his wife, Josephine, pulled into our driveway, and I ran down to greet them and take their dogs. When Mr. Albright opened the back of his station wagon to let the dogs out, I caught a glimpse of something tucked behind the crates; it was wrapped in a white cloth and speckled with paint, and looked like the belly of Brook Trout. I asked him what it was, so he shuffled to the side of the car, opened the door, folded the cloth back and withdrew a painting of fairly good size. I stared. I had never seen anything like that in my short life; it was so weird but also beautiful and dreamy. It was a painting of an old man, seated and wearing a red hat, his hands resting in his lap. “Where did ya get that?” “I painted it. It is called The Vermonter.” “How long did it take ya to paint all that?” “Years. About as long as you’ve been alive.” “Wow, really? Why did it take so long?” “The hands. The hands took that long. They tell the story.” After Mr. Albright’s dogs were put in the kennel and I went back inside to get some lunch, my mother, who had been watching the unlikely conversation from the dining room window said, “Dougie, make sure you remember what just happened. Ivan is a very famous painter and you just got the treat of a lifetime.” I did remember but did not fully realize until later in my life just how big a ‘treat’ that experience was. What I did realize at that moment, however, in the chance meeting of my grandfather’s words and Mr. Albright’s painting, was that a truth was created: hands do tell a person’s story. It was this experience with Mr. Albright and the truth created from it that has been the biggest influence in shaping my thinking about myself as an educator. Simply put, my job is to provide opportunities for students that allow them to create their own stories, opportunities focused on activity. Sure, learning can take place without activity, but what is learned is theory, not knowledge. Knowledge contains an intimacy that theory lacks and knowledge, as I have come to discover, is what creates stories. Mr. Albright’s painting was appropriately titled. The hands that took him eight years to create told the story of every old-school Vermonter I knew then and have known since: Albert Atwood, Otis Wilson, Henry Koloski, Stash Koloski, and ironically, my grandfather. To this day, I cannot look at that painting and not think of those men, men who had an intimate knowledge of hard work, honor, patience, and nature’s way - qualities I pray show themselves in the stories my students’ hands will tell.   It is called The Waiting Room.
It is not majestic. Nothing that would be seen in the annals of a mountain bike magazine or a fast moving Pinkbike clip. It doesn’t even possess an encompassing or stunning view. Unless of course a set of power lines is considered ‘stunning’ (see what I did there?). They are only feet away. Rather, it has a log. A log cut to hold a bike. Or a butt. The rider decides. For me, usually, it is my bike. And it has a fire pit. Used infrequently but most prodigiously on the Thanksgiving Day ride. It also has an appropriate number of leaves, trees, and sticks. And sometimes a bear. Off in the distance, hopefully. But regardless of all that, The Waiting Room is a destination for any mountain biker in the Boston Lot trail network in Lebanon, New Hampshire. The Waiting Room is a spot, if you will, of prominence. Or maybe even significance. Although it doesn’t have a sign to identify itself. Like the trails do. I suspect that it is not the least bit jealous, though. And what, per se, does a rider wait for in The Waiting Room? I have been asked that question again and again. By my wife, non-rider friends, family, colleagues, and anyone else hearing me proclaim through conversation or social media the benefits of stopping there. And waiting. Given its name, it is a necessary question to ask. However, it is not an easy question to answer. Maybe the difficulty in the answer comes in its connection for my need to ride. And that is hard to explain, too. So much need. Such few words. Story of my life. I just have to do them. That’s all. Ride. And wait. Both restore me. But that answer might be unsatisfactory to some. Even to me at times. So here it goes. An attempted answer. An acceptable one. I wait for a lot. I wait for another rider. Or a breeze. Sometimes I wait for a sound. Or silence. Or a vision of something positive. Often I wait on God. He has certainly found me there. And visa versa. Sometimes others wait for me. I am not fast climbing. And they are. Particularly ‘Android Snackbar’ of Strava, Mason Racing bike shop, and Highland Mountain Bike Park fame. Or even Bruce Hathorn. Of childhood-friend fame. Or maybe I am waiting for a beer. Some days it might be that simple. A beer. With Android or Bruce, a beer is always a possibility. Thank God for that. I guess, in the end, of these words and the importance of the question, the waiting in The Waiting Room does not need explanation. And neither does my need to ride. Despite others. Despite myself. Both are simply what they are. Riding. Waiting. Amen.  I am not proud to admit it, especially to my Dad, but lately, given the craziness of my schedule, I have become a Jiffy Lube customer. My latest visit this past Tuesday not only had a handful of my former students changing the oil in my truck, it also had them rotating the tires and truing my rotors with a “newwickedfriggin’cool on-car lathe system that you have to let us try, Mr. Heavisides!!!!!” Always a sucker for seeing former students excited about their job, I agreed and, ironically, spent the next two hours in the “Jiffy” Lube lobby, perusing old copies of Sports Illustrated and looking for anything to kill the time. In that vein, I found myself in front of what I thought was the “awards wall” reading ten very similar looking documents. Upon closer inspection, though, they were not awards at all but rather Codes of Ethics written by every person who worked there, manager to pit monkey. I read every single one and was so impressed with the sincerity of their words, I vowed to give the activity a go of my own. Below are the results.
Code of Ethics Family I will love my family unconditionally. I will honor my wife. I will be the best father that I can be. I will encourage hope and optimism. Self I will strive for balance in my life. I will maintain good physical health. I will maintain strong spiritual health. I will not overreach. I will not worship material objects. I will strive to be trustworthy, honest, and honorable. I will continually educate myself with whatever means are available. Work I will be a positive leader. I will promote progress and improvement, not achievement. I will deal with conflict directly and respectfully. I will help build a culture of collaboration and teamwork. I will appreciate. I will support. I will be part of the solution, not the problem. I was surprised at the difficulty of this activity. I thought doing a “Code of Ethics” would be a relatively benign and robotic piece of writing. However, I struggled with choosing the categories, what order to put them in (implying order of importance in my life), and prioritizing the indicators underneath. Sure, any one of the indicators could be applied to the other two categories, but it was fun making decisions about what went where and why. And although I struggled with this activity, taking way more time on it than I had to spend, it was fruitful; I have a clearer sense of what I value, or at least what I should value. Who knew Jiffy Lube could be so thought provoking? |
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