I am the very proud principal of the Hartford Area Career and Technology Center (HACTC). And I have a confession to make.

Sometimes it is so very hard not to sniggle. 

You know, at my job.

As a school leader. 

The 'serious one.'

Well, that is what I sometimes feel I should be. 

As a principal.

Serious. 

Very serious.

But I am not. 

I am just not. 

Sorry. 

Not sorry. 

But yes, I hope I am serious when I need to be. 

(Lately, I have been more serious than necessary...but life does that to a person, eh?)

But the truth is that I simply spend most of my day sniggling.

With my teammates.  

And their quick wit. 

And yes, with the students. 

And sometimes at the students.  

With their behavior. 

Their words. 

And yes, their anger at me. 

And their parents’ anger, too. 

Because sometimes both are just funny. 

And I have to sniggle. 

But cannot. 

(Until later.)

Because it is not necessarily an appropriate time to do so.

Given the circumstance. 

Or the environment.  

Or the perceived seriousness of the circumstance.

Or the perceived seriousness of the environment.  

Like when I was eleven. 

And Martha, my sister, was fifteen. 

And it was Christmas Eve. 

And the hardwood pews of the St. Anthony’s Church ached not only our backs but also our souls. 

(The latter ache not known until later in our lives). 

But then...that night... that Christmas Eve... the priest was serious. 

So very serious. 

With his sermon.  

So very, very serious. 

Eyebrows connecting. 

Finger pointing out demonstratively with every important verb.

His eye contact direct and his tonal fluctuation raised with every important adjective. 

(Executing, I think, what was taught at Seminary School for ‘serious’ sermons).

The priest connected Judas’s betrayal of Jesus with something or other... 

I cannot remember the exact connection. 

But again, it was serious. 

So very serious. 

But when he referenced the “passing wind” of that night of the betrayal, I lost it. 

“Passing wind.”  

Bahahahahahahahaha…….

My eight year old brain could not take the literalness of the phrase. 

And went immediately to the synonym. 

The past participle for ‘breaking wind.’ 

(Mrs. Barton taught me ‘past participle’ that week in English class.) 

A fart. 

Judas farted. 

That is what I heard in that hardwood uncomfortableness. 

Judas simply let one go just before he was questioned.

As he was questioned.  

A nervousness overtaking him and bodily control falling away like his commitment. 

So it escaped. 

The fart. 

(Did the Sanhedrin notice?)

Just like my sniggle escaped me as the above scene raced through my eight-year old brain.  

During that sniggly Mass on Christmas Eve. 

And once that sniggle (snort and giggle) came out my mouthnose, it was over.  

For me.

And for Martha. 

The sniggles could not be stopped.  

Despite my mother’s own connected eyebrows and demonstrative finger pointing. 

Martha buried her face, initially, in her elbow. 

But she still sniggled.

And that sent me further into sniggleblivion (sniggle and oblivion).

But then she buried her face into the rumpled coat next to her on the hardwood.

A more serious sniggle snuffler.

But nothing stopped it. 

The sniggles over took that pew.

(But not the pew ahead or behind us, those gritted teeth and stern looks told me so). 

But I am better at it now, though.  

Snuffling the sniggles. 

Until a more appropriate time. 

Later. 

But it is hard. 

So very hard to do. 

Just like my eight year-old Christmas Eve self.

Especially when a parent is in my office processing her son’s negative behavior: 

     Parent: Damn it, H, you’re acting like a ‘goat fu**er.
     Me: Ahhhhhhhhhh……
     Me: Ahhhhhhhh…..
     Me: Ummmm…”I don’t have any goats.”
     Parent: Ahhhhhh…..

Implying that if I did have goats…

Bahaahahhahaaaaaaaa….sniggle, sniggle... 

Or when a student in my office is processing their words to another student: 

     Student: (Yelling) I didn’t do a Fu**ing thing, H. 
     Me: Many others said you called him a really derogatory name. 
     Student: (Defiant) What do you know, H? You're just a meatball with legs!

 Bahhahahaaaaaaa…..sniggle, sniggle…..

Or when I look out my office window at a car in the parking lot that has a deer in the passenger seat:

     Me: Tony, there is a deer in the front seat of your car. 
     Tony: Yup. Sure is. 
     Me: Ummm...why? 
     Tony: I hit it this morning on the way to school and just couldn’t leave it there. 
     Me: So you put it in your passenger seat? 
     Tony: Yup. Buckled it in, too. Safety first. I had to put it in the front. The backseat had my hockey            bag                        and a few cases of beer under the blanket. 
     Me: Ummmmmmmmmm…….?????

Bahahahahahahaaa….sniggle, sniggle…

Or when I have a student in my office who I suspect is very high:
     Me: Sarah, did you smoke today before getting on the bus to come to the HACTC?
     Sarah: Nooooope. Not at all. No way. Not at all. No sir. Not all. Nope.  
     Me: Sarah, you’re presenting like you did. 
     Sarah: I don’t know what you mean, H. Hey,  ahhhhh...ummmm...you got any Doritos or anything            like                      that around here?”

Bahahahahaaaaaa...sniggle, sniggle…

(And no, student substance use is not generally sniggle worthy but sometimes….).

Or when I am trying to connect with a student about safety: 

     Student: H, why are you such a dick about safety?
     Me: Because I love you and do not want you or anyone else to get hurt.
     Student: Oh. Okay. That makes sense. Sorry for being unsafe in the shop. I'll change my behavior.
     Me: Can you please rephrase your original question, though?
     Student: Ummmmm....right. Sure. H, thank you for caring so much about my personal safety. Are            you                        sure you couldn't express your concern in a different way to the class without sounding like                                          such  a dick?
      Me: Good grief.....(Long Pause)....Yes...... I'll think about a better way to speak to you all about my                                      concerns..... Go back to class.
     Student: Thanks for loving me. (Turns and leaves my office).
     Me: (Not knowing what to do).

Bahhahaaaaaaaa….sniggle, sniggle...

Or when a student tells me, “You know, H, if you were one of the Seven Dwarves, you would definitely be Grumpy. Get your stuff together, man.” 

Bahahhahahahaahaa…...sniggle, sniggle...

Or when I ask a student after a school-wide assembly how my speech went and he simply replies, “Pretty good, H, except your fly was down the whole time and I love ya but that was pretty distracting and awfully funny. Even more so now that you are asking me about it.” 

Bahahhaahahahahahah…..sniggle, sniggle...

Sometimes I feel bad about my sniggling.

Feeling the pressure to be more serious.

The Christmas Eve priest of school leadership.

But it is what it is. 

And I am who I am.

And funny is funny. 

Despite the seriousness of the environment. 

Despite the seriousness of the situation. 

Or the hardness of the pews. 

Being a principal is challenging some times. 

Well, it is challenging all the time. 

At least for me. 

So when humor presents itself, I will take it. 

Always. 

With my teammates. 

With the students. 

With their parents. 

In the name of sanity. 

My own sanity. 

So I can continue on. 

And help. 

And be a good leader. 

Yes. 

Yes, I will try and laugh my way to good leadership.

And will apologize to the connected eyebrows and pointed fingers when it is not the right response.

But the apology might still be snuffled a bit. 
​
*This will be my last post on HereCast as they are going dark on 12/31. Thank you HereCast for allowing me to use your platform. For those that want to follow my non-HereCast blog, please go to www.circleswithmyfeet.com. 

This below is fiction. But true. No, Kayla is not real. But she is. Every week. Possibly every day. All of the details in this piece are true. Just put together from many stories of students. Bless my teammates and all those who greet students at the door of their school and teach them in their classrooms, knowing when it has been a hard night.
________________________
Did she scream? 

No. 

It was only the pine spindles of the dresser legs that scraped against the maple floors. 

Soft wood pressure versus hardwood resilience always produces a bit of a noise. 

A scream-like noise. 

But maybe a scream would have been appropriate, too, in addition to Kayla pushing the dresser in front of her bedroom door. 

It might make her mother pause in her anger. 

In her rage. 

Unlikely. 

But maybe.

Kayla had never been a screamer.  

Even when younger. 

Years younger than the sixteen she was now. 

When she first learned the story:

        Conceived in a mist of a natural development and hormonal desire. 

        Where want and result never met on the graph from Math class.

        And certainly never met at a party on Dupuis Hill in Quechee, Vt. 

        The crowd waning as the moon rose over the arrow-straight red pines.

        Planted in a plan. 

        And a row.
 
        Many rows.

        To meet the provisions of Act 250.

        Legislature to protect the environment. 

        Neat. 

        Clean. 

        Lined. 

        Unlike the legislature to protect the children. 

        The children conceived in ‘the beauty of Act 250.’

        The beauty of a party bonfire.
 
        And its generous light. 

       Making the boy who led Kayla's mother to the back of the Jeep seem more than what he was. 

        Forthright. 

        Honest. 

        Neither was accurate. 

        Because when Kayla’s life was discovered, he fled.
 
        Far. 

        Far from The Upper Valley. 

        Coward. 

        Loser. 

        Leaving Kayla’s mother on her own. 

        With child. 

        And uncertainty. 

        And more than a little fear. 

        But she did it. 

        She had Kayla. 

        And loved her on sight. 

        But ‘sight’ floundered and sank in the sea of unsupport. 

        No mother to help out. 
                (An early mother herself.)

        No grandmother to offer encouragement. 
                (An early mother herself.)

        No friends to give respite. 

        Just late nights. 

        Late, late nights. 

        Of crying. 

        And early mornings. 

        Of crying. 

        And more crying. 

        Colic. 

        Constant. 

        The foundation of the mother - daughter relationship compromised.  

        Cracked. 

        By the father’s fleeing. 

        And the mother’s challenge. 

        And then the alcohol. 

        The alcohol crept in. 

        With each unpaid bill. 

        And every lost job.  

        The billers and the bosses just like the father. 

        Separating.  

        Fleeing. 

        Emotionally. 

        Physically. 

        From righteousness and responsibility.

        Damn them. 

So Kayla pushed. 

The dresser. 

In front of her bedroom door. 

Choosing not to scream.  

At her mother’s rage. 

An alcohol-infused rage. 

No. 

No screaming. 

That would only alert the neighbors.  

Above and below. 

Causing them to trip over their thumbs as they searched for ‘DCF Vermont’ on their cell phones. 

Apple?

Safari.  

Droid? 

Chrome. 

Both ignorant in their results produced in ‘.023 seconds.’ 

Ignorant when compared to the rage.

The rage of a struggling mother. 

Struggling in .0000 seconds. 

But still they would call. 

The neighbors. 

Above and below.  

Regardless of the slow results of their search. 

Thinking their responsibility completed.  

Their conscious clean. 

Except for their off-kilter glances in the stairway. 

Or the chance passing in the parking lot.

Not knowing that reporting is just a small portion of the process. 

The process of protection.  

But yes, after the dancing thumbs, DCF would visit. 

Again. 

And her mother would try to fool them. 

Again. 

Like her father fooled her mother. 

In the flickering light of the bonfire. 

Casting small shadows of butterflies and happiness on the roof of the future. 

No.  

Not this night. 

Kayla would would not scream. 

She would block the door. 

Her bedroom door. 

And wait for morning. 

And her mother to ‘sleep it off.’

Then she would sneak out to school. 

Careful not to step on the maple floor board that would squeak. 

The one to the left of the oven.

Two steps back from the front door. 

The main way out.

The only way out. 

Yes. 

Kayla would get to school. 

And find relief. 

And support. 

And perspective. 

And respite. 

And love. 

From the moment she stepped off the bus. 

Her foot touching the pavement in front of the ‘greeters.’ 

Those who welcomed all students at the door. 

The door to learning. 

ALL STUDENTS. 

Troubled. 

Challenged. 

Happy. 

Smiling. 

Safe. 

Unsafe. 

They welcomed them all. 

Every day. 

Every. Day. 

But knew with instinct and experience when something was wrong.  

A quick look to the left before the fist bump. 

Head down and no greeting. 

A shallow smile that conveyed a hard night. 

Possibly a dresser pushed in front of the bedroom door. 

They knew. 

They always knew. 

And still smiled in welcome. 

Following later with a private,  “Hey, can we check in? How are you doing?” 

Translated: “We love you. This school and all who are in it love you. I know something is up.  Do you need help today?”  

And what followed was often a hug.

And listening. 

And another hug. 

And listening. 

And more listening. 

And yes, A DCF report. 

Because that is the law. 

But the hug…

The hug. 

And the listening. 

Those were more important in the short term than the report to DCF.
        (Who are great at the long term, sifting through deceit and lies.)  

As was the other support. 

In many forms. 

Food. 

Counseling. 

Therapy. 

Advice. 

Safety techniques: 
        Block yourself in your room. Set up your room so it is easier to do.
        Know your home and its noises.
        Identify patterns of the abuser. 
        Avoid conflict unless your safety is involved.  
        Run and not fight. 
        Fight when running was not possible (go for the soft areas). 
        Keep your phone at your side. Always. 
        Never feel bad about calling 911. 
        Always let someone know where you are. 

And Kayla was not disappointed. 

The greeter greeted her. 

And then followed her into the lobby. 

And touched her elbow gently, turning her. 

And said, “Hi. How are you doin’ today?  Would you like to check in?”

And then the ‘greeter’ listened. 

For an hour. 

And hugged three times. 

And made a report to DCF. 

But the hugs…

Yes, the hugs…

And the listening. 

Protective like the dresser. 

Blocking the hurt.

And building love. 

And trust. 

And after the long night.

And no screaming.

Kayla knew that she was safe.  

​
*Bless all the Kayla’s of this world. And bless DCF. And bless all the greeters and teachers at the doors and classrooms of our schools. Indeed, there are no better fighters for our children.

My name is Doug Heavisides. 

And I am the proud principal of the Hartford Area Career and Technology Center. 

And I have a confession to make. 

I wish I had a child earlier in my teaching career. 

So much earlier than thirty-seven.
 
Seventeen years into teaching. 

And that confession spills from my lips for many reasons. 

Guilt? 

Reflection? 

Forgiveness?

Yup.

All three. 

Regardless, I changed when I held that little Scout in my arms for the first time.

I changed as a Human and a Teacher. 

The former making up the latter. 

The latter making up the former. 

Entwined.

If you do it right. 

I was no longer adrift in the sea of pedagogy. 

And potential. 

Clinging to a lesson plan from the wreck of a Sunday night. 

A Sunday night in a panic. 

Rolling in the high waves of expectation.

Twenty foot swells. 

What do I do with them? 

The students. 

For a week? 

Defaulting to entertainment.

Humor. 

Not education. 

Not assessment. 

Heavy in the art of teaching was I. 

          (Thanks, Yoda, for your sentence patterns.)

And light in the Science of teaching. 

So light. 

That I sank.  

Losing my plank (a splinter?) of a lesson plan. 

Ignoring that I was drowning.

In anecdote. 

And my opinion. 

My stupid opinion. 

Claiming to know the story of all students.

Before their stories played themselves out. 

Is there a clearer definition of Arrogance? 

Nope. 

So arrogant, was I.  

“The parent is using the disability as an excuse.”

“The student can do it. She is choosing not to.” 

“I will not accommodate. You cannot accommodate laziness.”

“Laziness is not a disability.”

“This is not a school issue, it is a parent issue.”

“A school, nor I, can make up for the deficiencies of a horrible home life.”

“I understand. Really I do. But what you are asking me to do is enabling not supporting.” 

“Trauma? We all have trauma. Get over it. Have him turn in his assignments. Get the work done.”

“Anxiety?? Not real. It’s in your child's head. Get over it. And tell her to turn in her assignments.” 

“Stop. Just stop. Please. You are making excuses for your child. He just needs to do the work.”

I said all of those things.

Loudly. 

Passionately.

To parents.

Ugh. 

(Insert regret here).  

Without a Scout in my arms.  
 
Not doing what was good for students. 

Nope. 

I was barely, if ever, keeping my lips above the swells of truth. 

That all parents do the best they can with what they have. 

Even if they do not have much.   

But then Scout. 

Yes. 

But then Scout. 

In my arms. 

My girl. 

My beautiful daughter. 

      (Five years in the making...infertility hurt more than my poor teaching). 

With Scout, I found safety.

And hope. 

And understanding. 

And compassion. 

And truth. 

For all parents. 

In her eyes. 

Her beautiful eyes. 

In them I saw land. 

The science of teaching.

Not a wreck of a Sunday night. 

Land to put my feet on.  

No longer clumsy in pedagogy. 

But stable. 

Without anecdote. 

Or opinion. 

But grounded in love.

Like all parents. 

Like me. 

Who does not have much. 

But does the best he can. 

As a father. 

And as an educator. 

The former making up the latter. 

The latter making up the former. 

That is what makes a good lesson plan. 

And an educator.

And a school leader. 

Not judgement. 

Not criticism. 

Not cynicism. 

Yes, I wish I had a child earlier in my teaching career. 

But there is a reason for all things. 

And now I get it.

As parents, we all do the best we can with what we have. 

Whether we have a lot. 

Or a little. 

Or nothing. 

We do the best we can.

And I understand. 
​
Finally.

White River Junction, Vermont - Friday afternoon found the lobby of the Hartford Area Career and Technology Center (HACTC) quiet and sunny; the latter slightly warming the tops of the cafe-style tables and chairs framing the school’s logo set creatively into the tile floor.  It is a logo that has served the HACTC well the past few years but it is also a logo that will have an addition to its compass and squares beginning January 1, 2020: The Nike Swoosh. 

In a deal that is the first of its kind in the educational landscape of Vermont, Doug Heavisides - Principal of the HACTC - agreed to terms with the Oregon-based company, Nike, to an advertising and apparel deal not only for himself but also for all of his teammates at the HACTC. 

While the finalized details of the agreement will not be made public until fully vetted by the HACTC’s lawyers and Heavisides’ agent, one source has reported that it is a three-year deal worth approximately four million dollars.  

“We want brand loyalty from an early age,'' stated Marcus White - Nike’s Northeast Regional CEO - and that loyalty begins with constant exposure of our logo to the target audience - high school students.  And where can you get better exposure to a logo than to plaster it all over the most influential group of people in the country? It simply is money well spent.” 

White continued to say that, “Nike is slowly moving away from paying athletes millions of dollars to expand their brand because their influence is shallow and inconsistent at best given their aggrandized egos and negative behavior.”

Nike’s new marketing and advertising strategy focuses on utilizing more moral, hard working, and consistent professionals than athletes: Educators.

“Am I looking forward to wearing a Nike headband, collared shirt, and shoes all day everyday?” Heavisides asked.  “No, I am not. I am more of a Carhartt kind of fella, but if wearing the headband lowers the HACTC tuition to $3,000 a year for all of our sending schools and improves education in the Upper Valley, I am game. And my teammates will be game, too.” 

Currently, the tuition to the HACTC is $19,100 for one FTE (Full Time Equivalency) from any of the sixteen schools that send students to the HACTC. And given the parameters in the Nike deal, Heavisides estimates that he and his teammates will generate an additional two million dollars in incentives based on the performance indicators of loving students, supporting them beyond high school,  increasing their skill level, and strengthening their social/emotional integrity. 

“Indeed”, Heavisides exclaimed, “Marcus is correct. It is money well spent on Nike’s part.”
In the early negotiations of the deal, the Nike executives were pushing for Heavisides to have the Swoosh tattooed on his abs and the apparel be limited to belly shirts only. That portion of the deal fell through, however, when it was revealed that Heavisides had only one ab. No plural. 

Starting on January 1, Heavisides and the rest of the HACTC staff will wear Nike apparel not only on school days but also to ‘any public event’ including Open Houses, Recruiting Events, and Graduations. 

“Yes, we have some Adidas people and Reebok people, too, on our staff” Heavisides said.  “But this team is all about kids. And they will put their preferences aside to help kids. Our team will look great in their headbands, shirts, and shoes.” 

That is the way it should be: Big Money and Big Educators working to help improve education.  
Well done, Nike. 
​
***This article is a complete satire. It could happen. But unlikely. 

My name is Doug Heavisides. 

And I am the very proud principal of the Hartford Area Career and Technology Center (HACTC).

And I have a confession to make. 

I love Luna Ricker.

A ton. 

And that is the same love thousands of Hartford High School Athletes can exclaim. 

But today, when I heard she had passed, I took a knee. 

Not in love. 

In sadness.

And then in love. 

And I sobbed. 

And cried. 

And gathered myself. 

Hearing her: 

“Get up, H.”  

“Get up.” 

I first met Luna when I was freshman in high school.  

I  was trying to make the Varsity football team. 

And got hurt. 

Two days in to triples.  

My ankles. 

They rolled. 

So Luna taped them. 

Tight. 

And talked to me.

While taping. 

“I know your father.”

“We went to school together.”

“He was kind.”

“He was gentle.” 

“To me in particular.” 

“So listen to me.”

“Hit.” 

“Just hit.” 

“And pay attention.”

“And you will make the team.” 

I took her advice to heart. 

And hit anything I could. 

At any time. 

During any drill. 

With my ankles taped. 

And my head hurting.

Always watching for her approval.  

And made the team. 

Albeit three games in to an 0-9 season. 

But that is not the point. 

The point is that Luna loved me. 

And believed in me. 

And she made sure I knew it. 

As she did Jeff Kielly, Mark O’Banion, Trevor Small, Chris Gaudette and many others in my class. 

We all knew Luna loved us. 

As she taped our ankles extra tight. 

Sometimes too tight. 

But that did not matter. 

It was her love that mattered. 

And the conversations on her training table. 

As she taped. 

And splinted. 

And slinged. 

Full of wisdom. 

Full of encouragement. 

Full of advice. 

“You can do it.” 

“Don’t get down on yourself.” 

“Work harder.”

“Are you having fun?”

“Fun is the purpose of sports.”

“Are you hitting?” 

“Are you working your hardest?”

“No?” 

“Then don’t complain about your playing time.” 

“Hit.” 

“Just hit.”

“And work hard.”

Advice I got to hear again four years after my graduation. 

When I was no longer an athlete. 

But a teacher. 

And a coach. 

A rookie teacher. 

A rookie coach. 

And struggling. 

And lamenting. 

To Luna. 

My trusted advisor. 

Wisdom. 

“Are you working hard?” 

“If not, why are you complaining?”

“Stop crying.”

“Get up, H.” 

“And teach.”

“And Coach.” 

“You have a lot to offer.” 

“But not if you are feeling sorry for yourself.”

“Get going.” 

So I did. 

I got going. 

And Luna was right. 

I had a lot to offer. 

Particularly when I worked hard. 

And over twenty-eight years of teaching, she reminded me…

Constantly. 

Especially when things got difficult. 

At work or at home.

To simply ‘get up.’  

And ‘hit.’ 

And ‘pay attention.’ 

Bless you, Luna. 

Bless you. 

Rest in peace, my friend.

My encourager. 
​
My believer. 

My name is Doug Heavisides. 

And I am the very proud principal of the Hartford Area Career and Technology Center (HACTC).

And I have a confession to make. 

Well, not so much a confession as a statement. 

A declaration, really. 

I will never...

Ever...

Ever...

Refer to any student at the HACTC as ‘illegal…’ 

Or as an ‘alien.’ 

Or as ‘undocumented.’  

Nor will I refer to their family members that way.

Or any other human, for that matter.  

Student or not.  

Doing so is wrong. 

Wrong. 

Ethically. 

As an educator. 

For sure. 

And for me, it would also be hypocritical. 

        (And I suspect the same of others that use those terms).

Given the ‘illegal’ behavior in my life. 

And my ‘alien’ behavior. 

And my ‘undocumented’ behavior. 

Just sayin’. 

And I consider myself an average American in the above mentioned. 

 Yup. 

I certainly live in a glass house. 

With shiny windows. 

That I take care of every day. 

Rag in hand. 

Windex at the ready. 

Ready to polish away my hypocrisy. 

Hence, I should not throw stones. 

Particularly in labeling others. 

I do not want my windows smashed after all, eh?

Yes, there is a log in my eye.  

So I will not point out the splinter in others’ eyes. 

No, I will never use those hurtful terms. 

Those racist terms. 

Like they are being used in my hometown right now. 

Rather, I will refer to students as...students. 

Or learners. 

And their family members as…

Family members. 

Simply trying to better themselves. 

And their children.

And their lives.  

Doing so by leaving their place of birth and coming to Vermont. 

Beautiful Vermont. 

‘Leaving’ and ‘coming’ because they did not win the birth lottery. 

Like I did. 

        (And like their labelers did).  

No. 

I will not use those terms. 

Those labels. 

Those hurtful and hypocritical labels. 

I will simply call them people. 

Humans. 

Community members. 

Friends. 

And I will call them by name, if I know it. 

And if I do not know it, I will try like hell to learn it. 

No matter the place of birth.  

Or status of status. 

Yes, I consider myself lucky. 

So lucky. 

That out of all the places in the world to choose from, Vermont was chosen. 

My hometown was chosen. 

As the place to come to.

To try and succeed.  

And work. 

Hard. 

So hard. 

Harder than most ‘legals.’ 

Or ‘non-aliens.’

Or the ‘documented.’ 

Those who cite their patriotism to justify the labeling often ignore the Declaration: 

    “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their                       Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”

And this declaration is not about politics.

Or the current political culture in this country. 

Or my hometown. 

‘This’ being my own declaration here, in this prosetry. 

        (As well as the Declaration quoted above). 

Nor is about man’s laws. 

Federal or otherwise.  

Rather it is about humanness. 

And what is right. 

And life is right. 

Education is right. 

Opportunity is right. 

Those that use the labels ‘illegal’,  ‘alien’, or ‘undocumented’ drown in their hypocrisy. 

A hypocrisy grounded in their behavior.

They have never done anything illegal….?  

They have not done anything to separate themselves from their country? 
 
They have never manipulated the system with their paperwork, their tax returns...maybe?

If not, I stand corrected. 

But a lot of American citizens are too busy polishing their windows to recognize that hypocrisy.   

And, I think, in that effort of polishing, they cannot see their fear in the reflection that is created. 

A fear of others different than them. 

A fear I just do not understand. 

What is there to be afraid of?  

Please, tell me you ‘concerned’ citizens of the Town of Hartford? 

Really. 

What are you afraid of?

That these learners and family members will do better than you? 

Make more money?

Be more involved in the community?

Be more righteous?

More talented?

More compassionate?

More successful?

Have a stronger moral compass?

Really? 

I’m curious. 

Why use the the terms ‘illegal’, ‘alien’, ‘undocumented’, and an extreme cases ‘criminals?’

Why?

My assumption is because you are scared. 

Of the above betterment, money, community involvement, righteousness, talent, compassion, success, and compass. 

Yet it is claimed you are scared of the behavior. 

That the behavior does not belong here. 

The 'criminal' behavior. 

So the chant becomes ‘Send them home.’ 

‘Send them back to where they came from.’ 

Disgusting. 

Disgusting. 

Simply disgusting. 

And I know that 'disgust' is based in my opinion. 

But it is an opinion grounded in data.  

Despite the one off situations that some people post on social media.

The data shows the most dangerous kind of person in America is not an 'illegal'. 

Or an alien. 

Or an undocumented. 

It is the white man. 

The white, American, male. 

The white, American, male, citizen. 

That commits the most crimes. 

The most heinous crimes. 

And kills the most people. 

Kills the most American citizens. 

Historically. 

So, again, why do you label ‘illegal’, ‘alien’, and ‘undocumented’ in hatred? 

Because there is danger? 

Bullshit. 

Admit it. 

You label because they are different than you. 

Different backgrounds. 

Different experiences. 

Different cultures. 

And yes, different skin colors. 

You want to take action to improve our community?  

Then make sure YOU are not illegal. 

In your behavior. 

And possibly your opinions. 

And that you do not act like an alien. 

And that you document yourself. 

All of your actions. 

Always. 

Actions that need to meet the laws. 

All the laws. 

Not just the convenient ones that allow the labeling of others as a distraction away from your own behavior.

And yes, watch those white, male citizens. 

They are dangerous. 

Killers, really. 

And most certainly criminals. 

In general. 

So please stop hiding behind your keyboards. 

And finding outlets where your racism is disguised. 

Where you rearrange your prejudices. 

And mix it with a hearty dose of emotion. 

And then try to pawn it off as original thinking.  

On social media, particularly. 

Sorry. 

The few of you that are heroes behind your keyboard are the minority. 

As are the one or four the local paper reported to speak in public. 

Neglecting the six or eight that spoke in opposition. 

Maybe more. 

Yes, the labelers are louder. 

For sure.

Hiding behind toned intimidation. 

But they still are not right. 

Despite their volume. 

And their polished windows. 

In their glass houses. 

And their sanded logs.

Stuck in their eye.  

No, I will not refer to any student or any human on this earth as ‘illegal’, ‘alien’, or undocumented. 

Ever. 

Ever. 

They are people. 

And learners. 

And humans. 

Humans. 

Humans entitled to an education.
​
And the pursuit of Life, Liberty, and Happiness. 

I am the very proud principal of the Hartford Area Career and Technology Center (HACTC).  And I have a confession to make.

I hate summer.

Despite its stunning green.

A shade only Sabra Field can replicate. 
 
Bless her colors. 

So accurate. 

So vivid. 

So real. 

So woodblock. 

So Vermont. 

Like Ben Fuller. 

So Vermont. 

So talented. 

So real. 

So vivid. 

So accurate. 

Speak truth, Ben.

Sing truth, Ben.  

#meandkatelyn 

Bless your truth. 

Yes, summer.
 
So beautiful. 

With its tendency to make poets croon. 

Poets like Carl.
 
        Bend low again, night of summer stars. 
        So near you are, sky of summer stars, 
        So near, a long-arm man can pick of the stars, 
        Pick off what he wants in the sky bowl, 
        So near you are, summer stars, 
        So near, strumming, strumming, 
        So lazy and hum-strumming

No, Carl Sandburg and I are not on a first name basis. 

He died in 1967. 

I was born in 1971. 

And his crooning above is not necessarily about Vermont. 

But really it is. 

Whether he knew it or not. 

If that makes sense. 

Regardless, it made sense to Dody Manchester. 

My father’s fourth grade teacher.
 
And mine, too. 

(Does that only happen in Vermont?)

She gave me Carl's words when I was ten. 

A gift. 

After I blew up and blew out of her class.

Denting the silver milk refrigerator in the hallway with a kick and a punch.  

Both were meant for David Connor after he made fun of the manure stains on my boots.   

But under the Whirly Bird on the playground, I shared with Mrs. Manchester that I could only fall asleep for the night when lying on the ‘garage’ roof outside my bedroom window, looking for the Three Kings of Orion’s belt.  

Earlier in the year, Mrs. Manchester taught me about Orion. 

And his hunting. 

And his bow. 

And his belt. 

I liked him immediately. 

And felt protected.

But that could have just been the snow I was lying in. 

Or maybe it was just the cold. 

Or maybe it was the stars themselves. 

(All three still make me feel ‘safe’ even now at forty-eight).

Snow and cold and stars.   

Hence, Mrs. Manchester’s gift of Carl’s words. 
  
But they happened to be only a few pages in front of Carl’s Chicago. 

And Chicago scared me badly.

        Hog butcher for the world. 

Our hogs were butchered by Chet Miller. 

Local. 

Kind. 

Caring. 

Compassionate. 

Respectful. 
 
To the ‘hogs.’ 

And their sacrifice. 

In my childhood, meat did not come on a styrofoam tray. 

But rather from Chet. 

And my dad.

Both with well-worn jeans. 

Hay worn. 

Barn worn. 

Work worn.

Dirt worn. 
 
Rubbed dirty. 

Like their hands. 

Yes, Chet was Vermont. 

So was my father. 

So Vermont.

So accurate. 

Like Sabra.

Like Ben. 

Like Mrs. Manchester. 

Like Carl (unintentionally).

No. 

None of them are wrong. 

Vermont is beautiful. 

But beyond it colors. 

And beyond its stars. 

And its music. 

And its teachers. 

And fathers. 

And butchers. 

Things are amiss.  

Amiss in how we now teach our children.  

Truth is that summer sucks.

My original confession.

Before the distraction of colors, music, words, and food. 

Yes, I hate summer. 

As an educator. 

Who was created by those mentioned above. 

And their influence on me. 

Ten weeks away from school sucks.

For the students.

It just sucks. 

So much learning lost. 

So many valuable lessons.

And so much relationship.
 
Lost. 

Because of summer. 

Despite its beauty. 

Ten weeks? 

Really?

Ten weeks without Mrs. Manchester?

Ten weeks without relationship?

Ten weeks without learning?

Without instruction? 

Without assessment?

And encouragement?

And love?

Love.

Love. 

Love. 

Ten weeks without access to my teammates?

My incredible teammates at the Hartford Area Career and Technology Center.

And my teammates in all the Technology Centers in the state. 

And those at every elementary, middle, and high school in Vermont?

Stupid. 

Simply stupid.

And ironic.  

The agrarian calendar is dead. 

Dead.
 
Like Carl.

But without respect. 

Like Chicago’s hogs.
 
The meat on styrofoam tray. 

Not from Chet. 

Not from my Dad. 

Not healthy. 

Yes, data shows that summer sucks. 

For students. 

And their learning.

So why?

Why does Vermont keep on doing it? 

Be accurate, Vermont. 

Not just in colors. 

And in music. 

And in truth. 

And in its stars. 

And in Whirly Bird conversations. 

And fathering.

And food.  

But education, too. 

Change the school calendar. 

Yes, it will cost money. 

To air condition schools. 

And pay teachers more. 

Because they are working more. 

But I suspect they are willing. 

So willing. 

Like the taxpayers. 

Because they are like Orion. 

Protective. 

Of their students.

Of their children. 

On the garage roof. 

The snow and cold and the stars. 

If you will. 

Yes, I hate summer. 

I need two weeks. 

To clear my head. 

And recharge. 

And then I miss them.

The students. 

I want to see them. 

And hear about their lives. 

And their successes. 

And their struggles. 

So I know how to talk to them. 

And encourage them. 

And teach them. 

Because that is my passion. 

What I have dedicated my life to. 

Helping students learn. 

And grow. 

Grow. 

I am dedicated. 

Just like my teammates.
 
All of them. 

All over the state. 

Yes, I hate summer. 

And so do those who 'get it.'

It is, indeed, time to change. 

Lead the way Vermont. 

Lead. The. Way. 

For Sabra. 

For Ben.

For Dody. 

For Chet. 

For my Dad.

For me. 

For my teammates. 

For the children. 

They are most important. 

The children. 

Get it done, Vermont. 

Get it done. 

A year-round school calendar.

And see learning 'Bend low again'. 

Like Carl's stars.

Like Orion's Three Kings. 

Like Vermont. 

Vermont. 

So proud. 
​
Leading the way. 

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 an anti-vaxxer.  

Despite my daughter’s tics.

Too many.

Too. Many.

And too personal to describe here.

That is a lot of too’s.

A lot of also’s.  

For an eleven year old.  

But they were present.

The tics.
 
So present.

Univited guests into the household.

That we asked to leave.

Repeatedly. 

But refused.

Setting up roots. 

Deep roots. 

To be present.
 
Present.  

Every two to the three seconds.

For the entire day.

Until sleep.

At ‘sudden onset.’

From the Flu Mist.

Yes.

The tics were caused by the Flu Mist.

So was the subsequent PANDAS.

Caused by a vaccine.

Taken off the market.

For being ‘ineffective.’

‘Ineffective.’

The Center for Disease Control’s excuse for removal.

‘Ineffective’ being a misleading label for debilitating.

For hurtful.

For crushing.

Not to all kids.

No.

But to some kids.

The ‘Percent error.’

My kid.

My kid.

My. Kid.

Scout.

The beautiful Scout.

My daughter.

My kid.

My Kid.

My. Kid.

The one I am to protect.

To protect.

At all costs.

Like a father should.  

MY Kid.

MY KId.

MY KID.

Scout.

A human.

With a heart.

That loves.

She loves so deeply.

But is ‘The percent error.’

But those statistics do not care about love.

Or heart.

Screw em’.

I never liked them anyway.

Statistics.

Despite my love of math.

Because the ‘percent error’ usually involved people.

Real people.

Not dice.

Or cards.

Or widgets.

People.

People who experience ‘Sudden Onset.’

Well, kids.

Kids who experience ‘Sudden Onset.’

Which was way too sudden for Scout.

And me.

And Kerry.

And our marriage.

No.

Despite all that.

Despite the statistics.

I am still not an anti-vaxxer.

Despite Scout’s anxiety.

‘Severe’ anxiety.

Days when crossing the threshold of her bedroom doorway was like traveling down a river.

The African Queen, maybe.

Minus Humphrey Bogart.

Charlie Allnut.

He would have figured out how to travel through the anxiety.

And the 'leeches.'

But to Scout and me and Kerry the river is just too wide some days.

And sometimes too long.

And the leeches too gross.

Too daunting.

Four more too’s.

And scary.

Just too scary.   

Damn scary.

Full of Monsters.

Imagined or real.

Anxiety monsters.

Causing Scout to shake.

Despite her bravery.

And strength.

Game of Thrones strength.

Jon Snow strength.

She would still shiver.

And cry.

And sob.

Frustrated.

So frustrated.

Her tears staining the hardwood floors.

Only to be sanded away.

Eventually.

By someone.

With a strong hand.

But not by me.

No.

The tear stains remind me.

How hard it is.

For her.

To cross the threshold.

When I get frustrated.

Pacing.

Angrily.

I am reminded.

By those damn stains.

That it took everything.

Everything.

Everything.

Some days.

Just to go down the street.

To walk Clarabelle.

Our dog.

The best dog.
​
Never mind to go to school.

Yes.

A walk down the street took it all.

Really.

Everything.

Spiritually.

Emotionally.

Physically.

The anxiety took it all.

And the PANDAS.

And the Flu Mist.

A vaccine.

Meant to protect.

But instead it harmed.

The ‘Percent Error.’

Taking three years of Scout’s childhood.  

Happiness.

Carefreeness.

Exploring life.

And learning.

And friends.

And school.  

Lost.

No.

Despite all that, I am still not an anti-vaxxer.

Despite.

Despite the Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

OCD.

The acronym.

Meant to shorten the name of a diagnosis.

But ignoring the long trial of the symptoms.
 
A trial for her.

And for me.

And especially for Kerry.

A test?

Maybe.  

But who needs that test?

Not Scout.  

Not Kerry.

Not me.

Challenged.

So challenged.

By OCD.

But that too is too personal to describe here.

To get into the specifics.

The symptoms.

The symptoms being too specific.  

Three too’s.

Three also’s.

I have analogies.

And metaphors.

At the ready. 

Like a writer should. 

To make this writing more visual.

More tangible.

But I cannot do it.

It is Scout’s information.

To share some day.

When she can get specific.

Beyond simply asking for prayer.

Irony.

Like the vaccine knew ahead of time.

That there would be a story to tell.

But knowing we could not tell it fully.

To protect her privacy.

The perfect cover for its ‘Ineffectiveness.’

Well played, CDC.

Well played.

But she’ll catch up to you.

Someday.

And you will be sorry you ever crossed her.

And hurt her.

And stole her years.   

But for now, she can only ask for prayer.

Prayer helps her.

It gives her strength.

So does her community.

Her people.

Our people.

But she cannot share the specifics.

Not yet.

It still hurts.

Too much.

But she will use her experience to help others.

She has that heart.

A helping heart.

Unlike the vaccine.

Unlike the Flu Mist.  

Despite all that, though, I am still not an anti-vaxxer.

Despite.

Despite.

“Despite.”

Despite my marriage being brought to the brink.

Of separation.

In anger.

Red cheeks at bedtime.

In disagreement.

Of how to proceed.

Of how to treat.  

Despite God.

Despite Love.

Despite Commitment.

Despite Trust.

Despite.

Despite.  

Yeah.

Despite all that, I am not an anti-vaxxer.

Go figure.

No.

I am not anti-vaxxer.

What am I?  

A father.

A husband.  

And an anti-herd vaxxer.

In this time where everything is personalized.

Everything.

Every. Single.Thing.

Based on research.

Based on data.

So that children may thrive.

Knowing that every child on this earth develops, learns, and grows at different rates and times.

We still vaccinate all the kids at the same time.

With the same amounts.

It no longer make sense to do so.

To continue to vaccinate all children at the same age thinking that their bodies, particularly their immune systems, develop at the same rate as everyone else.

It does not work.

It does not.

Despite.

Despite.

Despite.

It is stupid.

Simply stupid.  

Yup.

The distraction being the argument.

On CNN or Fox or Facebook.  

This argument is the low-hanging fruit in the discussion tree.

‘There is no link between vaccinations and autism.’

Great.

But go higher in the tree.

Is there no link between the vaccination schedule and ADHD?

Autoimmune Disorders?

Mental Health?

Anxiety?

OCD?

I have not heard shit about that.

Because it has not been studied.  

Well, other than through people’s emotions.

And their stupid Facebook posts.  

Because people simply like to argue.

And argument is emotion.

Is it not?

So they post.

They post.

Memes.

Or others’ thinking.

Or others’ emotions.

And pawn it off as their own.

Their own thinking.

Or their own experience.

Because it is not their kid.  

Their kid.

Their kid.

Their kid.

Scout.

My kid.

My strong, intelligent Scout.  

Yes.

My kid.

My beautiful Scout.

My daughter that the State has opposed.

My Vermont.

With their law.

For vaccinations.

Yes.

They lie.

Posting and regulating based on emotion.

Not understanding.

Fully.

'Fully' only comes with your kid.

The ‘Percent Error.’

Despite.

Despite.

Despite the sleepless nights.

And the IVIG’s.

No.

They do not have a ‘dog in the fight.’

So to speak.

A kid in the game.

So it easy.

Really easy.

To develop an opinion.

And a law.  

About the ‘Despite’ vaccine.

Like the one that hurt my daughter.

My kid.

My kid.

Not yours.

So do not post.

Unless it is your kid.

Your. Kid.

With the tics.

And the anxiety.

And the OCD.  

Are you sure, H, that it was the Flu Mist?  

Yes, I am certain.

So are the gazillion test results that Scout had to endure.

Along with infusions.

And the blood tests.

The blood tests.

With the needles.

And the infusions.

With the needles.

And the hours.

Hours.

Of sitting.

In pain.

And the blood tests.

Did I mention the blood tests?

And the needles?

And the infusions?

And the tics?

And the anxiety?

And the OCD?

And my marriage?

The love of my life.

Compromised.

Because sometimes love is not enough.

The sincere ‘I do.’

Not enough to overcome the vaccine.

And its effects.   

I am not trying to fight or argue with anyone.

I swear.

I am just trying to make people slow down and ask their doctors a lot of questions.

About vaccines.

And the schedule.

Does it really need to happen so soon?  

At the scheduled ages?

Ask.

Does my child have MTHFR gene?  

The ‘motherfucker’ gene?  

If so, wait.

Wait.

Oh God, please wait.

Delay the vaccine schedule.

So you do not have a child with tics.

And ‘Sudden Onset.’

And anxiety.

And OCD.

And a marriage on the brink.

And a Thursday night writing a blog.

With whiskey to your left.

To save others from your experience.

The experience of bruised knees.

From collapsing in prayer.

At 3:00 a.m.

In front of the green couch.
 
Before your job starts.

No.

Ask questions.

So many questions.

Despite the doctor’s training.

And possibly the doctor’s opinion.

And advice.

Despite.

Despite.

Despite.

No.

I am not anti-vaxxer.

I am an anti-herd vaxxer.

Bless you, Scout.

And I am sorry.

That I did not protect.

Taking the doctor’s word.

To vaccinate.

And now having to write this wordy, long, and repetitive prosetry.

Prosetry. 

Putting your story out there.

To possibly protect others.

I am sorry.

So sorry.

But in the end, it will be them that is sorry.

The makers of the vaccine.

The CDC.

The Facebook posters.

The doctors.

Who make mothers feel guilty for asking questions.

Asking about delaying the schedule.

Because when all the Too’s become specific.

By your own choice.

There will be nothing to stop you.

You will change this madness.

By navigating this river of discord.

And argument.

With your strength.

And experience.

Like Charlie.

Charlie Allnut.

And the African Queen.

You go, Scout.
​
You go.

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. 

​

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.