It is 3:30 in the morning.
Oy. And I cannot sleep. And neither can Clarabelle. Clarabelle. My friog. Friend. Dog. Friog. My grounding to this earth. And this life. She is connected to my heart and mind. And connects my heart to my mind. And both wrestle with my peace. Tonight. And my eyelids. Pinning them open. Wide open. To the mat of discord. And uncertainty. Both shoulders touching squarely. Clean finish. So I swing my legs to the floor. A floor worn from twelve years of wakings. Particularly 3:30 wakings. And I adjust my socks. And attempt to adjust the rats in my head. As if they can be ‘adjusted’. Nope. They cannot. So. So. I sneak downstairs. Balleting around the creaks. To not wake my girls. My beautiful girls. Wife and daughter. Beautiful. Both. Despite my inconsistency as husband and father. Bless them. And it is comforting that Clarabelle knows that same ballet. Down the stairs. Despite her four feet. Despite my inconsistencies. As walker. As friend. Bless her, too. So I trumble. Trip. Tumble. Trumble. Into the kitchen. And sit. At the table. Thistening. Thinking. Listening. Thistening. To the clock on the wall. You know, the one above the stove. Often not changed with the time changes. The change in time. And patterns. And life. But not life patterns. Clanging. It is clanging. The clock. Clang. Ing. With every movement of its longest hand. ClangIng. ClangIng. Ugh. Like the bell at the Quechee church. In my childhood. On a sunny Saturday after ‘Queek’. (Do not ask. Seriously. Do not. It was brainwashing. Not God). No. God was the Ottauquechee River. Lifting its trouts’ smells across the road. A place I would have much rather been. Than in Queek. God uses a five-weight. And a gold-ribbed hare’s ear. And I knew that. Then. But no. It was not to be. No. Much like sleep tonight. And the clock. The clock. And its clanging. ClangIng. ClangIng. Like the emails I read before bed. From Currdents. Current. Students. Currdents. Who are so strestgling. Strestgling. Struggling. Wrestling. Stressling. And…. Fighting. Fight. Ing. Being at home. All day. All. Day. Because home is not safe. Or healthy. And they have no school building to go to. It is CLOSVID. COVID. CLOSED. CLOSVID. Closed. The building. Not the learning. Not the love. Learning and Love are never closed. They DO NOT = closed. Ever. Love. Learning. Yet... Yet… Learning does not = protection. Love does not = protection. Like a building does. Like love does. Like a love building does. Like a dog’s nose on your thigh does. At 3:30 in the morning. And the Teime. Teime = protection. Time. Team. Teime. Teime = 7:45 - 3:00. Teime = love. Teime = hugs. Teime = teachers. Teime = staff. Teime = protection. Time. Team. Team = Hugs. Team = Support. Team = Encouragement. Team = Relationship. Team = Encouragement. Did I say that already? Encouragement. Sorry. I will say it again. Team = Encouragement. Teime = Encouragement. Encouragement. Thisten Vermont. Thisten Hartford. Hang in there. We got this. Not just me and Clarabelle. At 3:30 in the morning. But the Tieme. The Tieme has got this. Mostly the Team. You have great people teaching your children. Protecting your children. Loving your children. Hugging your children. Even if they are not your own. The ones you might be worried about. This CLOSVID is nothing. Nothing. CLOSVID = nothing. Particularly in the face of my teammates. My Tiemmates. From my school. From my State. From my Vermont. The ‘brave little State.’ Calvin understood. So let the clock Clang. ClangIng. No matter. And let 3:30 come. And let 3:30 go. As well as the stresslings. And have confihuglovidence. In your tiemmates. Have it. Because they are yours, too. And mine. Confidence. Hugs. Love. Confihuglovidence. Like Clarabelle. With her head on my thigh. Looking at me with that confihuglovidence. So. So. I ballet around the creaks. Back up the stairs. With Clarabelle in the lead. Showing the way. Back to bed. And peace. And love. And sleep. Closed eyelids. Shoulders off the mat. And a bunch of confihuglovidence. That this all will be okay. It. Will. Be. Okay. The Tiemates got this. They sooooo got this. .
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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. 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. |
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