Lobodomy

I’d taught for seven years when I interviewed and was hired to be an assistant principal.  I was as surprised as anyone else; I certainly hadn’t foreseen going into administration.  But I was working for a principal I adored, a woman I admired and trusted, who told me, "You should do this someday."  So I got myself back in graduate school and found my way toward this first job.  It all felt right. Natural.  It seemed to make sense.

But a few nights after I was approved by our Board of Education as an official administrator—Middle School Assistant Principal—capital letters and all—a group of my work friends took me out to dinner at a local wine bistro, a sleek and glamorous place that made me feel very grown up.  They were older than I, women I considered mentors, all experienced and wise and fun. Each had been teaching twenty or thirty years by then, and their careers had them somewhat cynical and jaded.  They liked to tell stories of crazy principals they’d had along the way.  I never connected their grumblings to myself at all; in fact, I found them spot-on and, usually, hilarious.

The wine came, and then some flatbreads, hummus plates and spinach dip, and then some ooey-gooey desserts.  One of my friends slapped her hands on the table.  “Let’s have a toast!”

We lifted our glasses—me shyly, they tipsy and giggly.

“Cheers to you, Jen!” she said.  “Congratulations on completing your lobotomy.” 

They all laughed.   

I felt my brow crinkle. 

“You know.  Your brain.  Now that you’re a principal, you’ve lost half your brain.”

I stared at her.

She spoke more slowly, like you’d speak to someone being a deliberate dumbass.

“You.  Are.  A.  Principal.  So.  Now.  You.  Have.  Half.  A.  Brain.”

My speechlessness was drowned out by their laughter.  

"You'll be different now," someone else said.  

"You will," another chimed in. "They all do, once they have an office."  

They were on a roll, now.  It went on and on.  "Now you're one of them," and, "You get a key to the place, you instantly change," and, "You're officially A Suit now."  

I felt like a cat caught in an unexpected rainstorm—unprepared, surprised, unable to respond.  Betrayed, too:  these women, these people I admired, these people who’d mentored me, seemed to be turning on me and pushing me aside, out of their world and into a cliche.

Inside, I railed against their words.  

But in the first few years I was a principal, I thought about that dinner often. I watched myself closely.  Was I different?  Did I change?  Was I becoming someone that was talked about in disrespectful, mocking terms?  

Yes, yes, and undoubtedly so.

Because I did change.  Everyone does, when their perspective changes.  I began to see how complicated it could be to make decisions when there were people involved.  I learned how carefully leaders need to be, how dedicated to considering all points of view.  I discovered that blind loyalty to only one perspective is a foolish way to lead. 

I didn't lose half my brain.  Instead, the way I think changed.  Not better, not worse, not anything.  Just different.  

So, after all, they were right.  I did change. I'm glad for it, though.  

The Front Steps

I’ve always loved grocery stores.  As a kid, I jumped at any chance to tag along—not because I thought I’d get a treat, but because I genuinely loved wandering the aisles of neat, ordered rows of items, all organized and new and full of potential.

I grew up in a small rural area where there were only three options for grocery shopping.  The first was QuickMart, which existed primarily to keep folks stocked up with milk, eggs, Natural Light, and Skoal.  They had Reece’s cups, though, and Twizzlers, so I was perfectly happy when we ran out of milk and had to “run to town.” 

Down the street and around the corner was Troyer’s IGA.   It fit the mold of every other IGA on this globe; it was small, unassuming, and carried simple, basic foodstuffs and toiletries.  There were two of each item at Schecks:  a brand name or the ValuTime brand.  Kellogg’s or ValuTime.  Stouffers or ValuTime.  Campbell’s or ValuTime.  Eggos or ValuTime.  Pert or ValuTime.

We always got ValuTime.

And then, thirty miles away in Wooster, there was Buehler’s.  To me, going to Buehler’s was akin to going to Disney.  We didn’t go much, because it was too expensive, and besides it took a good half hour to get there.  But when we did­—?  Ohhhhhh…

… ‘Cause, see, they had everything.  Every. Thing.  And there wasn’t ValuTime, because Buehler’s was too fancy for such shenanigans.  The options and choices were mind-bending.  The potato-chips alone! Lays and Fritos and Tostitos and Cheet-os and Doritos and popcorn and Corn-nuts, kettle-cooked and Classic and Ruffled and Wavy and cheesy and nacho-y and oh my god so many options.  And there were olives and cheese, kiwi and mangos, prepared pizza, a salad bar the length of a pickup truck.  There was a lobster tank, a full bakery, and a flower store, even, and a little bank, and aisles of coffee beans that people could grind up on their own.  I’d stand still and just breathe deep, deep, deep.

My friend’s Bethy’s mother was a career cashier at Buehler’s, having started way back at 18, straight out of high school. She was always there, swiping and clicking and taking money and giving change, working in that fabulous store all day long, getting to see all the cool stuff people picked up to bring home.

I was jealous as hell. 

When I first got to know Bethy, I imagined her house must be chock-full of various potato chips, complex deli meat, sweetened cereal (Corn Pops!  Captain Crunch!  Frosted Flakes!  Froot Loops! Cocoa Krispies!) and, of course, piles of things from the bakery:  Cinnamon rolls, for sure, and cookies, pies, sweet cakes and donuts.  I imagined her kitchen overflowing with the Delicious and the Fancy.

And then I started going to her house after school.  My mother was asked to teach a class at our local art center, so, rather than have me at home alone, my mother wrote me a note to get off the bus with Bethy for a few months.  We felt so free and grown-up, there in her house, just the two of us, skipping down the sidewalk and guessing what might happen that afternoon on “General Hospital.”

We’d be starving.  “We need fooooooood,” we’d moan.  Bethy would go to the kitchen and rummage around a while.  Usually, she pulled out a crumpled bag of ValuTime cheese puffs and poured them into a bowl.  Sometimes she’d come back with saltines, or a couple spoons stuck into a jar of peanut butter.  One day, she made us ketchup sandwiches out of hot dog buns; another, she opened a can of baked beans and we ate them, cold, out of coffee mugs.  Sometimes she’d say, “There’s nothing to eat,” and we’d settle in on the couch without a snack, or we’d look for quarters in her father’s jeans pockets, and, if we found some, we’d hustle down to the Quick Mart for a bag of Muchos, which cost us only $ .69. 

I was confused, though.  And disappointed.  Why was Bethy’s kitchen so sparse?   Her mother worked at Buehler’s, for cryin’ out loud. 

I didn’t say anything for a long time.  Then, finally, on a day there was no food and we couldn’t find any quarters, I blurted, “How come you don’t have any food in your house?”

Her eyebrow lifted.

“I mean, your Mom!  Doesn’t she pick up a whole bunch of stuff?  After work, I mean?  Doesn’t she shop?  For food, and snacks?”  Her mouth turned into a firm straight line.  My voice trailed.  “No, like, shopping?  For food?  After work….?”

She didn’t say anything for a long time.  Then, she said, “No.”  Then, she said, “She’s tired.  She doesn’t want to think about groceries after work.”  Then, she her voice strong and steady, “Besides, have you taken a look at the front steps at your house?”

My skin flushed.  Yes, I’d taken a look at our front steps.

My father was a carpenter.  He built houses for other people, three or four a year, beautiful structures with every detail accounted for.  But our farmhouse had front steps made of stacked concrete cinder blocks.  They were ugly.  An eyesore.  They looked like the front steps of a transient, a nomad, a mobile home or camper.  They did not look like the front steps of a talented and skilled carpenter, just like Bethy’s kitchen cabinets did not look like those of a mother who spent her days surrounded by groceries.

And she’d noticed something, about her mother, and my father, and about people who work hard, and are good at their jobs—people who are doing their best, and sometimes can’t do everything.  

The cobbler's children had no shoes, after all.  

After working on someone else’s house all day, my father didn’t have the energy to build us a beautiful front porch.  Our cinderblock steps were just fine.  Functional and fine.

After hours on her feet filling grocery bags for other people, Bethy’s mother didn’t give hot damn about groceries anymore.  Baked beans and hot dogs were just fine.

It happens to me, now.  After work, I don’t want to talk.  I don’t want to make any decisions or check email or be in charge of anything.  My deep and dirty little secret?  I don’t even want to sit down and read a story with my children. Because just like Bethy’s mom, or my father, at the end of a day, I’m freakin’ tired.  I’ve spent my day thinking about reading, thinking, explaining.  I’ve been patient and interested and I’ve had an opinion.  And when I go home, I don’t want to do those things anymore.

I try—of course I do.  I am a perfectly functional parent and spouse, I think.  But there are certainly days that my performance is on par with cinderblock steps and ketchup sandwiches.  Days where I just can’t.  And I feel a little bad about that, sometimes, but then I remember.  It’s okay.  We are all doing our best.  Cinder block steps were perfectly fine; ketchup sandwiches were perfectly filling; and my family is fine and functional and perfectly, deeply loved.  

There's that...

A friend of mine told me she was having a crappy few weeks.  She was questioning her effectiveness as a teacher, her impact, her role.  She was half-heartedly considering other employment options.  "I'll be okay," she said, "But I just have to work on being cheerful right now."  

That’s how a lot of us are feeling this time of year.  It takes effort to stay positive and grateful.  

Not far from my house is a well-traveled road alongside which is a super-long stretch of corporate buildings.  It’s a suburbanized industrial park; you can take a right turn at any point and get lost in overlapping loopy roads with office buildings.  Big ones.

There’s this one, though. 

It is gigantic.  It looks like a person, with these enormous window-eyes.  It sits, all formidable and massive, on ginormous lot.   It looks like it was built there by a giant kid playing with life-sized Legos.  It is brown, and the land upon which it sits is brown, and I swear to heaven, the air around it is brown.  And every day, a whole bunch of people park their cars and walk inside, moving silently, like robots, and they stay inside and don’t come out until the end of the day, when they all come out again and get into their cars and drive away. There’s a giant water tower in the background, and I imagine it is there to give the corner office people something—anything—to look at. 

I have no idea what they do inside all day every day; I don’t know what they “make” or what work they are producing.  I have no idea what happens in the cubicles and offices within.   Sometimes I imagine that the people all go in and sit and stare at the wall, just waiting.  For something. 

Or maybe they do something fabulous for the world.  I don't know.  

Regardless, whenever I drive by the building, I think to myself, “I am so effing grateful I don’t have to walk into those doors every day of my life. “

Because every day, I get to walk into a building where there are children.  And children give us hope, and energy, and laughter. 

So there’s that.

Stay positive, friends.  We’ve got this.

Preparing for an Interview

“My daughter’s boyfriend’s brother has an interview next week for a teaching position.  Do you have any standard interview questions that you use?  I’d like him to be able to practice so he’s ready.”

If I had a dollar for every time I have gotten that question, I would be able to buy myself a really fancy steak dinner.  

Depending on how well I knew the person, I used to give sample questions or offer suggestions.  But I’ve changed my stance; my response is different now.    

Recently, a teacher I love and deeply respect emailed me.  She has been working with a student teacher; he is now interviewing for a job.  He’s pretty fabulous, she told me.  (Which means he really is.)  He needs to be teaching kids, she said.  (Which means he should.)  I want to help him, she said.  (Which means I wanted to help him, too.)

So I told her what I really think.

An interview isn’t something someone can study for.  For one thing, it’s impossible to guess what questions will be asked.  A thousand Google searches will reveal a thousand different sets of potential interview questions.  Looking through them and mentally preparing “correct” answers would be a bit like preparing for a spelling bee—you might study for weeks, but when you’re called to the microphone, you’ll likely get the one stupid word you hadn’t encountered in your studies, and suddenly you’re just like every other yahoo up there trying to spell words they don’t know.

But there’s another reason studying interview questions doesn’t work: your words don’t matter nearly as much as the place from which they come.  Are they coming from a desire to serve?  To help?  To make a difference?  To be a good teammate?  Or are your words coming from a place of desperation—to just get a job, already?

Your interview should reveal who you are. 

When I interview for open positions, I’m looking for kindness.  For generosity of spirit.  I seek someone who’s a hard worker, someone who values youth.  Who can admit mistakes and missteps, and isn’t judgmental about the mistakes and missteps of others. I’m not looking for a studious soul who sought potential questions and crammed, exam-style, for our conversation. 

An interview isn’t a means to an end.  It’s the beginning, in and of itself, actually.

So, when thinking about an upcoming interview, of course it’s a great idea to prepare.  But I tell people to prepare by buying a nice professional outfit, by considering your talents and skills as they relate to the position, by spitting out your gum before going into the room.  And then?  Breathe deeply.  Be the best true and authentic self.  That’s what they’re looking for.