Even After We're Gone

Not long ago, I had a couple delicious hours alone and spent it with a fun romantic comedy called The Proposal. 

There is a great scene where Betty White’s character, the feisty and hilarious Grandma Annie, wants to give her wedding dress to Margaret (Sandra Bullock). 

“I can’t.  I can’t take this,” Margaret says, in an unexpected display of humble unselfishness.

Grandma Annie insists.  “Grandmothers love to give their stuff to their grandchildren.  It makes us feel like we’ll still be part of your lives even after we’re gone.  Take it.”

Instantly, I thought of my late grandmother.  In the last five years of her life, she drove us all bonkers because she talked incessantly about who would get what after she was gone.   Everything was up for discussion: her Spode china, her stacks of valuable books, her silver, her engagement and wedding rings, which grew increasingly loose and clink-y on her finger as she aged and thinned.  My siblings and I rolled our eyes each time it came up, and my cousins were similarly annoyed.  It became a joke amongst us, especially when my grandmother took to labeling things with index cards so we’d know who was supposed to get particular items—and then frequently moved these assignments around.  On one visit, I was slated to get her antique silverware; on the next visit, it was now labeled for my sister.  The Greek brass drawings she’d acquired overseas were assigned to my aunt, then to my mother, then to my cousin, and then back to my aunt.  It was by turns hilarious and infuriating—hilarious because we thought she was acting like lunatic, and infuriating because it felt like she was using her stuff (her “stupid stuff,” I believe I called them in my surly teenaged years) to manipulate us.

With time and reflection, though, my understanding has changed.  Now I know that she wasn’t being a lunatic at all.  On the contrary, she was clear-eyed, focusing on passing on her things because she needed to know they would continue to tell her story, and would remind the world that she was here.  And she moved her assignments around because she wanted to make sure they were honored appropriately, and worried about them landing in the right spot.

My grandmother assumed she would pass quietly in her sleep, dignified and elegant, and her things would be taken, as assigned, in a somber and grateful post-funeral walk through her house.  Circumstances never play out the way they are supposed to, though; her old-age illnesses drained her money, and many of her things were sold.  Others ended up in boxes in a storage facility and, when it was finally cleaned out months after her death, no one had the emotional or physical energy to allocate things with the care we should have.

So in spite of my grandmother’s plans, I do not have her high-heeled pumps or her tea set from Cairo, her English hats or her collection of rare books. I ended up with just one thing:  a single gold wedding band.

And I value it like nothing else.  I wear it every day, on the ring finger of my right hand.  I catch an unplanned glance at it a hundred times a day, and when it happens, I have a milli-flash of memory of my grandmother.  Just a snapshot, there and then gone, sometimes practically unconsciously:  A memory of the time we made donuts together, the most simple and delicious donuts I’d ever tasted.  How she scolded me for sock-skating across her hardwood floors.  How she always ate a breakfast of oatmeal with half a banana sliced on top, saving the other half for the next day.  How her words slurred a little after too many vodka tonics.  How she pressed a $10 bill in my hand and told me to go buy myself a “nice suit” for my graduate school intake interview.  Her final months, when she insisted on a glass of water by her bed at night with two—no more, no less—ice cubes in the glass, refusing to reason with us about inevitable melting.

The gold band brings all of that back.  Just this—this slim, indestructible, shining reminder—opens up a slew of snapshots of a good woman’s life and the connections she made with her granddaughter.

Here’s the thing:  As we go through this life, we never know when we’re taking a snapshot for someone else’s memory, and we never know how many years will pass before it is seen again.  But it’s a good reminder to work hard to build a gallery of positive snapshots, so no matter what we leave behind, we’ll still be part of the memories our loved ones keep. 

Statewide Testing

Schoolchildren all over our state are involved in massive, complicated statewide testing right now.  All of our regular routines and patterns have slammed to a stop while we give kids a these required tests.

A colleague of mine, describing the event at his (very large) high school, said, “It’s a friggin’ production.  Like a full-scale movie set, everyone buzzing around trying to wrap this up.  We’ve got proctors and subs and small groups all over the place; we’ve got custodians and support staff and the office staff, all on board, and on call, and on deck, and just on.  All helping out in some way.  A production, I tell you.”

I think of the process of testing a little differently.  To me, it’s a belly flop from the high dive—everyone hears it, and everyone feels it, and everyone emphathizes.  Because it hurts.  For a long, stinging while. 

A friend of mine who works in the southern part of our state called me the evening she’d proctored one of the tests for little girl named Dashi.  My friend works closely with Dashi every day because she needs extra help in learning to read.  Dashi’s eight.  She rides the bus 45 minutes to school through long and windy country roads.  Many days, when the bus pulls up to school, Dashi gets off first; she needs to hustle over to the bushes and vomit because she gets so bus sick. But she’s a relentlessly tough and positive child, and so she pulls a tissue from her jacket, wipes her mouth, and walks into school with a smile—albeit a wobbly and bluish one. 

Last Tuesday, my friend dutifully retrieved Dashi from her regular classroom, walking her and a couple other students to her office to take their required test.  Dashi dug right in.  Not long after she’d started, there was a question that required her to respond by typing several paragraphs. 

Did I mention—?  Dashi is eight.

But she’s mighty and willful, so she went at it, slowly picking her way across the keyboard to find her letters.  “I….n….. t….. h……”  Several minutes, it took her, and finally, she’d finished this much:  In the story theyre were… 

She looked at my friend with despair and hope, as if she knew she couldn’t continue and didn’t have much else to say, yet simultaneously hoping someone would tell her this whole thing was over. 

My friend gave her the almost-expressionless smile she knew she was supposed to give.

Dashi worked a bit longer, slowly tapping away, tap-pause-look-tap-pause-look.  Then she put her head down and closed her eyes.  “I’m going to take a rest,” she said.  She sat for several minutes.  My friend saw Dashi’s body rise and fall with her breath. 

“I can’t do this to her,” My friend wailed to me over the phone.  “This is so wrong.  So.  Wrong.  I don’t know why we haven’t stopped this, somehow.” 

I didn’t know what to say, just like I’m not sure how to lead my teachers through this anxiety.  They are the ones who carry the heaviest weight.  Testing children this much goes against everything we know about teaching and learning.  The standardization feels unfair and unreasonable, especially at these young ages when the students don’t have the stamina and focus to show who they are as thinkers.

So I’ve mostly just been listening.  I can’t tell them to stop giving the tests—that’s not an option.  I can’t tell them not to care—again, not an option.  I can’t tell them to call their senators because we all know how fruitless and exhausting that can be.  (Betsy DeVoss, anyone?)

At night, I think about Dashi, and so many other kids like her, and how they are being asked to do something their brains aren’t ready to do.  I think a lot about this lady, about how courageous she is, and how I’d like to do something like that, but I can’t, for lots of important reasons.  

My teachers don’t have that option, either, and if they did, it wouldn’t make a difference anyway.  The legislators, the massive and powerful and wealthy testing companies, the legal mandates—the toothpaste is out of the tube, there, and we can do nothing to stop it. 

So when I talk to teachers, I choose my words carefully.  I tell them to stay focused on the things they do know—their teaching, their differentiation, the young people that come into their classrooms every day.

I say, “It’s just a law we have to follow.”

I say, “It will be over in a few weeks.”

I say, “I know.  I know.  I know.” 

I say, “I understand.” 

I say, “I’m sorry.”

It doesn’t feel like enough. 

TeacherCast

It’s rut time.  The days are running together.  I wear the same type of black pants every day, topped with a similarly dark selection of dull but at-least-they-are-warm shirts.  I yank on a pair of nondescript boots and trudge into another late-winter doldrum day. 

Monday was like that.  It was windy-cold—the worst kind.  Low hanging clouds, thick and blackish, could have been a mirror to my mood—but I did what we all do:  I got up and worked through it with a genuine smile on my face.  Then, after school, I went off to teach my graduate class, calling my husband on the way for a quick hello; after that, I drove back to my office.  I parked and walked in with my hair and coat and schoolbag swirling around in sync with the icy wind and snow. 

I was headed for my scheduled recording of a podcast for TeacherCast.net.  I was whipped; all I wanted, really, was to go home and watch some crappy TV with a bowl of tortilla chips perched on my chest.

And then!  Then!  I got all re-energized.  Because of a simple conversation with a comrade, I was inspired and lively and eager again.

The podcast was recorded with (and by) Jeffrey Bradbury, who is the smart and sassy founder and CEO of TeacherCast.  He records these podcasts with all sorts of different people and sends their voices out into the world.  Jeffrey’s work is admirable, and actually kind of astounding when you think about it, because in addition to being thoughtful and innovative and wise, he’s also a technology coach for his school district and dad to three reallllly young human beings.  Like, triplets.  Eeegads.  That’s a busy dude, there.  

But the two of us got going, and man, we covered some good ground.  We talked about how being a school leader—in any capacity, really, not just a principal—is a complex and tricky job, one that makes you feel simultaneously like you’re suffocating in people and like you’re all alone.  We talked about finding mentors.  About inherent drive.  About being a lead singer, and about being told you’re going to be a different person now that you’re the guy in charge.

It was good stuff. 

Here’s our conversation. 

I’m happy I got to talk to Jeffrey.  We put our minds together to create fabulous professional energy. 

Here’s the thing:  When we’re in the same-pair-of-black-pants-all-week kind of rut, we forget that having an energetic and passionate conversation about our work can make it do-able and awesome.  

Ruts feel deep and vast.  But there’s a cure, for sure… Seek, find, and talk to someone who’s different and new and makes you think really hard about what you believe in—and why you believe in it. 

**If you want more from TeacherCast, there's lots to see here... 

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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.