The Quote-based Gift

This happened: 

I love quotes.  I use them often—sometimes just by myself, to keep my own thinking in a straight line; other times, more openly, as a way to inspire the thinking of others.  I seek them out and read them like little tidbits of short stories, from Einstein to Twain, from Unknown to Anonymous. (Admission:  It took me an embarrassingly long time to figure out who that was.) 

A colleague, Trish, loves them just as much as I do.  She’s a teacher, which makes her an angel, of course, but along the way she’s been a coach and technology expert, too.  She uses quotes with the same enthusiasm as I.  She’s got them posted throughout her classroom, on her phone, and as a revolving screen saver on her computer.  She’s my quote comrade. 

So guess what she did for me as a holiday present?

After years of sort of working together, she and I ended up working in the same school this year.  Again, I’m new to building, so I’ve spent the first part of the year hustling to try to get to know teachers, students, and parents.  There are a lot of them, and they all have their own stories—and I want to know them all.  Really know them.  But boy, it’s a daunting task.  It seems like it will take me a thousand years to get to know everyone.

Trish understands this. 

So guess what she did for me—?  On the day before the holiday break, she invited me to stop by her room.  I was surprised when one of the students stood and shyly handed me a package. 

“Oh, thank you,” I said.  “You didn’t need to—“

“Open it!” someone said. 

“Now?”

A chorus: “Yes!  Now!”

I did, in that awkward, Now?  Really?  If-I-really-have-to kind of way.  Inside, beneath several gently crumpled pieces of tissue, was one of the most thoughtful, mindful presents I’ve ever received as a principal. 

Trish had gone and bought a fun little journal, a gentle purple and blue number.  On the cover was Frozen’s Olaf, saying these words:  Some People Are Worth Melting For.  She had allotted two pages of the journal to each of her fourth graders.  She asked them to seek out an image of a quote that reflected who they are.  They pasted the quote on one page; on the coinciding page, they wrote me a letter describing themselves in relation to the quote.

It was a brilliant gift for a new (and quote-loving) principal.  As I read through the journal, I got 26 new quotes to ponder—and the personal, authentic, unfiltered story of 26 kids.  Instantly, I was able to learn something important about each one of them. 

Vidushi’s quote:  Everything in the universe has rhythm.  Everything dances.  (Maya Angelou) 

Vidushi connected herself to the quote like this:

Dear Mrs. Schwanke,

I like this quote because it reminds me to never stop dancing.  I love to dance.  It’s my passion and my life.  I also love math.  I want to be a doctor when I grow up.  I also love my friends.  Have a great Christmas.  I hope it does not snow.  Your student, Vidushi

So there, just with that student, I have a great quote—and I have six or seven things about which to Vidushi.  I’ve got a starting point, a connection, and a solid way to remember her. 

Ken’s quote:  Every pro was once an amateur.  Every expert was once a beginner.  So dream big.  And start now.  (Robin Sharma)

Ken’s connection:

Dear Mrs. Schwanke,

I like this quote because it reminds me to keep trying when I am new to something.  I really like sports.  My most favorite is Tae Kwon Do, which I play after school.  I keep working and keep getting better.  I hope your holiday is great.  See you next year!  Sincerely, Ken

Again, this was a great way to begin to know Ken.

There were others, too:

Page after page, it was clear how much care the students had put into selecting a quote and writing the accompanying letter.  Their handwriting was deliberate and careful; their words and descriptions gave me a clear and genuine picture of each student as a person and as a thinker.  Trish had guided them through the idea and the work, but the result was a comprehensive picture of each child.  It was a gift that gave me three important and necessary things:  26 quotes, 26 personal stories, and 26 springboards from which I could launch a meaningful student conversation. 

Thank you, Trish.

Growing Pains

In my early teens, I’d often whine or complain to my father when something ached.  My ankle hurts, I’d say.  I don’t know what’s wrong. I can hardly move!

Now that I’m older and I genuinely ache—like, the kind of aching that illicits an uncontrollable groan —I realize how godawfully annoying I must have been.  I was, like, twelve.  And I thought I ached—?  Really? 

My father was appropriately dismissive.  When I would say, “Dad, my shoulder/legs/knee/finger hurts,” he would look at me with a lifted eyebrow, breathe deeply, and shake his head. “Growing pains,” he’d say.

“Gaawwwwwd, Dad.  It’s not ‘growing pains.  It really hurts.  Like, really.”  The struggle was real, man.

He’d shrug.  “Growing hurts.”

At his most patient, he’d explain further.  He’d help me justify.

You are growing taller every day.  

You’re an active kid.

 You swing from barn rafters and ride a semi-wild horse for fun, for God’s sake.  Of course you are sore.

Your bones are keeping up with your muscles.

You ran a pretty tough track meet last night.

Did you sleep wrong?

But at his least patient, he told me to stop whining and find something to do that didn’t involve complaining.  “It’s just growing pains.  Get moving and it will go away.”

I hated his flippant dismissal.  But deep down, I knew he was spot-on.  Growing pains are just that—aches that come when we push ourselves to change and evolve.  Often, the only cure is to stop thinking about the pain and move along.  

Here's the thing:  I have growing pains as a principal.  I’ll think I’m doing pretty well, and then suddenly I am challenged by a parent or teacher or my bosses, and I get all pissed: Can’t things just be easy?  Painless?

And then I tell myself:  If there’s no discomfort, there’s no growth.  I'll try to push myself through the discomfort and toward the growth.

Same thing when I’m pushing students, teachers and parents to embrace learning and change.  I'll see the discomfort, and I'll do like my father did and help provide understanding for why it might be there.  

You're tired; there's a lot on your plate right now. 

Change it hard.  It really is. 

The plans you made in the classroom for last year simply won't work this year.  

Plans you made yesterday may not work today. 

The path you thought you'd made for yourself—or a child—may be thwarted without warning. 

It’s hard to see the positive stuff beneath all this aching.  But it’s there. 

But sometimes, also like my father, I simply have to point out (to myself and to others) when it is time to move along: "It's just growing pains.  Let's get moving and it will go away."  

Sunday Nights

I’m sure it’s true for anyone who works a weekday job:  Sundays are a mixed bag.  In some ways they’re the best days, because they’re usually set aside for the best stuff:  supreme laziness, perhaps, or a special family meal, or the week’s longest training run.  But they also stink because… well, because… tomorrow is coming.  And that means burying another weekend.   Forever.

As a teacher, Sunday afternoons and evenings were my least favorite.  I’d had my weekend of fun activities, but—just like that—it was suddenly time to make sure everything was graded, materials were copied and prepared, and that I had plans and ideas for how the week would unfold.  No small task, that:  as a teacher, I spent most Sunday afternoons in my classroom getting things ready. 

But for a principal, Sunday evenings are a lot different.  In a good way. 

Here’s the thing:  A principal never truly steps away from the work.  That’s not a complaint—it’s just the way it is.  At any time—weekdays, weekends, the middle of the night, even—the phone might ring with a crisis of a staff member or student; some problem with the facility; an extracurricular controversy; a colleague with a plea for support; and so on.   So a principal is generally keeping up with stuff all the times—emails, phone calls, and attending extra-curricular activities or supporting students in some way.  It's all reactionary.   

But Sunday nights are different.  They lean toward calm.  Quiet.  Issues from the weekend tend to have been resolved.  Future challenges are lying in silent wait.  For a brief time, all is good.  Easy.  A respite from rapid-fire decision making, long to-do lists, and a quick-response approach that characterizes the rest of the week.   

And that means, for a principal, Sunday nights are usually nothing short of lovely. 

Ahhh.  

Principal Code and Homesickness

Holiday break has given me the opportunity to meet up with several friends I don’t see nearly enough.  The break provides the luxurious opportunity to go out to lunch (!!) and chew slowly (!!) and actually linger (!!) while catching up.  I’ve also slipped out early in the morning to meet a friend for breakfast or coffee.  It doesn’t matter how it happens—I just love how the slower pace allows me to connect with people I love dearly.

In the course of these conversations, like clockwork, each of my friends has wrinkled her brow, tilted her head, and said, “So… how are you doing?”  Their tone is similarly compassionate, curious, and empathetic. 

Legit question, given the complete change my work took last fall when I started a principalship at a new school in my district.  I was transferred—happily and willingly, and I was excited to go. I went off to meet my new challenge, eager to work with a new group of people and make new relationships.  And I’ve loved it.  It’s been fantastic in countless ways.  The work, day in and day out, is what I love.

But in leaving my previous building, I have been taken aback by the unexpected flashes of homesickness that occasionally swept over me, without warning, strong enough to make me need to stop and breathe carefully. 

Here’s the thing.  There is a code between principals.  There are lots of Principal Code components, but one of the biggest is that when you’re gone, you really go.  For good.  You pack up your office, and you go off to whatever is next—retirement, another job, a promotion, whatever.  And you don’t look back.  You don’t show up for staff parties or student performances or just to visit at the end of the day.  You leave an open, empty canvas for the new principal to paint—to create a new culture, refine expectations, and tweak instructional practices as he or she sees fit. 

You go.

But that really sucks sometimes, because it means you have to leave behind the very real relationships you’ve forged. 

It’s like a bad breakup.  It’s happened to all of us:  you have a boyfriend you really like, and you like his friends and his parents and his house and the things you do as a unit.  Then he breaks up with you.  He moves on; he's gone.  But you miss him.  Suddenly, you can’t really talk to his friends anymore, because they’re his friends.  They are his parents.  It’s his house and life.  You have nothing to do with any of it anymore.

Same with leaving a school.   We build strong relationships with people when we work with them, and we begin to know a lot about them—the nuances of their laughter, the cadence of their voice, the moment when they’re about to cry.  We know their flaws and strengths.  We begin to love them in spite of—and because of—these things.  In many ways, working closely with someone is like living with them.

So when you leave, even if you’re happy to do so, there’s still some mourning that happens. 

Seeing my friends and talking through this natural series of emotions has been cathartic.  They have done what friends do—legitimize and validate my emotions, reassure that it is temporary, and plan a lunch date for summer break.  The homesickness will lessen in time, I know; indeed, it already has.  I've developed new relationships and connections quickly, and the lost ones don't cut quite as deeply anymore.  So when I see my friends again, and they ask how I'm doing, I am sure I will be able to grin back and say, "I feel right at home.  Thank you for asking."