Why I Write

I write for the same reason I eat food, drink water, and walk, and do yoga.  There’s something inside me that insists upon it.

Some people don’t need to write.  I envy them, because they apparently don’t have this inner nag chirping away all the time, telling them, always and always: write, already.  These people write as much as is required,  perhaps because it is required—to pass a class, to write a note excusing a kid from school, to create a report for a boss, to send an email breaking up with someone.  And some people don’t write at all.  Right?  These people sign documents, maybe, or their kid’s math test.  That’s it.  These are perfectly happy, successful, secure people. 

I write because my soul needs it.

As a little girl, before I even knew how to read, I filled spiral notebooks with nonsense words and letters. When I learned what words could say, I intensified:  I wrote and wrote and wrote, becoming a young, amateur poet and storyteller. In junior high, my grandmother bought me an electric typewriter—which I wanted more than anything else, ever, in my whole life—and I taught myself to type.  My writing could come out faster, so my output increased even more.  Pages, I tell you.  I’ve filled thousands and thousands of pages of thoughts, stories, poems, and songs.  For ever, I’ve been like that.

Since then, there is the writing I’ve done as a college student, an English teacher, a principal, and now a blogger and author—stuff I’ve shared with the world, safe stuff, things that don’t really draw criticism or input. 

 

I quit writing, once.

As a young person, I wrote about intensely private, personal things.  Heartbreak, anger, love, confusion, angst, bliss.  All of it.  I chronicled it in leather-bound journals I couldn’t afford, but bought anyway because they felt soft and forgiving to my hands.

But my last year of college, I went to stay with my parents for a long weekend.  I brought my journal; of course I did.  A few months earlier, I’d documented the painful story of my first sexual encounter; it was raw and confused, and it exposed my deepest self.  My subsequent entries revisited that hazy and painful night, and revealed my attempt to understand myself and how I fit into this new set of experiences—experiences astonishingly joyless and difficult.   After lunch on Sunday, I packed my things to go back to school.  Somewhere along the frigid and empty stretch of I-90 toward Meadville, I realized, with a thunk to my heart:  I’d left my journal on the bedside table in my childhood bedroom.  I pulled to the side of the highway to breathe.  The thought of anyone finding it, and reading it, made me feel dizzy with—with what?  Fear?  Shame?  Dread?  I considered turning around and going back, but it wasn’t feasible; I was scheduled to work a shift at Red Lobster in just a few hours.  I just didn’t have the six hours it would take to get home, retrieve the journal, and get back.   

With no other options, I called my sister.  She lived just a couple miles from my parents’ house.  “I have a big favor,” I said, in the weird way we ask someone for trust.  “My journal.  It's on my table.  Will you please go get it for me?” I pleaded.  “If Mom and Dad find it, I’ll die.  I’ll seriously die.” 

“I’ll get it.”  I imagined her shrug.  “No big thing.”  

“And please don’t read it,” I begged.  “Just leave it closed, okay?  Please.  Please?  I’ll come back next weekend to get it.” 

I knew better, of course.  What does anyone do when implored to not read something?  Even more so when it’s juicy stuff written by a little sister?

I drove home five days later, as soon as my last Friday class ended.  I went straight to my sister’s house.  When she handed me the journal, I could tell from her face that she’d read it.  Of course she had.  I would have, had I been in her position.

Though not surprised, still I felt bitterly exposed, like all the pieces of me were scattered across the ground for everyone to see and talk about and walk upon.  Like someone had taken a cleaver and cut me in two. 

I drove back to school, stopping only once:  at the Flying J Travel Plaza.  I wept in the front seat of my pale blue Reliant as I ripped the journal to bits.  I shoved the whole mess down, down, down deep into the trash bin that was sandwiched between the fuel pumps.  My hand emerged, empty except a coating of ketchup from someone’s discarded hot dog.

And I vowed:  I would never, ever to write that honestly and openly again, even in a private place; the risk was too high.  I didn’t want to give away my very self to words on a page.

I quit.

Except I couldn’t. 

It was always whispering, after all:  You should write.  About that.  And that.  And that other thing. 

Now I know lots better, and lots more:  I should have recognized that anything I felt needed hiding that tightly actually should be exposed.  I should have talked about it; I should have asked my sister for a hug and a cup of coffee, rather than take my journal and flee.  Rather than rip it up and swear off writing. 

It took a long time for me to write again, in any real way.  It came slowly and in tentative, careful steps, like when you meet an old friend after a bitter but long-ago fight.  I write a lot, but I don’t keep much of it.  I write so I understand myself better; when I feel compelled to delete a piece of writing forever, I know it’s because I’m moving on.  I’m ready to let go.

But I’ll never abandon writing again—because it’s part of me, like my arms, and my breath, and my mind.

We have all heard about reasons that writing is a good for us.  We hear it from teachers, colleagues, and myriad experts.  It’s good for the mind; it builds communication skills that are necessary and transferrable to work and life; it helps us learn about ourselves; it keeps us connected to others and to the world.

All of which is very true.

For me, though: even if that all weren’t true, I would still write.  Because I can't not.  

It's that simple.  

Learning from Sadness

“A lot of your blog posts are really sad.”  That’s what I’ve been told.  Lots of times. 

Fair enough.  I write about sad things sometimes because in a lot of ways, the sad times mark a shift in thinking.  Happy times confirm that you’re doing something right; sad times make you want to change something.  Right?  In that way, sad stuff can offer clarity.

Like how I learned to ask for stories—from a woman I barely knew.

Ten years ago, I went on a trip to Denver for a professional conference.  I traveled with a group of eight colleagues, a sassy and fun clump of administrators who didn’t work together very closely, but shared a mutual respect—and a shared deliriousness at the idea of fleeing Ohio in exchange for the mountains of Colorado.  It was February, and Ohio was at its most miserable:  the snow had turned slushy and gray; the clouds were a disgusting, depressing mass; and the cold was the type that was making our joints hurt. 

The beginning of the trip was unremarkable, because, as is the case with these types of conferences, the halls of a nondescript convention center swallowed us up.  We dutifully went to all of the professional sessions; each night at dinner, we talked about what we’d learned and how to put it into practice back home.  All the while, though, our eye was always on the prize; we had planned to stay an extra day to go skiing in Vail. 

Vail!  Me!  Skiing in Vail!  I felt fancy just thinking about it. 

We rented a black Dodge Caravan, and all eight of us stuffed inside.  We were in that giddy, the-conference-is-over-now-we-can-have-fun place.  We left right after breakfast, headed west, and were on the slopes before noon. 

The skiing was really not something that allows description.  The mountains!  The soft snow!  The mind-blowing heights!  The clean air!  Oh, oh, oh—the skies! 

And the skiing.  Oh, my. 

I’d skied for several years by then and had grown into a confident and ballsy skier.  But my confidence had been built on slopes in Ohio.   It took about 4.5 seconds after getting off the first lift in Colorado to take a look down and decide my breath might stop.

I fell a lot at first, but eventually got some passable ski legs on.  I stuck to the green runs—most of us did.  We were challenged but held our own.  We did all right.  And it unfolded into a lovely, lovely day.  The kind of day where everything seems just right.  We took a break from skiing at one point to gorge on enormous bowls of hot chili and buttery chunks of cornbread; then we drank the clichéd hot chocolate with mounds of whipped cream frothing over the edge of our mugs.

When the sun went down and the lodge closed, we folded our exhausted bodies back into the van.  Driving east back to Denver, a snowstorm blew in like nothing I’d seen before.  We considered pulling over, but we all had early flights and feared we would get stuck for hours.  “I’ve got this,” Lenore said, taking over the wheel and scrunching down in calm, focused concentration.  In the back, we didn’t talk; we let her study the black air and invisible road as thick, cottony snowflakes whirled and hurled around us.  In the front seat with Lenore was her friend and work-wife, Linda, a woman I hadn’t known well, but had grown to know and respect over the four days we’d spent together.  She was funny and smart and kind.  Gentle.  Frugal with her words.  But as the van crept slowly eastbound through the mountains, Linda murmured nonstop to Lenore—a soft and encouraging sound that somehow reassured all of us.

The snow lightened as we neared Denver, but by then, a 2-hour drive had turned into a 5-hour ordeal.  When Lenore pulled the van back into our Holiday Inn Express, we were almost tearful with relief.  We hugged and thanked Lenore; she stretched her neck and arms from being clenched and clamped by worry.  We went straight to the hotel bar.

 “I’ll take a Shiraz, please,” Linda asked the bartender.  She folded her hands elegantly over one another.  Her lips barely moved as she ordered: Shiraz.  

She saw me watching her.  “What?” she asked, smiling.

“I just decided love that word,” I said.  “It’s very sophisticated.” 

“Shiraz?”

I nodded.

“My daughter loves that word, too,” she said.  “Actually, it’s a little embarrassing because her teachers tell me that she says ‘Shiraz’ all day long, over and over, while she’s at her job.”  She laughed—but the sound mixed up happiness with melancholy.  “I wish she’d pick a different repetition word.” 

And I thought:  There is a story there.  About her daughter.

And I thought:  I want to know it.

And I thought:  I want to ask.  Can I ask?  I don’t know how to ask. 

So I smiled and looked away.   

And here’s where the sad comes in.

Two years later, Linda was gone.  Not long after our trip, she found a lump in her breast and, in spite of fighting back like hell—complete with tired smiles, beautiful wigs, and a valiant work ethic that overshadowed her weak days— she lost the fight. 

And now, years later:  Although I barely knew Linda, I think of her a lot.   Every time someone orders Shiraz, sure, but also when I meet a person who seems to have a story to tell. 

Because now I ask.

“Tell me more about that,” I’ll say.

“It sounds like there is a story there.  I’d love to know it,” I’ll say.

“Is it too bold of me to ask you to tell me more?” I’ll say.

I want to hear all the stories.  All of them.  And what I learned that day in Denver with Linda:  If you lose the chance to hear someone’s story, you might not get it back.

Reflection or Blame?

In education, we’re constantly talking about the need to reflect upon our work.  The reflection, we know, will make us consider what we could do differently; lead us to make necessary changes; and come out, the next time, better than before. 

But reflection can easily begin—and end—with assigning blame.  Which doesn’t help anything.

It doesn’t reflect.  It deflects. 

Let’s say I’m running a staff meeting that quickly devolves into a mess.  It’s disorganized and cluttered and disjointed.  Not knowing what else to do, I stutter and stumble through.  Later, back in my office, I admit to myself, “Wow.  That didn’t go well… at all.” I might think to myself:

• The people in the back weren’t paying attention.
• They didn’t even bring the agenda I sent them.
• We have GOT to re-configure the space in the room.
• They don’t realize that this stuff I’m telling them is important.
• They show zero respect for me, as their leader.

But these things?  These are not reflection.  Instead, they just assign blame to the things that led to a crappy meeting.

So how could I ask some questions that would lead to genuine change?  Simply twisting the questions to include the word “I” might help:

• What could I do to engage the people in the back of the room?
• The agendas I create aren’t valued.  What is their value?  Should I re-think why and how I create them?
• Am I utilizing the space well? 
• Why do I feel I am not respected?  What action steps could I put into place to work through this?

Problems are never solved well with a pointed finger… unless the finger is pointed directly, squarely, and aggressively right to our own chests.  Just like looking in a mirror shows us ourselves, that’s what we should see when we try to work through challenges.  That,  (said the mirror), is real reflection.

I'm Old Here

A few weeks back, I was reminded of something:  How easy it is, when we think we’ve planned for everything and everyone, to forget someone or something really important.

It was the first week of school, and I was doing what I always do—I scheduled a visit with every classroom to read a book.  This year, it was I’m New Here by Anne Sibley O’Brien.  It tells the individual story of three students who are new to their school—and, also, new to the English language.  Each of the three children feels lonely and confused at the beginning; finally, though, the language begins to make sense and the kindness of others makes them feel part of their school community.

It was the perfect book for me to read aloud, because we have a lot of new students this year.  We did some re-drawing of our elementary school lines, and to summarize a long and complicated story, we’ve got over 100 new little people added to our community. 

From the very beginning—last winter, even, when we learned who our new students would be—we were so careful, so thoughtful, so focused on making sure our new students felt welcome.  We did everything we could think of.  We hosted a Welcome Night.  We posted FAQ’s on our website.  We met, one by one by one, with anxious parents and students.  We sent letters and emails and gave a gift to each new student.  We bet over backwards to make sure each new student felt part of our community. 

Our hard work paid off.  Everything went beautifully.  

So I was proud and confident each time I went to visit a classroom with my copy of I’m New Here.  I always started the same way.  “As you know, we have lots and lots of new student this year,” I would say, opening the book.   “That’s why I’m reading this book.  Let me ask:  Who is new here?”  

A handful of students would raise their hands. 

But one time, when I asked this question, I heard a little boy sigh.  I looked at him.  “What is it?”

“I’m not new,” he said.  “Actually, I’m old here.”

His eyes were downcast.

Oh, my.

For months, all we’ve been talking about?  The new kids.  We’d been making them feel welcome.  We’d been smiling extra-wide; wiping tears before they sprung; connecting, empathizing, and whooping it up. 

And in all that whooping, we hadn’t thought enough about the “veterans.”  The kids who had been enrolled with us all along.  Because in a lot of ways, those kids were still new—they had a new teacher, new year, new class, new friends they needed to make.  They were having a new experience and felt vulnerable, too.

Once again, I was reminded of the truth of leadership:  It’s so easy to over-plan, making sure we meet every single need of a certain group.  But in doing so, we sometimes forget others.  Looking back, I wish we had celebrated the students who weren’t new just as much.  I don’t think there was harm done, but it’s an important lesson.  In overplanning for one group, we might be underplanning for another.

Just something to keep in mind.