The Powerful "Why Not?"

I have a slight problem. Not quite an addiction, but quite possibly a compulsion. On Twitter or Facebook, or even in everyday life, if someone quotes a movie line, I feel the nearly irresistible urge to follow up with the next line. If Rob Hedrick, a friend who lived across the hall at Baker, posts "You will report to the stables tonight and every night at precisely 1900 hours" I feel obligated to follow up with "And without that pledge pin!" If Lacy Pitts tweets, "Was it over when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor?" it is my obligation to reply, "Germans? Forget it. He's rolling." Oh, and, unfortunately, I have recited, word for word, "I, state your name..."

In short, I am "that guy".

However, not all is lost. Something good has come from this. To quote Bluto in response to the question "Pinto? Why Pinto?":

"Why Not?"

That short, explosive line has become somewhat of a battle cry.  It has allowed me to take some risks, and it has given me the freedom to step outside of the proverbial box. It has become a mindset, at times. 

I am blessed to work with some incredibly talented people. Steve Warner is a top-notch as they come on the football field, and I have had the good fortune of working with him for 12 years and counting. Several years ago, we had a tough football player that we needed to get on the field. He was not one of our top linebackers, and he was only about 160 pound soaked in the mud he carried with him from the field at Topeka Hayden. I remember commenting to Coach Warner and Kevin Ruda, our defensive line coach, that I wished we could put the kid, named Austin Ortiz, down on the defensive line, just because he was so tough. Their response? "Why not?" So, a 160 pound, tough, wiry kid lined up across from 260 offensive linemen, and he beat them. He recovered two fumbles against Hayden in our playoff victory on their field. He won all-league and all-state honors. Why? Why Not? The next year we decided to look for another player to fill that bill. Austin's brother, Levi Boman, a 2nd-team all-league free safety the year before, slid into a three-point stance. Why? Why not? First Team All-league and all-state honors. State semifinals. In the 2013 season? Scott Whitson, a 165 pound wrestler who had lined up at corner up to that point, wreaked havoc on offenses from the 2 tech position and helped raise a State Championship trophy. Why? Why not?

The talent pool of teachers I call colleagues is even deeper than just talented coaches. In the ELA hallway, I have an amazing mix of creative and passionate teammates from which to steal ideas on a daily basis. This afternoon, Greg Froese and I were discussing the "Gimme 5 Challenge" he was completing, which asked for two of his greatest accomplishments this year. He was including the Ideal Human Prototype lesson and our Sonnet Throwdown. I value the opportunity to collaborate with Greg on a daily basis. Greg makes me a better teacher, in part because he supports my "Why not?" addiction. A few months ago, Greg talked to me about this Ideal Human Prototype idea he was developing, and I loved it. I told him I was game to use it in my senior English class too. Why not? I came down a few days later with an idea that had come to me in the truck that morning and asked Greg what he thought about applying the IHP idea to Sweet 16 March Madness bracket of literary figures. His response: "Why not?" So we did. The depth of the conversations and the passion of the arguments as Atticus and Batman, Katniss and Han Solo battled through the brackets was impressive and exhilarating. When I told my classes as they worked on team rotational sonnet writing that Mr. Froese's classes had challenged them to see which class was more talented (they actually hadn't, but my classes responded as I had hoped), and my students took up the challenge, Greg and I collectively asked "Why not?" Thus, the Sonnet Throwdown was born. At this moment, the final rankings are in a sealed envelope held by Price-Waterhouse, and the trophy will be awarded at the BHS Has Talent Show on April 20. Even the trophy was basically a response to "could you somehow create a trophy?" One "why not", some collaboration with the ag-mech teacher, some time on the plasma cutter, and application of the talent of Josh Potter later, our trophy was complete.

This afternoon, I was visiting with Janea Gray, our Media/Tech Specialist. She had come to my room this morning with some ideas for "Poem in Your Pocket Day" next week. We tossed out an idea of a Hit and Run Poetry Slam in the LMC on Thursday. My honors sophomores seemed interested. Mr. Knapp thought his juniors could jump in. So, when we weighed whether we should try to make the idea into reality, Janea and I came to one conclusion: why not? If it tanked, all we were out was a little time and the effort it would take me to move back a couch or two. I am excited to see how it goes. It should be a blast. Why wouldn't I be excited? 

Why not?

Why wouldn't I try something new?

Why wouldn't I try to go a full week without complaining?

Why wouldn't I take part in a new Twitterchat?

Why wouldn't I choose to be positive if I possibly can?

Why wouldn't I sign up for EdCamp?

Why wouldn't I try to be a better, happier, more effective teacher?

"Why not?" indeed.

"The whistle of a boat..."

Lost

BY CARL SANDBURG

Desolate and lone

All night long on the lake

Where fog trails and mist creeps,

The whistle of a boat

Calls and cries unendingly,

Like some lost child

In tears and trouble

Hunting the harbor's breast

And the harbor's eyes.

The poem above one of my favorite by Carl Sandburg. How this verse came to introduce this post might be somewhat rambling, but I am going to go with it This is how my mind works: I read an article shared by a colleague on Twitter about the importance of teaching emotion as part of literature study. More on that later. The post made me think of some "emotional moments" in my classes that were particularly meaningful, and sometime painful. The day a young lady burst into tears as we read The Road, a visceral reaction so honest and sincere that she could not control it. The days when leave the lights down for a few moments after the last scene and lines of "To This Day", partly to let the kids mentally swirl the experience before we come together as group, but partly to allow the kids, male and female, to wipe away tears and sniffles that invariably well up during the poem's presentation. It also reminded me of the day this year our son discussed the ending of Of Mice and Men, revealing to his Dad that he had "gotten choked, and kind of cried a little." So, I sat down to compose this post, and as I pondered a title, the line from the poem above, "Like some lost child/In tears and trouble..." came to mind. 

Short story long, the post on emotions in literature study has me thinking. At a recent conference, we discussed particular talking points regarding how Kansas education can move forward in ways that are best for our kids. It was a lively and thoughtful discussion. One point prompted the question "Why do we need to teach four years of English at the HS level?" Two talking points later, we dove into social and emotional growth of our students. I interjected that this is one answer to the previous question. One of the only places that we can address the emotional growth of our students in a variety of ways that are meaningful and safe for those kids is in the study of literature. When Piggy dies and it hurts one student so deeply that she has to leave the room, as happened in the classroom of the author of the above mentioned article, it is a teachable moment vital to that child and the other children in that room, possibly more vital than any other lesson. A student of mine reflected a couple of years ago that studying the spoken poem "To This Day" by Shane Koyczan was more powerful than all of the anti-bullying assemblies she had attended since entering grade school combined, and I realized that sometimes, literature and the conversations it raises are the only place a kid can safely face their demons, or perhaps even the demons of others.  You see, this young lady was not touched because she could relate to the boy in the poem who was bullied or the figurative circus freaks who played solitaire spin the bottle. She reflected that she was a bully, but had never considered, truly, what she was doing. She didn't shove kids into lockers or steal lunch money. She joked, she made fun, she laughed at the little things she saw about other people. It's what she did. For the first time, she could see the other side. In the dimmed room, as the lines of the poem tumbled to her ears, something made sense. 

Every time I read the lines that Sandburg penned decades ago, probably with no image of high school students anywhere in the misty fog of his poetic thoughts, I think of certain kids. So many of our kids send out that whistle that "calls and cries unendingly" as they navigate the fog and mist of their lives. Sometimes, it rolls on the heavy fog of the classroom in the form of nervous laughter or frustrated grumbling. Sometimes, the lonely whistle strings together in tunes that they scratch out on notebook pages or poetic blog posts, or lines of graphite or paint that fill sketchbooks or canvases. Sometimes it is the voice of the kid who lashes out from the back of the room, or the silence of the one who refuses to, seemingly more content to sit with hood up and eyes down than interact with anyone around him. The whistles blow in all pitches and tones, and, unfortunately, sometimes, we do not hear them, or, just as unfortunately, we hear them, but fail to recognize that they are not simply idle and meaningless humming but, instead, are calls for help by the lost and wandering, the pleas and cries of those seeking shelter and warm protect of some harbor, any harbor, as they float on, hoping against hope that they will not crash upon the rocks they know are out there waiting. 

So, we read and write and study and discuss. We do so because, as my students might say, it gives us the feels. And that is a good thing. To quote Three Days Grace "I would rather feel pain than nothing at all." And, if we can feel that pain within a safe harbor, where we can toss one another a towrope, where we can sew together some sort of life jacket to be donned later in life after they have left our harbor, then it will have been worthwhile. 

Get Out of the Way and Just Listen

I am blessed in so many ways, and one of those gifts that I am reminded of at the most opportune times is that I have two of the most creative, thoughtful children. There is a myriad of ways that they prove this to me over and over again. So many times, I grow as a person and as a teacher just because I get to spend time around them.
Recently, my lovely offspring reminded me that I need to let my kids, those who call me Dad and those who call me Mr. Kohls or Coach alike, teach me more often. Every year that I teach, some kid teaches me to look at a piece of literature in a different way. So many poems, such as "The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock" have touched varying cords with different students, and when they are allowed to tell me what they see, hear, and think, when they have the confidence to let those ideas guide our discussions, new angles are opened and amazing new lights are shed on the language and speaker of the poem. I look forward each year to diving in and hopefully watching a student, often one who might not be atop the list of most likely to deliver a literary gem, surface with a fresh pearl.
This week, my son Dylan wanted to talk. That in itself is an event. Dylan is not one to waste breath and effort on idle chatter. When he shares, it is usually something he has been rolling around in his head for a while or something he has been researching after a chance encounter. On this occasion, my boy wanted to talk about Of Mice and Men. SPOILER ALERT! IF YOU HAVE NOT READ IT, WELL, SHAME ON YOU. GET A COPY AND READ IT. THEN COME BACK HERE AND FINISH READING THIS POST. Dylan had been reading the novel in Miss Porter's English class, and he had read ahead and finished it on the bus that afternoon. He started the conversation with "I finished the novel today. And well, um, I cried a little." I told him that was good; it meant that the novel was worthwhile. It had moved him, which is a terrific thing. I also told him that I always teared up when I read the end of the novel, and sometimes even when Candy lets Carlson shoot his dog.  For the next hour or so, we talked about the classic and what the characters had done, why they had done it, and what it all meant. Then Dylan hit me with a new one. "Dad, I think the farm is supposed to be Heaven." I had not thought of it that way before. It represented dreams, hope, a future. Heaven? Hmm. Dylan went on to tell me that the farm was Paradise, it was the place that Lenny hoped to get to one day where no one would make fun of him, and no more bad things would happen. And he had to be good to get there. It was Heaven. He went further. The only way for Lenny to get there was to die. He had to die to reach Heaven because it was never going to happen on earth, and that is when he would be truly happy. So George let him go.
I did not lead him to this thought in any way. He just went there, and the more comfortable he became talking, the more his mind turned. And then he taught me. He reminded me that I sometimes need to get out of the way and let it happen.
Now, this is also the same kid who spun a joke during a conversation about the Rubio-Trump mudslinging that included a comment about Trump's small hands. Dylan's turn. "You know what they say about guys with huge hands, right? They get shot in the back of the head by their friend George."
My son.
Tonight, I was taught another lesson by my lovely daughter Emily. As a second semester frosh, she is taking 3D Design and is sculpting a figurine of Alice's (you know, from Wonderland) great-great granddaughter. As part of the project, she is also designing packaging artwork that involves other descendent characters. She had already sketched an amazing depiction of The Mad Hatter as inspired by the lead guitarist for Motorhead. Then we started bouncing ideas for other characters, inspired by rock legends, preferably from the from the 80s. Joan Jett-inspired Red Queen? Debbie Harry-influenced White Queen? We spent a long time throwing out potential models for the Blue Caterpillar. Jimi Hendrix? Jim Morrison? Iggy Pop? Axel Rose? It had to be somebody lanky.
What is the point here? We just turned the ideas to an arena for which Emily has a passion, in this case, hard rock, heavy metal, and classic rock. Then we just had fun with the ideas. Now her sketchbook is full of ideas that may grow and blossom. The possibilities are infinite.
I need to give my kids, all of them, the tools to dream and think, and then get out of the way. I need to supply support and encouragement, and the opportunity to grow, in knowledge, expectations, confidence, and passion. I know I need to be there and it is not always going to work perfectly. Sometimes I do need to deliver material or content, and I need to make it relevant. But sometimes, I need to just listen because when I do, kids surprise me. They show me new things and make me see old things in new ways.
They point out Heaven. And often, how to get there.

Of Harper Lee and Kurt Cobain: Small, Significant Moments

Now, before the English nerds out there not of my generation completely lose their minds and cry literary heresy because I have dared to couple the beloved Ms. Lee and the grunge icon in the same title, please hear me out. Before you raise a protest and demand revocation of my TNS (True Nerd Status), let me meander just a bit down a pathway that hopefully leads to a worthwhile end.

My daughter made her first foray into the world of blogging last night. She wrote to commemorate the birthday of Nirvana's Kurt Cobain, and to speak of the influence he has had on her.  She called him a mentor, and the story of her first exposure to his voice and the music of the band. She wrote, " For once, I was alright with being the quiet introverted artistic kid. "  That moment when Emily first hit play on the CD she had snagged from my dusty collection, she found a kindred spirit. Her granddad once asked my why Emily was so infatuated with Kurt Cobain, with Jim Morrison, with the band Green Day, and I told him because those artists, they were her. This is that girl, who much like Cobain, sometimes let her hair fall forward over her face, hiding those revealing windows to a sensitive, creative, thoughtful, and, sadly, sometimes tortured soul. You see: with those strands cascading past those eyes, one can still watch the world, but it makes it extremely hard for the people in that world to look back in. That way, they are kept at bay, separated by that curtain. It seems a little safer that way. I see several of those kids in my world right now, and I wish I could help them brush back the bangs, to let the world see the promise within.

I know: I put a lot of significance on a haircut.

As Emily describes it, that seemingly insignificant moment when she first hear Kurt Cobain sing "In Bloom" and "Come As You Are" was incredibly important. It changed her view of the world, of herself, and of her place in this world. It was a nothing moment, and it was everything. Emily has been blessed to encounter people in her education have enabled and encouraged her to find her voice, and to let it be heard. They let her explore her passions, and they help ignite others. I cannot thank those people enough for what they have done. A willingness to let those passions burn was stoked by what Emily called a "small, significant moment".

Emily's blog started me thinking: what other "small, significant moments" have changed lives. Then, as I read an article commemorating the passing of Harper Lee, one such moment for me struggled up from the depths of my memory and peeked into my consciousness. I remember Miss Jewel, the legendary English teacher at KMS, telling my parents how impressed she was with a character sketch I had written on Scout as part of our study of To Kill a Mockingbird.  I had written before that assignment, but that assignment, and her reaction to it, stays with me. It probably meant very little to her at the time; she was just giving feedback on assignments in her class, as she did so often on "Major Test" and sentence diagramming. But it meant a great deal to me. If it had not, it would not have stayed with me since that fateful day in the 7th grade. It was a small, significant moment. It may be why I continue to attempt to write. It definitely is part of why I teach.

Those moments are what I want to allow to blossom for each and every one of my kids. The problem with those moments is that they cannot be written into a lesson plan. I wonder which moments will have that positive spark? The kid may not even remember it, but it could allow them to feel something, some confidence or some comfort, which will allow them to one day do something amazing. One day, I had a conversation with a student about the movie Pacific Rim. We nerded out for a while. He seemed to get legitimately excited about speaking about the possibilities of an alien force residing deep within a fissure in the earth's crust, and the irony that one day nuclear energy will be classified as "old school".  Was it a monumental literary discussion? Uh, no. Could it have created a little bit of a connection that will lead the kid to maybe, just maybe, give some piece of literarature that I nerd out about as chance? Perhaps.

Recently, a colleague and I have been exposing our students to Shakespeare's writings. Greg Froese mentioned his ideas for an activity, and I stole it for my classroom as well. This led to what has taken on a bit of a life of its own and has been dubbed "The Sonnet Throwdown". Our students have been impressive, in their literary efforts and in their enthusiasm. (On a side note, the finals of The Sonnet Throwdown are going to be EPIC! I believe The Ocho, ESPN8, is currently in negotiations regarding the right to televise the event.) As the activity progressed, one student commented that if this is a competition, it needs to have a trophy. And at that moment, it was on. Like Donkey Kong. One of my students, a young man who is a dream to have in class but who I am going to lay odds will not say English is his favorite subject, partly because he is "not the creative type" (not my assessment, by the way) took that off-hand comment and ran with it. You see;  while he would rather ride than write and run a bead than count out beats, he is, in fact, the creative type. After employing a plasma cutter, welder, and a grinder, after meeting a time or two with his ag mech teacher, and after applying some unique skills and vision, he produced our trophy, a piece far beyond our expectation.

Within this activity were so many "small, significant" moments. What if we had grumbled or disregarded a student at any point along the way? What if Mr. Froese had not had the confidence to take a flash of brilliance one morning and turn it into an opportunity to help literature come alive? What if our kids had lamented having to study texts written by some dude 400 years ago and not spoken up and thrown out ideas, even though they would wreck the lesson plan and reading schedule? Small, significant moments.

We never know when those moments will happen. So, we have to assume each moment is one. We have to listen, we have to encourage, we have to be flexible, and we have to allow passions to ignite. We have to hit play on Nevermind; that tap might lead to a brushstroke that changes the world.

And changing the world is what we dream our kids will do. One small, significant moment at a time.

"I want to talk right down to Earth, in a language that everybody here can easily understand."

A couple of weeks ago, while working out in the weight room with a dozen or so young men and women, a particular song shuffled onto the playlist of my phone, which was broadcasting through the weight room's speakers. It was a cover of "Cult of Personality" by the 90s metal band Living Colour.

The song's opening lines are from a speech I could not place, so I asked the other coach who was with me at the time, who happens to be history teacher, and he too was not sure who was speaking the words, although they sounded incredibly familiar. As has become common, a google search saved the day. I won't reveal to you the answer, even though I would suggest you look for the results yourself. The song, and the quote, which resulted in a brief bit of research, led to a conversation as we continued to lift. Two teachers and several high school students intent on sweating away some calories and building some fast twitch fibers discussed major historical figures and the words they uttered that still ring today.

Some people would be amazed at how often such conversations actually take place. Once, while waiting for his turn in "the cage" during offensive line drills, a player asked me if a thought was more along the lines of an atheist or an agnostic, and what exactly was the difference? I will admit that this is one of the more thoughtful students I have ever worked with, but it was an interesting philosophical question and an exchange of knowledge and thought took place. LEARNING took place.

So where am I headed with this? I recently was struck by the use of the phrase "in the instructional classroom" as it applies to school funding. That phrase kept turning over in my head. Every day, so many teachers strive to take teaching beyond the four walls of the traditional classroom and push students to learn in whatever way possible. Tonight, as The Walking Dead returns with its first episode following its mid-season hiatus, more than one student and I will exchange thoughts regarding the plot, characters, themes, style, and symbolism presented in the show on A&E. Much of this conversation will take place via Twitter, and the feedback will be swift. How could I pass up such an opportunity? The series has used an intriguing non-linear storytelling style the past couple of seasons, and that has raised more than one literary discussion that may have never occurred otherwise. Former and current students have waited to initiate conversations on "TWD Mondays", many of which revolve around how this character or that character moves through the traditional hero's journey, how Daryl is the prototypical antihero, or how his angel's wings, once subtle and symbolic, have become soiled and ironic. The commercial for TWD mobile game uses the lines of Frost's "The Road Not Taken" in a startling new way, which allows for examination of tone and mood, and how different presentations and reading can alter a poem's effect. When Carol sobbed, "Just look at the flowers" to Lizzie, it prompted a discussion of the themes Of Mice and Men and the use of literary allusions. The opportunities for thought, for discussion, for learning, are surprisingly vast.

Every day, new opportunities to teach and learn present themselves. Sometimes they are expected and obvious. We grab hold of them and run with them. Hopefully, they work out and the kids are captivated. At other times, we do not even know those opportunities are there until we look back and see that they took place. Regardless, we need to be open to them, in whatever form they take. They may take us out of our comfort zones, and they may sometimes fail. Sometimes that is scary.

What they should be is exhilarating. Who would want to miss out on such opportunities, whether it happens inside four walls, in the weight room, or in the Twittersphre? It is all learning, and isn't that what we are searching for?

The Elusive Speech Bubble Selfie

Recently, there has been trend on Facebook and Twitter in which teachers post "selfies" with a speech bubble expressing "Why I teach". I love the idea because it allows teachers to share with one another the myriad of reasons why we all choose to spend our days in classrooms working with kids. It is an important exercise; it is a way for us to turn our gaze inward which needs to happen. Sometimes, looking inward, whether it be within ourselves as teachers and people, within the walls of our classrooms, within the structure of our teams and buildings, or within our profession, is vital because looking outward can be frustrating. So, looking inward it is.

So, why do I teach? I had the opportunity to truly consider this question during the application process for the Kansas Teacher of the Year program last spring. I, along with our elementary nominee and fellow semi-finalist Jennifer Keller, was fortunate enough to be nominated by the leaders of our district to be a part of the program. The process is one for which I am tremendously grateful, and it is incredibly humbling. I struggle with it at times. There are moments when I do feel as if I am a pretty good teacher; however, most days, I realize that I am not even the best teacher in our hallway at BHS. One blessing of the process is how it has forced me to reflect on "Why I teach" and focus on what I can do to better address that why. A second blessing is that I have an opportunity to meet and spend time with dedicated and talented teachers form across the state. Recently, we started our district visit "tour", in which we get to see the great things going on in the schools of each of our team members. We get to see their whys, and what their whys drive them to do each day. To put it simply, it is rather neat.

I will admit that I have not actually posted my "Why I teach" selfie. We were assigned to do it on our district workday in January, but I traveled with Samantha Neill to Hill City, America to work with teachers as they explore writing across the curriculum, and I never posted. Every time I see one of those posts on Twitter, I know I need to do mine as well, and I actually started writing my bubble on a dry erase board in my classroom one morning. I did not complete the task, however. I struggled with small space and necessary brevity, so when a student came in my classroom to ask a question, I just set it aside.

Honestly, none of the teachers who are posting these images truly sum up the "why" in short line within a bubble. They are presenting the essence of a single, minute aspect of their why, which most likely exists within a plethora of others that could fill reams of paper and yards of rolled butcher-block paper. For me, my why develops and grows every day, and often moment to moment.

This week, one of my whys came trotting toward me in Jim Baker Fieldhouse wearing a huge smile. She proudly told me about her afternoon, one that capped off a good day and that let her feel good about what she had done, something that she does not allow herself to do enough. My whys were in my classroom before school and in the counselors' office working on lines of verse and making me laugh. One why was in the newspaper, and I owe it to him to do the best I can in my little sliver of his life, for he is destined to do great things, as are so many others. They moved through my door over and over again, and during the brief moments we spent together, they made me proud and frustrated, they made me laugh and grumble, they challenged me and questioned themselves, and they made me tired and invigorated.

So, I suppose this week I will try to post that long-overdue selfie. Or maybe not.

Can I take a selfie without actually being in it? That is a selfie I can do. I might be on to something. The selfless selfie.

As Christmas Break Nears...

As Christmas Break nears, and I see a glimpse of light at the end of the long, dark tunnel that is grading senior research papers, two particular thoughts rise up in my cloudy mind: first, as soon as I finish grading these research papers, I have to return to grading Honors Sophomore reviews of The Road because honors students expect writing to be graded, and second, I am blessed to work with some incredible kids.

The seniors at BHS undertake an ongoing project each year that begins with researching a topic for which the student holds a passion and then proceeds into an Extension Activity that allows the young person to somehow use or extend the research as part of an independent activity that is service related, builds something, develops and designs a lesson, or creates some time of production. They later will present the activity and the product to an audience. The undertaking has been a part of BHS for many moons, and the benefits and experiences that come from it are invaluable.

Part of the transition from research paper to activity is the creation of a proposal by each student which lays out exactly what they hope to accomplish in the spring semester regarding activity. As I have been working with students on these proposals, I am struck not only by the ambitious nature of some of the proposals, but also by the desire of our students to help others. Students are designing and building vehicles. Others are producing cooking segments that will demonstrate the proliferation of GMOs in the food we eat. One student is going to produce a portfolio of clothing made entirely from alternative, nontraditional materials. Examples of ambitious undertakings abound.

In addition to the ambitious nature of so many of the proposals, the number of students who are proposing to give of themselves in an effort to make the lives of others better is impressive. Students are planning charity drives to benefit The Open Door program that assists young mothers, they are organizing fundraising campaigns for Children's Mercy Hospital, and they are developing bullying and suicide prevention seminars to reach out students who need a helping hand. Students are designing lessons for freshmen to help them understand how alcohol affects decision-making in young people. They are reaching out to national organizations who assist athletes with disabilities. They are planning books to help educate the general public about the issue of homelessness in our community. Some of these students are what most would pray to have in any classroom. They have an internal drive that has propelled them throughout school to high grades and repeated recognition. They are the students you expect to dream big and then go chase those dreams. Others do no fall into that category. Some are students who struggle. Some seemed to want to be written off as sophomores, to be labeled as losers so no one would expect anything of them. But something happened; they grew up. They found themselves and they found a direction. They, along with the stellar classmates who drove them crazy answering questions that just confused them, are looking to provide some sort of light for people in need. They are thinking beyond themselves, and beyond just getting through without having to do much. They, along with their stellar classmates, are becoming the stories we will want to tell years down the road to remind us to never give up on the sophomore who finds every possible way to aggravate, well, just about everyone at some point in the day. That is why I am frustrated by the move to assess whether our kids are ready to succeed in the world at the sophomore level. So much growth takes place after that year. At the sophomore level, for some, success is sometimes means just getting through day. Give them a chance to grow; so often, they surprise us.

Are all of our kids perfect? Absolutely not. Actually, none of them are. However, they are our kids, and I am impressed every day with how some of them grow and mature and begin to dream, and then start working for those dreams.  So, as Christmas break approaches and my eyes grow more weary, I am already looking forward to 2016. Some great things are going to happen, and some amazing people are going to shine.

And I have not even told you about my sophomores yet...