#LetUsPlay.

That is a popular and powerful hashtag on social media right now. Ohio State QB Justin Fields has been speaking out loudly about the Big 10’s decision not to play football this fall, and over the last month or so, Clemson QB Trevor Lawrence has been a leading voice in the same movement. They, and others, have been clear and rational in their expressions, and they have been effective. The hashtag and similar voices have recently been heard in my area from young people who have potentially lost their chance to play sports and take part in extracurricular activities as their districts attempt to deal with student and staff safety in the midst of an ongoing pandemic. The young voices have often been incredibly mature, passionate, and thoughtful. They are voices we can be proud of, and they have sometimes been much more effective and rational than those of much more seasoned individuals. 

For a long time, I have been an advocate for young people having a voice, and I believe those voices should be respected and listened to. This should not be limited to athletes. Today, I am not going to focus on the arguments or positions these young voices are expressing; there is something just as or even more important to discuss. The voice itself is important, and the fact that people are listening is significant. The voice is proving legitimate, and its value is undeniable. The young people should have a voice that is not just heard but is listened to. You may not agree with the idea the voices carry, you may not change your position, and you may argue against those ideas, but the voices themselves, just like the people raising them, have inherent value. We can agree on that, right?

Now, I ask a question: Have you been as willing and supportive of giving young people the opportunity to be heard and valued, or did that only start now, as sports seasons are threatened? When young men the same age as Justin Fields and Trevor Lawrence expressed their willingness to exercise their rights and use their platform to push for an investigation of racist activity on campus, when a star running back voiced a hesitation to play beneath a Confederate battle flag, or when one conference’s athletes asked for assurances that their health and safety concerns would be in the forefront of decision making, was your first thought “Shut up and play” or “They’re just kids. They don’t know how the world works.” I remember reading comments when Kansas State’s football team collectively announced a boycott of activities so their voices would be heard in regard to policies addressing racist groups on campus. Many expressed the “ridiculousness” of allowing 18-22 year olds to demand a voice and “hijack” the program. The same thing happened when Mississippi State running back Kylin Hill said he would not play for MSU if the state flag continued to display the confederate flag. The same people quickly shifted to “This young man gets it” when Lawrence exercised those same rights. Why is that? 

I read a Tweet last night from a college athlete, the son of a college coach for whom I have a great deal of respect. The young man posted “Everyone who is saying ‘let us play’ and ‘we want a season’ obviously don’t want to play that bad if they won’t make a sacrifice to stop going out and start social distancing to slow the spread down for them to be able to have a season.” He wants to play, and he wants others to have that chance. But he is also taking dead aim at the massive elephant in the room. Did his words make you feel a little defensive? Bristle a little? Then yes, he is talking to you. If you have done everything you can, you are in the same unfair boat as he is. And his voice is just as worthy as the others.

There’s the rub. If we are going to support young people having a voice, if we are going to teach them how to use that voice to present thoughtful and passionate positions on issues they feel strongly about and are knowledgeable in, we have to respect those voices, even when they express views we may not fully endorse. In essence, we are saying, “I am going to listen to you, I am going to consider your thoughts and feelings, and I want you to think for yourself.” Whether you believe it or not, that is what many teachers have been trying to do in our classrooms for a long time. 

So, adults rallying behind our young people and lifting up their voices at this moment: I applaud you. The young people deserve that support and respect. You are helping reinforce the lessons we have been teaching. Be prepared. Remember how strongly you supported these voices at this time when, down the road at some point, they are raised in a position counter to your thinking or in a way that makes you uncomfortable. It is going to happen at some point. We need it to happen. We REALLY do. Be prepared to listen, to take it in, to think, and, as part of the conversation, to express your ideas, not from a place of “because I said so” but from a place of “let’s get it right” not “I am right.” That’s something I know I have to continue to work on. 

And hold on to that hashtag. #LetUsPlay is meaningful. #LetThemSpeak and #LetUsListen are even more important.

What Wakes You Up in the Morning?

An amazing young person recently asked me "What makes you wake up in the morning?" She asked me the question in a message, and I thought about it, really thought, because she deserved more than a cliche or Insta/Twitter-ready catchphrase. So, I pondered. As I started to type my response, she added another message: "I'm finding it hard to even come up with a thought relating to why I do."

That was a gut-punch. This is a young person with a creative mind, a warm heart, and deep soul. She has every reason to wake up in and keep tail each morning, to step into a world that needs her, that can be so much better, now and in the future, because of her. Yet, she struggled to see that. She was in a shadow. Stuck. A lot of people, especially young people are in such a place right now. It is not a good place, and as we begin to return to school (buildings or virtual, whatever it might be), we have to understand that. Many of our kids are struggling to wake up each morning. 

Then she added, "I just need a little encouragement."

That sentence struck me too. For the "Suck it up Buttercup" crowd and the "kids these days are soft" groaners, she wasn't asking for someone else to solve her problems or hand her an easy path. Quite the opposite. She wanted to do it herself; she wanted to get up. She also knew she needed a nudge, a little something to help her get up and headed in that direction. That's not whining or being soft. It's self-awareness, and it is solution-seeking. It's a quiet sense of strength, even if one doesn't know where the strength is at the time. 

That short string of messages has stuck in my head. I roll it around when I go walking or sit down to plan for the weeks ahead. Yeah, motivational speakers and PD presenters have asked "What gets you up each day" countless times, but this was different. The question wasn't rhetorical, nor was it meant to be a slogan to market an idea or sell a book. This was authentic. Personal. Sincere. Our kids are usually like that. Unfortunately, we aren't always awake enough to see it. 

So, what wakes me up in the morning?

Each day, something is going to happen. That is a fact. I get to be a part of that something, of the long list of somethings that will take place that day, good or bad. And within each and every something, there is a someone. I cannot just go through the motions. I have to be intentional; I have to be sincere. 

And sometimes, I too will need a little nudge to get up. 

I think I know where to look for that. 

BOOM! A New Blog Post

I was skimming a feed on social media today and a thought struck me.  As I came to a post that included a link to an article, the individual sharing it had left only one word in commentary.

"BOOM!"

The article itself does not matter at this point in the discussion. I have seen countless BOOMs, THERE YOU GOs, and  I TOLD YOUs (I apologize for the title of this post), and this one wasn't much different. Maybe it was the calming influence of the rain, or maybe I was just thinking more as opposed to simply reacting. I had, at that moment, this realization: These posts are not about being well-informed and sharing useful information; they are about WINNING.

We are in an interesting time. Few people would argue that. It has brought even more to the front a trend that is worrisome. It seems that we are no longer engaging in exchanges of ideas and discussion of research in an effort to help understand ideas or people and eventually make the world a better place. We are in a place where we must WIN, we must prove we are RIGHT, not matter what, and the ideas really do not matter, as long as we can say we are RIGHT (even if we're not). We need to "drop the mic," bring the "BOOM," and demonstrate our dominance. Everything else is secondary.

I have admit that I have found myself in this situation. I am guilty of making winning an argument, stubbornly establishing my position of (often illusionary) strength. That is on me. I will do better.

As a teacher, I am embarrassed by this fact. My classes are often built on discussion, on providing an environment where students can confidently and thoughtfully express their ideas and feelings on a variety of fronts, knowing they will be valued and heard. Having to win simply to win is counter to this principle.

Don't get me wrong: I encourage young people to stand strong, to find ways to support the ideas they hold. I also encourage them to listen to others, to understand that other people are coming from other places in many ways, and the only way to truly understand one another and ourselves is to listen. Truly listen.

I like to think that we engage in discussions, not arguments. In a discussion, we value what another person has to say because we may be able to learn from it, to better understand them, ourselves, or our world. We might shift someone's way of thinking (or our own), not because we demanded they agree with us, but because we saw our position from their perspective, and they saw the merits of our idea and vice versa. In an argument, our primary goal is simply to be right, to win.
(I realized I had written on this before, almost 2 years ago. Here is that post, if you want to take a look.)

Interesting things happen during discussions. During arguments, we dig ourselves in. During discussions, we learn. This spring, during a Zoom poetry discussion a colleague and I hosted, a student made an incredibly insightful comment. The discussion was over a poem that touched on a rather sensitive topic. As the discussion progressed, the student said, "You know, I just realized something. We want the same thing. We just have different ideas about how to get there." He went further to say that this changed his way of thinking. Not his position, necessarily, but the way he thought about not only his idea but also the other ideas being discussed. At the beginning of the discussion, he had bristled as his initial reaction was that the poet and those who shared her views were against him. He said that he initially wasn't even focused on the most important things the poet was saying, just on his immediate reaction.  However, he said that when that thought struck, he shifted from being angry with the other people, wanting to prove he was right, to seeing the commonalities they shared, that they were actually hoping for the same ultimate goal. He started to think about what was actually written and said. He still held on to his position and idea, but he had a better grasp of the other ideas, and in turn, saw his own idea more clearly.  He was thinking.

Young people will change the world, and they have the greatest potential to make it a much better place. I have told my classes that for years, and the sentiment was echoed by President Obama in his recent address to the nation's graduates. Perhaps we, the adults, need to listen for a change. Not just to one another, but to the voices so full of energy and hope.

Maybe, just maybe, we need to step away from screaming our arguments (even when that is in all caps) and have some truly meaningful discussions.

Why I #LoveTeaching

“I love teaching because…”

That has started many a fall PD session, conference breakout, or reflection challenge.  This week #LoveTeachingWeek drew me to their webpage and asked that question. So, I contemplated the prompt once again.

I have answered this prompt many times, and I try to be sincere each time.  So often, I feel I am being cliché when I try to end the sentence with one clear and inspiring clause. Teaching is not something one can encapsulate in a tiny package and wrap in a platitude. It is more complex than that.  It is not a cliché.

I spent a little more time thinking. “I love teaching because…” Of the kids, of course. Those that come back and say they learned from you or grew from your shared experiences. The ones that keep you young, or give you gray hair. The ones who show up early in your room every morning, and the ones who struggle to show up at all. The ones who finally decide to let you in and share a sliver of themselves with you and the ones who don’t stop sharing from the minute they walk in your door.

I started thinking about those kids, so many of whom are no longer kids. The Nathans and Kyles, the Shannons and Brennas. The Brits, Daniels, Michelles, Katrinas, and Sydneys, The Brendans, Michaelas, Marys, Austins, Annis and Averys. And on and on. So many names, faces, minds, and hearts. Each one an individual, each with personal histories and unique hopes for the future. Each one bringing their own different shade of color and light into my world.
That is when it struck me.

I love teaching because teaching is never done. Every day, we grow, hopefully with our kids, and the next day, we get to grow some more. Just when you think you have it all figured out, you realize that the only thing you have figured out is that you have nothing figured out. That lesson that worked so perfectly last year? Pull from that, but understand that it may fall completely flat this year. Or the one that worked 2nd hour may hit a wall of dead eyes and silence 5th hour. Why? We work with kids. Humans. Individuals. Just when you believe you have mastered your subject area and are delivering knowledge like a sage, a student will force you to look at it from a fresh angle or you will slam full force into something completely unrelated to content and yet undeniably necessary to learning. And you have to navigate that because we teach kids, not content. When you think you have the experience to handle anything they can throw your way, one of them decides to skip something new at you, zinging it off the peaceful surface of your confidence, splashing you with bracingly cold water and sending ripples in every direction. That message over social media that won’t let you sleep. The shrug of apathy from that kid you never have had to worry about. A tear from someone who has it all together, but doesn’t. The spark of realization from the kid who has never seemed to care, but you cannot pinpoint what helped ignite the spark so you can do it again. The sparkle in the eye of the kid who suddenly has hope that appears during a week you thought you were failing everyone.

I love teaching because it is exhausting. It is never a job that lets you brush off your hands and say, “Whew, I’m done.” There is another human who will be walking through your door sometime in the future. It might be someone who sat in the back of your room three years ago and now needs help with that college essay or job application, it could be that grown up “kid” who will always be 17 in your head who reaches out on Twitter, or it may be someone new, someone you have not yet laid eyes on but who will need you, your best you, soon, and you have to be ready to greet them as they pass into your world.

There is no cliché or simple package to wrap up teaching into. And that is why I love teaching. 

The Future Is Bright

Sometimes, the world can be a frustrating place. There is plenty to worry about if you keep your eyes focused squarely on the TV, social media, and daily headlines. There is seemingly little to be excited about right now (other than Kansas City making its first trip to the Super Bowl in 50 years, of course. GO CHIEFS!).

Then, I listen to our kids. On a daily basis, they amaze me with their insights, their creativity, and their energy. Yeah, they can be frustrating, and I sometimes just sigh and hope to make it through the afternoon. But many other times, if I let them, they give me hope.

At BHS, we require all students to take a class called Passion Pursuits. In this class, students get to choose a passion, and then spend the semester diving headlong into that passion.  They research it, they find experts and mentors to learn from, they explore it more deeply, and they take what they learn and do something with it. The first stage often seems to be the toughest for many of our students. Find a passion.  That sounds simple, right?  But when given the task of identifying a passion, so many students truly struggle. Not all. Some know exactly what they want to spend their time doing, and they take off.  Others, however, really struggle. I genuinely feel it is not usually a case of "I just don't want to do anything".  Sure, that comes into play at times.  Most often, however, the struggle comes from an honest place. Many of our kids have been told for so long to sit down, keep quiet, and do what they are told. Then, when given the chance to decide for themselves what they need and want to learn, they really do not know what to do. Or they know, but are afraid that if they follow that inclination, they will "fail" and look foolish for trying. In a sense, we have been in the way, and when we step aside, they get in their own way.

Once these kids do find a direction, however, amazing things happen. At those times, it is we, as teachers, who need to get out of the way and take on the role of facilitator. We need to offer support when needed, and we need to supply freedom when it is called for. When we are able to do that, our kids will often surprise us all, including themselves.

So as we have tried to snag the wind of teenage attention spans and find our passions the last couple of weeks, I have tried to listen. What I hear each day reminds me of why I love teaching young people.

"We want to listen to residents' stories (at the local nursing home), and create books of their stories so they can share them with families."

"I want to find a way to help kids who have experienced abuse. They need to know they aren't alone."

"I love hunting, but I am not sure how to do a project with that. Can I make videos showing how to take game from harvest to the table?  Like from the processing to actually how to make recipes?"

"There is a new group in town that is going to help people who need a place to live. They have so much to do with the place they bought,  and I wonder if I can see if I can do the landscaping for them since I have worked with that before."

"Music is really important to me. I want to find a way to help kids learn to use music as a way of coping with stress and trauma."

"I don't know what I want to do, but I know I want to help someone. I need help figuring out if I have any skill to do that."

That is just a little sampling of what I have heard in the past few days as students explore ideas. Some students have already taken off and are making contact with people who can help them pursue their ideas.  Others hold ideas still in the infancy stage. Most are making plans for great experiences. Big plans.

I know what many will say: "That's great. It's easy to have good intentions. But do these kids ever actually do anything besides play on the phones and post to Instagram?"

The answer is "Yes, yes they do."

I know they will do amazing things this that spring because they have incredible examples in the students who have come before them. Greatness breeds greatness.  Students have started businesses, rebuilt vehicles, taught grade school classes about their passions, published books, inspired young athletes, raised money, reached out to those in isolation, and renovated buildings.  They have laid the groundwork for greatness, for themselves in the future and for the young people that follow them as examples.

And we get to be a part of it.  We get to give them the support and guidance when they need it. And we get to give them the freedom to be great, even if that means risking failure in the process.

I wanted to share some of the awesome examples of what kids can do. Below is a link to the Passion Pursuits site. We need to be reminded that the future is actually incredibly bright if we just look in the right places.

Click here to see what our kids have been doing: BHS Passion Pursuits

What Our Kids Are Telling Us

This may sound simple, and it should be: we, as teachers, really need to listen to the most important people in our classrooms, the kids. They are often going to give us the most honest, most sincere, and most insightful feedback we could hope to receive.

Maybe that was why I was so happy to get a message this summer from a young person who graduated last May.  She wanted to share an idea for a lesson that she thought sounded like something I and other English teachers on our team would use in our classes. It meant a great deal to me that she would read about a lesson that she felt would be good for our students and share it with me. She cares not just about her education, but about the kids that will follow her now that she has graduated.

The lesson was not strictly "English" in nature. It was social-emotion, focusing on empathy, compassion, trust, and relationships.  I will admit that the ELA classroom, with writing, literature, and communication as the daily focus, has at its center those concepts a great deal of the time. I try to reflect often on what works in my classroom, what helps students learn and grow, and what might keep kids from learning and growing as much as they could. I do not do it nearly enough, but I do try. So, I asked her why she thought of us when she read this lesson. She had been a good student, she had grown throughout her HS years, maturing and developing not just as a writer and reader, but also as a person, and she had found a place in several different classrooms.  I felt her insights would be valuable, and I wanted to know more.

The lesson she shared provides students with a way to share the weight of some of what they carry with them each day, to understand one another better. It gives kids a chance to find commonality and build trust. I asked her why this lesson was one she connected with her ELA teachers. Her response, while short, was meaningful. "...you guys just have that environment in your classrooms. It's not just about English. It's almost more of what words can do for you."

"It's not just about English. It's almost more of what words can do for you."

The way she phrased that idea really struck me. It's about what words can do for you. Isn't that what we are aiming for each and every day?  If our classes are just about memorizing grammar rules or learning to narrow down answers on a standardized test, are we really giving our kids skills, inspirations, or passions that will drive them in the future? Isn't it better to help them learn to express themselves in their writing and find themselves, or others, in literature?

So, fast forward to today. Recently, we "finished" our exploration of Fahrenheit 451.  ("Finished" because we are never really finished with a novel, if it touches us, are we?) On the reflection students completed, I received a comment. It hit me, hard, in the face, and continues to pound me in the gut. With her permission, I share it with you here:

"I thought the novel was interesting, and I am glad I got to be pushed out of my comfort zone to read something I probably wouldn't be able to understand. After reading this book it has made me rethink a lot about myself, and how little I question anything anymore. It is a little sad that out of everything, I am probably the biggest Mildred in your class, and a little funny to see myself that way. I always have taken things as they are presented to me, and just did the work. I never questioned it, and I think it's this looming anxiety that often controls me to not ask because I am afraid of breaking rules. Everyone thinks I am smart, and often says that, but I am nothing without school, and I know that. All my peers know how to be humans, and I am just a product of a system with no real outside knowledge other than what I get from Youtube. I have opinions, don't get me wrong, and I will stand up for them if it involves someone else, but I have no world sense and I haven't questioned anything important since kindergarten. I am so afraid of being wrong that I have spent too much time looking for the right answers that everyone else wants to hear, that I let myself get shadowed away. After reading this book I want to change that. I want to be more assertive, and I thank you for this opportunity."

"I am nothing without school, and I know that...I am so afraid of being wrong that I have spent too much time looking for the right answers that everyone else wants to hear, that I let myself get shadowed away."

Shadowed away.  This young person is bright. She is "perfect student" by so many measures. While she is reluctant to admit it, she is creative. She has grown immensely in the short time we have had together this fall, primarily through her own efforts. She began the year frustrated because our discussions and activities often were such that the "right answers" were not laid out, there to be copied into notes and memorized.  But she fought through that frustration and took part, cultivating an inquisitive nature that is obviously there, clearly waiting to be nurtured and fed. And yet, the words she used to describe herself were "Nothing without school" and "shadowed away". 

That makes me shudder.

And we have allowed this to happen. 

We have. 

Us. 

How many discoveries have were put on hold, how many cures for diseases, novels that inspire and challenge, businesses that build the community, or passions that create happiness have we stomped on, have we shadowed away in the search for the right answer, the test score, the data to publish in the newspaper to show we are better than the district down the road?

How many kids have we allowed to feel like "nothing"? 

We know it is not true, but that is the perception, and, therefore, for her, and for so many others, it is their reality.

So, what can we learn from these two students who have shared their thoughts with me? What do they tell us about what we are doing well in school today, or maybe should be doing to best serve our kids? 

I know that teachers want what is best for our kids. I see that every single day and witness incredible interactions and growth in kids, teachers, and administrations.  Amazing things are happening in our schools, and outstanding people are leaving our doors and changing the world. But, let's be honest: we can do better. We owe it to the young people we mingle with each day. How can we build on those great ideas, put them into motion, and make the best for our kids? How can we ignite meaningful, positive change and growth, and make the best things we are doing better, for our kids? How can we tap into the hearts and passions of those very kids and provide the springboards that will let them succeed, not in just being good students, but in being amazing human beings? 

The fact is, this amazing young person (both of them) is reflecting and growing.  I am proud of her and inspired by her ability to look inward to see how she can be better. She is so incredibly far from "nothing". She is pushing herself to be a better her.  She is pushing me to be better. She is stepping out of the shadows. 

Now, how do we do the same? 

To Leave Something Behind

Here we are in the midst of another summer. For many teachers, summer is a time of renewal and rejuvenation. Over the last few years, it has also been a time when letters and posts have gone viral, letters and posts where teachers lay out why they are leaving the profession. These viral posts have always bothered me.  I appreciate the courage that those posting have in laying public why they are unhappy with their now-former profession. I even agree with many of their points. And it bothers me to see good people leave the world of teaching. We need great people, great teachers, to continue to build and overhaul this system to best serve our young people.

And it frustrates me because I cannot see myself walking away from this world of teaching, from my colleagues, and most importantly, from my kids. I am not faulting those who have; we each have to choose our own way. But for me, what makes me want to stay and help improve this profession far outweighs the frustration I feel on any given day. I struggled with a way to explain my thoughts on this touchy topic.

Then, as I pondered what I should write several weeks ago, I saw a blog post on Twitter by @DennisDill, in which he gave his reasons for NOT leaving teaching. That in itself had a positive effect, knowing others are as frustrated and yet as positive about what we get to do each day as I am.  It doesn't mean he, nor I, believe everything about teaching and about public education in America, in Kansas, or in Buhler is perfect. It's not. But it is still the greatest profession on this planet, and in the words of my Dad, I'm "where I am supposed to be."

"Why?" you might ask. Why would I still get up each morning (yes, even on mornings all summer when I get up at 5:15 am to work with our athletes in the summer program)  and wholeheartedly believe, passionately believe, that there is no better profession to wade knee-deep into each day? That is a fair question. I will try to answer it as best I can.

I recently saw a Tweet in which a teacher asked for everyone's favorite or most impactful line or passage from a piece of literature. I have a long list of impactful passages that are permanently imprinted in my mind. Certain ones will press forward at different times and in different situations when they seem most fitting, as if the lines themselves realize they fit in that moment. Lately, one passage has been echoing.

Near the end of Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury, one of the wandering fugitives tells our protagonist, and us, the readers, this:

“Everyone must leave something behind when he dies, my grandfather said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you're there.

It doesn't matter what you do, he said, so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that's like you after you take your hands away. The difference between the man who just cuts lawns and a real gardener is in the touching, he said. The lawn-cutter might just as well not have been there at all; the gardener will be there a lifetime.”

Then, twice in the last two days, as I have flipped through channels, once late at night and once in the middle of the afternoon, I stumbled upon the end of a little Ben Affleck film titled The Accountant. At the end of the film, a song, "To Leave Something Behind" by Sean Rowe, plays over the closing scenes. As I listened to the lyrics, the 451 quote became fresh, and I figured that it was a sign of sorts.  So, here I write.

It is my duty, my passion, my hope to leave something behind that will make the world a better place. No other place allows for that to happen in such an impactful way as the classroom. In "To Leave Something Behind," Sean Rowes sings,

"I can get through the wall if you give me a door

So I can leave something behind" (31-32).

Those lines, among others, stood out for me. So often this is what we see in our kids. They have amazing dreams, they have incredible talents, they have unquenchable ambitions, and they too many times feel as if they are surrounded by walls. What do they need from us to succeed? They need doors, or at the least, windows, that will allow them to realize those dreams, to develop and use those talents, and to chase those ambitions. For each kid, that door is slightly different. For some, it is a set of French doors, displaying the future and letting the sun shine in, urging them to push them open and explore the world outside.  Some stride up to saloon doors and need only to put up a hand, swing them wide, and strut on to the next adventure. For others, the door is massive, heavy, and locked. It doesn't matter how hard they slam themselves into the door, it won't budge. They need a key, and we must help them find it. Sometimes, even when that key has been placed in their sweaty and calloused palms, they still sit before the door, frustrated and heaving, because it seems so heavy and imposing. They have seen the others glide through the French doors, boldly kick open the swinging saloon doors, and they do not understand why they can't do the same. Sometimes, they fear that if they are somehow able to grunt and grind enough for the door to open just a crack, they will only get a glimpse before it slams shut on them. Or, even scarier, that they will slip past before it closes, but in doing so, will leave the only safe place they have ever known behind.

So what can we do?  We give each kid what they need to not only find the door and open it, but to survive in the world they step into beyond the door. While we have them, we need to help build them up, show them how to carve their own keys, teach them the combinations that will allow the tumblers to fall. We need to fill their knapsacks and pull carts with the tools they will need after they pass through the door. And sometimes, after they cross the threshold, we have to watch them from the window, peeking through the curtains now and then, and maybe whisper, or shout, words of encouragement or advice. Sometimes, we might even need to trot down the path and help them up when they stumble.  We cannot carry them all the way down the road, but we can brush them off now and then, and maybe add to the provisions they carry with them.

(Maybe I read too much into that metaphor. Maybe not. It's my blog, so I do what I want.)

So how do I help my students, present, past, and future, find those doors, fashion their keys, and throw them open? I have to get better. Every. Single. Day. There is such a wealth of knowledge, skill, creativity, and insight at my disposal, and I would be cheating my kids, slamming those doors a little tighter, if I didn't try to learn and grow as much as I can. That is what I love about summer.  I get to read. I go to NerdCampKS. I learn through others about trauma, reading, writing, social justice, and so many other times that play a role in my classroom. I spend time, relaxed and unpressured, with my colleagues and friends who make me so much better, discussing ideas, hashing out issues, exploring new perspectives, and lifting one another up. I cannot say enough about the people around me, my IRL PLN, who elevate me and drive me to be better, whether I am feeling pretty good about myself or if I am feeling like a monumental failure. I spend time on Twitter, enjoying access to those there who have different experiences, insights, perspectives, and approaches. It is not always pleasant for me; some of the best in my PLN challenge me and my thinking, many times without even knowing  me, and that is a good thing. At the same time, they inspire me. Perhaps most importantly, I get to reflect on what I have done well, where I failed, and where I have grown. So often, this reflection is prompted by my students, my kids. They are the experts in who they are, and so often, without knowing it, they teach me about being a better teacher and a better person.

How is that for irony? The best way for me to leave something worthwhile behind, to allow the world to become somehow better when I leave it than it was when I got here, is by listening to the very ones who I hope to leave the most lasting impact on. To leave something behind, I have to be aware of what they are leaving behind for me.

Ad that is what I will to do, right here, where I am supposed to be.