saying goodbye: a letter to my students

My cherished students -

Well, here we are. It’s hard to believe that our time together in the classroom is over. I’ve never been good with endings, and part of me wants to keep you in my classroom forever.  There are so many more things left for us to learn from one another...but I know that it’s time to send you on your way.

We’ve covered a tremendous amount of academic content over the last 1-2 years, but I have a feeling that those lessons aren’t the ones that will stand out as the years go on. Rather, I think (and hope) you’ll remember the “life lessons.” So as we part, I have one more lesson left for you. And it’s an important one, so pay attention:

BE KIND.

Friends, this is the most important lesson of all. Years from now, when you run into classmates at a coffee shop or on the street, they will not remember how popular you were or how well you did on a test. They will not remember that you scored the winning touchdown or fell on your face in the hallway. Nope. They won’t remember those things. But they WILL REMEMBER how you treated them. So decide how you want to be remembered. Hopefully, you’ll choose kindness. And if you can't be kind, be quiet.

Sometimes, being kind requires great bravery and strength of character. Sometimes it means you’ll have to make tough choices, even if those choices aren’t popular. In moments like these, be still. Listen to your conscience. It will rarely lead you astray. If something feels wrong, it probably is wrong.

And speaking of kindness, be kind to your parents and siblings. You may not realize this until you become a parent yourself, but they are your biggest champions. You are their masterpiece - so remember that the way you act is a reflection on them, too.  At the end of the day, should everyone else in this crazy world decide to walk away, your family will stand beside you. So treat them well, kiddos. Trust me on this one.

Being kind to others begins with being kind to yourself. Life is messy, my dears.  People will hurt you. Your heart will break - probably more than once.  And in those moments of messiness, it’s easy to feel inadequate. We begin to tell ourselves that we will never be good enough, smart enough, fast enough, skinny enough...the list goes on. But here’s the truth:  You ARE good enough. Even when you make mistakes (and you will make many), even when you make poor decisions or when you disappoint others, you are good enough. So tell yourself, when this happens, that you’ll do better next time. Forgive yourself, make amends, learn from it, and move on.  In these moments, allow yourself some grace. Be kind to yourself, and you’ll find that it’s much easier to show kindness to others.

Last summer, I debated coming back for another year --But I heard a quiet voice telling me that it wasn’t time yet. I’m so glad I listened.  Please know that you will forever hold a special place in my heart...my last group of kids.  When I talk to adults about you, I tell them not to worry, because our future is in good hands. I am continually in awe of your depth, of your hearts, and of your wisdom.

So as we part, I want to thank you for being such an important part of my life story.  I don’t believe that our paths crossed by accident. As a teacher, I’ve always believed that God places students in certain classes for a reason. And I am so grateful that He placed you in mine. You’ve brought so much joy into my life - joy that I will continue to carry with me forever.

Even though I won’t have a classroom at MMS, please know I will always be your teacher. I hope you’ll continue to share your triumphs and struggles with me, because that’s what I’ll miss most of all. Should you need me throughout the years, know that I’m never far.  

You’ve been blessed with tremendous gifts, and I look forward to seeing what you do with them. I can’t wait to grab a front-row seat at your graduation (or your weddings, hint hint) to celebrate your success. It won’t be hard to find me; I’ll be the one clapping loudest of all.

Go forth, darlings, and serve your world well. I love you.

Mrs. Nianouris

life lessons

Two days left. No, I haven't given up on my original 71 day challenge. I have many, many entries left to post. I am, however, waiting until the year is over to publish them. See, it's impossible to truly give you a glimpse into my classroom without sharing the daily stories of my students. And 8th grade students are savvy little rascals; they stumbled upon my blog and began trying to "guess the student" in various posts. While the stories were positive and uplifting, I feared that I'd hurt students' feelings by NOT including individual accounts of every child. So it's best to just wait on those.

So here we are.  Two more days.

One of my original goals when I decided to walk away from teaching was to make each day count. To that end, I spent a lot of time reflecting on lessons and practices that were "sticky" throughout the years. When former students would come back to visit, what did they talk about?  What did they remember?

Some would mention certain books we'd read. Others would mention silly grammar songs. But the most popular memory of all?  The firm handshake.

It's the very first thing I teach each year-- the "art" of a handshake. We discuss their importance. We talk about first impressions. We practice. We practice.  And we practice some more. No wimpy handshakes allowed in Mrs. Nianouris's classroom. No sir-ee.

And it sticks.

It's part of what I call my "life lesson" series.  The idea came to me after reading Ron Clark's Essential 55 years ago, and I've been teaching little life lessons ever since. I try to incorporate at least one throughout the week. Sometimes, it's a spur-of-the-moment lesson. Quick. Five seconds about being a good human being. Other times, they're a little longer and involve deeper topics. Regardless, they're what sticks.

Sadly, because I only see the kids in an academic setting, I don't get to witness many of these lessons in action (read: when it counts).  I always wonder, "Will they remember?"  Well, last week, I had the pleasure of watching many of the lessons materialize before my eyes in Washington DC.  I witnessed boys stepping back to let girls off the elevator first. I watched my girls offer their seats to the elderly on the subway. I beamed with pride as students shook the hands of our tour guides and thanked them, genuinely. A girl told a pregnant woman she looked lovely. Boys held doors...for hundreds.

 They usually had no idea I was watching, and they did it anyway. Those four days were the absolute pinnacle of my career.

On the last day of school, I am giving them my final life lesson, along with a list of everything we've covered in our time together. Here they are, in no particular order:

1.  Have a firm handshake
2. Always buy from lemonade stands. 
3. When picking up a date, always go to the door. Never honk or text.
4. Thank people who aren't often recognized. 
5. Hold the door. 
6. If you decide to seek a 4-year degree, live on campus. Start as a freshman. While it's cheaper to do two years at community college and transfer, it's hard to assimilate into the culture as a Junior. You can ALWAYS pay back a loan, but you'll NEVER get to "redo" 18-22. 
7. Boys - Let women off the elevator first. 
8. Speak properly. Text properly. It's often the second impression you'll give people (after the  handshake)
9. When someone shows interest in you by asking you a question, (i.e. "How are you?) it's polite to ask them in return. 
10. Remember people's names. 
11. Unless an adult tells you otherwise, you should always refer to him/her as Mr. or Mrs. 
12. Remember people's birthdays.
13. When thanking someone for a gift, give an earnest "thank-you" within three seconds. 
14. Always stop to help people pick up items they've dropped. 
15. Sing. 
16. Unless a woman is actively birthing a baby, never ask if she's pregnant. Really. Don't. Because...what if she ISN'T?
17. Sing some more. 
18. Tip your servers well. It's one of the hardest jobs out there.
19. Stop for lost animals that don't look threatening. Help them get home. 
20. When apologizing, go beyond "I'm sorry."  Try adding, "I'm sorry. How can I make this right?"
21. Give sincere compliments.
22. Shower daily. 
23. Give up your seat for the elderly.
24. Stand-up to greet your grandparents.
25. If you have bad grades, mom and dad are going to be more understanding if you tell them BEFORE the teacher does. And when you tell them, have a plan in place to make it right. Show them what you're going to do differently next time. 
26. Before you blame your teacher, check yourself. 
27. Don't be a bystander. The Holocaust happened because the people who knew about it didn't stop it. Evil prospers when people are bystanders to cruelty. 
28. When a friend loses a loved one, go to the funeral, even if you didn't know the person. Funerals are about support.
29. Don't use someone's death to get attention for yourself. It's insulting those who truly loved the deceased person. "RIP posts" on Facebook or Twitter are tacky. You're making it all about you. And it's. not. about. you. (repeat that mantra daily)
30. The only acceptable comment to EVER make about a pregnant woman's appearance is, "You look great."  Never ask if she's having twins, never mention her size (large or small) or tell her she's about to pop. Pregnant women are emotional beings. Tread lightly. (See #16)
31. Regardless of what people have told you, you can't simply be "anything you want to be." It takes hard work. Plain and simple. This isn't Hogwarts. Magic wands aren't part of the deal. 

           

our three words

As an English teacher, I spend a lot of time discussing and analyzing the power of words with my students.  I try to get them to understand that sometimes, when it comes to conveying an important message, less is more. You simply have to choose the "just right" words as your vehicle. Easier said than done, right?

Many years ago, while teaching a lesson on word choice,  I saw a segment on Good Morning America (am I the only one who's bothered by the missing comma after 'morning'?) called "Your Week in Three Words."  Each week, people sent pictures and videos that summarized the major life events from the previous week in three words.

So I started thinking. What if I had my students develop a "three-word message" to the world?  Something that conveyed their thoughts and feelings in JUST three words. And thus, "Our Three Words" was born.

My students and I made these videos for many years, and it was always a highlight. You can really learn a lot about kids (and adults) when you ask them to pare-down their most important thoughts into just three words.  

It's been a few years since we've made one. When Common Core and testing began knocking on my classroom door, things changed. Sure, it only takes a few minutes to create the video, but those were valuable academic minutes I couldn't afford to lose.

Well friends, nothing makes you re-evaluate the power of a minute more than the realization that they'll soon be gone. Deciding to leave changes everything. So with that in mind, we made a video this year, smack-dab in the middle of testing week.

While I was explaining the process, a student raised his hand: "So, you want us to come up with this 'message' to the world, but it's not like the whole world will actually see it, right?"

He had a point.

But then, I thought, what if?  What if we could use the power of social media to share the messages of these 80 amazing kids with the world?  Is that possible? Could it be done? (Ellen?)

So here's my plea, friends: Watch this. You'll be impressed with their depth. I promise. Our future is in good, good hands with these kiddos. And if, at some point, you're touched by one of the messages, will you share it with someone? Will you share it with lots of someones? Can we really take their messages around the world?

58 days left.

testing, testing

Testing season is upon us. If you've been watching the news, you're well-aware of the Common Core backlash, particularly when it comes to the increasing amount of testing that our students will endure under these new mandates.

It would take me many posts, over many months, to explain how I feel about testing and what the new requirements are doing to our schools, our classrooms, our teachers, and our students.

So instead, I will just tell you ONE story, from ONE child, from ONE day last week.

A little background: When I returned from maternity leave in October, I spent the first day trying to get to know my students. When I got to Mellie, she was very straightforward, very matter-of-fact.  "Hi. I'm Mellie. I won't be here long. I never stay in one place for a long time."

She's still here. And I'm so glad about that. You'd just love this girl. I know I sure do. She's beautiful inside and out. She's confident. Charming. Funny. She listens and asks really good questions. She nods when she "gets it" and frowns when she doesn't, which makes my job easier.  I've watched her very carefully as she's worked to assimilate among the other students here, and I really think she's starting to feel at home...for once.

Last week, we began our state assessments - the very assessments that you're probably reading about in the newspapers, In case you aren't aware, these assessments cover the entire NEW eighth-grade curriculum. And they're given in February. Because testing a child over a year's worth of curriculum in February makes perfect sense, right?

And they're hard. Really, really hard. In fact, the state predicts up to a 33% drop in student proficiency. As teachers, we've worked diligently to prepare the kids for these tests and the rigor that accompanies them, but the truth is evident: Many of them won't do well. And friends, there are few things that can make a kid feel worse about him or herself than a really hard test.

So last week in social studies, I helped guide the students through the online math practice test. A few minutes into the practice test, Mellie raised her hand. I walked over to her.

"I don't understand," she said. I looked down at the math problem. It was something about inputs and outputs, and I had no idea how to solve it either.

"Just try your best. Think it through..." I encouraged.

"No, you don't get it. I DON'T know how to do this. I am so stupid," she explained. And then the tears started to fall. This beautiful, confident girl, a girl who has moved eleven times, a girl who was finally in one place longer than a few months, simply broke down in the middle of my room.

And I froze. Because what do you say to that? I put my arm around her and looked her in the eye. I tried to explain that she was smart, and that the test is hard. So, so hard. I tried to explain that many students are feeling the same way she is, and that there's no way she would know it all right now. But my words were futile in stopping the tears. She listened, and then she said something that stopped me in my tracks:

"No. That's not true. If this is what's on the test, then THIS is what I'm supposed to know. And I don't know it, so I must be stupid. Otherwise, why would they ask us these questions?"

And my reply...my awful, horrible reply to that statement: "Try your best."

I wanted to tell her that it didn't matter. I wanted to tell her that the TEST is stupid. But I didn't. Instead, I uttered those three useless words.

That night, I went home and couldn't get Mellie off my mind. If a practice test can drive a confident girl like Mellie to tears, what is it doing to all the quiet, insecure kids out there? What is it doing to the ones who will never speak up, and instead, are wrestling with these feelings internally?

I wish I would have said something different in that moment, but like so many moments in my career, I said the wrong thing.  The next day, I slipped her this card in the hallway, and walked away. I don't know if it made her feel any better, but at least I told her the truth.

61 days left.

and so it begins...

On Day 71, I stood before my students with a giant "71" projected on the screen behind me. (Note - I plan to project the number every day. Today was Tuesday. I dread Thursday. The projector might be conveniently "broken" on Thursday.  Do the math. If you've ever taught middle school, you know why.)  

I asked them if we could talk for a minute.

For the record, when you ask 8th graders this question, the answer is always, always yes. Yes, Mrs. Nianouris, we can talk! Talk for an hour! In fact, talk for TWO! We don't care! We will listen like it's the best story we've ever heard! (...as long as it has NOTHING to do with what we are studying.)

So I sat down on my stool and explained my plans to leave the classroom this spring. I didn't really tell them why, because that wasn't the point.  Their reactions were mixed. Some teared up, some looked betrayed, some looked at the clock, others at their fingernails- the usual myriad of adolescent expression.

I explained my mission: "For the next 71 days, I vow to do something to make sure each of you know how special and loved you are. So we are going to start with standing ovations. How many of you have had a standing ovation?"

No hands. 

"Why do people give others standing ovations?"

Hands shot up. "Because they're good at something!" they replied.

"Right. We give standing ovations to celebrate people. And you know what? You all deserve to be celebrated. Celebrated just because you're alive. Celebrated because you've made it this far. So beginning today, one of you will receive a standing ovation until we've gone through the entire class. You will yell, scream, shout, and stomp. We will be so loud that they will hear us in the office. We will be so loud that other teachers will come in here wondering what the heck is going on. You will cheer for your friends, and you will cheer for your enemies. You will cheer equally loud for every single person because that's what you'll want them to do for you. Normally, we will pull names out of a hat. But today, I will pick the first person." (Read: I hadn't cut up the names yet)

I quickly scanned the morning group and called on a sweet girl named Mary (names have been changed to protect the privacy of the students). Mary is a cancer survivor. She's beautiful, quiet, and kind. She wears a head scarf most days, and man, she rocks it. Mary is a true testament to beauty and strength. A warrior among warriors.

Mary walked tentatively toward the front of the room as the students rose from their seats. And then, for 60 glorious seconds, her classmates went crazy. At one point, about 15 seconds in, I watched Mary gasp and bring her hand toward her mouth. I wasn't close enough to see if she was crying, but I know one thing: I was. You guys, I wish I could play you the video, but you'll just have to trust me when I say that it was one of the most beautiful moments I've ever witnessed.

In the afternoon, I took a different route. I chose a boy with whom I've really struggled this year. See, this young man doesn't really do much in my class. Homework, to him, is not a requirement, but an option. An option he rarely never picks.  And man, does that frustrate me sometimes, because he's SO capable. 

But here's the thing I love about him:  He never makes excuses. He doesn't pretend to hunt through his materials when I'm collecting work. When I ask him if he has it, he just says no. When I ask him why he isn't paying attention, he often tells me he's just not interested in what I'm saying.  It's refreshing, actually, his honesty.

He's a really neat kid. Very deep. Very introspective. I have a feeling he'd have a lot to say if he thought anyone at school cared enough to listen.

Yesterday afternoon, we celebrated this young man. A young man who's probably never been celebrated in school for any reason. He stood there accepting the applause, looking very unsure at first, holding on to the back of his neck.  By the end, he finally smiled. Just a little, but I saw it.

I hope that he felt special. Because he is.

70 days left.

71

From Kindergarten on, I knew precisely what I wanted to be when I grew up:

A teacher.

My career preparation started early. As a young girl, I used to study the teachers more than the content, paying closer attention to how they taught than what they taught. I took note of what worked and what didn’t. I paid attention to ways they made kids feel special and ways they made kids feel horrible. Ways they encouraged kids to do homework, and methods that made it easy to cheat.  I even kept a little notebook titled “What to Do and What Not to Do When I’m a Teacher.” I was always, always watching. 

But as I sit here reflecting on all those teachers throughout the years, I’d be hard-pressed to tell you specific lessons or books we read. And that’s the funny part, right?  Because although school’s primary purpose is rooted in the BIG things like reading, writing, and arithmetic, those aren’t the things we remember with clarity all these years later. No, we remember the way we felt.

I remember how Miss Distelrath gave us popcorn every Friday. Not the microwave kind, but the real, buttery, air-popped popcorn in a greasy brown paper bag.  One time, I asked her if she made it at school during lunch. “No,” she replied. “I make it at home on Thursday nights.”  This was a revelation to me! Teachers go home? They have houses? And husbands? And kids? We aren’t the center of their universe?

 Miss Distelrath cared enough about us to make us popcorn at home. At night. In her real life.  And because of that, we felt loved. And I knew that someday, I wanted to make kids feel loved like that.

I remember the beanbags in Mrs. Dietz’s room during story time. We would rush to the reading carpet to claim our spot as she read aloud. She read to us for pleasure, creating voices and characters, making the story come alive, and we relaxed on those beanbags, taking it all in.  We were comfortable. And I knew that someday, I wanted to make kids feel comfortable like that.

I remember Mrs. Keogh’s standing ovations. There were 25 kids in our class, and every day, for 25 straight days, a student received a standing ovation. A screaming, clapping, shouting celebration of his or her existence.  Each day, in those 60 seconds, something magical happened. Popularity and loneliness were erased as the jocks and cheerleaders whooped and hollered for the bookworms and vice versa. No one’s ovation was louder than anyone else’s. The bully was celebrated. The nerds were celebrated. And we all felt so special. I knew that someday, I wanted to make kids feel special like that.

But I also remember teachers who were cold. Teachers who were worn out or disillusioned with the career path they’d chosen. They would lecture the entire class for the fault of one, or show no interest in our lives. They would teach, assign homework, assess, and move on. Lather, rinse, and repeat - showing little interest in connecting with us as people. They made us feel invisible, and I knew I never wanted to make kids feel like that.

12 years ago, when I first started teaching 7^th grade, I armed myself with all the lessons I’d learned from my years of watching, walked into that classroom and did my best. I planned lessons, taught the content, and worked really damn hard to make each kid feel important. Looking back, those lessons were certainly not the best by any standards, and I’d like to think my skills as an educator have improved significantly throughout the years. My ability to make kids feel special, however, has waned. The standing ovations have been replaced by grammar drills. The comfortable, bright classroom has been replaced with anchor charts about mood and theme. Do they still know I  love them? I’m not so sure.

Last week, I made the most difficult decision of my life. I decided to stop teaching this spring.  There are many, many reasons behind this choice, but that’s not the purpose of this post, or the blog entries that will follow. Instead, I plan to chronicle the days I have left.

I sat down at my desk and counted the school days until June 4. There are exactly 71.

I have 71 days left in a career for which I’ve spent a lifetime preparing.

71 days to remind kids that no matter how they do on a test or a quiz, they are loved.

71 days to make each and every child feel comfortable in my classroom.

71 days to make let every one of those kids know that they are divinely special.

I  have lost my way from time to time over the years, but I vow to get back there. And I have 71 days left to do that.