just wait

Ten years ago, I sat in my classroom after school and heard a girl crying in the hallway. It was one of those big cries. The heaving, snot-dripping Oprah cries. I knew those tears. I knew those sounds.

Like a seasoned warrior, I hopped up from my desk and ran into the hallway. The sight was familiar.  Two adolescent girls stood there, holding one another tightly, heads buried in one another's hoodies. Boy problems.

"Girls, what's wrong?" I asked. 

The girl looked at me, imploringly. "My boyfriend just broke up with me. " And then she waited for me to say something. Anything. 

I wrapped my 24-year-old  arms around them both, pulling them to me tightly. "Oh Sweetheart," I said. "I know it hurts right now. Shhhhh. I know. I wish I could tell you it gets easier, but just wait... wait until you're older. This seventh grade breakup will seem easy in comparison."

The whimpering girl looked up at me and stared. It wasn't a thankful stare. It wasn't a hateful stare. It was just...a stare. A confused, empty stare. 

"Is that supposed to help?" she asked. 

Well, yes. I suppose I thought it would help.  I assumed letting her know that it could be worse, that I've HAD IT WORSE would somehow ease her pain. "This is empathy," I thought.  But it wasn't--not even close. Her stare said it all: I said the wrong thing.

At that moment, I realized something:  The words "just wait" are probably the most useless words we can utter to a sister in pain.  Yet we do it all the time. 

Ladies, I hereby issue a plea:  Let's stop using those words. 

Have you been there? When we dare utter a complaint, those seasoned warriors rush in. 

Pregnant and feeling huge?  "Just wait until you're at the 9-month mark and you can't see your feet!"

Having a hard day with toddlers? "Just wait until they're teenagers!  This will seem easy!"  

When I was sad after dropping my screaming son off at preschool:  "Just wait until kindergarten/ high school / college! Then you'll REALLY cry! This is the easy part! 

Worse yet, we've been known to "just wait" someone when things are looking up: "Glad your pregnancy is going well. Better get all the sleep you can get! Just wait until that baby is here. You'll never sleep again!"

In fact, last week at the grocery store, a women "just waited" me near the green beans. "Wow! Your daughter has so much hair! And she doesn't rip her bow out? Just wait until she's older and it becomes a daily fight! My daughter won't even let me near her hair now!"

Gee. Thanks. Can't wait. Better add Harper's bow-tolerance to my gratitude journal tonight.  Wait - I don't have a gratitude journal. One of my kids threw the empty journal I'd planned to use for that purpose into the shower.

Ladies, I get it. As women, we've been conditioned since girlhood to wear our warrior badges on our chests (hello, Girl Scouts). Those badges were not only a symbol of accomplishment, but experience, too.  But let's remember that our badges, our battle wounds, so-to-speak, don't necessarily make anyone's fight easier or less valid. 

Perhaps that's why middle school girls are such remarkable empathizers... They're old enough to know that life can be tough, but not jaded enough to know it gets a whole lot tougher. They don't yet have a library of one-upper experiences, so they just hold each other and listen. I think they're on to something, those teenage girls. 

Raising people is hard. It's hard if you have one, and it's hard if you have ten. It's hard when they're babies, and it's hard when they're adults.  My today is my today. It's my "right now." And my "right now" is sometimes really great, and it's sometimes really stinking hard. And the only thing that a "just wait" brings is fear. 

I understand. You've run farther. You've run longer. Your race has been bumpy, and long, and tiring. I stand in awe of you, my fellow runners. My trailblazers. I truly do.

 But please remember,  some of us are only at the beginning of our marathons, and we have a long road ahead of us-- A road that we've never traveled before. In fact, we haven't even trained for this.  So instead of telling us about the pitfalls during mile 23, let's just cheer the new runners through mile TWO. 

Sometimes, all we need from the seasoned warrior is simply, "I've been there, too. I know it's hard. You can do it, and I'm here for you."

Givers

Some people in life are Givers.  And yes, I capitalized it, because these are special people, and they deserve that big, round G.  They give of their time. Their money. Their resources.

I am not one of those people. No, I am not a giver. Not even with a little "g."

Other than Goodwill donations (which, if I'm being honest, is simply a way for me to get rid of junk) or the occasional crumpled bills pulled out of my purse at church (only when others are looking), my giving is minimal. So minimal, in fact, that I can still recall the last time I freely "gave." Ready for this? It was 23 years ago, and I remember it vividly.

In 1992, I accompanied a friend to a church revival in Detroit. The pastor gave an inspiring sermon about missions, showing photos of impoverished children around the world and urged us to donate. I looked around in awe, thinking, "These people are just opening up their wallets?  Just like that?"  I was inspired.  Truly, it was the first time in my life, outside of watching Sally Struthers on TV, that I felt called to give. I pulled out my little purse and saw that I only had a ten dollar bill. The internal debate began:  Do I give the WHOLE bill?  I wonder if they give change. Ten dollars is like five hours of babysitting. I could buy TEN Clearly Canadian waters with this. I really love Clearly Canadian. But these kids probably can't even afford ONE Clearly Canadian. I mean, if I DON'T give, it's ok, because all these other people are giving. They're Givers. But still... I should give. Ok. I'll give the ten dollars. The whole thing. I'm taking this out and giving it all. Here comes the man. Can I do this?  He's looking at me. Give it. Give it. 

And I did. I wish I could tell you that the experience changed me in some way. I wish I could tell you that giving felt great. But it didn't. On my way home that night, giving did not feel good at all. I kept thinking, "I shouldn't have done that. Now I don't have enough for ME."

For ME.

And so began my relationship with giving, both with my money, and my time. Selfish, huh?

I know that this may make you think less of me.  I know how bad it sounds, especially because I've been blessed in this life.  I've always had enough, just (in my perception) not extra.  Over the years, when an opportunity to give presented itself, I'd find myself thinking, "When I have more, I'll give more. I just need more. More time. More money. I need extra."

And then, the "when" arrived. Two years ago, God plopped a huge blessing into my lap.  And I took that blessing and turned it into something. And that something turned into the extra.  A little extra time, a little extra money. But instead of staying true to my word,  I ignored my 23 years of promises.  "Wow!  Thanks for this extra, God! I can do so much for ME with this extra!"

Well, God started whispering loudly. And when that wasn't enough, He started shouting. Shouting by placing Givers into my life everywhere I turned. Givers that couldn't be ignored.

My friends Mike and Jessica are two of them. Shortly before God plopped the aforementioned blessing into my lap, he plopped it into theirs. BUT, they saw it differently: This was a chance to Give.  And Give they do, in big, big ways by committing to use 75% of their earnings from their Rodan + Fields business to support adoptions, missions, charities, their church, and more. When I learned about their commitment, I was gobsmacked. I couldn't even fathom working as hard as they do, as much as they do, and then turning around and giving it away--happily.  They're open about their giving, but in the most humble way. "The reason we talk about our willingness to Give," Jessica explained recently, "is never to brag. Rather, it's because we hope that when other people find a little extra, they'll be inspired to do the same."

Then there's my friend Kelley. She's probably the busiest person I know: She is a mother of two, a wife, owns five successful restaurants and a boutique. But ask her what makes her tick, and without hesitation,  she'll answer:  Giving.  Giving is what makes her tick.  When Kelley talks about her charities or her fundraising events,  she sparkles. It's the kind of sparkle, the kind of infectious enthusiasm that make people think, "I want whatever she's having."

So last July, when Kelley asked me to reserve October 3rd on my calendar to volunteer at a fundraiser for Pink Ribbon Girls, a breast cancer charity with which Kelley works closely, I agreed. You don't say no to that sparkle.

Well, October 3rd arrived, and I'll be honest - I didn't want to go. I contemplated excuses and ways to back out --but after years of a broken promise to give, decided against it.  Having spent 23 years deftly avoiding any type of volunteer work, I didn't know exactly what to expect. But when I arrived, the one emotion that flooded the entire space--an emotion I didn't anticipate-- was JOY. Overwhelming JOY, everywhere I turned-- joy in the coordinators, joy in the caterers, joy in the volunteers, and joy in the attendees. Pure, unadulterated JOY.

Throughout the night, I served drinks to Givers and Survivors. I smiled and wept, often simultaneously, as they shared their stories of defeat and triumph. I marveled at the enormity of it all: The cause, the event, the time it must have taken to pull something like this together. I felt both humbled and blessed to be standing in a room full of 500 Givers, doing what they do best:  Giving. Giving with JOY. It was only a baby step into their world, but it made me want to wade in a little further. Dig in a little deeper.

 I spent 23 years equating giving with loss. Never once--not even for a moment--did I expect to gain.

a perfect ending

Sometimes in life, there are stories you just have to write down. Moments that need to be chronicled because they deserve a place in your life canon, even if you're the only person who will ever read it. This is one of those:

Let me be frank:  The last week of school is always dreadful. Everyone is spent and ready for summer, and last June was no exception. The curriculum had been covered, the DC trip was over, and we still had an entire week to fill.  In an effort to make the week a little more bearable (for me),  I assigned a final project:  My 8th-Grade Footprint. "For this project," I explained, "there are no rubrics. No handouts. The requirement is simple - you will leave your footprint. I want you to think about what you've learned in middle school. I'm not talking about academics or formulas. We've already assessed that. Instead, I'm talking about what you've learned about life. I want you to find a way to leave your legacy on the hearts of your classmates.  I want YOU to share your life lessons.  The way you'll do that is entirely up to you. Make a video, write a poem, sing us a song. I don't care, and I won't judge. This is all I am going to tell you. Be ready to share your footprints on June 2nd. Ready? Go."

And by golly, they went to work! It was a freaking teaching miracle, I tell ya. These 14-year-old kids, confronted with a "project" the last week of school -- an open-ended project, nonetheless-- began buzzing with palpable excitement. I was merely the observer, watching as they worked to bring their stories to life (while simultaneously patting myself on the back for stealing this ingenious idea from the internet).

Most students worked in groups, making movies or PSAs about their middle school experience. But one young lady, Anna, worked alone. I wasn't surprised; Anna usually preferred to work by herself. In a world of Abercrombie conformity, she was an outlier: She had an asymmetrical haircut, wore black, and spent her free time with a book or a pen instead of an iPhone. When all her classmates were reading The Hunger Games, Anna was devouring Rosemary's Baby, dissecting characters and symbolism with the ease of a college professor. She didn't just march to the beat of a different drum - she was in an entirely different band. For instance, at the Washington DC dinner-dance, when her classmates were huddled in sweaty, bouncing masses, Anna was in the corner, doing the "robot." Alone. Eyes closed. For hours. She was deliciously different.

On first glance, one might perceive her as socially unaware. But that wasn't the case. On the contrary. She knew that her puzzle piece didn't quite fit.  I once asked Anna to describe herself to me, as an author would. She wrote: "I'm an anxious mess of a human being. I don't care about trends, because I'm too busy being scared of everything. Even if I dressed, acted and understood the same as everyone else, I'd still be anxious about how others saw me. I don't fit into the mix because I was never in the mix to begin with."  

It's not that her classmates ignored her; I think they genuinely respected her intelligence. But they didn't flock to her. She was, in many ways,  an island.  A remote, mysterious island - Hard to reach, and easier to observe on their own comfortable shores from a distance.

I had Anna in class for two years. In 7th grade, at the beginning of the year, we had our first Socratic Discussion. I wanted every student to participate, in some way. ANY way. Anna, a girl who no-doubt understood the deeper meaning of the story better than anyone, was the only one in the class who didn't speak, and instead, turned in a written analysis that knocked my socks off and made me feel like a literary idiot. "I just...I just couldn't do it," she said.  I don't know if she was just nervous, or if she knew that her answers were so deep that they wouldn't make sense to the other children. I'm guessing it was a mix of both.

So fast forward, two years later. Here she was, silently working on her footprint project.  I'd watch her write, erase, and turn the page. She didn't reveal what she was doing, and I didn't ask many questions.

On presentation day, after watching several iMovies and skits, it was finally Anna's turn. She stood up and walked to the front of the room. She had a stack of paper in front of her, which she carefully laid on the table.  I watched her classmates eye one another curiously.  One boy sighed, like the guests at a wedding when the best man brings an entire spiral notebook to the microphone before delivering the toast.

She took a deep breath and started to deliver a speech that she'd nearly memorized.  With conviction and grace, she told a brilliantly-woven story beginning with an anecdote about being an awkward three-year-old in a grocery store, a keenly aware toddler who knew that she was not like everyone else. Through the use of short vignettes, she spoke about respect. About being different. About empathy. She described the way she views the world, and the way the world likely views her.  She stood there and did the impossible - something I, in twelve years of teaching, had never done:  She held the attention of 29 teenagers, captivating them with only words, for seventeen solid minutes.

 At 10:03 AM, she finished and exhaled. We stared. She stared back.

In the back of the room, a tall, popular football player pushed back his chair, stood up and began to clap. His friend wiped away a tear, stood up, and joined him. Within a few seconds, a crying mix of teens stood, one by one, applauding a girl who, just seventeen minutes prior, was a stranger.  Her story wasn't sad; that's not why we were crying. No, we were crying because we'd been cracked wide open by her vulnerability, and there just weren't words for our rawness.

The next day, the last day of school, I was sitting in my room with a handful of students who'd come inside from the 8th grade party to help me clean the room for the summer. Mike, a kind, popular heartthrob-of-a-boy said, "Mrs. Nianouris, can we talk about yesterday for a second?"  He didn't have to say anything else. We all knew what he meant.

"Sure," I said. "What's on your mind?"

"It's just...that speech. It was probably the best thing I've ever seen. People heard about it at lunch,  ya know...just that something big had happened. Everyone kept asking me what it was about, but I didn't know what to say. The thing is,  I can tell you almost every single word Anna said, but I just can't find the words to explain what it was about. Because it was more than what she said. It was just...bigger. Too big for words."

The other kids nodded, looking at me, seeking a way to define the experience. The emotional intimacy they were feeling was new, foreign, strange.

"Maybe you should just tell Anna what it meant to you?" I suggested.

"Yeah. I'll do that. I promise." And then, like something out of a movie, the final bell rang, signaling both an ending and a beginning for all of us.

As I prepared to leave my classroom for the very last time that afternoon, I picked up the one box I was taking home with me forever - a box full of letters, notes, and keepsakes from my twelve years as a teacher. A collection of memories. The things that mattered. Anna's speech was at the top.

It was finally over, and I didn't know how to feel. So I sat down at my desk and wept.

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.