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.

a boy named stevie

While my intent in these blog posts is to chronicle my journey over the next few months, this little series wouldn't be complete without a few stories from the past.  The highlights, if you will.

Over the years, I've had the privilege of teaching over 1000 students. While they're all special in their own way, there are some kids who jumped right into my heart and stayed there.

Stevie is one of those kids.

Several years ago, I was assigned a class of "advanced" seventh-grade language arts students. All of them were identified as high-achievers or gifted in the areas of reading or writing except one: Stevie. Don't get me wrong- he was brilliant in many ways...but language arts just weren't his particular brand of genius.

I'm not sure how Stevie ended up in there. If I recall, it was because of numbers and scheduling. Regardless, there he was.  

Stevie was one of those kids whose name preceded him. "Oh, you have Stevie?" other teachers asked. "You'll love him...but he'll keep you on your toes."

So with that in mind, I wore high heels the first day. I had a feeling I was going to need all the help I could get.

On the first day, I passed out the syllabus titled "Advanced Language Arts." Stevie looked at the paper, then looked up at me, quizzically. But before the other students noticed, he nodded his head and leaned back in his chair as if to say, "Yep. I knew it all along. I'm a reading genius."

I never told him differently.

I've come to realize that God places certain kids in certain classes for certain reasons. And that year, Stevie was a ray of light. I quickly learned what the other teachers meant when they warned that he'd "keep me on my toes." See, Stevie never sat down. Ever. He "perched" in his chair like a bird. Sometimes, he'd decide to sit at my desk. Other times, he'd sit on the floor. Usually, during a lesson, he'd walk around the room, busying himself with little tasks. "This closet is a mess!" he'd announce as I was teaching. "I'm cleaning it!" And the weird thing is, I'd let him. He had an uncanny ability to multitask, that boy.

I run a pretty tight ship in the classroom, but for some reason, I let Stevie get away with more than most. Perhaps I was  learning to pick my battles. Perhaps it was his charm. Either way, the kid played me like a fiddle, and he knew it. His song, however, was more endearing than annoying.

I learned a lot from watching Stevie that year. Not only did he believe he was gifted, but he believed that I thought he was gifted. And because of that belief, he excelled. He tried a little harder, read a little more... it was really quite remarkable.

You see, Stevie taught me that kids will match the expectations that one sets forth. Tell them they're smart, and they'll show it. Tell them they can't, and they won't.

The following year, I was assigned to teach one period of an 8th grade elective class. Until that point, I'd never requested a student. But when I learned I'd be teaching an 8th grade class, I marched down to the guidance office and asked for Stevie. "You want him again? You had him for three hours a day last year. Didn't he wear you out?" they asked.  They were confused, but they put him in my class anyway.

One of the first big projects I assigned was a public service announcement. The kids had to choose a topic and create a computerized slideshow encouraging others to take action on an issue. Stevie hated projects. To him, they required too much time, and he often lost interest pretty quickly. But to my surprise, he was all about this assignment. He got to work quickly and deliberately. 

Feeling suspicious yet? Yeah. I was, too. 

When I asked him his topic, he wouldn't tell me:

"Don't worry, Mrs. Nianouris!  I've got it under control!"

"I know. That's why I'm worried," I replied.

"Don't you trust me?"

"I'm not sure. I'd like to...Is it appropriate, Stevie?" I asked.

"Yes. It's appropriate."

"Can you at least give me a hint about the topic?"

"It's a serious concern, Mrs. Nianouris. Just trust me. Promise." 

So I did.

On the day of Stevie's presentation, he begged me to go first, and I let him, anxious to see the result of his hard work. He dimmed the lights and set up the computer. Soft music began playing as the first words appeared on the screen:

SAVE THE COCK. 

"Stevie!" I yelled, searching frantically for the remote to stop his presentation. More words appeared on the screen.

DO YOU CARE ABOUT COCKS?

"Stevie! press pause! NOW!"

 IT'S TIME WE TAKE A STAND TO HELP THE COCKS!

I rushed to the computer to stop his presentation. And then, the first picture appeared: A chicken. Then another: Two chickens. Two fighting chickens.

His entire presentation was about stopping cock fighting. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

At the end, he turned on the lights. "How'd I do?" he asked, beaming and winking all at once.

"Stevie, you followed the requirements, but do you really think that was an appropriate topic choice!?"

"Mrs. Nianouris, MY presentation was about the ABUSE of chicken fighting! It's a very serious issue!" he exclaimed with feigned innocence. "If anyone's mind went somewhere else, well, that's just sick!"

Well played, kiddo. Well played.

I gave him a B+, and he gave me a great story to tell at cocktail parties for years to come.

* Names have been changed to protect the privacy of the student

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.