Text Lineages

Earlier this week, I was reading some fascinating research.  The article was by Dr. Afred Tatum, and he was discussing the ways the educational system in the United States specifically fails to meet the needs of young black male students.  Within his research, he talked about such issues as students feeling that their teachers expect them to fail and the ways schools do a disservice by not selecting relevant texts.  

At the heart of Tatum's research is the concept of the Text Lineage, that is those things that we read that shape our lives.  He calls them "trajectory-altering", which is a term I love.  

Trajectory-altering texts.  

Tatums went through the writings of hundreds of famous Black writers and looked for references to books or writings that had been important to them. Then, he created a text lineage, charting those writings, like a family tree, showing how one text lead to another and another. 

He found that the same books kept showing up, though these were often ones the person had read independently, not as part of school work. 

Tatum's premise is that we should use these text lineages to help us provide meaningful texts for students to read.  Looking for those items that appeared in many of the text lineages of these great minds. These sequences, for many of the people he studied, were profound. 

Trajectory-altering. 

Which made me think of my own textual lineage.  

I tried to think of those books or texts that had, at pivotal moments of my life been present. Or the ones I recall being powerful or shaping.   

As is my tendency, most things I think through turn into a list or a diagram. Or both.  This began as a list, then was turned into a diagram. 

I have said before how powerful the Little House books

were for me.  A female protagonist. A female author.  We shared a name.  We were both middle children. We both had long brown hair.  I felt such a profound connection to those books that it is hard for me to even explain.  

(Full disclosure: When I went back as an adult to read them to my children and realized some of the deeply problematic racist elements, I was stunned. It was hard for me to even think about because my childhood fondness for the texts in no way included any of these racist depictions or comments, but then I realized, hindsight being 20/20 that I had likely, in my white-middle-class-privilege glossed over them, which is another day's discussion.) 

The Little House books meant that I was always able to see myself in books. I could always see myself as a potential writer and a reader.  It was foundational for me.

Thinking of those foundational texts, I was surprised by the ones that came to mind.  The first was a Spanish textbook, level 1.  

I know.  What an absurd thing to think of.  But I can remember spending hours just soaking it in. Looking at the pictures labeled in Spanish, examining the spelling, noticing every tilde. My naive little self somehow believed that if I could absorb everything in that book, I could learn Spanish.  I know that is bananas now.  But at the time, I really really felt it.  

Thinking of my textual lineage, I realized that even then, as a young child I believed that books held knowledge. There was something to learn from them. I could read a book and somehow know more than I did before.  Which I think is a powerful thing for a young mind to believe.  I was always deeply disappointed every time I didn't know Spanish, and I figured I just needed to absorb more.  

It is not a secret that I don't read much non-fiction. My

whole life is non-fiction, and all of my academic work is non-fiction, so my pleasure reading rarely includes it.  But when I do choose a non-fic book, it is almost always something I believe I can learn from.  Lab Girl is the most recent one I finished; I learned so many things I had never even considered, things about plants and the natural world, about the funding of research and government policy.  They were virtually all things I would never have encountered anywhere outside of that book. 

But I have always believed--or at least I can't recall a time

when I didn't believe--that I could learn things from books, even if they were fiction.  On my book list, The Kite Runner struck me as part of that line.  I learned so many things from The Kite Runner that I can clearly remember spending days in a fog, thinking wondering, speculating.  Yes, it was partially emotional--the book is powerful that way--but also intellectually.   It dealt with geography, politics, history, and culture some of which I knew about, much I did not.  I left The Kite Runner, in the truest sense, knowing more.  That sort of experience changes you. I think my appreciation for that idea goes back to the time I spent reading through that Spanish textbook. 

Two of the books I loved as a child--Barney Bipple's Magic

Dandelions and Curious George Goes to the Hospital--are fiction in the best possible way.  Barney Bipple is a kid who doesn't like being 6. His odd neighbor gives him some dandelion puffs as a reward for honesty (he returns a huge diamond he found on her lawn), and he is given three wishes.  Zany antics ensue.  

But more than that, there is just no possibility that the events in Barney Bipple could really happen.  But that didn't make them any less amazing.  

Similar to Curious George swallowing a puzzle piece and having to go to the hospital to have it removed (in my mind's eye, I can vividly see the drawing of the piece showing up on an X-ray), only to have it nicely fit in the puzzle at the end.  The wacky things that happen throughout are just not possible. Not in this world with its rules and restrictions.  

But both Barney and George gave me a taste for the fantastic.  

I spent many years putzing around in realistic fiction eventually finding my way into dystopian. (I LOVE a good YA dystopian.  The world is about to end, and we need a teenager to save us!)  

But a few years ago I stumbled into high fantasy (Patrick Rothfus, Garth Nix, and Brandon Sanderson), and I found where I belong. 

The magic.

The impossibility.

The world-building.  

And all of it so very impossible while also being so vividly real. Just like Barney in that courtroom full of cats and dandelions. 

The gap in my life between Barney Bipple and Mistborn is probably 40 years.  But that feeling, that beautiful impossibility swallowing you up, that is coming home to a feeling that books can bring. A feeling I hadn't known I had missed, until I stepped back into it, into that section of my textual lineage. 

For me, reading is, in large part, an interaction.  At times between myself and the author; at other times among an audience, the book, and myself, since I am often reading aloud to others.  When I was young, I remember loving reading aloud, mostly because I felt I was good at it.  I was that kid always raising her hand to volunteer to read.  

But the first text I can clearly remember reading aloud was

a play version (in a textbook) of Charlotte's Web.  My reading group had finished it on a Friday and was going to read it to the class on Monday.  So, like any overachieving nerd, I told my mother that I needed a spider costume or Monday. (You can imagine how thrilled she was.) But after a weekend of diligent work, I had a spider costume. It was sort of a black pillowcase with attached long socklike legs stuffed with pantyhose and wire hangers.  I was SO PROUD.  I put on my costume, climbed up on a chair (the web was in the corner of the barn, after all) and read my piece with all the love and emotion Charolette herself had. 

The entire thing lasted maybe 10 minutes.  Everyone was mostly surprised since, and I can't emphasize this enough, nobody else had a costume. Also, I wore the costume for the rest of the day.  

But I didn't care. I KNEW the audience loved the performance.  I had read something, and it had moved them. I saw firsthand the power of a text to affect someone else. 

I don't think I ever lost that feeling, of being able to affect other people with words.  Now, my words won't do that, but someone else's can. So, from third grade, fast forward to 5 years ago, I step into an elementary classroom, book in hand, and I get to read to students.  I get to be the oasis in a stressful day when they can set aside their work or worries or fears and listen to a book about overcoming or friendship or digging a hole or showing compassion or haunted underpants (that one was a big hit).  

Books can move people. 

Words can move people. 

I saw that when I gave a copy of Les Miserables to someone I knew would love it, only to have him tell me not long after that it was the best book he had ever read.  That is a great feeling. And one I first felt with Charlotte's Web. 

But it was the Berenstain's B Book that first made me feel like I was a capable reader.  It was the book that made me feel smart.  

Last semester, I did some research on reading self-concept and self-efficacy.  So much of the literature points to the idea that at a young age (about second grade), kids develop a sense of themselves as readers. 

I can read. 

I can't read. 

I am a good reader. 

I am not a good reader.  

And those feelings of self-efficacy--I can accomplish this task--are what lead them to try harder, persist longer, and succeed. Or not.  They don't have a connection to skill or IQ.  It is a feeling, based on successes and failures and experiences. And a positive feeling of self-efficacy leads kids to read more, thus becoming better readers. 

The B Book made me believe I was a good reader.  I read that book so many times that I memorized it.  I took great pride in my ability to recite the book.  I can still do it to this day.  

Was the book hard? No. 

Was it a classic? No. 

What was its Lexile level? No idea. 

I know I read that book and read it and read it until I knew it.  All of it.  

And it made me feel so capable.  And smart.  And really, deeply believe that I could read. 

To this day, I feel like I am a good reader.  

Now, I am a SLOW reader. Glacially slow.  But I believe I am a good reader.  And that residual feeling is carried over from 40 years ago when I conquered The B Book.  

So now, when I read something like A Tale of Two Cities (it is in my top five), a book I know is challenging, but one I always feel I am capable of understanding, reading deeply, truly appreciating, it is like a wave of satisfaction washing over me that started years ago with the B Book.  

Tatum's idea of Text Lineages has lingered in my mind since I learned of it.  

I am entirely certain that my text lineage, for example, is nothing like that of my children. Or my husband. 

Or my students. 

And that is part of the problem. 

I love A Tale of Two Cities deeply.  I could sit here right now and think of the final two chapters and start to cry.  

Most of my students would probably prefer to have their eyeballs ripped out rather than reading A Tale of Two Cities. 

The same goes for Les Miserables.

And a level 1 Spanish textbook from 50 years ago? 

Which makes me think about the texts we put in our children and students' lives.  

Yes, there are parts of the canon that everyone needs to know for cultural value.  But when we are talking about ways to get kids loving reading and having texts influence them, become trajectory-altering, what moves me is not the same as what moves them.  And what I had to deal with, persist through, or overcome is not the same as what they are dealing with. 

It seems that my text lineage is helpful for me to understand myself.  But it is also an interesting examination of why we need to diversify the texts we use.  

My text lineage is not enough. 

And, at the same time, it is my responsibility to help my students develop their own text lineage. This means they need those trajectory-altering texts, not just in class but in their independent pleasure reading time.  

Which means access.  Access to books and authors and ideas. And conversations about books that matter and ideas that are important.  

It is all so much. So much to do and get and be about. 

There really is no time to waste. 

Lessons from the Last Airbender

Over the break, my family went on vacation. In order to save money, we drove instead of flying (It seemed like a good idea at the time), which led to 30 hours in a van. For our family, that means a chance to re-watch the entire series of Avatar: The Last Airbender. If you have never watched it, you need to. I am serious. Do it. DO IT! (Not, I repeat, NOT the live-action one.)

Yes, I know it is a cartoon. 
Yes, it was done by Nickelodeon. 
Yes, it came out fifteen years ago (which I can't believe). 

I don't care. It is brilliant. The writing, the acting, the animation, the score, the plot, the character development. All of it.  

Because of this, it stands the test of time. 

So, the premise for anyone who hasn't seen it (seriously, you need to watch it) is that some people are born with the ability to manipulate the four elements: earth, air, water, and fire.  At any given time, there is one person who can manipulate all four.  That person is the Avatar, and their job is to bring balance and harmony to the world.  Fair enough.  So, a hundred years ago, the Avatar was an Airbender, and he disappeared; now the world has been in turmoil because for the past 100 years there has been no Avatar and the Fire Nation has been waging war unchecked.  Two teenagers, Sokka and Katara (of the Northern Water Tribe) find an Airbender kid frozen in a block of ice.  That kid, Aang, is the Avatar, the Airbender who disappeared.  

As I drove, I got to listen to The Last Airbender play out over the van speakers (and when I was the passenger, I watched it ).  I was struck again and again by how this amazing little series --only three seasons--had so much wisdom.  

I kept thinking about how much it seemed to apply to my work and my passions and my profession.  Maybe it was the new year or the fact that there has been a LOT of change/upheaval at work, but I kept coming back to the fact that this show had a lot to say that applied to me and to education as a whole. 

Aang: So the question is, how are we going to stop that thing?

Sokka: Why are you all looking at me?

Aang: You're the idea guy. 

Sokka: So I'm the only one who can *ever* come up with a plan? That's a lot of pressure. 

Katara: And also the complaining guy. 

Sokka: That part I don't mind.

Episode 2.13 "The Drill" 

Yes, Sokka complains. A lot.  But he is also the one who comes up with the ideas (usually hairbrained, occasionally successful). And somehow, that really hit home with me.  

If anyone were to listen to my monologues or conversations, I am sure it seems like I complain. A LOT. But in all honesty, that is only because I deeply care about things and am passionate to see wrongs righted and equity and fairness brought to bear.

This past year or two I have complained about Betsy DeVos. A lot.  (I don't see that diminishing any time soon).  But it isn't out of personal animosity or political strife. It is because I deeply disagree with putting someone without educational experience in charge of a board of education (state, national, local), and I VERY much disagree with putting someone who has never attended a public school nor had a child attend a public school into a position with the power Secretary DeVos has.    

I really do think there is value in complaining.  I do.  Sometimes, educators need to vent. Venting serves a scientific purpose toward regulation for boiling things, pots or volcanoes. At times, education feels very much like a world where everything is boiling.  It can be a hot mess, and the stakes are so high, the pressure so great, complaining can be a true relief.  

But it is only helpful if it also comes with ideas.  And I need to be cognizant of that. 

Uncle Iroh: No! Zuko! You must never give in to despair. Allow yourself to slip down that road and you surrender to your lowest instincts. In the darkest times, hope is something you give yourself. That is the meaning of inner strength.

 Episode: 2.5 "Avatar Day"

Zuko, the exiled prince of the Fire Nation, has been looking for the Avatar (not realizing he is a kid) and is accompanied by his wise, funny, kindhearted Uncle Iroh who was formerly the fierce military leader known as the Dragon of the West;  now he longs to open a tea shop. 

Iroh has a lot of wisdom if only people would listen. 

And Zuko's life is so relatable. Things are always failing. His best intentions never payout. He is searching for something he can't find (literally and figuratively) and grows increasingly angry at his failure, not realizing that it is really for the best.  

The viewer can see it.  
Iroh can see it. 
Zuko has no idea.  

It is hard to realize that there are times that my ideas, as grand as they seem, are just going to fail.  Or situations will arise that completely change my path, and there is not a single thing I can do about it.  

I am a person who loves to help others.  
I am at my best when I am helping others succeed.  
I neither want nor need medals, awards, or recognition.  I thrive from helping others be their best selves.  

But there are times that doesn't work. And I can get really angry.  And feel defeated.  In The Last Airbender, Zuko is the character I most identify with, which might seem odd if you know me and have seen the show. (Seriously, watch the show). Yet it is the case.  

Zuko is driven, motivated, and filled with vision.  
And he fails again and again. 
There are times he absolutely can't let things go.
Me. Me. Me. 

And it is easy to get mired down in that. 
Really easy. 

But nothing good comes of it, and while it can be hard, Iroh is right.  It leads only to our lowest instincts.  I need to remember that. 

Guru Pathik: The greatest illusion of this world is the illusion of separation. Things you think are separate and different are actually one and the same. We are all one people, but we live as if divided.
Episode 2.19 “The Guru” 

At one point, Aang seeks the help of a guru who claims to hold some knowledge the Avatar desperately needs.  This interaction is an interesting one since the guru is simultaneously helping the extremely powerful Avatar and also a confused teenager since they are the same.  

All that the guru says about the world, the elements, the nations is true of education.  

There is this illusion that things are divided when they are not. 

We have departments and compartmentalization. 

Even the jargon we toss around with silos separating people or tasks.  

The idea that this is "Not my circus, not my monkeys." 

And the very idea of "stay in your lane".  

I have the opposite problem with Aang.  Things are not separate or me.  

This IS my circus. 
These ARE my monkeys.  
And, dang it, this IS my lane.   

I know there are people who will say I am just nosey or have no boundaries. But for me, if I can help someone, I want to.  If I see a problem, I need to try to solve it.  Even if it isn't in my lane.  

And that is hard. 
And exhausting. 

I am sure I have annoyed, bothered, or angered my share of people.  But I simply don't know how to stay in my silo. I honestly don't want to.  Because things really are all connected. 

And then there is this: 

Zuko: I can understand why you wouldn't trust me, and I know I've made some mistakes in the past.Sokka: Like when you attacked our village?Katara: Or when you stole my mother's necklace and used it to track us down and capture us?Zuko: Look, I admit I've done some awful things. I was wrong to try to capture you, and I'm sorry that I attacked the Water Tribe. And I never should have sent that Fire Nation assassin after you. I'm going to try and stop-Sokka:  Wait, you sent Combustion Man after us?Zuko: Well, that's not his name, but-Episode 3.12 “The Western Air Temple” 

This is me.  100%.  Zuko has done all of these things because they seemed like the best solution.  When he realizes how he has messed up, he tries to fix it and only makes it worse.  Even in the middle of making it worse, he just can't stop himself from correcting a minor error that meant nothing to anyone, but served to make the bad situation even worse. 

I have done this so. many. times.  Not attacked a village, but had an idea, pursued it, made somebody upset, tried to fix it, only to make it all much worse.  

The thing is, Zuko isn't evil.  He is really a good person who is continually struggling to do the right thing. He just honestly doesn't know how to do that. Combine that with being painfully socially awkward and you have a recipe for disaster.  

The same recipe that makes me. 

I know how I come off. 
I make a terrible first impression. And probably second. And third. 

People often tell me that when they first met me they thought I was rude or mean or scary.  And I can be all of those things, unintentionally.  

I have a strong case of RBF and zero ability to hide my emotions. If I am annoyed, it shows. If I am frustrated, the entire world can tell.  

I am terrible in social situations. Absolutely terrible.  I make weird comments and awkward observations, never realizing how awkward or weird until after I have said them. 

At my sister's wedding, while everyone was having a great time, talking and laughing, she handed me a shell to listen to the ocean (The wedding was in Jamaica), and I famously made a supremely awkward comment about the ocean sound actually coming from the fluid in your cochlea.  

Yes. I did that. I used the words "fluid in your cochlea."

Everyone just silently looked at me, then went back to their conversations.

I followed that up with a brilliant observation about their layered drinks and specific gravity. 

(Yeah, this is why people do not invite me to stuff.)

But after all of that, Zuko could have left, but he goes back, determined to make things better.  Even when, quite frankly, he is humiliated.  

There are times when I am overwhelmingly compelled to crawl home, lick my wounds, and let it go.  Give up. 

How many times have I driven past local businesses wondering how much they pay, since it would be better than returning to the scene of a conversation where my idea was disregarded until someone else mentioned it in a non-awkward way and it was suddenly viable?

How many times have I cried in my car in the parking lot when the things I have struggled to plan and build are casually set aside in favor of some larger agenda I am not privy to because, let's be honest, fluid in your cochlea?!

How often have I thought that this is the day I decide to keep my eyes forward, stay in my lane, focus on my silo, and just do my job, not risking, not worrying, not sticking out my neck or saying something weird or awkward or unintentionally insulting? 

But I can't. I have to keep going back, keep trying again, having those awkward, difficult conversations. 

 Which brings me to this:

Uncle Iroh: You sound like my nephew. Always thinking you need to do things on your own without anyone’s support. There is nothing wrong with letting people who love you, help you. Not that I love you. I just met you.

Episode 2.8 “The Chase”  

As a school, an educational community, we have got to start helping each other, asking for help, and letting others help us.  I don't know where the idea came from that it is Every Many for Himself, but that leads to burnout and anger.  

Letting someone help you isn't weakness.  Sometimes you just need that. 

There is no shame in admitting you don't know. 
And there is no shame in admitting you need help.  

We want our students to ask for help and accept it when it is given.  Educators, staff, administration, we all need to do that too. 

This isn't the Education Hunger Games.  
We can all win. 
Success for one does not come at a loss for another.  It isn't pie.  

And I say this to myself too.  

I might not take my own advice, but I would like to think I might take advice from Uncle Iroh.

The Beast, Big Problems, and Tiny Pieces of Solutions

I was ten the first time I went on The Beast.  At Kings Island amusement park in Ohio, the Beast was a modern engineering marvel.  All the signs shouted its praises as you followed the beast paw prints painted on the pathway.  

Longest roller coaster in the world! 
The fastest! 
The tallest! 
The longest drop! 
Three tunnels that go underground! 
A 135-foot drop that goes directly into an underground tunnel! 


The ride lasted a record-setting 4 minutes and ten seconds, which seemed like an eternity while the ride was going and made the hours-long wait in line well worth it.  The Beast is a wooden rollercoaster, so you never go upside down, but it didn't need an inclined loop or a corkscrew to be the best.  

Photo Credit: http://top10ofe.blogspot.com/2015/06/
top-10-longest-roller-coasters-usa-uae-japan-uk.html

When the ride was over, I would stand there, legs trembling, dazed, trying to catch my breath and gather my bearings. Then, without fail, I would run right back to the end of the line to do it all over again.   

That old sense of wonder, of being completely overcome, hit me a few days ago as I stood in front of an elevator door, suitcase by my side, waiting to check out of a hotel and return to my life.  I wanted to return--I missed my husband and kids--but I also wanted to, in a sense, run back to the beginning of the line.

I was leaving the Literacy Research Association conference where I had spent the past four days.  I realized that I simply did not want to leave, but I also was eager to get home and get to work. In the elevator ride, I thought, as I had a dozen times over the past 4 days, that I wasn't sure what "get to work" even meant.  

After spending four days listening to experts in all areas of the field of literacy, I had ideas, inspiration, questions, and concerns.

It was reassuring to sit in sessions where researchers were grappling with the same things I struggle with.  How to get people to see the validity of graphic novels? How do I help my vulnerable students who are at risk of giving up? How do I help students to gain access to books and materials that reflect their lives, their experiences, their struggles, and dreams? How do I support teachers as they build literacy skills in their classrooms?

The same issues kept coming up.
Trauma
Socioeconomic differences
Access
Digital literacy
Graphic novels
Student engagement
Motivation
Perserverance
Representation
Teacher preparation

These ideas are the ones that keep me awake at night, in the most literal sense. 

Yes, I do actually lose sleep over how to get funding for my libraries so I can get the books my kids need. 

I struggle with knowing which books my students need in their lives. 

I grieve over those students who have given up on reading as boring or too hard or something that other people do. 

I get angry about the absolute unfairness of a system that again and again privileges those from higher socioeconomic levels and works against my students who don't come from such bounty. 

I am crushed under the trauma, loss, and grief that my students (and, at times, my colleagues) are faced with. 

And here was a conference full of people who were all striving to solve the same issues that I wrestled with. 

But here's the thing, I don't have any answers. Not a single one. 

My area of interest is how students develop their sense of self as a reader and how that affects their independent reading choices.  Specifically, I want to know how the library can intervene, boosting that sense of reading self-concept, especially for middle and high school students. 

And I have no idea.  

And that is really, really disheartening.  To know that so many great minds for so many years have wrestled with the same issues, and have not come up with anything. 

But looking back at the research conference, that isn't how to tackle this problem.  

The Beast is the Longest! Fastest! Tallest!  But what do I remember about it?  There was the one turn that happened inside one of the tunnels where the track was tilted at an angle.  It felt like if you stuck your hand out just an inch, you might be able to touch the wall.  Could you?  I seriously doubt it.  But now, 35 years later, I can recall that one turn. 

Can I convince all of my teachers and all of my parents and all of my administrators that graphic novels are "real books" and are valuable, powerful tools for many readers?  

No.  But I went to one study group where one researcher talked about her semester-long study where pre-service teachers are taught about graphic novels, the elements a writer or illustrator can use, the complexity, the richness. Then they spent the semester making one of their own in connection with a text they read. The researcher brought samples of the work they produced and it was stunning. The illustrations, the use of blank space, the use of speech bubbles and borders and colors. Those teachers, when they become teachers, would not need convincing.  
Because of one class out of dozens that prepare them, they will bring their students into the library without a preconceived bias against graphic novels. 

That one turn in the Beast still grips my heart, and that one literacy experience might change their perceptions and those of the students they teach for years to come. 

I have had the idea of educator trauma on my mind a lot lately.  I have colleagues who have gone through loss, divorce, abuse, financial ruin, illness, and family breakdown, but they keep on teaching.  I grieve for them and wonder how I can help to build them up.  How can this huge problem be solved? 

I can still viscerally recall the feeling of sitting in the car of the Beast and feeling the safety bar snap forward to keep you contained.  Again, it was a wooden coaster and didn't go upside down, so I am not sure how much danger a passenger was ever really in, but the security of that safety bar firmly snapped in place affected the entire ride. 

One researcher presented on teachers struggling with grief and how it affects them, their lives, and their work.  Shining that light on something we know about but refuse to talk about was empowering. I had to wipe away tears as she talked about her research and I thought about my own colleagues and friends. 

It is not possible to solve the issue of trauma and secondary trauma in educators.  But someone is taking one small piece, looking at it, studying it, and seeing what can be done.  Just like that bar that held me in place was only one piece of a much larger safety mechanism and scheme, this research is one important piece of a vast area of concern, and I found myself comforted that someone was actually looking at it.

Which brought me back to me.  I have a huge concern I want to look at.  A huge "problem" I want to "solve."  But if the conference showed me anything, it is that this way of thinking is defeatist and simply not helpful.  People have been trying to get students to read independently for fun for over a century.  Why would I think I can solve that now?  But what I can do is look at a small piece of that issue.  Maybe not solve it, but look at it. Shed some light. Bring some awareness.  Then someone else, using what I discover might be able to find another piece.  Then, piece by piece, plans can be made, interventions designed, changes implemented. 

One board at a time, they built the Beast.  One piece of research at a time, students can be empowered to read. 

As tempting as it was each time to simply get back in line for another ride on the Beast, doing that made me miss all that Kings Island had to offer.   

So, while I look forward to future conferences, I am OK to "get to work" trying to think about, question, study, and examine the issues that I am concerned about. There is a lot of work to be done, and I am excited that I get to be one of the people who gets to do it. 

Vessels

A few days ago, I was reading The Toll, book 3 of the Arc of the Scythe by Neal Schusterman. In addition to being unbelievably good and doing some of the best work of being a book three that ties up a trilogy, it is just a great great story.  

At one point, (I will try to be as non-spoiler as possible), two characters are discussing a third who has done some unbelievably horrific things.  parson A says the baddy is beyond forgiveness. Person B is unsure.  Pern A replies with a comment on just how horrible the baddy has been and then Person B says this: 

People are vessels.  They hold whatever is poured into them.

I actually went back to reread the passage.  

Then I wrote it down. 

Then I spent the next days thinking about it, this idea, and all it implies. 

I thought about it as a parent: my children hold what I pour into them. My love, my frustration, my effort and time, my criticism.  They are vessels. 

Then I thought about my other kids: my students. (Since they are my kids too). What is poured into them, for better or worse, is what they bring with them the next day. It is what shapes the decisions they make, the homework they do, the emotions they carry.  And it is entirely outside of their control.  Someone else is doing the pouring, the students are only the vessels. 

Which then made me think about the teachers.  We pour. We pour our hopes and help and knowledge into kids, but also our frustrations and fears and stress, no matter how hard we try not to.  

But we are also vessels. 
We get poured into by parents. 
And other teachers. 
And administrators.
And board members. 
And the media. 
And school shooters. 
And the department of education.
And the state board of education. 
And the public. 

So educators, are vessels that hold what is poured into us.  
The criticism. 
The contempt. 
The blame. 
The "summers off" comments. 
The implications of shirked duties and laziness. 
The being treated like incompetent fools instead of trained professionals. 
The micromanaging. 
The public comments. The private comments. The Facebook comments. 

And we have to take all of it, and set it aside and do our jobs anyway. And be conscious that we pour only the good into our students.

It is a good thing that teachers are kind, compassionate, and generous.  They are smart and highly trained.  They are dedicated, creative, and hardworking. They will go to any lengths to help their students learn, grow, and flourish. 

And we take all of that and pour it into our students.  

Because they hold whatever is poured into them. And the responsibility of that is too great to get wrong.