Anne Frank's Mom's Diary

I hesitate to write this because I do not in any way want to be disrespectful, so if I seem to choose my words carefully, that is why. 

A friend of mine was talking about how she is struggling during this time. She is a mom and a wife and a teacher. Her struggles were very similar to those I have heard many times. I worry a lot about my students. A lot.  But do you know who else I worry about?  The teachers. 

The pressure is so much.
It is so hard to parent and teach at the same time. 

Teaching online is hard. Really hard. I have taken classes either entirely or partially online both synchronously and asynchronously for the better part of 8 years.  There is a steep learning curve because of the nature of the online ecosystem.  It isn't just putting all your stuff in Google Drive.  Online learning is tough. Online teaching is also tough.

The emails.  Holy cats, the emails!  They. Never. Stop.

And then there is the constant barrage of advice from people about how your house should be spotless since you are home all day and Gwenyth Paltrow thinks this is the perfect time to learn a language and Shakespeare wrote King Leer during quarantine and Isaac Newton realized the principles of calculus in quarantine and Anne Frank was in the attic for 25 months AND YOU HAVE WIFI, WHY ARE YOU STRESSED, YOU UNGRATEFUL GIT?! 

When I hear this, while I am glad for Anne's diary and that she found beauty and joy in the horror of that experience, I often wonder about what her mom's diary would have said. 

Anne had the ability to experience some level of joy in the midst of unimaginable horror at least in part because the adults in her life took on the brunt of that horror. We don't talk about that because it feels ungrateful or disrespectful to Anne Frank's memory, but it is the case. 

My children will have very different memories of this time from those that I have. That is the case for every family.  

And I recognize that I write this from a place of privilege, where my children don't have the added trauma of food insecurity or homelessness or the myriad layers of stress and trauma that permeate the lives of many families in America. 

But I do everything imaginable to help them both protected and informed. I watch the White House press briefings every day as well as J.B. Pritzker's Illinois briefings.  My children are welcome to watch them with me.  Knowledge is power.  Information is power. 

And yesterday I turned off the press briefing when I recognized it was more than I could handle.  My cup was empty. I told them that was why I was turning it off, trying to model both information seeking and also recognizing our own limits. 

I work every day to be an educator, a parent, a spouse, a student, and a citizen in the best, most responsible way I can.  And that is exhausting. 

I know that others are more exhausted than me, and I would not even think to compare my exhaustion or stress to that of a health care worker. That isn't the point; this is not the suffering Olympics. 

Teachers, as a group, want to help. They want to teach, and shepherd, and lead, and help.  They will spend their own money, time, energy, life to make that happen.  And right now, the pressure is on. 

Anne Frank's mom tugs at my heart.  On the Anne Frank House's website, they say this: 

"Reading the diary of Anne Frank, we get to know her mother Edith Frank only superficially....In the hiding place, Edith and her daughter Anne often clashed. In her diary, Anne did not spare Edith. At the same time, Anne realised that their quarrels were exacerbated by their difficult circumstances.... According to Otto [Edith's husband], Edith suffered more from their arguments than Anne did....Edith had a hard time in the Secret Annex. According to Miep Gies, one of the helpers, she suffered from feelings of despair. ‘Although the others were counting the days until the Allies came, making games of what they would do when it was all over, Mrs. Frank confessed that she was deeply ashamed of the fact that she felt the end would never come.’"

My heart grieves for Edith Frank. For the load she had to bear. For the loss of her relationship with Anne. 

And I see in it a warning.

We need to be compassionate not only with our struggling children but with our teachers, our administrators, our support staff, and ourselves. 

We aren't waiting for the Allies to show up, but we are hoping the scientists can identify treatments, effective rapid tests,  cures, and vaccines.  That uncertain timeline is stressful. And it is easy to get lost in that despair, thinking that things will never return to normal.  

This is especially true for those who are inclined to be helpers: educators (all of them: paras, admin, bus drivers, all of them), health care workers, those in service fields. 

It is also true of parents.   

It would be hard to imagine someone blaming Edith Frank.  Anyone looking back can see the monumental task she had before her, managing a family in the secret annex for two years of hiding.  And what was at stake was their very lives.  How could anyone possibly blame her for being depressed and stressed and anxious?  How, too, can anyone not see that Edith suffered so that, to some extent, Anne's suffering was lessened?

I wonder if, in the current crisis--which pales in comparison to the Holocaust--we can learn from Edith and Anne?

I wonder if we can all cut each other some slack in an effort to survive this crisis with our psyches intact as well as our lives? 

I wonder if administrators can be compassionate with their staff and students, knowing that at the end of this, education will continue, and it will be far more successful if we don't drive ourselves to destruction during this time? 

I wonder if parents can see that, yes, kids need to learn, but they also need to feel safe, something that is hard when there is trouble all around? 

And I really wonder if we can see that we need to be compassionate and understanding and forgiving of ourselves? What good is it to come out on the other end of this crisis without or dignity and sense of self? 

That doesn't mean I am not going to try to accomplish things.  I am up to date on the laundry for the first time in pretty much ever.  I am reading the things I need for class. I am also spending time with my family and taking time to rest. 

Just don't expect me to learn a language or expand on our understanding of calculus. That isn't my goal.  I am going to honor Edith Frank. I am going to show myself, my family, and my colleagues some compassion. 

Thoughts in the Time of Quarantine

I have a lot of thoughts on education in quarantine.  My typical outlet thus far has been yammering on Facebook, saving articles, and talking to my captive audience (Husband and two kids.  Believe me, they are very excited about my thought-sharing). 

For the sake of posterity, primary sources, and whatnot, I thought I would jot down some of my thoughts here.  They may not be terribly thorough, but at least they will be somewhere other than my brain. 

First, I am a smart, educated, tech-savvy person. I (now) have access to high-speed internet; we have a dozen devices to access the internet in my home.  I have a laser printer sitting on my desk. I have a 32-inch wall-mounted TV that serves as a second monitor.  I am an early adopter of most tech.  Prior to all of this, I have used Google Classroom, Google Meet, Zoom, and Blackboard Collaborate. I am very comfortable taking classes in a digital format.

And I am feeling overwhelmed.  

I can only imagine people who have slow internet. Or a dodgy connection. Or tech that is insufficient. Or those who don't use the internet for anything other than Netflix. 

I can't imagine doing this as a parent who has to work outside the home and also care for kids at home. 

I can't imagine being the kid who has to figure all this out without a helpful parent. Or a knowledgeable parent. Or a parent. 

And my kids are stressed.  They have two educators in the home, access to tech, access to the internet. Yesterday, my youngest accidentally did an online form incorrectly and had a total meltdown. The stress is a lot. 

I fear that we are missing that in all of this. I don't mean "we" as my district but\ all of us.  How are we meeting the needs of our kids who are struggling? Or those who are unsafe at home? Or lonely? Or without support. 

I value education as one of the most important aspects of life. I have always told my children and students that education is something you achieve and nobody can ever take from you. I think it is a solid key to getting out of difficult situations (though I recognize that this is imperfect because of institutional racism and cyclical poverty). 

But I wonder if we are focussing too much on education and not enough on the hearts and souls of our kids.  And our teachers. And our admins.  

Are we focusing on classwork and computers and lessons and meetings because that is something we can control?  Perhaps. 

I am a big picture person.  I see ten miles down the road and often trip over what is in front of me.  So, for me, a lot of this is thinking long term and being overwhelmed but the nuance of now.  

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.