I Don't Know Who My Dad Is

I'm a teacher for a number of reasons and I know that 'love of children' is supposed to be at the top of the list, but it's not. There are a number of reasons why I choose to make a difference in children's lives as a teacher. For me, the profession can't be reduced down to simple hugs though. For a number of years I was happy to make a difference in the life of just one child, my son.

I like to tell people that the reason my wife and I have only one child is because you can only hit the lottery once. The boy has always been perfect. He possesses a great demeanor, a tremendous sense of justice, is conscientious, caring, kind, and is a gentle, sensitive soul. I've thought for a long time that I should do my best to not screw up what is innate in him. If I could do that and have him still wanting to talk to me at age 24, I will have succeeded at least in part in helping him get off on the right start. Being a Dad is certainly more than just getting a child off on the right start, but as the old saying goes 'you can only construct a building one brick at a time.'

When I came home from my last day of work recently, our different school systems shared the same last day of class, I called out "Where's my new eighth grader?" It was an attempt to congratulate and recognize his accomplishment at the same time. As soon as the words left my mouth, I immediately wished he was three years old again. A rare emotion that hadn't made its presence known in years rushed to the forefront of my thoughts and I had to fight a lump in my throat.

The same feeling made an appearance at his ninth birthday while I tried to sing the 'Birthday Song' to him just before blowing out his candles. At that moment of celebration, I realized that half of my daily life with him was past and I began to weep mid-song. The thought that once he reached 18 years old, I would no longer have the luxury of spending part of everyday with him and it made me instantly sad. College, work, family, and other adventures would then get his daily attention. Time with Dad would be occasional and almost certainly somewhat infrequent. An event, not routine.

I've tried to be aware of my limited daily time with him since he was born and made conscious efforts to not take for granted my time with him. Time matters. I don't believe in the concept of 'quality time'. I think that my son deserves 'quantity time.' Life moments occur from being there, going there, doing something, and even the mundane with your kid. I try to be aware that setting a positive example on how to be a good person is something that is important and long lasting.

When he was younger he helped me occasionally repair some neighborhood boy’s bikes. My son would 'work' on his bike while I attended to flat tires, stripped stems, loose seats, etc. The five brothers lived with their grandma at the end of the block. We knew one of the boys because he attended school with my son. Xavier was a quiet and polite boy, easily one of the smallest kids amongst his peers. We knew his brothers because of their volume. We also knew them because our driveway was the perfect turnaround pad for a scorching bike trip to the end of the street. There was no doubt they were instructed to not go further than the house on the corner. One day I stopped one of the older boys because his handlebars were dangerously loose. I could see how he struggled to keep the bars in place on the deteriorating sidewalk, with its bumps and cracks, in our neighborhood. With a makeshift shim and a hefty wrist crank over torque, the bike was at least a little safer than when I started repair. Soon, the boys were stopping by frequently to have their mechanical needs taken care of. Occasionally, I bought some tubes, used some lube, pumped-up some tires, and twisted some wrenches to keep the brothers rolling. Even though I wasn’t aware, my son was witness to these minor efforts to help somebody else’s child remarking one time, “that it was nice of me to help them out.” He also said “that it was nice to have a Dad that could fix things.”

I’m reminded of these boys as we get ready to celebrate Father’s Day, because I know that not all kids are able to spend the day with their father. I asked Xavier one day, if his Dad knew how to fix anything similar to the way I knew how to fix bicycles. His pause in answering made me realize that I probably shouldn’t have asked. The awkward silence hung for a moment, then he replied, “I don’t know who my father is.” It was a good thing I had sunglasses on.

I’m not going to pretend to be anybody’s father, but I can be a figure of importance to children.  Being a teacher allows me the opportunity to impact children’s lives on a daily basis, to help kids get better, and lead better lives. I don’t make a lot, but I make a difference. That’s important to me. It is also important for those kids who didn’t win the Dad lottery.

Happy Father’s Day
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An Up and Down Thrill Ride

I know roller coasters. I'm a Midwest boy and one of the things that get a number of us through the winters is the hope of getting thrown around on wood and steel structures in the heat of the summer. Gemini, Beast, Maverick, and Raging Bull are names that are stored in mid-westerner's memory banks as rides that momentarily suspend the rider into a weightless form, experiencing joy and fear at the same time. The sensations and emotions that roller-coaster rides provide can only be obtained at the big parks, unless you are a teacher.

This was my first school year teaching my own class. In other words, a first year teacher. A moniker that I initially avoided, but came to accept, while never hiding behind. I never wanted my ideas, passion, or energy to be discounted or dismissed by the label. I had spent the previous year (April '09-April '10) completing a Graduate Transition to Teaching program with the primary goal of obtaining my elementary license and the corollary goal of completing two-thirds of my Masters Degree in a truncated time-frame. That story is being reserved for a later post, but I'll say the pressures and sacrifices required for that program set-up me up well for wild ride that I would undertake once I got the keys to my own door.

After being selected as a finalist from an applicant pool of over 245 teachers, in a state where the Governor had recently announced 300 million in budget cuts, I was just happy to be offered anything in my newly chosen field. Fortunately, I had the unusual opportunity of expressing my preference for my first classroom and I chose first grade and its six year olds.

So began my slow, clanky, anticipatory ride to the top of the drop. My room just had just been repainted, so my box was, vanilla'd out, to use a remodeling term. Just desks, chairs, and potential. I spent about 32 hours implementing my classroom design and feel as the anticipation built towards the first day. The non-student teacher report week was devoted to professional development, other training, and clerical tasks. The dull before the roar. The school open house closed out the week and held the promise of a new beginning. Then my slow ride picked up speed as I crested the top of the school year and I sped towards the thrills, the fear, and the ups and the downs

I was fortunate to have an administrator that had previously taught the age level and grade. So early on I received a lot of good ideas, tips, and support. It was nice to have a sounding board of someone that I could trust as well, and I felt she had mine and my students best interest in mind. She talked me down off the ledge to be sure or in roller coasterease, held my hand through the corkscrews. The times where I felt upside down. All of a sudden it was October, then very quickly winter break. Whew.

In January, I felt that we were starting to gain some momentum and doing some great things. The ride seemed a little smoother, akin to riding a steel coaster as opposed to a wooden one. We started blogging and were doing some great discovering in our science and social study units. There were days where the early year preparation, modeling and practice of our classroom procedures made it seem as if I was barely needed. I would introduce the concepts, foster the skill practice, and when possible, allow the students to demonstrate how they learned in the best way they could.

There were days of course, where I felt that our classroom car was heading towards the ground and I couldn't see the track ahead of us. They were mostly self-inflicted, terrifying moments where I felt that I had run out of ideas, or when I felt the weight of my conscious incompetence. There were times of sadness, when a student impacted your life without you even realizing it and times of tremendous joy . Of course, the plunging, pitching ride is always connected to something, but it often felt like I was coming off of the rails.

To be sure, I've learned more than my students and will almost certainly owe them an apology someday because I know that I'm capable of more. I came to realize that there was no such thing as a cast off moment, that I was always teaching. And even-though this year isn't quite over, I can't wait to strap in with the next group of students to take another wild ride. Both hands in the air the whole way.
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