Goodbye to Coach Hunt!

I am happy to say that my role as Coach Hunt has come to an end- the Volleyball season wrapped up this past Tuesday, and while I am ecstatic to have my Tuesday and Friday nights (and afternoons and random weekends...) back to myself, I did enjoy the ride. On October 16th, Coach Ikhimokpa and I lead the girls in a Tully Stadium clean-up program fundraiser during the Memorial vs. Taylor football game. 

On our way! Last time on a bus all together!

Yes, they gave me the keys to a John Deere Gator. And a walkie talkie. What a joke.

Syreeta- my sista from another mista

After the clean-up, we hopped the yellow bus, went back to Northbrook, and settled in for an all-night lock-in at school. We scrimmaged for hours, played dodgeball, watched movies, & made up incredibly messy games involving chocolate. I made it to 4 a.m. and then passed out on a gymnastics mat on the gym floor (yes, I did remember a pillow) whilst watching Paranormal Activity with Flamin' Hot cheetos & Big Red making a halo about my head.

Varsity gals

Wee hours of Sunday morning waiting for parents to pick up the girls. Sweet little Emily, Garcia's future step-daughter- I followed her around for several hours but for the sake of space am only putting up one picture. How precious is she?!

TGFS (Thank Goodness For Summers)

It enrages me when people say, "It must be nice to get your summers off." Yes, it is nice. Nice because without it, teachers would be frequently found locked in janitors' closets buried beneath a mountain of pencil shavings and thousands of pointy pencils covering the floor. Perhaps having shaved their heads with the razors that the nurse dispenses to boys caught with sideburns past their earlobes.  And perhaps having stolen the volleyball lock-box to lock up classroom markers, pens, pencils, tape, and staplers (yes, staplers) that disappear into the abyss that only thieving students know the location of. Or perhaps there wouldn't be any teachers at all; they'd all have pulled an Ophelia and jumped in the school swimming pool. 

I know other people work hard. I know I am not the only one who deserves a summer. And I know there are those in our world who actually do believe that "those who can, do, and those who can't, teach." Of those individuals I request two things: stop spitting disdain at the people who are going to have your children in class one day, and watch this.

Mustard Seed Project

 If you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to the mountain, "Move" and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you.
   - Matthew 17:2

Look what I'm doing with my Childress classes! To encourage (and let's be candid, basically force) my students to be generous young people, we're going to sponsor a Rwandan child and her education at the Sonrise Primary School in Musanze, Rwanda through a non-profit called the Mustard Seed Project. My church here in Houston has specific ties to the organization and connected me to their available sponsorships. It's a truly remarkable organization, and my kids are super excited to be involved, especially after my stealthy planning and explanation of the project: in our Root Words Lesson for the week, I gave my kids the root word "gen," meaning race, kind, and "cide," meaning cut down, kill. From there, we talked about what genocide was- I asked them if they were aware of any examples of genocide throughout history. Most classes were pretty quick to list the Holocaust, but beyond that, they had some difficulty. Enter, Rwanda mini-lesson and terrifically effective video from the Mustard Seed Project. 

Take a few minutes to watch this video- it is so well done. Can't wait to have enough money to start our sponsorship!

Steel Dahlias

I gave a ride home to one of my Volleyball girls earlier this week: slightly illegal and against UIL regulation, but c'mon, the fourteen-year-old girl was going to walk the sixteen blocks home in the dark (no family car). No way. I could not allow the possibility of another attack. (Freshmen girl was attacked while walking home a couple weeks ago. It was 6 PM.) On the ride home, she painted a picture of her family life for me: single mother with three kids in high school, one of whom is 16 and pregnant. Pretty girl. Mother dating an atrocious man who only comes around when there's money available. Brother who's been in and out of jail and who comes home sometimes. Small apartment, pretty dark surroundings.

This particular student had broken down in class a couple weeks ago, and I'd excused her to the bathroom to clean herself up and dry her face. I asked her about that day. Her reply: "Life's just heavy, and I'm not that strong." Oh, my dear. But you are.

I've seen the statistics. I've been "made aware" of the tough situations students are put in. I've read the stories and even written my limited responses to the texts. But it is a far different thing to see it written across a young girl's face rather than simply written in a book required for an Education class. It just breaks my heart. Steel Magnolias? No, Steel Dahlias. My classroom is a garden blooming with them, and it is Springtime year 'round.

My Kids

Goodness gracious, I love my kids. Momma thinks it’s funny that I call my students “my kids,” but I’ve been thinking recently about how fitting it is that I do. They’re the closest things I’ve ever had to children. Every day I’m doing some of the same things a parent might do for his or her child: I pour myself out for them. I try to convince them of the importance of their education. I watch over them. I discipline them (except when they crack me up with their antics. See below picture and meet Samuel). I feel responsible for them. 

 I feel a little silly having become so attached to a group of 14- and 15-year-old punks. Perhaps that’s simply the nature of your first group of students. Perhaps I’m a corny sap with Starbucks in her veins. Probably it’s a combination of both.

One of my students said this to me today: “It’s kind of funny that you say 'Love y'all!" all the time. I mean you only see us for 50 minutes a day, Miss.” Though speaking a truth about how much time I actually spend with my students, the student failed to realize that when I look at him, I don’t just see another face. I don’t just see the skin, the eyes, the expression, or the name. I see the creation behind it. I see my kids as God’s children. I’m picturing Luis in 2^nd period, who rallied the class together and dubbed me “Abuelita Coco” because apparently “Coconut Grandmother” is a fitting name for me? (Today I was “Abuelita Banana” because I’m wearing a yellow sweater dress). I’m picturing Marlin in 4^th, who made friends with the “loner” in his class and invited him to join his discussion group. I’m picturing Florence in 7^th, who just loves to give me hugs and allow me a bird’s eye view of her cornrows. I’m picturing Jamie in 4^th, who I know hates English but whose smallest effort or involvement in class makes my careful and strategic lesson-planning well worth it. And I’m picturing Vanessa in 3^rd, who I truly appreciate because she sits there, leaning forward and nodding, as if to say, “Yeah, I get it. Keep going.”
 
I just gotta love 'em.

Just say "NO" to Fried Cookie Dough

I was fortunate enough to have gotten food poisoning this weekend from the fine dining at the TX State Fair (see blob in picture). After realizing Sunday afternoon that I would not make it through my flight without getting sick (which would have made it the second time I'd gotten sick whilst riding public transportation in 24 hours- my apologies to the sweet grandmother & grandson I was sitting next to on the Dart and who provided me with a bag), I changed my flight and enjoyed Sunday evening at the Johnson household (more on what a blessing that was later). I requested a sub and flew home yesterday instead.

After walking into my classroom this morning, however, and seeing what disarray (both within my actual classroom and within my children's heads) I now have to try to fix, I basically burst into tears. I'd never gotten a substitute before and didn't understand the process- I just didn't do it right, apparently, and my Department Chair had to cover my tracks, which just makes me look grreeeeat. I am looking at the kids' notes from the lesson, and they are nowhere near where I'd wanted them to end up. The substitute's notes were not encouraging. I realize that my kids are unruly. You don't need to tell me that. I realize that they can only "express gross generalizations" and have a "seeming inability to express their opinions about the characters in the story." I'm working on it. Most of the time, if your students give you bad answers, maybe it was a bad question to begin with. While seeing my class through the eyes of an outsider has really discouraged me, seeing the way another person handled my classroom has encouraged me slightly. There is only one person who can be me. I am the only person who knows the jokes to share with certain students or certain classes. I am the one who has built these relationships and who has made these references and created these expectations and procedures. There is only one person who knows that Maricruz in 7th period isn't glaring at you- she squints because she can't afford glasses. I am the only one who knows that Luis and Samuel in 2nd period need to sit together because Luis needs his best friend to help "break things down" for him, which is help that I readily welcome. (And who cares if they're a bit chatty sometimes? They help each other learn!) I am the one who understands that you cannot just ask them any question. It has to be the right one. 
At least I know that I am needed. I am thankful for that. Not everyone can say that about their jobs.