Proud Mama Bear

I survey my empty classroom, sure that someone had been there for a while. At first glance, the classroom seemed empty. I looked at the perfectly perched trays eagerly anticipating the student thoughts that will be graced upon them. My eyes followed the rows of desks standing at attention, knowing full well that by this time next week they’ll be scattered around the room, the messy aftermath of creative collaboration. I pass my clipboard, barely remembering that the post-it-note schedule needed updating, my mind still subconsciously looking forward to 1:45, when my planning time was taken over with friendly faces and bean bags. I find you, knowing full well you were in my room somewhere. You’re always there somewhere. My freshly set up classroom knew to make room for you, my most valuable possession. I find you in my whiteboard markers, which seem conjure up misspelled words all on their own, reminding me to embrace mistakes as they are how we learn. You’re in the Disney wand labeled “Hall Pass” because being silly and a child is still okay sometimes. You’re in the orange and black hand-crocheted paw print pillow whispering to me “Go to that game. It could make all the difference.” You’re sitting in that desk in the back corner that keeps bugging me, saying “Watch who sits here. They might give you the hardest time, but it’s from them you have the most to learn. You’re in my Starbucks cup, reminiscing about how I never should be on cup #2 before the first class of the day, but that I probably will do it anyway. You’re in the chair beside my desk who seemed to roll itself up while I had my back turned, waiting for that student who will need it and need me. A person to talk to. A tutor. A mentor. You speak to me most loudly in the letters hanging at my desk, words that console me, that reassure me that I can make a difference here, as long as I care enough.

I wonder where you really are right now, and how you can be anywhere else when you’re so present in my classroom. Four hundred miles away, I look at my clock and imagine where you might be. Maybe your child is waking up and smiling at you, or kicking your belly. I hope you know how great of a parent you are just for taking the responsibility without complaint. Maybe you’re heading to the shop to fix your first car of the day, or to your job somewhere to support yourself. Maybe you’re heading to your first college class of the day, or somewhere on the military base. Do you know how proud I am? Do know know how much you’ve grown in the past year? What wonderful people you’ve become?

Or maybe, you’re heading to English 12, first period, to be woken up with the revitalizing voice of the infamous of Boss Woman Bailey. Do you know how good you have it? I hope you embrace it. I hope you find comfort there, find the courage to be yourself, and the strength to work hard. Thank you for letting me keep a small piece of you with me this year. How can I ever thank you enough for giving me the purpose to keep going, keep teaching, and to have the audacity to think that just one person can touch the lives of many.

To those of you returning to Gibsonburg High School, have a good first day of school and remember to really soak up all that you are given. Make every day the best day of your lives, folks.


Published in: on September 1, 2015 at 2:38 pm  Comments (1)  

Looking back at The Knight’s Tale

Yow loveres axe I now this questioun:
Who hath the worse, Arcite or Palamoun?
That oon may seen his lady day by day,
But in prison he moot dwelle alway;
That oother wher hym list may ride or go,
But seen his lady shal he nevere mo.
Now demeth as yow liste, ye that kan,
For I wol telle forth as I bigan. (The Knight’s Tale 
We read to understand. Sometimes, that is hard to do with texts written as long ago as The Canterbury Tales. We can barely parse though the language, let alone make connections to our own lives more than 600 years later. And yet, there are still moments in these texts, if we truly look for them, that can show us something about ourselves.
In The Knight’s Tale, the knight posits to us a question: Which is worse – being imprisoned, only to see your beloved from your small window, or being set free but never being able to see your beloved again? At first, I dismissed this question completely. If you know anything about this knight in Geoffrey Chaucer’s famous frame narrative, you’ll know that he’s arrogant, determined to tell the best story, as is determined by the structure of famous, classical, scholarly epics. I thought to myself, “Well, both answers are horrible. This is a stupid question.” This philosophical inquiry could only exist to make the knight seem learned in the ways of the “art of thinking.” That’s the only function of this ridiculous, depressing dilemma.
But then, this question began to haunt me. It seemed like there was no possible answer to the men’s plight. But, as I continued to think through this dilemma, I related it to my own long-term, long distance relationship, one with no end to this distance in sight. After all, Chaucer addresses us in this passage as “you lovers.” Finally, in the context of my own life, I understood the question:
We choose hope. We choose the prison for the sliver of light from the window that warms our cheeks as we look on toward our beloved. We choose the patience and the sacrifice because, ultimately, we choose love. Though these two choices look the same initially – both filled with longing and anguish – I know otherwise. If you truly love someone, you don’t turn your back on them, no matter how difficult the situation. Instead, you grab onto whatever glimmer of hope you can find in the dark prison cell, and you hold on.
After all, it is Palamon who looks on patiently from the shrunken prison window, Palamon who prays to the goddess of love, and Palamon who unites with his beloved in the end. In the end, love wins.
Sure, this story has a few flaws (like can love at first sight be real love, and what about Emilye’s agency in this whole saga anyway?) but, as much as we criticize the satire of this arrogant knight and his clueless misrepresentation of traditional courtly love, I think the knight who tells this tale got one thing right: He chose hope. He chose love.


Published in: on April 24, 2014 at 4:58 am  Leave a Comment  
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Celebrating Long, Not-so-Lost Friendships

     Today I’d like to take a minute to celebrate my new discovery: the thighs of rugby players.

     Just kidding.
     Today I’d like to take a minute to celebrate what led me to the discovery of the well-defined perfection of the leg muscles of those short-shorts clad athletes. Today I’d like to celebrate one of the most rare types of friendships: a friendship that is undeniably, genuinely timeless. Scarcely do we ever come across friends in our lives that we can connect with on such a level that we are certain, no matter the distance or time, that we can always come right back together as if we are still the awkward adolescents we believe deep down that we still are. Some old friendships are like the shallow end of a pool: refreshing for a moment, where we can reminisce in the playfulness of when we were a height where this was the only pool we knew, but eventually leaving us wanting for more – for a deep end and a diving board.  Others are like the ocean. We start on the shore, and then the tide engulfs us in its warm embrace, willing us out to sea. When we visit this old friend, it feels like the ocean we’ve always known, but then we become aware that each time the tide comes in, it replaces the sand we knew with more, slightly different sand. Yet this movement and change is comforting to us as we stand and let the waves wash over our feet like they always have. Eventually, our vacation is over and we must return home, but we carry with us the knowledge that the ocean will always be there, awaiting our return.
     Such is my friendship with Libby, one of my best friends from Lebanon. In my carefully guarded collection of handwritten letters is one from three years ago – a letter from Libby on the eve of our goodbyes. Written after graduation, the letter looked on as we all headed to various schools across the state (and country). In this letter, she says:
“I cannot possibly convey in a single letter how much I am going to miss you. I feel like i’m heading off without my other half, and I know for a fact that I will not find anyone else who understands me to the degree that you do. I absolutely love that you are present in every dimension of my life: the wannabe hipster, the academic, the inner little kid, the soul-searcher, the staggeringly immense nerd, the socialite, the xenophile, the literary romantic. I feel like I could talk to you about anything and you would light up in that radiant way you have and explore every possible interest with me as if we were wandering through some market of thoughts and ideas.”
At the time, we were both terrified to leave each other – to go to school without that person who accepted us, supported us, and also challenged us. Yet, something wonderful happens when you take the leap and leave the people you love most. Even if you’ve changed, if you’re different now, a friend as strong as this will always have a grip on your core, no matter how much you’ve shifted. Libby and I have held onto each other like a child holding on to the string of a kite – admiring it as it dances through the air and then reeling it in every so often to check on it, only to let it go once more.
     On days like today, these few rare moments where we get to talk, we don’t bother with stories about what we’ve done since we’ve last seen each other. We bypass that walk on the shore (those beach pics are all over Facebook anyway) and head straight for the deepness of the ocean – we talk about what we’ve learned, how we’ve grown, and what we think; we share what we truly value. When I see my curly haired, eccentric best friend, I immediately reach for my reusable tote, knowing we’ll head straight for that dazzling market of thoughts and ideas that we still love to frequent more than anything. No length of time or distance between colleges will ever change that. Today, I celebrate meaningful, life long friends – the ones I admire most of all.

Libby and me at the rugby tournament.


The one day senior year that we got to truly be ourselves.


My much loved letter from Libby after high school graduation (and also proof to anyone who says my handwriting is good that there is still better out there.)

PS. If you want to read a blog that is really beautifully written and meaningful, you should definitely see Libby’s blog!

Published in: on April 13, 2014 at 1:49 am  Comments (1)  

Haunted Music

Yay! Tuesday is quickly becoming my favorite day of the week! Why, you ask?




 About this SOL: I’ve been wanting to post this story for awhile, but I’ve been waiting for the right time. The weird thing about writing is that sometimes when I write I am still unsure of what I actually mean. Luckily, I have an awesome writing prof (Everybody say hi to Mike!) who had us watch the well-known TED talk by Ken Robinson on “Why Schools Kill Creativity” Yesterday. As I watched the talk, I realized that the slice that I wrote is all about the unbridled creativity of childhood that we all seem to “grow out of.”  Anyway, this SOL is inspired by my childhood piano lessons, during which I didn’t truly learn to read sheet music until I had been playing for about 5 years. A few weeks ago, I went to observe my old piano teacher’s daughter’s music classroom, and when I entered their house in the morning before school, so many memories of growing up in the arms of the grand piano all unexpectedly hit me at once. This Slice is what happened as a result: 

 Haunted Music
The young girl walks with her chin tilted upward, directly to the book-covered grand piano. She plops her canvas bag haphazardly beside her and climbs onto the bench. Her feet dangle beneath her, unable to touch the ground, swaying like wind chimes in a summer breeze. Her hands fall on the ivory keys like a ballerina’s as she steps up the the barre. She glances over at the woman beside her, a motherly red-head with glasses, and finding encouragement, she closes her eyes and plays. 
     Her fingers dance over the keys like they are puddles meant for jumping in. Her rainboot-fingers tip toe, run , and jump, occasionally stumbling, but she smiles on, a true child at play. She plays fearlessly, fast, and without hesitation. She grins with the confidence and pleasure of someone with the power to create. She is like an artist, painting carelessly just to see the way colors look on the canvas.
I blink, rinsing the last notes of the sonatina out of my head. The girl and her beloved teacher are gone, but the room is like a still life painting – seemingly untouched throughout the years. On top of the piano are the piles of piano books, dog eared and creased from years of soaking up students’ learning. Beside the piano still sits the stiff leather arm chair. The lipstick stained coffee mug waits patiently for the rare moments between students’ eager fingers and performances meant for two. As I sit in the swiveling lazy boy chair, I can hear my mom chastising me. “Sit still!” “Don’t spin!”
     I am haunted by the girl with the crooked smile and the absent two front teeth. She reaches out to me, offering a hand with the wide-eyes look of a girl who is unfamiliar to the shackles of failure – A girl whose ears cling with joy to the way her own music sounds, uninhibited by the prison of strict black slashes and bullets of a crisp sheet of music. I shake my head, knowing that I could never truly return to her, for fear of a wrong note or an extra repeat in a line of music unenclosed the those two simple dots that allow for such a decision. I am too afraid, so I clutch my thin sheets of music to my chest and spin slowly in my chair one last time before I tip-toe out, being careful not to disturb the girl’s music.


Published in: on April 9, 2014 at 3:14 am  Comments (1)  
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On Why I Need Tennis


Back story: I picked up a tennis racket for the first time my Sophomore year of high school for three reasons: 1.) I didn’t want to be in marching band.  2.) My best friend Sam did it. 3.) Being perfectly honest, the skirts looked pretty cute. At the time I had no idea where a cheap Walmart racket and a bucket of balls would take me.
     So I opened a few cans of balls and my dad and I headed out to Harmon park to see if I was any good. Spoiler alert: I wasn’t. The first time you pick up a tennis racket, unless you’re some crazy natural born athlete, you will not be good. Tennis is awkward. We started off trying to see just how many balls out of our bucket of 12 I could actually hit in the court. Not even in the singles lines or even the doubles lines. In. the. Court. As in, not over the fence. It was a struggle, but slowly but surely, the number went up – I went from 2/12 to 12/12. Finally, Dad started hitting the balls back. I played my first ever season at the top of the JV line up, which, considering the first few times we went to the park, was pretty impressive.
In high school, tennis gave me something to do. It gave me access to the world of team-sleepovers and the trademark sock tan of a school “athlete.” It gave me perfect mix of the camaraderie of team friendships and independent competition. Eventually, it gave me leadership opportunities where being “the best” didn’t matter so much as making the season worthwhile for others. In hindsight, even as an educator with the upmost respect for academics, I can’t see why everyone would ever suggest cutting athletics from schools. My participation in a sport fostered a different type of growth – the kind I would never have found inside a classroom.

With our coach after our 3rd place finish (1st Doubles)


Lady Warriors senior night with the entire team.

Fast forward to College: I can say with certainly that although I love my University dearly, my first year at BGSU was terrible. We all have this illusion that you leave for college and suddenly life is automatically great. You meet the friends that are going to be in your wedding. You spend your free time laying outside on the quad, playing frisbee, wearing summer dresses and having life altering, deep conversations with your peers. News flash: That vision is a lie. I was so bored. I was either taking to few credit hours, or I just couldn’t find a way to care about my Gen. Ed. classes – to this day I’m not sure which. I quickly went from being the girl involved in every organization  possible in high school to the college freshman who was too afraid to attend a meeting, too afraid to try something new because she spent her entire thirteen years of school in the same close-knit community. Enter once again: Tennis. Finally, in February, after weeks of saying I’d go and then making a weak excuse about having “too much homework” or something of the like (clearly a lie because as I said before, I didn’t have a grueling schedule) I finally went to a Club Tennis practice.
I’ve been a member of BGSU’s Club Tennis ever since. Tennis saved me my first year of college. I spent a long time being the worst person on the team, but I realized that regardless of my skill level, I needed it. I needed tennis. I needed the built-in friendships of a team. Shortly after I started going to practice, one of the girls on the team asked if anyone was interested in representing Club Tennis at Dance Marathon (BGSU’s biggest Charity event). I had been wanting to participate, but I didn’t have anyone to go with me, so I said sure. Selina is now one of my two housemate – both of whom I met through club tennis

BGSU Club Tennis at the Midwest Championship in Madison, Wisconsin

So now, in addition to playing on the club team, I drive every Sunday to play in a mixed doubles league. Every week, I drive to the courts to get beat by people older than me, some of whom even have children with my age. I play with professors and administrators, older men who are out of shape but strong, and women who are not powerful, but consistent.  I don’t care one bit that I keep losing (okay, I care a little bit.) For me, I need tennis. Since my first year of college, I have dived deeply into the world of academia and have  taken on various leadership positions. I play tennis because what you get out what you put in. I can choose to be competitive, but I can also choose to simply have fun. I’ve always loved learning, but in tennis I can learn in a different way. When I play tennis I learn about hard work, focus, and drive. I’m not athletic, not a natural born athlete, usually I’m not even in shape, but I can still play. I play tennis because it humbles me – I have to try, and I have to try hard. Tennis is a way for me to be the best that I can be beyond the classroom, but it’s also a way for me to escape. I need something where I don’t have to think, which is weird, because tennis is a sport where you do have to think. You have to think a lot. What I mean is, I need something in my week where I can shut out everything else. When I step onto the green court with white lines and lace up my Nikes (the ones I only wear for tennis), It doesn’t matter that I have a paper due or I messed up leading my organization again. The only thing that matters is a tiny florescent colored bouncy ball, the tiny jump I make right as my opponent hits it toward me, and motion of of my arm as I swing my racket. So it doesn’t matter if I lose. All that matters is that I am able to play.

Playing a doubles match in Wisconsin


Published in: on April 7, 2014 at 12:59 pm  Leave a Comment  

SOL: Baseball, Memories, and My Running Quarter-Life Crisis

I’m really excited to unveil that I am officially pledging to write Slice-of-Life posts every Tuesday (Thanks again for everything, Holly Mueller!) For those of you who don’t know what SOL posts are, you can read about them here.  Anyway, this post is actually a combination of a post for today and a journal entry that I started yesterday, because I think they flow well together. Thanks for reading!


Part One: Baseball induced Memories (March 31, 2014)
     It’s the first spring-like day on campus, so naturally every college student enrolled at BG is outside doing something – roller blading, walking dogs, playing corn hole, sitting on front porches – myself included. The weather is fitting, as it’s also the Opening Day for the Reds, which my brother has always pointed out is the real first day of Spring anyway.  As I sit here on our front porch, each breeze keeps bringing with it the hazy feeling of a memory. They seem to be stringing themselves along the spring breeze to wrap themselves around me in the crisp shade of my porch. I drink in the elixir of this rejuvenating day, which has revived even the subtlest shades of color from their muted winter hibernation. I feel as though I should be driving my little teal-green truck through Lebanon, windows rolled down, on my way to pick up Darby so we could hit some tennis balls for the first time this year (but probably do a lot more talking than hitting). Or maybe, I should be smoothing the last stray piece of hair into my stiff, over-hairsprayed bun as I leave for one of the last dance rehearsals before our all-important end-of-the-year recital. Perhaps, I should be pulling my glove out of my bag to warm up for my first softball games. But alas, I settle for sitting on my front porch with my homework. Maybe that will change; after all, the warm weather has already sent me baseball and memories. I feel like there could be a few new beginnings hidden beneath the breeze somewhere, too.
Part Two: How Running Caused my First Quarter-Life Crisis (April 1, 2014)
     After sitting outside yesterday, when the warm weather surprisingly returned for a second day today, I knew I had to do something about it. I feel like I must be experiencing a personality shift – I have succeeded in writing nearly every day, and now I decided to run, even after mentioning in my first blog post just how much I despise running. How could I not, thought? During this winter, we broke the record for most snowfall way back in January; hence, everyone is more thankful for the sun and warmth than ever. Sadly, though today was a sultry sixty degrees (which to students at BG is the equivalent of shorts and flip-flops weather), it was way too windy to play tennis, an activity I very much prefer to running. Welcome to Blowing Green I guess. So, my itching to be outside was so overwhelming that I made a sacrifice – I laced up my purple Nikes and turned on Pandora (Country – a genre I deserve for days I am nostalgic for Lebanon and my truck) and headed down the sidewalk. I wasn’t sure how far I’d make it – the wind can be pretty cruel.
     Anyway, I turned left instead of right – toward downtown instead of campus. The harsh wind felt smooth against my skin, which had been yearning for the feel of the outside air, unfiltered by sweatshirts and winter coats. I felt pretty confident, so I continued on, unaffected by the wind in my face.
     For those of you that don’t know, downtown Bowling Green looks pretty much like the center of any quaint, “small town” (Very much like downtown Lebanon does) except since it’s a college town, the bars are also sprinkled among the quaint and quirky storefronts. I ran along my favorites (storefronts, that is) – Grounds for Thought (used books and coffee – who wouldn’t want to live there?), Ben Franklin’s, Lola’s Frozen Yogurt, Panera. I ran slowly, unconcerned of the time or any need to return home. I was simply basking in the warm comfort that this town I considered to be a “placeholder” until college was over, had actually engulfed me in its unique charm and the memories I had made in it.
     As I reached the main intersection, I paused, looking toward campus. I had originally planned on going in a loop, reaching this far and then turning towards home. Yet, as I stood in the center of downtown, I realized that my breathing was steady and my legs felt strong: I wanted to keep running.
     I turned left and adventured toward the unknown – I headed toward the residential part of BG and away from the University. It was like I had crossed over some invisible line, like a dog whose invisible fence had been unknowingly turned off. It was subtle though: The houses were larger, with flakeless, fresh paint and neatly trimmed gardens. There were no beer cans in flower beds or leftover Christmas decorations on front porches. I had stepped over the line into a place of permanence – into the real town of post-college adulthood.
     As I continued to weave along the sidewalks in front of historic small-town homes filled with families who planned to live there longer than a brief 4 year stay, I wondered: Would it be this easy? Transitioning into a life of a fill-time job and getting up before the sun with the ease of taking a lefthand turn?
     I didn’t know the answer, so I turned my back to the question and retreated toward campus once more, comforted by the assurance that I still had a year left here, and even by the work shift I had tonight that would last until four o’clock in the morning.



Published in: on April 2, 2014 at 1:21 am  Comments (1)  
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Frozen and Why I Love the Crazy Montgomery Family (Especially my Cousins)

“Family isn’t something that’s supposed to be static, or set. People marry in, divorce out. They’re born, they die. It’s always evolving, turning into something else.”  – Sarah Dessen, Lock & Key

     Growing up we never think we’re that family. (You know, that perfect, big, loving family that does everything together?) You are blind-sighted by the fact that it takes 4 hours to get to family functions. You only see them once a year. You walk in and you’re bombarded with too many cousins, aunts, and uncles for your six-year-old brain to retain from year to year, let alone remember why you love them (but trust me, you do). Then, there’s the fact that you’re seven years younger than your youngest cousin so there’s really no one for you to be “friends” with either, not in the same way at least. You actually share your birthday with a few of your cousins, but… it’s just a coincidence, obviously. So, your family is alright, but it’s not that family.
     Then, you start to remember the names. Eventually, your cousins have their own kids and suddenly that seven year gap makes you the cool, young cousin that will still play games and run around the house. The distance has shifted a little. Your a few miles closer to some of your family, and way farther away than others, but regardless, you’re closer now (social media doesn’t hurt that either). You realize that you all share a few traits. Your second cousin drops her can of pop, something she does “all the time” and you laugh because you’ve spilt your food a few times (okay maybe more than just a few). Your cousin uses her “teacher voice” and you mentally recount the teachers in your family – you’re number eleven. Your cousin mentions that her daughter seems so much like you. You find yourself saying “Must be a Montgomery thing.”
     Eventually, you come to the conclusion that you actually just might be that family: a family worth driving an hour to see just for some pizza and time spent together. You’re the family that’s so big that you’re outgrowing everyone’s houses at christmas, the family that embraces everyone’s quirks and lifestyles with so much love. Instead of being a quiet, formal affair, your grandmother’s funeral visitation sounded like a party – filled with laughter of a family with a knack for jokes and storytelling. Despite the differences in ages, distances, occupations, and day-to-day lives, you can always come together. You may not be the perfect family, but you realize that your family is one so many people can only wish for. You look around and your surrounded by so many people that care about you. Your family may not be perfect, but they’re everything you need them to be, as long as you let them.
About this post: Last weekend, since my cousin Katie was visiting Ohio for her spring break (She teaches in Georgia), I was invited to my Aunt’s house for dinner with some of my cousins. Even though her house is a little bit over an hour away, I was still thankful to drive that distance, considering that if I was at home instead of school it would have been 4 hours to see my family. So, during this impromptu get-together, you may be wondering how Frozen brought us all together? . Now, there are several little kids that could have instigated our movie choice on Saturday. I mean, they clearly love the movie. After all, who doesn’t? Funny enough, it was actually my cousin Katie who brought the movie, and then myself and Kelly who really wanted to watch it, although the kids didn’t mind our choice either. Mind you, i’m the youngest of the three of us at twenty-one years old. So, all of us are acting like children and singing along to the movie (including a great duet by Ryan and his daughter), laughing, and just enjoying ourselves. I look around at all of us bonding over a children’s movie and I realize: that moment is what family means to me. Even though I don’t see my cousins often (and I didn’t even get to see all of them), I appreciate the rare little moments like this when I get to see them.   It’s the ability to all get together for no particular reason and just laugh. And, you know, being the favorite playmates of all my little second cousins doesn’t hurt either…

I got to play with my second cousins, who are pretty cool. It mostly involved me picking them up and throwing them on the couch, which was a pretty good workout…


My cousins Kelly, Katie, and I might actually be sillier than the kids. It’s a close call though…

Published in: on March 31, 2014 at 8:06 pm  Leave a Comment  

My Promise

“Stories aren’t peaceful things. Stories don’t care how shy you are. They don’t care how insecure you are, either. Stories find their way out eventually. All you gotta do is turn ’em loose.”

A Snicker of Magic by Natalie Lloyd
I am afraid of writing. No, I am terrified of writing. I’d rather train for a half-marathon (and we all know how I feel about running) than commit myself fully to writing. Promising to write is like promising to cut yourself open to show your internal organs to the people you love most, but instead doing so through the harsh contrast of black branding on a bright, white screen. But that’s not what I’m afraid of, actually. To be completely honest, I am afraid of what the collection of little straight and curved lines will come to say about me. I’m afraid that if I try to make those minuscule shapes mean something, they’ll just fizzle out and flatten, meaningless on the page. I fear that I will reach for the good words (you know, the ones that twinkle and float across the page like a famous name on a marquee) only to find that I am a mere inches away, only able to grasp the faded, dingy words of cliches and classifieds. 
But how am I supposed to encourage my students allow themselves to really write when I am too afraid to put my story down in ink? How can I push them to take that leap of faith when I am still standing with my toes curled around the edge of the diving board like a small child, caught between the deep blue water of uncertainty and the ladder of admitting defeat? So, here is my promise to my future students: lets learn to fail together. Who knows; maybe those dim words are actually old glimmering ones just waiting to be dusted off and brought back to life.
Special thanks to Holly Mueller, an amazing teacher who inspired my by giving me the advice that, “not only do you have to be a voracious reader, you have to treat your own writing the same way” and who also sent me a copy of the book A Snicker of Magic so I could participate in the author Q&A with her students. The gift of a book is the gift of a whole other world to live in, something I believe to be truly special. 


Published in: on March 29, 2014 at 7:27 am  Comments (1)  
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