Skip to main content

An Open Invitation

I remember her face. A sweet smile. Long, shiny blonde hair. Sparkly blue eyes. A look of determination situated between her biting of her lip and her gripping of her pen. She would succeed. And succeed she did. She spent her life fighting dyslexia and, though enjoying a good story and good discussion, always found English class to be an uphill battle of words in her mind and on her page. She worked and worked and worked. She focused. She revised. She conferenced. She improved. And finally, the day came when she received that essay, that elusive, difficult A. Tears streamed down her face and onto her pages. She took that essay home and hung it on the fridge - a first to finally happen in her eleventh year.

I remember her face. A silly grin. Big, hopeful brown eyes. Always joking. Always hugging and laughing, yet under her humor brewed a touch of despair. She knew she could succeed, but she hadn't yet. And her attempts to achieve on state testing continually fell short. Just shy. She spent her life improving and learning and maintaining a smile even when it was hard. In tutoring, she worked and worked and worked. She focused. She questioned. She practiced. She improved. And finally, the day came when she burst through the classroom door, latest state score report in hand, and knocked me over with her hug and her joy. "I did it!" she yelled as we embraced through tears. Other students stared in awe - it was possible, even in her twelfth year.

I remember her face. An inviting smile. Beautifully smooth skin. Delicate features with a foundation of fierce wrapped in a hijab. She was a scholar and a student of knowledge. She knew much and found her niche in academic competition, yet she felt the eyes that watched her closely. She worked and worked and worked. She spoke openly and compassionately. She focused. She prepared. She modeled. She improved. And finally, the day came when she traveled out of zip code, her parents' worries close to her heart and mine, and she competed. Determination spread across her face as she told her story, collaborated with her teammates, and participated successfully and without prejudice like any other student - all in her twelfth year.

These and legions more are the faces of public school students. They are resilient and determined, successful and hopeful - all on their locally zoned campuses. They didn't go to a private school or a religious school or an independently funded school. They went to mine. And they are only the beginnings of the stories my educator friends and I can tell about the incredible things happening daily in our rooms and hallways.

For these three ladies, for my former and current students, for my own two children, and for all publicly educated kids, I called my senators to voice my opinion regarding public education and the frightening trends emerging. Is there a place for private and specialized schools? Of course there is! Are some private schools offering an excellent education? Of course they are! But to imply that all public schools are a tragedy and a train wreck is simply wrong. And to continue siphoning funds from a free, public education is a severe mistake.

Thus, I implore you to also make those calls. Parents, educators, community members - even students! Call. It's easy. I didn't realize how easy until now. I'll continue as well. We must.

And, if for some reason you have reservations about public school and the promise within, I invite you to my campus and my class. Room 1600 is open; come see the faces of the future. I know you'll be amazed!

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Dude. Be nice.

It's in the air like the scent of burnt popcorn from the teacher workroom fogging the halls. It's on our faces like thick blue cupcake icing that will never, never wash off.  What is it, you ask? The spring slide. The end of the year blues. The how-many-more-days-do-we-have weekly question. Yup, it's that time of year. It happens annually. Spring Break concludes, and it takes all of our patience and enthusiasm with it. Students go off for a week and leave any interest and motivation under the blankets where they slept their break away. We teachers leave our efforts to collaborate and abilities to reason in the pages of our reads and on the beaches of our trips. And there is just never. enough. coffee. Ever. That sad and disappointing part of the spring slide/endofyearblues is that it leaves us snarking at each other and our students. Our patience is minuscule and our tempers are pre-lit. And everyone - everyone - we encounter wears a target gleaming, waiting ...

A Fish Tale

Last weekend, I went fishing with my dad. I packed the kids in my silver mommy van, waded through the 5 o'clock Friday traffic, and arrived at Lake Fork in time to meet Dad coming off the water. He'd found the "honey hole" and snagged two - one over six pounds, the other over seven! He knew where to take us the following day. Saturday, he took out Ian, my ten year old, first at six AM. Ian going out for his first official early morning bass fishing with Pops is enough to melt my daddy's girl heart, and as expected, they had a blast. After they came in for lunch, Emily, my seven year old, and I crawled into the boat with Ian and my dad, and we returned to Lake Fork, the Big Bass Capital of Texas for another round.  Initially, we cruised around in the hot Texas October sun. We found solace in the shade of an old bridge. We "wet a hook" as Dad would say but, sadly, with no luck. Then, evening hit. Fishing frenzy time. Dad returned to the "honey h...

My Emily

One evening a few weeks ago, my almost 8 year old, Emily, was having a night. The scream, pout, tantrum kind of night. Drama was high, and I was doing my best to remain calm and avoid an explosion of anger or a fit of giggles. I'm about 50/50 when it comes to kid fights. I can never predict if I'll react in yelling or laughing. Anyway, this particular incident dealt with toothbrushing. I have come to believe that brushing one's teeth - at least at elementary age - must be akin to chewing shiny metal thumbtacks. Hearing my children protest, one may conclude that I torture them frequently with the help of Crest and Oral-B. This night was no different. Emily was NOT going to brush her teeth no matter what I suggested. Typically, she puts the paste on her brush, clicks two minutes into the timer, and off she goes. But not that night.  Her protests grew, her voice reaching higher and higher octaves as her eyes bulged and her face sizzled. She slammed her bedroom door. She th...