Skip to main content

School is epic!

A few days ago, I walked into a conversation between my 9 year old, Ian, and my 6 year old, Emily.  

"School is EPIC, Ian!"
"Emily, I know that.  That's not what I'm talking about!"

I also do not know what they were talking about, but I was astounded by how it was not even questioned that school is an incredible place to be!  They were so casual, and it was obvious that school could be nothing other than cool.

They do go to a remarkable school, Degan Elementary.  They can't wait for Eagle Shuffle and Club Fridays, and they adore their teachers.  Adore them.

So what happens when they advance to high school?  Will my babies lose that love?  Will school decline in epicness?  The thought makes me sad.  But I see it.  I see it in my juniors who are distracted by the drama of life - the real kind like working to help the family survive or caring for an ill parent or worrying about their own health.  I see my tutoring kids who feel destroyed by the thought that they just may have to take that test again.  And again.  And maybe again.  I want to fight that sadness and struggle.  I want to see my students smile.  I want them to feel valued.  I want them to find their confidence as readers, writers, and as people, and I want them to know that school is a place that can support them and encourage them.

I want them to know that school is still epic.

Comments

  1. Steve, it has been so long. Where are you?

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

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 for our

Mom, the Book Queen

Last year about this time, my momma came to my classroom. She was in town for another shindig, and I talked her into being a guest speaker. She was scared. I was excited! She was worried. I was thrilled! In the end, she was incredible! See, my momma taught me to love reading. I have never, NEVER seen anyone devour a book the way Mom does. My childhood is filled with images of her in the navy recliner, nearby lamp lighting the words she inhaled. She read those dense books with thousands of pages. She read those books with the Fabio-looking guy on the cover, his hair blowing in an imaginary wind, a desperate girl draped on his arm. And she read as many books as she could carry home from the library. Go, Rangers! In summers, Mom took my brother and me to the local library once a week typically. At first, I played in the children's section, listening to read-alouds and puppet shows and wandering between shelves. I made piles of books covered with illustrated dragons and puppy

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