Category Archives: Writerly Life

I gave my yoga teacher the stink eye.

This is a true confession. I wish I could tell you I only ever did it once. Truly, I break out the stink eye once or twice a class at least. Usually right around the time when the instructor mentions how one day this move will help me be able to do a headstand, or one day I’ll just be able to hold this pose (see two seconds of it causing intense pain and certain death) for a very long time.

The other members of my family received a healthy dose of genetic disposition toward anything athletic and sweating. As for me, well, I’d rather not.

So I’ve found yoga, and I love it for its lack of competitive nature, for the fact that I don’t feel like anyone is looking at me, and for those few minutes of shavasana at the end, wherein I am forced to be gloriously still. After 28 years, I’ve found something athletic that I actually enjoy.

My sweet, gentle, amazing instructor April from Human Breathing, who opened up this whole new world of yoga to me, does not deserve the stink eye, because I simply love everything about how and what she teaches. But, I hope she catches it every now and then.

You see “the stink eye” is something I’ve received a few times myself. Try telling thirty 14-year-olds that they need to read a book (at least one) over spring break. Stink eye(s). Try telling thirty 14-year-olds that you’re in love with their writing, but we are going to revise it again, for the fifteenth time. Stink eye(s). Just suggest to that same group, that the very skill that they are learning (and struggling with) right now, will soon be mixed with another new skill. Stinker.

But I’ve been teaching long enough to know that “the stink eye” doesn’t have anything to do with not liking you; it doesn’t even have anything to do with not trusting you. Nope. The stink eye, in yoga and in my classroom, means this is really hard right now, and what you’re talking about sounds even harder, but I trust you, so I’m throwing you the stink eye and begging you to help me a whole ton along the way.

So students, send your stink eyes my way, let me know you’re with me, I promise you can do it, and maybe at the end of it, you’ll even get your moment of shavasana.

(April, I promise to try to bit more grown up about giving you the stink eye, and believing that one day my legs-up-the-wall will result in a headstand).\

Fabulous Friday

Worth. It.

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At 4:45am my iPhone lights up, with the appropriately named “blues” ringtone going off in the background. At that time of the morning, I am desperate for anything but getting out of my bed. Even if I think about going back to sleep, I can’t. I can’t go back to sleep because I am a teacher, and waking moments are filled with “What will I do next?” lists that inevitably propel me forward.

Soon I am ready for my ride to work; currently, I’m listening to the audio book Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn. I have found it a necessity that I practice what I preach, and so I’m reading, okay sometimes listening, books whenever I find a chance. The only break from this is when I stop at my local Starbucks, for my daily cup of love, Grande Pike with soy. When I pull into the parking lot, I’m the first one there, I let the last few lines of dialogue spill from the author, as I put my coat back on, and look around the car to see how many bags I’ll have to carry in today. Seven. Not too bad. I can carry them all in one trip.

I walk down the quiet hallways reminding myself of what’s important about today. Today I will teach them how to talk, about analyzing good argument writing. I’ll remind them that good writers are good readers and good talkers. And I’ll give them lines to say to each other such as: “So what I think you’re saying is . . .”, “The evidence we have for that is . . .?”, and “Isn’t the real issue here . . .?”. As I unlock the door, I promise myself to make a wall chart with them, I want them to see this language written down, to have it as a safety net, if they forget what to say.

As I unpack my bags, I’m visualizing this chart in my head, wishing that someone had taught me in middle school to speak eloquently in an argument. I think about the Common Core, and the standards I know I’ll be hitting today—8.W.9 & 8.R.9 (for Christmas break this year, I tried to memorize these standards, I know them well, but sometimes I have to keep telling myself them in order to make sure I’m doing it right). I wonder what colors I should use and how big I should make it, and still have the chart be useful. I run through my words in my head. I want to say it right the first time; this lesson is important to us.

Soon I am sipping my coffee, reading through my e-mails, answering a few, and checking to make sure I know what page a few of my favorite kids should be on in their independent reading books. When the bell goes off for the kids to enter the building, I am almost always surprised. I could have used more time. The kids are always quiet as they enter the building at 7:25am; it’s like they know the teachers are just waking up too. And then, like that, the day begins. Students tell me of their athletic victories the night before, compliment me on my curly hair, and ask me wide eyed once again, “What are we going to do today, Miss Smith?”

Take over the world.

This job is not easy. This morning routine is not easy. But believe me, it is worth every second of it. When I see my students two years later and they tell me, “Whenever I get upset, I write—remember how you taught us that?” Or when the student in front of me says, “I stayed up so late, because I couldn’t stop reading my book!” Or better yet, when in the middle of the standards, and the grading, and the keeping on top of it, you get to watch a kid stepping into who they will become. It is worth it.

There are plenty of things wrong with the teaching field. Plenty of things to complain about. But, if you’re teaching and you’re stuck there, in the complaint field— that’s too hard, too much, too little— I’m begging you step back and embrace why you’re here or get out. These kids need the focused, hard working you, who recognizes the beauty in the craft, who recognizes that people are worth it.

Our kids are worth it.

With love,

ahappyteacher

Letters from my kids: True Admissions

Guest Blog: See Ya Later, Not Goodbye

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The following is a letter my students received from Evan in their last days of school. Evan came alongside us for the journey this year, to learn and write with my kids. However, as you might have learned to expect from my classroom, it became so much more. I cannot thank Evan enough for his heart for my kids, for slowing down his crazy schedule to let fourteen-year-olds know they are worth being invested in, and for reminding me when days got rough, that I have the best job on earth. Thank you Evan.

I’ll just add that if you’re a teacher, you need to read this. Evan has no training in education aside from what little I’ve been able to cram into his brain, but look at his passion, and look at his recognition of your hardwork. Evan may not be a teacher, but we can all learn something from him.

Parting is such sweet sorrow.

And so we’ve reached the end of another milestone, not just for the year, but for the hallways and the classrooms that these students have come to recognize for fun as much as for learning. A four-year eternity that holds the pivot point from child to young adult. A microcosm of time that’s forged friendships, and challenged a few— a first handhold and a breakup too. It was the time when tastes were made, from characters in books that we’ll continue to grow with, to questionable fashion trends, we’ll laugh at in years. But for all these moments big and small, parents, teachers, and students learn to scrapbook the good, and just scrap the bad, proceeding towards a future filled with as much frightening uncertainty as soaring possibility.

Parting is sorrow.

For as much as I want to explain to these students that this period of time is nothing more than a blip on the radar, a tiny bite of what great is to come, I can’t help but not take my own advice. I’m overwhelmed with a sadness that’s only possible once you part ways with an experience that has molded you into a person you never knew you were capable of being. I felt like a best friend, someone that shared experiences with equally wide eyes. I felt like a trail guide, a reassuring voice that calmed fears. I felt like a parent too, not a day went by that I didn’t ask Miss Smith how each class went. I got to learn their names, their personalities, and their strengths. Rooting them on from the sidelines, I cheered when they did great, and wanted desperately to help when they tripped. I felt invested in them, because they showed me it was worth it. Lastly, I felt like an educator. In a building that houses brilliant teachers and staff, I’m proud to know I touched a fraction of the greatness they work resiliently to maintain year after year. I’ve realized my normal life is a break compared to the extensive work they put in 365 days a year, and to temporarily walk the halls for a few days makes me feel nothing short of grateful.

Remembering is sweet.

But it will be the great times that I choose the remember, and for all that leaves me, and us, in this coming week, the unbelievable adventure we all shared will always flood my head and heart with happiness whenever I reflect. Basking (and getting burnt) under a May afternoon’s sun, dancing to Taylor Swift from the speakers of a supercar that, for a brief moment, it felt like we owned. Getting to work with you as a class, a group, and individuals, hearing your stories and trying to help; hearing your stories and knowing I couldn’t, because you were just fine. I broke through the barriers of publicly discussing and critiquing my work, because needing help and feeling vulnerable is hard but crucial, and in turn you felt confident to share your work, because through admitting a fear we shared together, our writing (and ourselves) grew. Videos I loved to make, relationships I’ll always have, and a chance to take back the school dance I never had— this single year at Twin Valley makes the other 25 in my life kinda’ bland.

Thank you.

Thank you for embracing my work and I. For opening yourselves up to my challenge, and raising a bar I wasn’t sure could even be touched. You’ve surpassed what I thought an 8th grade class could accomplish. From the bonds and friendships, to the personalities and dedication, my time with you has meant the world. And so if parting is sweet sorrow, then I’ll hardly consider this goodbye. I’m optimistic that your stories will grow big, and I’ll see them again someday. Be it through Miss Smith, a local paper, or at a McLaren dealership— I’ll see you. And when things get rough, I’ll be there in memory or simply a few cities away. So this isn’t goodbye, more like a see ya later. To me, that thought is so much sweeter.

—Evan W.

Dear Ella,

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Lessons in teaching.

When your brother’s wife is having a baby and you’re in a room full of fourteen-year-olds, it’s totally okay to lose your teacher cool and feel kinda’ weepy. They love the drama anyway.

Ella Mae Smith was born on December 19, 2011 while I was teaching block three. This happyteacher is now ahappyaunt; want to see perfection? Snuggle up to Ella Mae while she takes a nap. Her little baby sounds and cutie little eyebrow arches will melt your heart before you know what hit you.

And then maybe because I’m a teacher, no probably because I’m a writer I decided that in these early days of her life, the best gift I could give to Miss Ella is a letter— writing, words that she can savor when she’s older and not sleeping so much. And so . . .

Dear Ella,

I love everything about you. I expected that, but I didn’t expect that you would take my breath away. I didn’t expect that with every coo and sigh you make, my heart would flutter. But, it does.

I didn’t expect that your Dad would turn into mush every time he sees you. I mean I expected it sometimes, but I’m telling you he’s pretty much always mush these days. I get a text message picture of you almost every day from him; proud doesn’t even begin to explain how he feels about you.

And your Mom, I didn’t expect to catch her staring at you in the middle of conversations. But it’s hard to focus on anything when you’re around.

Sometimes things happen the opposite of what you expect, but that’s okay. With you, it’s been more than okay, and that’s how the best stories are written—with unexpected feelings and jumps and slows in the road. And already you’re there, right at the very beginning of your life, already I know your story is gonna be good.

So Ella, I hope you pause when life doesn’t meet your expectations. I hope that little things take your breath away and make your heart flutter. I can’t wait to hear your stories and walk with you through life like only an Aunt can.

One thing I can promise you, you’ll never have to do anything more to have my love or your parents love— you’re loved because you’re you; you’re ours.

I love you Ella!— Aunt Rachel

in the right place

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I was sitting talking with a trusted friend over break, when she asked me, “Could you write a blog about that?”

I looked back in horror, “On happy teacher?”

We were complaining, well maybe we were just dreaming of things being better. We were talking of teacher burnout at seven years into our profession. No teacher should be burned out at seven years in, especially not the best (and believe me this friend of mine is the best). Yet, somehow we were both tired. Tired of small classrooms and crazy climate swings within them. Tired of pouring our salary directly back into our classroom. Tired of . . . well we went on.

But, then the conversation shifted. Is it worth it? No, it’s not. Are we crazy? Yes, we are.

Yet for both of us, somehow we recalled small, gentle, yet boldly visible moments that push us out of the burnout and into the fire that we’ve had since before we went to college.

A girl writes about her identity, who she is and what she needs to change to be who she wants to be.

A mother communicates with her son for the first time on a level that crushes the past and opens doors to the future.

A child reads their first book cover to cover and begs for more.

Or even, the moment in the middle of a lesson when you look like a complete fool and you’re sweating and singing and cheering on the kids— and you look around and realize the whole room is captivated, the whole room is learning, every kid is exactly where they are supposed to be and so are you.

Sure as teachers we need to be careful of burnout and burnout conversations that lead to nowhere. Mostly though, we need to be careful to seek out the fire and fight to live there, because if your day/week/month contains even one of those fire moments, you’re in the right place and you know it.

Why I Write

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Here at www.notesfromahappyteacher.org we celebrate writing. We write with voice. We write with passion. We break rules and embrace risks. We realize that writing captures the finite and gives it depth. We write.

I write.

I write to tell you that I’m more than impressed with who you are and what you’re doing. Because I need to tell you, I’ve believed in you all along.

I write because somewhere along the line everything got too hard for me and the rhythm of words was enough to draw me back to reality.

I write for change and the beauty that lies within it. I write for the mundane and the ordinary, because I believe a dandelion is a flower.

I write to dream further than my talk, to amplify what I believe in and silence the lies that drown my thoughts.

I write for you to know me; I’m not average; I’m working toward extraordinary, but I’m not there yet.

I write because I’ve been caught off-guard and unaware, because I can’t afford to risk losing today for tomorrow.

I write with the risk of permanence, letting you know I’m for real and I’m not going away.

Promise, Possibility, and Potential.

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It’s September. I’ve officially dropped off the social map. If you’ve seen me in the past three weeks it’s because you’re one of my students or coworkers . . . or really lucky.

I’ve overheard teachers saying:

“I went to bed at 8pm last night.”

“Everyday my throat is killing me by noon.”

“I’ve been to Staples three times today.”

Or maybe that’s just me, saying those things. That’s another thing about September, I don’t remember who I’ve said what to, because everything I say, I say multiple times.

It’s exhausting at best. I want to blog more often; I want to read more often, but I can barely keep my eyes open once I reach the front door to my house.

Yet, for all the exhaustion, September holds its own romance. New routines are established, friendships are formed, the air turns cool, and my classroom becomes my favorite place to be.

We’re only halfway through September, I don’t want to label it exhaustion— it’s just not fair to say that’s what I get from September. At halfway through, I’m labeling September: Promise, Possibility, and Potential— and I’m holding onto that till October.

if your mom is a teacher . . .

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Sometimes when I’m generating small moment story ideas with my students, we use the strategy: People, Places, Stories. We think of places and people and then list the stories we have with them. Walking back through the door of Benchmark this week, I was flooded with memories; I could sketch out the grounds of this place and provide story after story, from year after year of my life.

I remember the joy I found in the art room with Carol, she would set me loose with clay or markers and let me create to my hearts content, in the little smelly room at the end of the hall.

I remember the mezzanine, up the scary stairs, and the yellow plastic chair that I sat on when they did summer school testing for me. I was certain I had read every one of the words right on the list, and I do remember them being quite proud of me (looking at my leveled color in the library today, I’m fearful I may not have been as accurate as I thought).

I remember the weeks before school started, having the whole playground to myself and how I could sing really really loud on the swings without anyone (see older brother) teasing me.

I remember the lunchroom, where I dreamed and dreamed that Dr.M might cast me to be in, “You’re A Good Man Charlie Brown.”

I remember Mr.Reichart letting me keep score for the kids in gym class, and I remember always messing up the score. And how I thought I would never make it to the top when I climbed the rock wall, and I almost started to cry at the bottom, but my brother was there telling me I could.

This week, I’ve been watching Megan Wonderland’s amazing daughter, Kayla, run in and out from camp with her perfectly sweet smile. I keep thinking of the adventures she’ll have in this place— I keep thinking of what it was like for me to grow up with a teacher as mom.

And I want to whisper to Kayla, “Isn’t it perfect, this place? How many books, and supplies, and places to hide, and isn’t it perfect how the middle schoolers love you the best because they know your mom?”

Sometimes it’s hard to grow up as a kid when your mom’s a teacher— they grade papers, plan lessons, and read books— all the time. Sometimes you have to share your mom’s heart with other kids, because they need extra love and it’s your mom’s job to do it. And there are times in the year when she’ll be so exhausted from kids or parents that she’ll come home and not really want to play with you, or she’ll use the scary teacher voice on you.

But when your mom’s a teacher, all your storybooks come alive cause her voices can’t be beat. And when your mom’s a teacher you can curl up in her lap longer cause she has to stay still to grade those papers. When your mom’s a teacher she knows how to play and be silly better than boring grown-up moms. Mostly, it’s perfect when your mom’s a teacher, because you learn that even though school might be hard for you—you get to run through the halls of this school barefoot and nobody cares.

If your mom’s not a teacher, you probably missed out. If you’re a teacher and raising kids, I’m impressed, but I also want to tell you, as the kid of a teacher, I wouldn’t trade it for the world.