My brother tells me I’m getting a little sappy on here—who knew my brother read these anyway? But since he is my big brother, and he stopped locking me in Mom’s closet at least ten years ago, I’ll take his advice and get down to business.
It is business I’m writing about today, or I’ve been writing about? For the past week I’ve been working hard to write a business plan for a new business I’m starting with a friend. I love writing, so I thought this would be a great way to kick of the summer; I was wrong.
Why? Because I’m a teacher, all the classes I’ve ever taken have been geared toward that. I can write a research report on any topic in the educational field and still hold true to my natural writer’s voice and style. But, this business plan? Nope, it painfully ripped style and voice straight from my brain. It also didn’t help that I had never even read a business plan before, the vocabulary was new or at least uncertain—even the format confused me. I struggled.
So here was my process.
Google Business Plan
Read online advice & online examples
Attempt to start writing on my own
Run to Barnes and Noble and buy “My First Business Plan”
Begin to write 24 page Business plan while holding book in my hand and using Merriam-Webster Dictionary app on my cell phone every five minutes
Drink wayyyy too much coffee at local Starbucks
Complain
Read over first six pages with business partner
Call a friend who knows more than I do
Repeat steps 5-7
Finish 24 page Business Plan
Even just looking at that list kills me. It was such a painful process; I felt so confused. And then I got to thinking, is this what happens to our kids when we ask them to write something new? Something hard? How do they make it?
I know I pressed on because I was working on something I believed in, because I knew that I needed this document to further the company that I’m passionate about. If I was not passionate about the company I would have given up at step three.
How do we keep our students going when the genre is new, difficult, or confusing? We give the writing, or the project, or whatever it is real value. And then we keep encouraging them like crazy.
I’ve been teaching full time for six years; I love my job more now than I ever have. If you had told me that when I was twenty years old walking into my first class as Drew McCorkell’s support teacher, I would have laughed in your face. As things progress they tend to get mundane, or routine at the least. But at six years in, I don’t think I will ever use those words to describe my job or my heart for it.
This morning I finally sat down with the bags. I’d like to think all teachers have this day or this time where you sit down and unpack all that you deemed worthy of bringing home for the summer. For me, it usually takes a week or so to motivate myself to do it. Probably mostly because I have no idea where I’ll put all that stuff for the summer, but also in part because I know I’ll start seeing my kids in those bags and in the beginning I’m just not ready too sad for that.
And then I found the folders, labeled with their blocks, containing handwritten feedback happy kid notes from my students writers. Soon the floor was covered in their writing, and the tissue box was sitting next to me. Of all the assignments I give in a typical year, this one is the most selfish. I know that; I don’t care. I tell them to write me, what they loved and what they hated about the year so that I would know what to change and what to keep—then I throw onto the end, add in anything else you want to tell me, no rules at all.
This year’s end result were notesfromhappystudents, and of course since I am ahappyteacher I couldn’t have been more pleased or moved by the power of their words. If you’ve never had your students write you notes, if you’ve never written someone a note of encouragement, sit down—write—it breathes life into unspoken truths.
So I’m going to leave you today with a unique note written by one of my writers— she caught me off guard with this style—she had tears in my eyes before the first comma, because in the end, each year is like its own fairy tale, my childhood dreaming, my adult reality.
Dear Miss Smith,
Once upon a time, there was a teacher who cared about her class. She taught from her heart and her mind was so connected to them, it was so unreal. She made them feel so safe and secure, as if they could never get hurt. Her class was like a big sanctuary of secrets. Only her students knew what was up.
She showed them videos of what her neighbors had to say, and videos of poets who inspired their eyes word by word. Like someone who had them all brainwashed. Only for the good. Because truly they were the stars. The ones shining above the rest. Each and every day.
And they glistened in her eyes as she watched them grow and become writers instead of kids who scribbled their minds across a blank page. She crafted them. She molded her students into better people inside and out of the classroom. She told them continuously, over and over, like a broken record, that they were special. That they could easily make a difference in this world. They didn’t believe her at first. But now they do. And some of them believe in themselves. All because she dedicated her heart to them and continued to love them no matter what the circumstances were. Feeling like they were on top of the world, this class loved her back.
So once upon a time . . .
This unforgettable teacher was you. And those crazy students . . . well . . . they were us.
Yeah . . .
It was definitely a wild adventure . . . and honestly, I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way either.
Below, Amy Petrilla, guest blogger and amazing teacher, shares her heart with you as she bravely faces her last days of school this year. Feel free to give her feedback below; I’m sure she’ll love it!
Last Days at McVey
“If you can advocate for something- ANYTHING- do it! There are so many who cannot.” A couple years ago, those were the words that a parent shared with my graduate class. Today, I spin the wheels of the Hot Wheels car that was passed out to us by that parent’s son (who has autism), and the words echo through my mind. Faces, lives, SOULS, flash before my eyes.
This is my fifth year teaching and somehow it is by far the hardest year to say goodbye to my students and their families. Perhaps this is because not only are some students moving on to new districts, but also I am moving on to a new school. Perhaps “the end” is so tough this year because my co-teacher and I worked so well together. Or perhaps I am still recuperating from proudly crying and watching three of my boys graduate from kindergarten and do an amazing job on stage (when at the beginning of the year they would have been terrified). I could keep guessing and adding in factors- but this afternoon during my drive home, in tears, I realize why I’ve become so emotional.
This is the year that I wrestled and struggled with special education, its politics, and my own “talents” and knowledge. I want to proclaim this and throw down an anchor for this to be known. This is the year in which my heart and soul went through a battle- and I came out on the other side knowing exactly, beyond a shadow of a doubt, why I do what I do. This is who I am. I AM A TEACHER. And I am an advocate. When the seasons and circles of life continue and September rolls around again, I will re-read this journal. Why? Because I will be so unbelievably stressed! But from this day forward I will remind myself that today- though it may bring tears- will always come. I will always be SO proud of my little guys. And certain parents’ words of thanks and appreciation will wonderfully pierce me to my core.
Teachers are supposed to change students’ lives and drive them towards a direction that causes them to be who they are truly meant to be- even when no one else believes in this. However, today, I say THANK YOU to my students and their families who have given me a purpose. Without them, I’d be lost. When I feel discouraged, I will remember to keep pressing forward because my students have shaped me and helped me be who I am truly meant to be. I can only continue to return the favor and strive to be their voice- encouraging them and their families along the way. I am more than a teacher. I am an advocate- and I will proclaim to my students and the world around them about how important and loved they are until I take my very last breath.
If you’re reading this, I urge you to pursue YOUR passions. Dig deep inside and you will find it. It is who you were created to be- and somewhere out there, a group is waiting for you to shape and love. Speak up for the voices that cannot speak. Hear for the ears that do not hear, and move for those who are immobilized. How could you do anything less?
Maybe the original idea for this gallery came from Hidden Gems by Katherine Bomer, or maybe it came from my last day at Columbia University’s Writing Project with Chris Lehman. My teaching life has been flipped upside down in the best of ways this year. Celebrating has been at the heart of it, and after two formal Writer’s Galleries in my classroom, I felt these eighth graders deserved a little more. Regardless of how the idea came about, I certainly did not realize what it would become . . .
It all started after Easter, true to form I asked the kids to generate ideas about what they would write about. We talked about the importance of writing strengths, we wrote seed ideas for some, we made mini-plans; we did what was natural. Then we chose our topics and drafted.
At this point we camped out with revision; we had Stacy and Evan visit our room to help us—I researched how to revise poetry. Our pieces were shifting, they were becoming stronger—we were talking more, giving good feedback and pushing each other; we all wanted the gallery to be good. By the time we got to editing, I could feel my nerves rising. We brought in Courtney for event planning and organization/mounting of their pieces in the gallery. When I tell you these kids worked hard on these pieces, I want you to know—they worked hard.
On the day of the gallery, we arrived (Courtney, Hannah, & I) at Café 110 around noon. Dressed in workout clothes and sweating from the lack of air conditioning, I looked at the blank walls and the huge stack of pieces. Doubt poured through ever fiber of my being. Would people come? Would they point out the two spelling mistakes I just saw? Would people just “hang out” and read nothing, negating the purpose of the event altogether? But regardless of the questions hanging in the thick air around me, I would have to press on; the event had 189 reservations—too much to cancel for tonight.
The three of us, moved through the afternoon, talk was quick and focused. As I pressed the sticky tack against the walls, I would look at the pieces and hear my heart pounding. I saw the countless revisions. I saw their work on sentence structure. I remembered asking them why this was important to share. It was then that I got it. This work, written by my students needed to be there, outside of the school, in a gallery. I needed to say with my actions, you’re right, this is important to share—I believe in you. Student by student the pieces went on the walls next to a nametag that bore the phrase, Featured Author. If we didn’t need to move so fast, I would have turned to mush weeping at the power of the affirmation of putting their words on the wall.
In no time at all, I was getting dressed and heading downstairs. At five o’clock exactly the first guests began to arrive. The rooms began to fill; my heart began to race. Soon, I was greeting people and hugging students (Have I ever mentioned that social situations like this give me anxiety? I don’t like parties of more than three, seriously what was I thinking?)
I wish I could tell you something that someone said to me that night; I wish I could describe a student’s face or tell you about the parents I saw cry over their child’s written words. But I can’t, it’s a blur.
But here is what I can tell you, people came, and lucky for me they wrote comment cards. I want to leave you with some of these comments typed out—they warmed my heart, they reminded me why I do what I do, they validated my theory that celebrating kids is one of the most important jobs a teacher can do.
Awesome event.
You have been a wonderful inspiration to_______. I feel she has really grown in her writing this year. You made her year.
My daughter and I teared up reading your letter. Thank you for this opportunity!
I never knew my daughter could write like that.
Every part of this night had a definite “touch of class”
This was a beautiful event that shows how much you care about your students.
I never knew my son felt that way about life.
Tonight felt so professional. I love being a real author.
I would have loved to be part of this when I was in 8th grade or any grade! These kids write incredibly!
Each child captured their heart and put it on a page. The beauty of their writing caught me off guard.
I can’t find my happy teacher. She’s here somewhere; I have to believe it. But for now, I can’t find her. And the longer I stay in this profession, the more I learn that’s okay on days like today.
Most teachers don’t claim to be upset by the last day of school. But for me, I usually go home all twisted up inside, throw myself on my bed and I cry. I don’t let myself cry at school, that’s the last thing fourteen year olds need—more drama delivered by their teacher. Ha.
I have no problem admitting this to you, because it seems the most natural thing to do. When you spend 180 days with the same group of people, pouring yourself into teaching them, reading their journals, and loving their spunk, it just seems strange to move on without a good cry or two.
So for now, I’m gonna be sad. But tomorrow, watch out.
Because if there is one thing I’ve learned this year, it’s not to waste time—and all those dreams I’ve been blogging and blogging about, well they’re looking at my summer schedule with eager eyes and whispering to my aching heart, “Now is our time, let’s do this!”
Twenty:5- A Writer’s Gallery was last night— I will blog about it; have no fear. For now though, I’m still in processing and feeling overwhelmed at the enormity of what an event like that meant to my students & I. Thank you for supporting us!
Today I’ve decided to post the piece I wrote for the gallery last night, in hopes that you might catch a glimmer of the love that I feel for these kids. Enjoy!
An Open Letter to My Students:
As a child I loved nothing more than to sit quietly in the back of my mother’s middle school classroom, and watch her teach. It was there, as an observer that I first fell in love with the art of education. During summers and after school, I would stand in the front of the room and instruct my imaginary class. I don’t remember any of them ever forgetting to bring a pencil to class—then again, they were imaginary.
Then I went to college, eager to find out how to be a better teacher. Soon, I became obsessed with knowing the top research and using only the best methods. I subscribed to magazines for teachers and went to seminars and workshops, all in the name of being the best educator around. When I first got my own classroom, I was meticulous; I made sure I followed the rules, if something didn’t go as planned, I turned to the experts. It was a beautiful thing.
And then there was you.
You broke the rules; the books had no answers for your heart and tenacity. There were so many times this year that I was unsure. Unsure of where to go next, unsure if something I was teaching would stick. It was then that I fell back on the best lesson my mother ever taught me: build relationship.
And build it we did.
Twenty: 5 is a testament to that investment, on your part and mine. You pressed through and journaled everyday, playing with your sentence structure, genre, voice, and content. Sometimes in the stillness of morning I would sit with your words, and oh how you moved me. Your stories of growing up captured my heart; I would not have had it any other way.
In the classroom, I felt most like a family when we were on the floor, huddled around a piece of chart paper. It was there that we learned to let down our guards and accept feedback on a piece we had poured our hearts into. Our room became a safe place to take risks, for both you and me.
Now, in the first week of June, I’m sitting the back of our classroom, trying to wrap my head around exactly what to say to you tonight. Your gallery pieces are almost ready, but my heart is not. I certainly will not know what to do when I arrive at Starbucks next Saturday morning without a bag of your writing beside me.
And so, right now, in this moment, I need you to know, I believe in you. Your words, your passion, your compassionate, and laughter filled hearts—you will go far and do big things.
As you move onto your next phase in life, I hope you’ll remember the time you spent with your journal in this classroom. I hope you continue to capture small moments and ask yourself the three questions we’ve heard over and over this year.
Why is this important?
That matters because . . .
So, what I’m really trying to say is . . .
Because in the end, what I’m really trying to say is: Thanks for the adventure, I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.
When notesfromahappyteacher started on January 27, 2011 it was something I knew I should do, but I had no idea how it would change me. It felt like a risk then, to put my words out into the world with potential for disagreement, laughter, and public spelling mistakes. Surly this blog has brought all of those things, but it has also brought the opposite, moments where I have found others whose heart burns with passion for kids just like mine, applause from friends who have been moved, and sentences that reveal the heart of the craft.
And so it is with great enthusiasm, that I announce the launch of the new website. www.notesfromahappyteacher.org note the difference in the ending. We are an org now. This is certainly one of those big dreams I was talking about. So change us on your favorites and RSS feeders; it’s important to us that you journey with us. Don’t forget to comment and talk, your voice is important and gives us encouragement to keep writing, even when our crazy schedules seem to overtake us.
For now, the website appearance itself will look almost exactly the same, but have no fear friends we will be updating the site itself as well. I can promise you that we will keep writing, that we will be happy and proud of kids and those moments in our classroom that remind us all we’re in the right profession, at the right time, with a group of kids that were made just for us. We’ll be real, and honest, and maybe a few things we’re still dreaming about . . .
Do teachers dream? I mean, really dream? Big. Of course we dream of days when all of our students bring a pencil to every class, everyone reads their independent reading book, and journals with enthusiasm.
But I’m not talking about those kinds of dreams; I’m talking about the kind you can’t complain about. The kind of dreams where every student in your school gets an iPad because, well, they’re cool. And a Gallery Invite is an everyday part of life, because your students, wouldn’t have it any other way. All the kids at your school come from supportive families that never fall apart or go through junk. The kind of dreams that just could never happen. Or could they?
I have friends that aren’t teachers (shocking I know). Many of them are dreamers; I think it may be contagious. I spend my nights listening to them dream big, starting new businesses & creating new mindsets— that’s just the beginning. Some people have started building wells in Africa, some have started small businesses that work to empower those with fewer resources, and that’s just the beginning. They’re writing books, making movies, creating.
And me, the teacher? I dream of pencils never needing to be sharpened while I’m talking? Well, okay maybe I do, but this dreaming big thing is starting to work its way into my heart. Because recently, when an idea pops into my head, instead of brushing it off, I’m speaking it aloud and saying, “Why not?”
And so this year I’ve had a Gallery Walk in my classroom, a document camera donated by people outside of my school, and plans to . . . plans to, keep dreaming!
Dreaming is scary business, and I’m not talking little dreams, like being able to take good notes on every writing conference I have (although at some point that dream goal, feels more impossible than others). When do we lose that instinct within us to let out the wild dreams, and then actually believe in our hearts that we can achieve it?
I have some 8th graders that think they might be professional football players and politicians when they grow up. But take me to a first grade classroom, those kids, they dream it and believe it— their desire to be quarterback for the Philadelphia Eagles is thwarted only by the realization that they would make a great President, and maybe it would be hard to do both at the same time? Or would it?
So if you’ve got the heart of a first grader, speak it out; what are you dreaming? Who do you want to be when you grow up? Are you a teacher, or are you a dreamer? Can you hold tight to both? I’m trying.
I wanted to start this blog post with a quote from Hidden Gems. I could not settle on one.
“An acceptance of all students’ attempts at writing must be build into the process from the very start, or else learning how to write feels sterile, scary, and without purpose other than because it’s at school.”—164
“…when you write; you don’t know where you’re going until you get there; that the process is messy and recursive and as Donald Murry reminds us, that you write to find out what you didn’t know you knew.”—164
“It’s like when you’re working on a thousand-piece puzzle or building a model car, boat, or airplane—you need the completed picture on the top of the box to envision what this pile of little pieces and parts will ultimately become.”—164
“Besides the party-time accoutrements, a celebration provides a formalized, ritualized way to lift up an individual and respond to his or her accomplishments.”—165
If you did not read chapter 10 of Hidden Gems, you are missing out. This chapter, along with The Columbia University Writing Project changed my teaching career, maybe even my life (That’s dramatic, I know, but I teach in a middle school).
I feel like so many people, so many of our kids, go through life without these kinds of celebrations, where adults and friends look them direct in the eye and say, “this is good.” And so this year one of my goals became to celebrate a little more, sometimes this came in the form of blog posts, other times e-mails, texts, notes in journals . . . and at other times it was more formal, more direct; a Gallery Walk or a classroom family reflection.
These formal and informal celebrations have become part of the ebb and flow of my teaching life this year. It’s changed what I look for and in turn made me happier to be at work on rainy Monday mornings; happier to revise a story that looks like it’s going nowhere; just happier? Because in the end, the smile on that persons face, the confidence in their heart, is worth way more than any grade I ever put in the book.
If you haven’t thought about attending my class’s last formal celebration of the year, check it out; we’d love to share our work with you. Click on our invite for more details.Gallery Invite
Tonight I have written five absolutely fantastic starts to blog posts, that I’m not ready to share with the world. That’s the funny thing about writing, it’s so personal and yet, its true beauty is released only when shared. All five of these posts felt risky when I was writing them—some of my closest friends don’t even know I feel this way or dream about that.
I’m left thinking about what I ask my kids to do in my classroom. One of the goals on their writing checklist is, “Take Risks in Writing”. Don’t get me wrong you could take that goal anyway you wanted to, but when you’re in eighth grade, usually that means write something with content that you don’t normally share. The problem with this is simple: sharing is important in a community of writers. It’s how we do our best thinking, by analyzing and helping to refine each other’s writing.
In my room we have writing partners, we switch these partners two, maybe three times a year. These are kids that know each other well, and until tonight I would have told you that my reasoning in this was so that they could hopefully see patterns in each other’s style and way of writing—so that they could call one another out when junk was written and applaud when the level of writing was lifted.
But, maybe there is more to these partnerships than that. Because honestly, someone will see those first five blog posts. They’ll run in the form of e-mails at some point to Jess, a trusted friend, who will shot me real and honest feedback. Somehow from those e-mails, I learn which ideas/dreams are ready to be harvested and shared, and which are not yet quite ready for their journey to the ears of others. We never formally sat down and said, “Will you be my writing partner?” Things just sort of morphed that way over the years; I couldn’t imagine having the guts to write this blog without years of Jess e-mails behind me.
As I listen in on my student’s conversations I realize more and more that “writing partner” means more than a friend to walk through the process with. Writing partners are friends who listen to stories that aren’t quite ready for the rest of the world, and love you the same whether your writing is junk or Pulitzer Prize material.
