I don't have very many words of wisdom. I'm just a middle-aged high school teacher who has had a couple of bad experiences in life, but far and away more good times. My family is in relatively good health, I have friends who are fun and like-minded, I don't have any major quarrels with anyone that I know of. Oh, things aren't perfect. But they're perfectly fine.
Then, sometimes, fine isn't quite enough.
It's not enough to be fine when the world seems to bear down on you with everything it has, like a cloud deck settling on the top of your head for several months at a time.
It's not enough to be fine when it seems just one little click to the right or left could fix whatever is off.
It's not enough to be fine when a day or a week leaves you feeling hopeless, helpless, exhausted, unlucky, or unlovable.
But then...
Fine becomes, with no warning, fantastic. The cloud deck clears and your face feels the sun. That one little click to the right or left happens so easily that you wonder why you dithered around so long without trying to make the change. And the day itself might leave you temporarily without hope, or help, but you know tomorrow is another day. You are tired, but you know how to rest when you need rest. You learn that luck and love are a matter of perspective.
Whatever it is, however you feel, no matter how much you are confident it can't.....suddenly it does. No matter how much you think you know, life can still surprise you.
Let it surprise you.
Saturday, January 25, 2014
Saturday, January 18, 2014
My Roland Babies
I once took a job simply because it was in Austin, not because it was one that I especially wanted or had a great talent for. As it turned out, I was not cut out for the University of Texas; I felt like a duck on a frozen pond, allegedly in the right place, but unable to function without the proper setting. After one academic year, I high-tailed it back to Oklahoma, fully intent on being employed at a secondary school by the following fall. It took until the end of the fall semester to land a job---but it was exactly where I needed to be.
Vickie Earnhart and Gary Lattimore, the junior high and senior high principals of Roland Schools, made something of a joint decision to hire me as an 8th/9th grade English and speech teacher for Lena Henson, who was retiring mid-year. It was quite a shock to work with 13- to 15-year-olds after working with college students for the previous seven years. Pretty much immediately I started answering the question, "How do you like your new job?" with the dry response, "I have looked into the pit of hell, and I have seen the devil. He's 14 years old and has very bad personal hygiene." That was, well, partly true. What I didn't tell them was that I was immediately hooked on their funny expressions, twisted sentences, and unaffected openness to the world. Yes, they were still relatively unaffected then---it was 20 years ago this month that I started there. There had been no Murrah bombing, no September 11, no war on terror. All they had known, for the most part, was the fairly plush world that the 80's and 90's appeared to be. It was a good time to be a kid, and to be their teacher.
I didn't think much about their effect on ME until I saw an old college friend devastated by the death of a neighbor boy who used to come ask my friend John to come outside and play football with him. John and I had lunch together near his home in Tulsa, and driving him back to his apartment, we came upon a bike accident, where this little boy was gravely injured. It was several days later that he died. I watched John unravel over this incident, a little puzzled, since he didn't have a close personal relationship with the boy or his family. But then I happened to think: what if that had been one of my students? I felt the impact of that question like a kick in my gut. I couldn't imagine the pain. I tried telling a few people about that at the time, but I'm not sure anyone can get the meaning of it without imagining the loss of their own "kids." What I took from it at the time was that these kids had grown a part of my heart that I hadn't know could exist. I loved them. I love them still.
I think that's when I really began to appreciate my kids. I was younger and a lot more fresh and energetic that I am these days; I know I wouldn't react the same way now at some of the things that happened then. For example, there was the day that two ornery 7th-hour boys loosened the bolts in my desk chair, so that when I sat down, two of the legs shot off the chair, which then dumped me on the floor, leaving me barely peeking over the edge of my desk like some crazy Kilroy drawing. I looked at the kids, they looked at me in shock, and I just started laughing my head off. My dignity was gone---what else could I do? They laughed, too, but only after I did. Now, I would probably start off with, "If you laugh, I'll know you did this!"
Without a doubt, my strongest memories of my Roland years come from all the time I spend with my speech kids. Even though I hated giving up my weekends for competitions, I loved the bonds that we formed. On those early morning and late night bus rides, we laughed and celebrated and cried, and I gave more than a few lectures about things you would not believe: why girls shouldn't sing songs that older boys from other teams teach them (because the song was obscene, but not obviously so to innocent girls); why no one from MY team should EVER, EVER jump out of bushes at customers in a drive-through lane in Poteau, the headquarters for the Gun-Toting Crazy Association of Eastern Oklahoma; why it's essential to show up for the bus at 4 a.m., not 5 a.m., when the contest is 150 miles away and starts at 7 a.m.; why I don't want to hear the nonsensical exclamation "Slah!" shouted 45 million times a day.
There are certain bands I hear today and can flash back to those trips, to that time of my life, as vividly as if it were yesterday. Nirvana, The Cranberries, No Doubt, Sarah McLachlan, and Sheryl Crow take me right back to hauling the debate and academic team kids around in a pre-historic van the color of oatmeal, no frills at all, but at least with a radio we could sing along with. I was driving that same van the last year I was at Roland, when they moved the state competition from OSU to OU. I wasn't familiar with Norman, and it seemed like every time we got in that van, I checked a curb, made a wrong turn, or ran a stop sign. (At one memorable stop when we first got to town, I slammed on the brakes just in time to prevent running through an intersection. Kids and bags went everywhere, and Matthew Dalke, my "adopted" son, was hurtled into the back of the driver's seat. When he popped back up, he said, "Well, the first thing I'm going to do at the hotel is change my underwear!" We crossed the interstate to the hotel, and I looked over at Ryan Jones in the passenger seat and said, "Did I say any bad words back there, Ryan?" He put his hand on my arm and said, "No, Ms. Welker. I was so proud of you.") By the end of the weekend, they had their fill. When the group started yelling at me to turn into a Target store, I yelled back that I couldn't; there was a curb there, and I wasn't going to jump it. I heard a little Kirk Baumann voice in the back say, "I don't know why not. You've broken every other civic ordinance this weekend." I'm still not sure Kirk meant for me to hear it, but I wouldn't trade that story for any price.
I can't write any of these things without a huge grin, a chuckle....or even a tear welling up. It was, in a very real sense, like we all grew up together. I think they know that as well as I do.
Leaving Roland was one of the most heart-breaking decisions I ever had to make, even though it was absolutely right. In four and a half years, I didn't make a lot of connections with the community, but I formed friendships with my students that I hope will last forever. I have a handful of "adopted" kids from those days that I see or communicate with on a regular basis. Those kids gave me far more than I could give them; I built my confidence on my experiences with them, so they gave me this career that has made me so happy. No matter that they are now in their 30's. No matter what their age, they will always be my Roland babies.
Vickie Earnhart and Gary Lattimore, the junior high and senior high principals of Roland Schools, made something of a joint decision to hire me as an 8th/9th grade English and speech teacher for Lena Henson, who was retiring mid-year. It was quite a shock to work with 13- to 15-year-olds after working with college students for the previous seven years. Pretty much immediately I started answering the question, "How do you like your new job?" with the dry response, "I have looked into the pit of hell, and I have seen the devil. He's 14 years old and has very bad personal hygiene." That was, well, partly true. What I didn't tell them was that I was immediately hooked on their funny expressions, twisted sentences, and unaffected openness to the world. Yes, they were still relatively unaffected then---it was 20 years ago this month that I started there. There had been no Murrah bombing, no September 11, no war on terror. All they had known, for the most part, was the fairly plush world that the 80's and 90's appeared to be. It was a good time to be a kid, and to be their teacher.
I didn't think much about their effect on ME until I saw an old college friend devastated by the death of a neighbor boy who used to come ask my friend John to come outside and play football with him. John and I had lunch together near his home in Tulsa, and driving him back to his apartment, we came upon a bike accident, where this little boy was gravely injured. It was several days later that he died. I watched John unravel over this incident, a little puzzled, since he didn't have a close personal relationship with the boy or his family. But then I happened to think: what if that had been one of my students? I felt the impact of that question like a kick in my gut. I couldn't imagine the pain. I tried telling a few people about that at the time, but I'm not sure anyone can get the meaning of it without imagining the loss of their own "kids." What I took from it at the time was that these kids had grown a part of my heart that I hadn't know could exist. I loved them. I love them still.
I think that's when I really began to appreciate my kids. I was younger and a lot more fresh and energetic that I am these days; I know I wouldn't react the same way now at some of the things that happened then. For example, there was the day that two ornery 7th-hour boys loosened the bolts in my desk chair, so that when I sat down, two of the legs shot off the chair, which then dumped me on the floor, leaving me barely peeking over the edge of my desk like some crazy Kilroy drawing. I looked at the kids, they looked at me in shock, and I just started laughing my head off. My dignity was gone---what else could I do? They laughed, too, but only after I did. Now, I would probably start off with, "If you laugh, I'll know you did this!"
Without a doubt, my strongest memories of my Roland years come from all the time I spend with my speech kids. Even though I hated giving up my weekends for competitions, I loved the bonds that we formed. On those early morning and late night bus rides, we laughed and celebrated and cried, and I gave more than a few lectures about things you would not believe: why girls shouldn't sing songs that older boys from other teams teach them (because the song was obscene, but not obviously so to innocent girls); why no one from MY team should EVER, EVER jump out of bushes at customers in a drive-through lane in Poteau, the headquarters for the Gun-Toting Crazy Association of Eastern Oklahoma; why it's essential to show up for the bus at 4 a.m., not 5 a.m., when the contest is 150 miles away and starts at 7 a.m.; why I don't want to hear the nonsensical exclamation "Slah!" shouted 45 million times a day.
There are certain bands I hear today and can flash back to those trips, to that time of my life, as vividly as if it were yesterday. Nirvana, The Cranberries, No Doubt, Sarah McLachlan, and Sheryl Crow take me right back to hauling the debate and academic team kids around in a pre-historic van the color of oatmeal, no frills at all, but at least with a radio we could sing along with. I was driving that same van the last year I was at Roland, when they moved the state competition from OSU to OU. I wasn't familiar with Norman, and it seemed like every time we got in that van, I checked a curb, made a wrong turn, or ran a stop sign. (At one memorable stop when we first got to town, I slammed on the brakes just in time to prevent running through an intersection. Kids and bags went everywhere, and Matthew Dalke, my "adopted" son, was hurtled into the back of the driver's seat. When he popped back up, he said, "Well, the first thing I'm going to do at the hotel is change my underwear!" We crossed the interstate to the hotel, and I looked over at Ryan Jones in the passenger seat and said, "Did I say any bad words back there, Ryan?" He put his hand on my arm and said, "No, Ms. Welker. I was so proud of you.") By the end of the weekend, they had their fill. When the group started yelling at me to turn into a Target store, I yelled back that I couldn't; there was a curb there, and I wasn't going to jump it. I heard a little Kirk Baumann voice in the back say, "I don't know why not. You've broken every other civic ordinance this weekend." I'm still not sure Kirk meant for me to hear it, but I wouldn't trade that story for any price.
I can't write any of these things without a huge grin, a chuckle....or even a tear welling up. It was, in a very real sense, like we all grew up together. I think they know that as well as I do.
Leaving Roland was one of the most heart-breaking decisions I ever had to make, even though it was absolutely right. In four and a half years, I didn't make a lot of connections with the community, but I formed friendships with my students that I hope will last forever. I have a handful of "adopted" kids from those days that I see or communicate with on a regular basis. Those kids gave me far more than I could give them; I built my confidence on my experiences with them, so they gave me this career that has made me so happy. No matter that they are now in their 30's. No matter what their age, they will always be my Roland babies.
Saturday, January 11, 2014
Trash or Treasure?
No matter how much we may want to keep the detritus of our lives, eventually we have to sort through the muck and choose what to keep and what to trash. Living in apartments until my late 30's was good for my packrat self; no matter how much I'd want to keep every single thing that came my way, I was forced to learn to purge. Apartment dwellers know that with every move, one gets less willing to drag things around that are of little use. Still, my sentimental heart refuses to let go of certain items. Having gone through the "trash or treasure?" debate many times over the years, I think I'm in a good position to make some suggestions.
Keep the trophies and awards that you won when you were young. They will remind you of a time when you were satisfied with small achievements, as were your parents. Oddly enough, ribbons for baking and sewing and crafts and photography can sometimes ease the ache for lost youth and innocence. The trophies for speaking and medals for singing will surprise you with the memory of when your biggest fear was performing in front of others, instead of the cold terror of losing a job, a home, or ability to function independently. You can't help but feel that at least part of your life was charmed.
Save cards and letters that you got when you were a small child, especially from family and friends long gone. That quick, piercing pain you feel when you see their familiar handwriting will pass, and a million warm memories will flood your mind. Anything they made for you should be treasured and protected, but not hidden away; appreciate these items every chance you get by seeing them in a case or on a shelf. Put away a copy of your graduation announcement and all your school pictures, for someone may want to know about that part of your life in the future, and there's no guarantee that you'll remember or even be there to remember for them. Of course, it goes without saying that school yearbooks should be preserved, even if it's just for yourself. Sometime in the future you will want to know the name of the bully from second grade who terrorized you, or the little bitch from junior high who made you feel so inadequate. Maybe you'll need to prove your hair color or the office you held in glee club to settle an argument; don't be hasty in ridding yourself of anything that could prove your point.
As the artifacts get newer, so do the wounds. Read old letters before you throw them out. I promise you'll be humored and horrified at the immaturity of your friends, implying your own immaturity. Even worse, some letters will answer questions you must have asked or address issues that were important to you, and the shallowness of your youth will be an unpleasant shock. Don't under any circumstances keep these letters. If you haven't been in touch with the person for more than a few years, chances are you never will be anyway. And is it really likely that any of them will be famous? You probably won't be burning money if you have a cozy little bonfire to torch your embarrassment. The one exception to the burn pile is letters from a first love or very significant other. These are like studying history; by doing so, hopefully you can avoid re-creating the mistakes from the past. Select one significant thing to burn if the relationship ended badly and set yourself free with that. Get rid of stuffed animals, but keep the show tickets, floral cards, CDs, and jewelry for a time when you need a boost to remember that yes, you have been worthy of gifts, and you will be again.
Keep your first piggy bank and your first Bible, your favorite toddler outfit and your childhood jewelry box, your tourist gifts and your remaining Scout items. Trash the truly awful kiddie crafts and kindergarten artwork---unless it goes on the Christmas tree. Put back your favorite books, sentimental notes from good friends, and the locks of hair your mother saved from your first haircut. Prize the irregularly printed but sweet notes of your baby sister and the tape of clarinet songs she recorded for you when she was in fifth grade. Save just enough to remember who you are, leaving room for who you will become.
Keep the trophies and awards that you won when you were young. They will remind you of a time when you were satisfied with small achievements, as were your parents. Oddly enough, ribbons for baking and sewing and crafts and photography can sometimes ease the ache for lost youth and innocence. The trophies for speaking and medals for singing will surprise you with the memory of when your biggest fear was performing in front of others, instead of the cold terror of losing a job, a home, or ability to function independently. You can't help but feel that at least part of your life was charmed.
Save cards and letters that you got when you were a small child, especially from family and friends long gone. That quick, piercing pain you feel when you see their familiar handwriting will pass, and a million warm memories will flood your mind. Anything they made for you should be treasured and protected, but not hidden away; appreciate these items every chance you get by seeing them in a case or on a shelf. Put away a copy of your graduation announcement and all your school pictures, for someone may want to know about that part of your life in the future, and there's no guarantee that you'll remember or even be there to remember for them. Of course, it goes without saying that school yearbooks should be preserved, even if it's just for yourself. Sometime in the future you will want to know the name of the bully from second grade who terrorized you, or the little bitch from junior high who made you feel so inadequate. Maybe you'll need to prove your hair color or the office you held in glee club to settle an argument; don't be hasty in ridding yourself of anything that could prove your point.
As the artifacts get newer, so do the wounds. Read old letters before you throw them out. I promise you'll be humored and horrified at the immaturity of your friends, implying your own immaturity. Even worse, some letters will answer questions you must have asked or address issues that were important to you, and the shallowness of your youth will be an unpleasant shock. Don't under any circumstances keep these letters. If you haven't been in touch with the person for more than a few years, chances are you never will be anyway. And is it really likely that any of them will be famous? You probably won't be burning money if you have a cozy little bonfire to torch your embarrassment. The one exception to the burn pile is letters from a first love or very significant other. These are like studying history; by doing so, hopefully you can avoid re-creating the mistakes from the past. Select one significant thing to burn if the relationship ended badly and set yourself free with that. Get rid of stuffed animals, but keep the show tickets, floral cards, CDs, and jewelry for a time when you need a boost to remember that yes, you have been worthy of gifts, and you will be again.
Keep your first piggy bank and your first Bible, your favorite toddler outfit and your childhood jewelry box, your tourist gifts and your remaining Scout items. Trash the truly awful kiddie crafts and kindergarten artwork---unless it goes on the Christmas tree. Put back your favorite books, sentimental notes from good friends, and the locks of hair your mother saved from your first haircut. Prize the irregularly printed but sweet notes of your baby sister and the tape of clarinet songs she recorded for you when she was in fifth grade. Save just enough to remember who you are, leaving room for who you will become.
Saturday, January 4, 2014
All Good Things
At this time of year, we all reflect on both the past and our hopes for the future. Looking over my blog posts, I realize that I have probably hit the zenith of my arc for this project. I haven't garnered a huge following, but I have a few faithful readers, and I thank each of you for reading, whether or not you comment or "like" or message me about what you read. From time to time, I check the stats on how many people read each post, and it's usually between 40 and 90. All of you are the reason I've been able to keep up the project for the last 18 months.
But all good things must come to an end. This blog has disciplined me in numerous ways, but I don't see that I can carry it on indefinitely. I'm setting an end date for July, which will make two full years of weekly blogs. I think I can keep coming up with topics until then.
Usually, inspiration strikes sometime late in the week, but there are a lot of weeks that I don't decide what I'll write about until Saturday afternoon or evening. That's one of the reasons that I don't think this should be an endless project: if I had all that much to say, I'd never run out of topics. Now, I have several things still in my mind to write about, though I won't list them here. But I'd like to know if there are particular topics I should be or could be writing about.
If you've read this far, you're one of my faithful, probably someone who knows me first-hand. I'm asking for your help with the last six months of writing. I hope you'll comment or message me and suggest a topic, idea, event, person, or thing you'd like to read my thoughts on. Not that I have any great insights on anything in this world, but you are all interesting peeps yourselves, and I'd like to see what I can do with ideas from someone else, rather than just my own little random thoughts.
You can leave comments or messages here or on Facebook. I hope you'll consider offering something, anything that you'd like to challenge me to spin into something close to a minimum five-paragraph essay. Who knows what might come of it?
Good 2014 to you all, friends.
But all good things must come to an end. This blog has disciplined me in numerous ways, but I don't see that I can carry it on indefinitely. I'm setting an end date for July, which will make two full years of weekly blogs. I think I can keep coming up with topics until then.
Usually, inspiration strikes sometime late in the week, but there are a lot of weeks that I don't decide what I'll write about until Saturday afternoon or evening. That's one of the reasons that I don't think this should be an endless project: if I had all that much to say, I'd never run out of topics. Now, I have several things still in my mind to write about, though I won't list them here. But I'd like to know if there are particular topics I should be or could be writing about.
If you've read this far, you're one of my faithful, probably someone who knows me first-hand. I'm asking for your help with the last six months of writing. I hope you'll comment or message me and suggest a topic, idea, event, person, or thing you'd like to read my thoughts on. Not that I have any great insights on anything in this world, but you are all interesting peeps yourselves, and I'd like to see what I can do with ideas from someone else, rather than just my own little random thoughts.
You can leave comments or messages here or on Facebook. I hope you'll consider offering something, anything that you'd like to challenge me to spin into something close to a minimum five-paragraph essay. Who knows what might come of it?
Good 2014 to you all, friends.
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