On aging

Author's Note: The following post will sound whiney. But bear with me...there is a point.

I've never had a hard time with birthdays and the concept of aging...until last week when I turned 26. Suddenly, everything about me seemed old. My knees throbbed on runs, my hands suddenly showed age and looked worn, my gray hairs were in abundance, and I was not carded the few times I ordered a beer with dinner. It occurred to me last week that I hadn't been mistaken for a student in some time (my first year of teaching, I was frequently mistaken for a high school senior). In conversation a few weeks ago I expressed my love for cardigans, NPR, and...birds. Yes, birds. Late nights are a kick in the pants. I'd trade an evening on the town for a quiet night at home in my pajamas any day. I stopped in at some trendy little boutique here in Omaha last week and found myself scowling at the dresses that only reached my mid-thigh (WAYYYY too short for this old lady). Lately, excitement for me is a trip to Trader Joe's. I never worried about eating sugary foods, but as I ate a slice of homemade carrot cake a few days before my birthday, I wondered what part of my body I'd soon see this cake on.

I know it sounds crazy--especially to those of you have a few years on me--but for the first time in my life, I feel old.

I don't really know what to do with this. I don't know if I should do something crazy like get a tattoo or purchase a motorcycle to remind me of how young I am. I don't know if I should embrace it and give in to my not-so-secret desire to pick up a birds of the Midwest identification book. It's exhausting.

It's also difficult to accept that your life may not look like what you dreamed up when you were a kid. In my teen years, I had this romantic vision of what my life would look like at 26: a husband, a house, a few kids with popsicle stained smiles, long hair (because I seriously believed that all really mature chicks had long hair), a dog, a long list of countries traveled to, and casseroles on the dinner table. I do have a swell husband and a feisty little dog...but that's it from the aforementioned list. We have no kids in sight. I live in the basement of someone else's house. I've had short hair for three years because I'm too lazy to have long hair. I don't plan ahead enough to make casseroles. And I don't make enough Benjamins to travel around the world.

After my run this morning I flipped on the Today Show and watched the Smucker's Jam guy give birthday shout-outs to lots of people who are 100 years or older. The last woman on the list was 113 years old. I wondered if she felt the same way I do when she turned 26. I wondered how she feels today, on her 113th birthday. The Smucker's Jam guy said something about her secret to longevity is putting others before herself.

Of course that made me feel pretty terrible about my week of whining about "getting old." I feel like I lose so much time sulking and feeling sorry for myself (in many situations) that I miss out on opportunities to serve others or simply enjoy being alive and healthy. This year I'll embrace being 26--even if 26 doesn't include a house and kids.

An Argument I Embody

Author’s Note: A teacher in our NeWP institute mentioned an idea of having students write an essay about an argument they embody as a way to teach persuasive writing (there are so many great teachers in this course; it's both humbling and inspiring!). It intrigued me, so I tried it. When I sat down to actually write it, I found the task incredibly difficult! Here’s what came out in an attempt to write about an argument I embody. It’s not perfect---but it did help me to articulate how I teach and why I teach that way.

I've always wanted to be critical. I think that's why I wrote essays in high school comparing and contrasting Christianity with Buddhism, or persuading people to adopt a vegetarian lifestyle. Every now and then in my undergraduate degree program, I challenged my education professors who seemed to have all the answers for teaching K-12 but no experience actually teaching in this setting. I don't think I truly learned what it meant to be critical and intentional, though, until I became a teacher.

Suddenly I was tasked with educating students only three to four years younger than me. During my first few years of teaching, I lost sleep as I contemplated the consequences I could have on students. After year one I was exhausted, and I wanted to simply open the book and start with page one working our way to page 407 by the end of the year. I thought back to some of my own high school experiences, and few classes stood out to me. The ones that do/did were alive with discussion, allowed me to make connections with other subjects, encouraged freedom of exploration, and gave me hands on experiences. The unremarkable classes lie buried deep in the cobwebs of memory. These were the classes where the teacher remained rigid in the curricula---relying mainly on the textbook and his or her own knowledge as the method of delivery expecting the rest of us to simply soak it up. I wanted my class to come alive for my students--even those who hated English. I wanted my students to feel energy in the classroom that was irresistible--that drove them to write and speak because they simply had to. I wanted them to think because they wanted to, not because I told them. So though I wanted to, I simply couldn't rely on the textbook to teach the course for me.

I came to learn that I must be intentional, open, and teach out of love. I learned to research, revise, and talk to the kids about what worked and what failed. My students must be the center of my classroom. I had to learn to set my ego aside and let them drive their own learning. I had to convert lectures into student-driven discussion. I had to learn to listen instead of talk. I soon made a habit of taking classes myself so I could experience learning alongside them. I wanted to learn from other teachers how to teach with fire.

When I became critical about teaching, my classroom transformed. Discipline issues minimized, and students seemed to be truly learning and not simply memorizing concepts for a test that would determine their knowledge. They began asking questions and then came to synthesize information to formulate their own critical utterances.

As liberating as this method is, it's equally exhausting. It's not always successful, and sometimes I grow so tired that out of necessity I give a worksheet. I usually feel terrible after grading the worksheets knowing I could have done better by them.

In and out of the classroom, I try to embody the argument that to teach with love is to be critical and deliberate. I wonder if I will be able to sustain this argument year after year and teach despite oppressive curricular mandates and apathetic teachers and students.

One of Those Days

Author’s note: As I've mentioned before, I'm currently co-facilitating a course through the Nebraska Writing Project. Part of the course requirement is a daily writing expectation. Each day we are responsible for bringing a piece to our writing group. And each institute I take, I write a resistance to writing piece. This is my resistance to writing piece for the year. It was frustrating yesterday to sit and wait for a bolt of writing lightening to hit me...because nothing came. I sat outside for nearly three hours and wrote almost nothing. I tried reading to inspire me. I tried people watching. Yesterday was just one of those days....as a writing teacher, it's good for me to experience these so I can help my students through those dry days when they feel they have nothing to write. So...here's my sub-par resistance to writing poem:


One of Those Days

You know the ones---
the ones where
you don't talk
and you don't write
because you have nothing to say.
But really, the words...
they're present and floating.
you just can't grasp them long enough
to plug them on the screen.

Today is one of those days.

And besides,
who's gonna listen to a word I utter?
I’m 25,
privileged,
few real struggles to overcome.
Who will listen to me blather about life
when I haven't lived long?
And who will listen to me preach about teaching
when I’m barely older than my own students?

But I do have stories to write.
I just don't.
I keep them locked in my bones,
and when they ache to get out,
I run as long and as fast as my legs will take me.
I like to think the stories fly out when I run,
landing in sparrows' ears
who later turn them into simple yet beautiful
songs outside peoples' bedroom windows.

It's a temporary release, this method of mine.
The stories,
they somehow find their way back into my bones,
and the next day they pulse begging to be told.

I should just write these stories down, I think.
But thinking is my problem.
Really, I think my thinking is more fear.
Fear of the weight my stories will bare
or the consequence I'll have for telling.
Fear of who might read these stories
and what opinion they'll assume.

Yet I know
our stories must be written.
So I will plod along
pecking these keys against my will.