What I hope they learn

Though the phrase "back-to-school" haunts many people, today it is good.

Because it's another opportunity to let people know they matter.

I honestly can't believe I'm starting my seventh year of teaching. I know it's trite to say it, but it just goes by so fast. Seriously, so fast. Wasn't I just a first-year teacher and praying I would know what I was doing each day I walked through those classroom doors?

I remember the feeling I used to get when I was younger on the night before the first day of school. There was always excitement and apprehension combined into one. Who would be in my classes? What would my teachers be like? Would I have lunch with people I liked? Would I have enough time after athletics to get ready and make it to class on time? Would I have a lot of homework? Had a lot of the people I knew changed over the summer? Would this be the year I finally got a boyfriend? (Obviously that last question was a "no" every year.)

As a teacher, the questions have changed a bit. What will my new students be like? Will I be able to meet the learning needs of every kid who walks through that door? Will they respect me? Am I actually doing a good job at this teaching thing? Will I remember to take care of all of the tasks I'm supposed to as a faculty member? Will I make a positive influence on these young people who have so many expectations of me? Will they leave my class better people who are ready to impact the world?

When I was a student, I thought teachers had it made. They showed up to work, taught us stuff they had already mastered, gave us a bunch of work to do, slapped a number on it for a grade, then got an entire summer off after the school year ended. Easy breezy.

And then I became a teacher, and I realized how ignorant I had been.

There's a lot more pressure than I ever imagined there would be in teaching. There are so many people depending on you, and, the strange part is, you want them to depend on you. Because you actually care for those kids. There hasn't been a single child who has come through that classroom door whom I haven't wanted to see succeed—even the kid who once told me that I wasn't God and that he hated me (and also threw in a few cuss words) when I asked him not to work on his history homework during my class. I still really wanted him to do well and realize his potential in life. I hope he eventually did.

We be ready

I know not every student is going to like me, and that's fine. But I want them to learn from me—really learn. Some of them will leave my class and never write another news story or edit another feature segment, and those may be things they forget about entirely, but I hope they take genuine life lessons away from here. I hope they know what it means to love and care for people. I hope they know what it means to try hard at something, even if it's something that challenges them beyond their comfort levels. I hope they know what it means to succeed. I hope they know what it means to fail but try again, anyway. I hope they know what it means to listen to people and respect their opinions. I hope they know what it means to have faith in something they can't see. I hope they know what it means to dance like no one is watching and not care what anyone else thinks. I hope they know what it means to be themselves, because they are wonderful. I hope they know what it means to laugh without fear of the future. I hope they know what it means to overcome obstacles when the odds are against them. I hope they know what it means to be valued and loved.

And, if nothing else, I hope they know that I care about them more than my words can ever say.

I'm going to stand in front of those kids today and for the rest of the school year, and I'm going to do my best to teach them well. There will be times that I make mistakes, and there will be times that I get frustrated with some of them. But, there will never be a time when I make them feel like they aren't important or loved.

Though I'm the one with the title of "teacher," I have done so much learning during these last six years. I've certainly learned more patience than I ever could have imagined, but I've also learned what it means to care for students as if they were my own kids. Teachers don't get upset with students who fail because it reflects poorly on their teaching skills—they get upset because they actually care about those kids and want them to do well. If you've ever seen the face and the excitement of a student who finally accomplishes something after trying so hard, then you would definitely understand. It's a sight that puts a permanent smile on your heart. And when a student writes you a note of thanks or lets you know that you in some way helped, it completely erases those moments of stress, fatigue and questions of why you are doing any of this that you sometimes have when your stack of grading starts piling up, and it seems like no one is listening to anything you're saying during your lessons.

Because this is why you do it: for them.

I'm going to start the new year today and try to memorize the name of every face who walks through the door. It will probably take me a couple of class periods to get them all down, but it will get done. I'm going to have fun with these kids. I'm going to have high expectations for them. I am going to challenge them. I am going to make them meet deadlines and learn practical communication skills. There will be times they are not happy with me. There will be times I am not happy with them. But I hope they leave each day with their hearts full.

Because every single person in this world deserves to know what it means to be cared for and loved.

I already miss my friend

There are a lot of firsts in life, and not all of them make me excited.

And today is one of those times.

Today I will walk through the doors of the high school where I teach to kick-start the year with another week of in-service. But, this year, I will walk through those doors knowing how different this school year will be, but I am going to try not to think about it. I cry probably about twice a year, and I certainly don't want today to be one of those times.

It will certainly be challenging, though, because I already miss my friend.

A lot.

This is my seventh year of teaching (and only at one school), and it will be the first year I face without my work best friend. I met Peltz in my first year, and it was more toward the end of the school year that we really started getting to know each other. Instantly, we clicked. We just sort of get each other. You know the time of person I'm talking about—the one from the quote: "The best kind of friend is the kind you can sit on a porch swing with, never say a word, then walk away feeling like it was the best conversation you've ever had."

There's something so special about having a work best friend, because—let's be honest—every single day at any job is not going to be full of sunshine and laughter. There are going to be times when you need to run down the hall, even if it's only for just a hug, and know that there is someone who is there for you. You share good news with each other; you share bad news with each other. You laugh together; you cry and vent together. You celebrate together; you mourn together. You talk things through together; you sit in silence and just be present when that's all that's needed together. You check up on each other; you have each other's backs. You give advice; you simply listen. You're just there together.

I will miss these

I already miss my friend.

I will never forget a few years ago around this time of year when a small emergency happened, and Peltz stuck by my side the entire way. We were at in-service, when I suddenly started having some severe pain. I have a history of ruptured ovarian cysts, and I had a feeling that's what it was again. I'm not lying when I say I literally couldn't move. We were playing some game with balloons (I swear we actually do stuff with curriculum during this week), and I had to sit down. When everyone was dismissed to go to their assigned areas, I stayed sitting. My principal came over and talked to me and decided I needed to go to the hospital. I texted Peltz, and she was immediately by my side then out the door to pull her car around to the back side of the building.

Peltz not only took me to the hospital, but she stayed with me the entire time. My parents came up there later to check on me (I think I had called one of them just to let them know—you know, in case I died. I'm not dramatic.), and one thing my dad said to me as I was leaving was, "That girl right there is a true friend."

And he's right.

After I was given the usual post-cyst instructions, we left the hospital. It was lunchtime, so we went through the Chick-fil-A drive-thru, and I introduced Peltz to Chick-fil-A sauce, which is the best condiment (next to ketchup, of course) to grace the nation. Ever. We ate in her car in the school parking lot, and she dared me to eat one of the sauce packets by itself—so, essentially, drink it. And I did. Because that's what true friends do.

A couple of years ago, we started taking what we call our "Wednesday pics," in which we usually look up and off into the distance. Sometimes we even coordinated outfits. The best was when for our final pic of the school year last year Peltz showed up with these precious tiny pink hats for us to wear. She always did little things like that. Wednesdays will never be the same.

I host the pep rallies for our school, and there was one last year in which I had to announce a bunch of candidates for the Homecoming court, and I needed someone to help me simply by holding the envelopes and possibly opening them so I could call out the winners of the underclassmen. Of course Peltz helped. She didn't say a word the whole time but instead was my Vanna and just followed me around the floor (even as I almost tripped on those mats in my heels). She was just always there for me.

I already miss my friend.

On thing that's so great about my friendship with Peltz, though, is that we are more than just work friends. We are real friends. Although it's going to be really tough not having her with me at work every day, I know that it's not the end of a friendship. I'm excited for the new opportunity she has in a different district, and I know we will make even greater efforts to catch up now that we don't get to see each other daily.

So, I walk through the doors today sad but not completely disheartened. Life is a journey, and sometimes you have to take pathways separately from people who have special places in your heart. But, just like little kids playing tag, you can always find each other back at home base. It's where you find safety, security, and trust.

Because true friendship can withstand anything that life throws its way.

Don't say goodbye to Sandra Dee

One thing I love about people is that we are all so different.

I just wish more people didn't feel like being different is a bad thing. Because it isn't. At all.

The movie Grease was on television the other night, and the Rangers weren't playing so I decided to watch it. Now, I'm certainly not trying to ruin what I guess is considered a "classic musical" for anyone, but I couldn't help but wonder why so many people love this movie as much as they do. Sure, the songs are rather catchy, but I don't understand how this movie is considered a love story.

I know it's just a movie, but the whole concept made me a little upset as I let it all soak in. Throughout the entire story, Danny constantly seems ashamed of being with a "good girl," because he has the reputation of being one of the "bad boys." Toward the end of the movie, Sandy sits alone on that concrete slant area (I'm sure there is some technical term for whatever it is) and watches Danny win the car race, and then she sings to herself:

Look at me; there has to be

Something more than what they see

Wholesome and pure, oh so scared and unsure

A poor man's Sandra Dee

Sandy, you must start anew

Don't you know what you must do?

Hold your head high; take a deep breath, and sigh

Goodbye to Sandra Dee

I hate that song.

There's nothing wrong with being wholesome and pure, and it makes me sad that Sandy thinks she has to change who she is so that someone will love her. We know what happens next: Sandy shows up to the graduation carnival dressed in a bunch of tight leather and smoking a cigarette. Then, all of a sudden, Danny is perfectly comfortable chasing her around and not afraid of what his friends think of him anymore.

Funny how that worked out.

Sadly, even though this is "just a movie," it reflects what many people feel they have to do to make others love them. They aren't willing to be themselves and, instead, change the ways they talk or act or dress or think all to impress people. But, if you have to become someone you're not in order for someone to love you, then it isn't real love.

As someone who works with high school kiddos on a daily basis, I've seen countless instances of young girls leaving behind innocence completely so that they can "fit in" better and catch the attention of whatever guys they're eyeing at the time. And most of those relationships—if they even amount to that—don't end up lasting.

If I can offer any amount of encouragement to anyone out there, it's be comfortable being you. You were wonderfully made as you are for a reason. And there is Someone who will always love you just as you are—you don't have to try to be someone you aren't.

If you love singing out loud in the car, don't stop that; if you love eating ketchup on your macaroni and cheese, don't hesitate to pour it on there (no matter where you are); if you like to wear your hair curly, don't constantly straighten it just because some cute guy once complimented how great it looked; if high heels make your feet hurt, then don't wear them; if you like heels but are afraid people will think you're too tall, walk in them with pride; if you have a hobby you really enjoy (like origami or wood carving), don't feel like you have to hide it or give it up for someone; if you like following rules, don't start breaking them so that you seem so cool.

If someone loves you—actually loves you—then he needs to love all of you just as you are. Love should not be conditional, and you should not have to wear tight leather and smash a cigarette on the ground in your sassy shoes in order to capture a fella's heart.

So don't say goodbye to Sandra Dee.

Because sometimes things happen when you're Elvis

Sometimes a crushed dream can actually lead you to something better that helps shape you into the person you're meant to be.

Even when you're dressed like Elvis.

When I was driving home from the gym the other day, I still had my headphones in, and a song from High School Musical 3: Senior Year came on, so I had to start belting it. Obviously. After a while, it occurred to me that my voice was the only thing resonating in my car, so I took out one earbud to hear what my singing sounded like. It wasn't too awful, and I decided I still contend that Mariah and I are soul sistas.

Then I had a flashback to fifth grade.

I had joined choir at school that year, because I figured it would be useful to me in my pursuit of becoming a professional singer. My choir teacher, however, didn't really seem to have the same belief in my talent as I did. Open House was fast-approaching, where the entire school would be showcasing various work from throughout the year for all of the parents. This included a performance of a television theme and commercial song medley sung by the fifth-grade choir. I was so excited to audition for a solo and really thought I nailed it. I hadn't gotten a solo in the Christmas concert, but I knew my teacher would give me one for this performance—I just knew it.

Oh, I got a solo, indeed. It was certainly not what I desired, though, because there was truly no actual singing involved. It was more of a talking part, as my job was to provide a portion of the theme from Beverly Hillbillies: "Then one day he was shootin' at some food, and up through the ground came a bubblin' crude. Oil, that is, black gold, Texas tea." This was not going to help my career.

The night of Open House, I walked the halls of my elementary school with my Elvis costume on and my head held high. You see, for my actual classroom assignment, all of the students had to dress up as famous historical figures and recite brief biographies when anyone came up to them and asked them about their characters. Somehow I had wound up with Elvis. I headed for the cafeteria—I was ready to use my best hillbilly accent and say that line as theatrically as I possibly could. I like to think the people appreciated it.

After the performance, I went to my classroom so that I could spend the rest of the night talking about what it was like to be Elvis. I was still a little disappointed about not being able to sing, and something in me snapped. I was in the middle of talking about something significant in the King's life, when I stopped mid-sentence and just busted into "Hound Dog." I started both dancing and singing, and a crowd started to come toward me. So, for the rest of Open House, I didn't talk about Elvis at all. In fact, all of my research was rendered useless as I just continued to sing and dance for people. It was a lot of fun, actually.

I guess I got my solo after all.

I know my music teacher wasn't trying to ruin my life and shoot down a young girl's hopes of surpassing Janet Jackson (she was the first concert I ever attended), but I experienced a brief period of discouragement when I didn't get the solo I had originally sought. (I had really wanted the part singing the "Chaquita Banana" jingle.)

Don't give up

We are definitely all going to face moments in life where things we thought were going to happen don't. But maybe it's not just so you have to undergo some form of torture—maybe it's because God actually has something bigger and so much better prepared for you. Maybe you didn't get the job you wanted, because there's one that pays better and is more suitable for you that just isn't quite available yet; maybe you didn't get accepted into that leadership organization, because you needed to have Monday nights open so that you could bump into your future husband in the library that night, instead; maybe you didn't get invited to that party you thought you'd be going to, because you were supposed to go skating with your sister and end up having one of the most fun and memorable nights of your life.

Maybe you didn't get the solo, because you were supposed to have some private concert that essentially made you become a more confident person who is comfortable in her own skin.

Don't let a disappointment lead to discouragement. The moment hope gets lost, quite a bit gets lost with it. And there's a difference between losing yourself like Eminem tells you to do and losing yourself completely because of things not going the way you pictured in your mind.

So snap back to reality, and make it a worthwhile reality.