Moving Day

On December 14, 2007, I had an altercation with a student that closely resembled a scene that had played out previously...in a seventh grade classroom in 1991. I couldn't believe that years after that first event, I had been insensitive as a teacher again. I was so distraught I decided to write about it, to try to work through it the best way I know how - in words. That day I wrote my first ever blog post on The Dream Teacher blog. A week later I wrote about some student holiday gifts that touched me so much. Those students will be seniors in high school next year, and I'm so glad I have the stories to remind me of their sweet middle school days.

I have been fortunate to have so many of you read my posts over the past four and a half years. The teacher stories keep popping in my head, and as long as someone besides my mother reads them, I'll keep writing. (Heck, I'll keep writing as long as my mother keeps reading, even if she's the only one...) But today I'm writing to announce that we've moved. My Dream Teacher blog is now on my website, and I hope you'll follow me there. I really want to take my virtual friends with me. 

Head on over to cindirigsbee.com and check out what's going on from time to time. I still have more stories to share...

Teacher Love

When I was pregnant with my second child, I had a two-year-old daughter who I adored. To me, she was the cutest, sweetest, and smartest child ever born. The way she would reach her arms up to me and say, "Hold you, Mommy, hold you" would make my heart melt. In many ways she was my whole world back in those days, but people told me that I would love my next child just as much. Although I could grasp that idea cognitively, it was really hard to imagine.

But soon my son was born, and what a sleepy baby! I don't think he opened his eyes until the third day in the hospital. I was holding him on that day when the phone in my hospital room rang. My husband, on the other end of the line, asked, "What are you doing?" at the same time my baby opened his eyes and squinted up at me in reaction to the light. My eyes locked with that little sleepy boy, and I answered simply, "I'm falling in love with your son..." It had happened. Without time to really get to know my second child and learn if he would be adorable and sweet and smart, I loved him. I loved both of them, and still do, just the same.

I'm reminded of that at this special time of year in a school. Teachers and students are counting down days; some schools are out already, and summer is upon us. Back when I had my own classroom, I experienced over twenty years of "last days of school." I've stood in a line of teacher-dancers on the cafeteria wall, kicking up our legs and waving to the exiting school buses, smelling that exhaust for the last time for over two months, seeing those grinning faces smashed to the windows, some I'll never see again as they go off to high school. I've look at some of those faces and have known the truth - summer will be difficult for those who go to school and "escape" from dismal situations at home. I wave at those kids the hardest, my hand reaching out to them, hoping to hold them under the safety net of the schoolhouse for just a little longer...

Every year I have reflected on the group of students leaving me and have said quietly to myself, "I'll never love a group of kids as much as this group. They were the best group I ever taught." One thing you may not know if you aren't a teacher...each school year brings a group of students with a "whole group personality." And in the middle school, we hear about them years before they get to us. Just wait until you get the group that's in fourth grade now...they're sure a bunch of talkers! or The kids you'll get next year are so sweet.. (and occasionally some rather negative descriptions are included during our conversations with those who have them before us.) 

Then every year, I look out over that classroom at the beginning of school and think, "I'll never love them like last year's group." 

But then it happens. A seventh grader says something endearing, like the year my student Tevin told me he had a friend who didn't celebrate Christmas; instead, "He celebrates Harmonica." And the student who answered to "What are the adverb questions?" (the answer is How, When, Where, and To What Extent) with "How, When, Where, and What's the Matter?" Okay, maybe you had to be there...

In every class there is a child who slowly wraps himself around my heart - "Mrs. Rigsbee, my family doesn't have things, and sometimes it makes me so mad, I think I may just go out and steal what I want" and those who do it a little more quickly - on the first day - "I'll try not to drive you crazy. I'm my parents' worst nightmare."

Then I watch them sing in the chorus concert, cheer at the football games, dance at their first school dance in the cafeteria. I read their journals and follow their little dramas; I watch them sit with no lunch because their account is out of money. I hear voices change, see pants grow too short, soothe the tears, and rejoice in the smiles. Before you know it, the year is almost over. Then you know what I think?

I think I'll never love a group of kids like this one.

Dr. LeRoy T. Walker, An Olympic Legend

We met while working together on an education committee in 1998. He was famous in my hometown, an Olympic track and field coach and the first black president of the United States Olympic Committee; I was in awe. I was a local middle school teacher, and he thought I was funny. Not to be outdone walking back from lunch to our committee meeting one day, he told a joke and gave me that trademark grin. I ran the length of the sidewalk and did a handspring in front of the UNC School of Education's Peabody Hall. Later, he would tell me that was the moment he knew we would be friends.

We would go to lunch, an unlikely dining couple: me, a mid-career white teacher laughing at the black Chancellor Emeritus twice my age at the University Club where he always took me. (We got some stares.) He would tell me stories of his early days, what it was like to be the baby of thirteen children, and his days in Harlem where he went to live with his brother after his father died. He talked about his years as an athlete and an award-winning coach, and his eyes would gloss over when he spoke of his wife Katherine, who died in 1978. I had little to offer in the way of comparable stories so I told him about my students. Many times he helped me understand how to reach a troubled one or laughed with me over a funny classroom story.

I was honored when he presented me with a signed copy of his biography, An Olympic Journey: The Saga of an American Hero. He also gave me a United States Olympic Committee medallion, something I cherish to this day. 

My friend, Dr. LeRoy T. Walker, the man of so many accomplishments and so many stories, died yesterday. It took me an entire day to summon up the courage to open the book he gave me and read his inscription:

Cindi,

I owe a debt of gratitude to the North Carolina Teaching Fellows program for bringing us together. It was a pleasure to work with you. Congratulations on your honor as an outstanding teacher and educator. Your school is fortunate to utilize your special skills this academic year. 

With every good wish for continued success in all of your endeavors, I remain

Sincerely,

LeRoy

Dr. Walker, so many, including me, owe a debt of gratitude to you. The consummate teacher, coach, instructor, and educator, you have touched thousands. We will miss you.

Say hello to Katherine for us.

Teacher Professional Growth - What Matters?

I was 43 years old when I started working on a master's degree. These days it's common for teachers to pursue graduate degrees shortly after earning a bachelor's, but in 1979 when I started teaching, that was the exception. So I'd been teaching awhile when I applied to graduate school.

The program was new, the first cohort of practicing classroom teachers to pursue a degree in K-12 Literacy at the same university that awarded me a bachelor's degree in Secondary English Education. It was significant that the program was for teachers, in actual classrooms, because it made the work relative and meaningful. In addition, our schedules were considered so no classes started before we could get out of school, maneuver around car pools and buses, and meet together at an off-campus site that was convenient to us.

At the risk of being melodramatic, my master's program was life-changing to me, as a teacher and as a person. But last week, I heard a Superintendent of another state's Department of Education tell a room full of teachers that a master's degree doesn't make a difference in the classroom. He went on to add that a PhD doesn't matter either. Oh, and neither does National Board Certification. I'll get back to that...

But first, I'd like to let Dr. Superintendent, who, by the way, has never taught one day in a K-12 classroom, know that, as a result of my graduate degree, there are now hundreds of struggling readers who've been assessed and diagnosed, and, as a result of my ability to pinpoint their exact deficiencies in reading, have had the opportunity to grow by a grade level or more during my time with them. Because of my master's degree, I put my overhead projector away and stopped the "correct this sentence" daily warm-up because I figured out that my students were unable to make the connection to their own writing.

My research in graduate school, on the effects of poverty on reading, enabled me to better understand my students and the struggles they brought to my classroom. I literally left that program with an arsenal of instructional strategies that made me a better teacher.

In addition, the collaboration that occurred in that program helped me understand what my students were experiencing before they got to me in middle school - there were over twenty elementary school teachers in my cohort. We discussed, we bounced ideas off each other, and we listened to concerns, research results, and success stories. As a practicing classroom teacher, I was able to connect to every story, an experience that was different from when I earned my first degree and had never taught my own students.

My master's degree mattered.

Before I even walked across the stage to receive my graduate diploma in 2003, I had begun the process of National Board Certification, another growth experience that changed me as a teacher. I was able to take those strategies I learned in my graduate program and mold them to fit the needs of my own students. While writing my entries and viewing my videotapes, I reflected on ways to improve my teaching: I spent hours trying to determine how to help my students grow in reading and writing, an accomplishment that a candidate for National Board Certification must prove in order to be certified in English/Language Arts.

I was able to scrutinize every element of my teaching as I pursued National Board Certification, and at the same time I honed up on some skills I had learned back during my undergraduate days - I reviewed my content vocabulary and revisited my college textbooks in an effort to prepare for the assessments that are an integral component of the National Board process. I also reflected on my accomplishments as a teacher leader in my school and looked for ways to make a bigger impact on my profession.

I remember asking myself a million questions while planning each lesson: how can I teach this better? How can I raise my expectations for how I teach and how my students learn? National Board Certification was the reason I asked those questions.

When confronted by the teachers in the audience who disagreed with the Superintendent's opinions, he answered, "The research does not show that master's degrees and National Board Certification make a difference. It is clear that the really good teachers are the ones who pursue higher degrees and national certifications anyway. They're already good."

Well, Dr. Superintendent, I may not have numbers and percentages and data. But what I do have are stories. For every negative thing you can say about the ways that we grow as teachers, I can tell you a specific story about a specific teacher who made a difference to kids who aren't numbers, kids who have actual faces and names. I'd love the opportunity to sit down with you and tell you those stories.

Just so you know, when I wrote my National Board Certification entry and chose the one thing that was the most meaningful in reference to my growth as a teacher, I chose my master's degree. If I had gone through the National Board process first, and had been asked to reflect on my growth while writing a graduate paper later, I would have named National Board Certification as the most significant. Both experiences changed me as a teacher and impacted hundreds of students as a result.

Shame on you, Dr. Superintendent, for not listening to what the very teachers you are supposed to represent are trying to tell you. Sometimes it's not about the research, the data, and the numbers. Sometimes it's about real classroom teachers and their real life-changing experiences.

And always...it's about the faces of the students who learn as a result.

Finding Miss Kilpatrick

My sister in elementary school...such a cutie!

Picture this: you're a little girl, seven or eight years old, and you share a bedroom with your sister. Every time you try to enter your own room, you're met with a shriek: "GET OUT! I'M PLAYING 'MISS KILPATRICK!!!'"

Or what if you say to your little sister, "Do you want to play with me?" and she always, always, says, "Yes, let's play Miss Kilpatrick!"

My sister Lisa had every reason to adore her first grade teacher because like me, she actually had two first grade teachers. And like me, she had a rough start in school.

If you've read my book Finding Mrs. Warnecke: The Difference Teachers Make, or have heard one of my keynote speeches, or have stood in the same room with me for over five minutes, you know that I started out first grade with a teacher who wasn't very nurturing and encouraging. But after a stroke of luck, fate, and fairy dust, I was removed from that class and sent to Mrs. Warnecke's room in the basement. It was there that everything changed.

My sister's story is almost identical, except in her case it was the teacher who moved on, not her. Lisa's first first grade teacher was even less nurturing than mine if that's possible. There are horrific stories of a stick, a bamboo rod maybe, that stood in the corner threatening the roomful of six-year-olds. She tells that although her body wanted her to write with her left hand, her teacher grabbed her right hand and tried to make it write. She especially remembers the day she glanced at the boy in the seat behind her, never saying a word. But she and the boy were made to stand by the concrete wall during recess so that the other kids could look at them and laugh.

(Another teacher came by and spoke in a soothing manner to my sister that day - my own Mrs. Warnecke - who continued to make a difference with children even after I had finished my first, and second, grade years.)

My mother recalls taking a ride in an administrator's car back then, an attempt to get him off campus so she could tell him what was what about that classroom. His words to her? "That teacher will be gone soon." It seems my mother wasn't the only parent complaining about the situation in my sister's class.

Exit mean teacher with the bamboo rod. Enter Miss Kilpatrick.

By this point Lisa was terrified of school, too scared to speak, but Miss Kilpatrick encouraged her, made her feel safe, even allowed her to actually enjoy school. For that reason, the "Miss Kilpatrick" game of lining up stuffed animals and baby dolls and teaching them from a small chalkboard became Lisa's favorite pastime.

Fast forward forty-five years. Again Mrs. Warnecke has made a difference. It was she who sent "Miss Kilpatrick" the book Finding Mrs. Warnecke, the story that took place in an elementary school in the sixties. It was she who enabled a little first grader, now a grown woman, to find her beloved teacher.

Miss Kilpatrick (now Dr. Bradshaw) is a recently retired career educator. Over the years she taught children (like my sister) how to have confidence, and eventually she even taught adults how to be leaders in schools. She, too, has made a difference.

Our correspondence has been similar to those early conversations with Mrs. Warnecke - stories from the "old days" at Bragtown Elementary, reminiscing about former teachers and students we can recall. For example, Dr. Bradshaw remembers, as my mother and my sister do, a student in that first grade class who used to climb out the window. I was able to tell her the "rest of the story" - that student grew up to go to jail and, at one point, even escape from prison. I ended with "some things never change."

And it is true....some things don't change....like the thrill you get when you reconnect with a teacher from your childhood. That experience has changed my life, and as a result my sister has been able to reflect on her early days as a student and think about what shaped her - as a student and as a person.

Thank you Mrs. Warnecke and Dr. Bradshaw for the care you gave to two troubled little girls in an old elementary school building. We've never forgotten...

A Letter to the Youth Correctional Facility

Dear Curtis,

What were you doing a week ago right now? Were you hanging out with friends on a lazy Sunday afternoon? Were you talking with your family, maybe your Dad, about what you had coming up in the week? Did you ever, for even a second, picture yourself sitting in jail in five short days? Did you ever think that so many lives would be devastated in a mere three days because you would have your hands on a gun?

What were you doing five years ago right now? I know the answer to that one. You were taking your time walking to my class every day and swearing over and over that the cigarette smoke I smelled was on someone else's clothes. You were sitting in my seventh grade class with your entire life ahead of you. Is this how you thought it would turn out?

Do you remember that our class song was Natasha Bedingfield's Unwritten? Do you remember that we talked about the lyrics - "Today is where your book begins; the rest is still unwritten" - over and over? Remember how I would play the song and we would dance and sing around the room? We were Glee before Glee was cool. We were Middle School Musical! You didn't so much sing and dance as stand in the corner and grin, looking at your crazy teacher and your classmates who would shout "THE REST IS STILL UNWRITTEN" until the windows shook.

Remember how we wrote timelines of our lives? We started on that day in that classroom and mapped out everything we thought we'd be doing the rest of our lives. You struggled with that assignment. While other students plugged in high school, college, playing professional sports, and getting married, you kind of stared at the paper. I tried to help you, encouraging you along, but you told me you probably wouldn't go to college, maybe wouldn't finish high school. You did want to get married and have a family...you wrote that on your chart, but other than that it wasn't very clear for you. I promised to help you feel more comfortable with schoolwork so that maybe college could be in your future. You reluctantly placed that on your chart. We compromised later when you erased "college" and wrote "community college."

But nowhere, Curtis, nowhere on that paper did it say "life in prison." Nowhere.

You may be surprised to know that I cried when I found out that you were arrested. I was with my grandchildren, taking them shopping for a "peasant" - that's what my granddaughter calls a "present." I read the news article on my phone and was so alarmed I scared two little girls with my immediate sobs.

Curtis, I cried in the Hello Kitty store.

I knew you were troubled in seventh grade, but I wasn't expecting it to come to this. You knew you were struggling, too, but I can't imagine that you ever dreamed your life would take this turn. I cried for three straight hours the day you went to jail. I couldn't stop thinking about our conversations about your life, how I never thought to say, "Curtis, you won't murder anyone in the future, will you? You won't shoot someone's father and grandfather in the back of the head for the $200 you'll get out of the cash register, will you?"

No, I never thought to ask that. And neither did the other teachers who've had their hearts broken over this news. I bet you'd be surprised that we've talked about you, sharing memories and stories of you, and that we can't even grasp what has happened. Curtis, we had dreams for you even if you didn't have dreams for yourself. And it hurts when dreams disintegrate...you must know how that feels now.

I have to ask you what I could have done to change the rest of your story. You knew I cared about you...you told me you didn't want to let me down. So what didn't I say? What didn't I do? What elements out there were stronger than a school full of encouraging teachers pulling for you? Whose voice was louder than mine?

I need to know so I can help the next troubled student write a different ending. Today is where his book begins...

Identity Crisis

So I'm not standing in front of my own classroom anymore. I'm proud to be a teacher-on-loan to my state's department of education (emphasis on teacher.) I'm still very connected to my identity as a teacher, so much so that I tend to tell my teacher stories in present tense (when I assign homework, I....) and so on.

But the truth is I don't have my own students now, and the last ones I officially taught are now eighth graders. Luckily, I'm still based at my school and so I still get to see middle schoolers and my colleagues. And sometimes I find myself walking down the hallways of the school, just inhaling.

Because the truth is that I miss them, every one of them, every day. I miss how they're so goofy that my days were full of laughter. I miss them caring so, so much for the teacher that they made the bad days better and the sad days endurable. I miss them so much that sometimes I forget that the students in my school aren't mine.

I tend to lay my hand on their shoulders as I pass them in the hallway: "Excuse me, honey," and I'm confused when there's no reaction. There's no "Hey, Mrs. Rigsbee!" along with hugs and squeals and "let-me-tell-you-what-happened" stories. Yesterday I was so excited to be invited to a science classroom - I was a guest judge for some amazing project presentations! I stood at the front of the room waiting for instructions when a student said, "I like your shirt." I started explaining how the shirt was one of the first "spirit gear" shirts sold by our school, but I was interrupted: "Um, I was talking about Mrs. White's shirt."

Ouch. He was talking to his REAL teacher, the one he actually knows and has a relationship with. I had a Personal Pity Party and went on with the judging.

Later, I worked with a couple of students who were testing, and I used the Literacy Coach's office. Probably not the best idea. I had forgotten that I donated (loaned?) all of my classroom library to the Literacy Coach when I packed up my classroom. I glanced over at the bookcase and saw my entire career lined up on shelves.

There sat Martin Luther King, The Peaceful Warrior. If I had students, we'd be reading that now and writing our Dream Speeches. I saw Master Puppeteer and remembered a grade level unit we did that included Japanese kite flying, origami, and a trip to a Japanese restaurant. I saw the Bluford series and Sharon Draper books like Forged by Fire and Tears of a Tiger, all books that I used in my remedial reading classes - high interest books for my middle schoolers - chosen with care...because I cared.

So...all this is to say...if you find that you are standing in front of a classroom of children every day, remember that you're doing the most important job there is. Cherish those faces looking back at you, and embrace those relationships.

You'd miss it if you were gone...

Teachers' Gifts to Students

I hope there are some adults in the world right now who can look back to middle school and think that I taught them a little something. I also hope there are a few high school students out there who are using reading strategies I taught as they now tackle the work that will enable them to graduate and live happily ever after. Sadly, I know I taught a few how to take a test: Read every answer. Don't mark the first one you come to that you think is correct. The directions ask you to choose the BEST answer....so read them ALL!

But after a recent conversation with my daughter, I've been enlightened to a bigger gift that teachers can give their students - an understanding of how to live in the world.

My daughter is on her way to interviews for an internship she'll need to complete for her doctorate in psychology. As we talked about potential questions she may be asked, we discussed her ability to work with a diverse group of patients. She told me that she's very comfortable working with all kinds of people, a skill she says she gained, in part, by watching her mother, the teacher, teach all kinds of students.

I thought back to a question I was asked during my first Teacher of the Year interview - I was asked how I teach a diverse group of kids. I told the selection committee that I remember back in the early 90's: teachers walked all up and down the halls of the school proudly proclaiming, "I'm colorblind. All of my students look alike to me, and I treat them all the same!"

I went on to tell the committee, as I've told numerous groups of educators since then, that we were all wrong back then...that we must actually SEE color...that we MUST celebrate every student for who they are and where they come from. We cannot, in fact, be colorblind.

I realized when I left that interview that I had raised my voice while answering that question, and I hoped they recognized that what they had heard was passion about a subject that's important to me: accepting all students, not merely the ones who look like me.

Back to the conversation with my daughter...I continued by sharing with her the time I sat with my Jewish student Aaron, who explained to me how he felt about Christianity...about all of the times I asked my Latina girls to share their Quincenera pictures with the class, and about the time I asked my Vietnamese student to share the story of his boat ride to America.

Even now," she said, "you continue to correspond with a student who writes you from jail, a student you have little in common with."

I never realized that my children were watching, learning how to work with others, as I taught school every day. Yes, I did try to explicitly teach them how to treat people, but I didn't think about what they may learn from watching me do my job.

It's with that in mind that I hope all teachers realize they are being watched by others; those youngsters sitting in our classrooms may someday go out and treat the world the way they see us treat it. So it makes me wonder if I always treated others kindly...did I ever roll my eyes when a colleague interrupted my class over something unimportant? Did I ever make a remark in passing that could have been hurtful to a student? Did I ever disregard a colleague or student's feelings?

Sometime during the past thirty years, I'm sure I did.

Who was watching?

And as I became an older, more experienced teacher, did I do a better job of being a role model, accepting of everyone?

I hope we all can. It's the most important gift we can give to our students - an understanding of how they should live in the world.

Educators Make a Difference!

At the end of my book, Finding Mrs. Warnecke: The Difference Teachers Make, I asked readers to email me stories of the educators who've changed their lives, and I promised to share them on my blog. I hear these amazing stories every time I deliver a keynote speech, every time I talk to a class of pre-service teachers, every time I lead a workshop. But rarely do educators actually write their stories and send them to me. Mostly I hear, "It was my kindergarten teacher Mrs. So-and-so!" as they're shaking my hand on the way out of an auditorium. These stories are difficult to capture, told in passing, in the middle of others told in passing. They're all amazing and wonderful, and I wish I could remember the details enough to bring them all back to this blog, but it's not realistic that I would be able to do them justice.

This week, however, an educator shared a story with me that's so inspiring that I did remember details, memorable enough that I want to share it with my readers. Two days ago I spoke to 1500 educators at the Educators are Essential Celebration, a recognition of American Education Week that honored the public school teachers of Columbus Municipal Schools, the Lowndes County Schools, and numerous private school educators from Columbus, Mississippi. After I shared my story about the difference my own first grade teacher had on my life, I was whisked away by a local reporter who interviewed me briefly. I returned to the auditorium to gather my things just as the audience was released, and so I became the official door-holder and ended up talking to almost each and every one of the 1,500. So many of them wanted to share their "Mrs. Warnecke" with me, and I was inspired by each one.

But toward the end of the crowd spilling out of the auditorium, a gentleman in a suit and tie stopped in front of me and told a brief story: "I was a high school dropout. I was going nowhere. And one night the high school assistant principal saw me at a basketball game at the school. He literally dragged me out of the stands and to his office. There he handed me the GED booklet. I'm now an assistant principal myself, and soon I'll receive my doctorate in education."

My mouth fell open. From high school dropout to school administrator soon to be called "Dr." The success of this man can be traced back to one MOMENT, one moment in time when an educator refused to give up on a kid, a moment when everything changed.

Don't ever let anyone tell you that we don't make a difference in this profession. We're doing it. Moment by moment.

Real World of Teachers

That November morning when I learned that I had been certified by the National Board for Professional Teaching Standards I was such a wreck I probably didn't appear to be the "accomplished teacher" that the NBPTS honors. I had been given the time for the online announcement, and I logged on a few minutes before that time, hitting "reload" every few seconds. Once the news went live, the website was jammed with traffic, and only half the page loaded. I didn't see "Congratulations! You are a National Board Certified Teacher" anywhere. But I did see my overall score. Because I was so agitated, I couldn't for the life of me remember what a passing score was. I called my district's National Board Certification Coordinator to ask that very question, but couldn't reach her. So I returned to my computer, reloaded again, and this time I saw that word that would change me as a teacher: "Congratulations...."

I was alone in my classroom when I visited the website that day so I immediately called my husband, and then my mother, and then printed out the congratulatory letter and took it to my principal. I just felt that I needed to tell someone the amazing news. After nine long months of planning, writing, videotaping, testing, and reflecting, the day turned into everything I'd dreamed of: verification that I was impacting student learning in the classroom, the initials "NBCT" behind my name, a 12% raise provided by the state of North Carolina, and the ability to breathe again since sometime back in the fall over a year before.

Now as a National Board Certification coach, I relive this experience every November; only this time I'm pulling for several different teachers, representatives from all curricular areas and grade levels. Last year in my school I traveled from room to room watching each teacher I had mentored check that same webpage. My favorite reaction came from Vicki, the art teacher, as she left me there with her students and took off running out of the classroom. Screaming at the top of her lungs, Vicki ran from hallway to hallway...I could hear her screams descend as she ran down a hall; I could tell the exact moment she turned to run back...the volume would turn up.

One of Vicki's students looked at me and asked, "What in the world did she win? A million dollars?"

"Same thing," I thought.

Recently I had the opportunity to watch a screening of Mitchell 20, a documentary about 20 teachers who committed to change their teaching, each of them agreeing to participate in the National Board Certification process, either the full certification journey or the "Take One" opportunity that allows them to complete one entry of the process. I watched as these teachers struggled with obstacles, both at school and at home; some were unable to complete the process, others completed but didn't certify, and still others faced hardships that were both shocking and inspiring at the same time.

Yes, this film was inspirational, an answer to last year's Waiting for Superman, a documentary that intimated that the only way to receive a great education is to participate in a charter school lottery. The Mitchell 20 are dedicated teachers who work tirelessly to become better at what they do, all in front of scrutinizing cameras and microphones. The audience is able to take the journey with them, step-by-step, and experience the joys and the disappointments that accompany a journey like this.

We all sat on the edges of our seats as we watched the Mitchell 20 log in and look for that congratulatory letter. And those of us who've been there before wiped the sweat from our brows, memories of our own experiences flooding back.

It is again November. This month thousands of teachers across the country will soon learn if they are National Board Certified Teachers. And because of the Mitchell 20 many others will understand what those teachers have sacrificed and what those teachers will experience as they sit in front of a computer, most likely hitting "reload" over and over.

As for me, I'll be hitting the halls again, checking scores with my colleagues and remembering a day in 2004 when everything changed. Maybe, because of the Mitchell 20, perspectives on teaching will change, too.

Thank you to that group of brave teachers in Arizona. You've documented the "real world" of teaching.

And That's The Way It Is....

I grew up hearing those words - "that's the way it is" - as the CBS Evening News ended each night. Walter Cronkite's soothing voice would tell my parents what had happened that day, while this little skinny girl tried to stay out of the way of the television even though the path to anywhere in the entire house meant walking right in front of it. I heard that voice describe the assassinations of John F. Kennedy and Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. And I heard that voice give play-by-play of numerous episodes of space travel. During Walter Cronkite's last newscast, my college roommate and I made sure to tune in, just to hear him say those words one last time.

I was reminded of that this week as I listened to my principal do the afternoon announcements just before he walked out of the school to head to another educational adventure. I wrote about my principal's decision to accept another position and lamented on the emotions my colleagues and I were feeling. And the month he remained in the school after he shared his decision to leave was, as I heard someone describe it, the longest goodbye ever.

We wrote him notes, brought him gifts, emailed how much he meant to us, talked to him nonstop about his impact on our school (and on us, personally); we threw him a huge party, complete with skits and interpretive dances and PowerPoint presentations with pictures of our boss and funny captions. We thought we were ready. I thought I was ready.

But then those last announcements came on that last day, and they sounded so normal, so this-is-just-a-regular-day: The football team did this, school pictures are on that date, etc. But in my head I was hearing words that I've heard for six years during many other renditions of afternoon announcements - "I love each and every one of you," for example. Then he ended with the words I was whispering quietly to myself because I'd heard them so many times: "I hope you have a great Grizzly afternoon."

Those simple words reminded me of so many others, like the synchronized phone calls to my home phone: "Good evening. This is Mr. Johnson, your principal at the almighty Gravelly Hill Middle School" and his words to the students -"I love you before the standardized tests, and I'll love you after the standardized tests."

Although he's gone now, and his office is empty except for hooks on the wall that will hold someone else's family pictures and diplomas, there are so many words that will forever ring in my ears: "How will this get results?," "It's all about the kids," and, most importantly, "Once a Grizzly; Always a Grizzly."

And that's just the way it is.

My 9-11 Story

Where were you when the world stopped turning that September day?

Teaching a class of innocent children.... Alan Jackson

I was standing in front of a middle school classroom on September 11, 2001, administering a standardized test. I can't for the life of me remember what test it was; I just remember the entire school was in testing mode - silent with students quietly bubbling.

I glanced up at the clock - 9:00 AM - and sighed; tests like that make the day move so slowly. Shortly after that, a teacher entered my room, breaking testing protocol: you don't walk in and out of each other's rooms during a school-wide test. He leaned in and whispered in my ear, "A plane has crashed into the World Trade Center." He tiptoed out and my thoughts were spinning - must be an accident...how could a commercial jet get off course like that...maybe it was a private plane...how awful.

October 1987
My friends and I visit New York and shop in the boutiques at the bottom of the Twin Towers. I stand outside and look up - it's breathtaking how tall those towers are. I wonder how they can remain standing and not just blow over in the wind. Some engineer is brilliant, I think.

April 1999

I help chaperone the Riverside High School Theatre Department's field trip to New York City and am excited to take one of those tourist ferry rides on the Hudson River. A full ten minutes of the ride consists of listening to the tour guide talk about the World Trade Center, and I click pictures of the Twin Towers from the water. It's a picture I'll dig through a box to find in the fall of 2001.

September 11, 2001

My students completed their tests, and I began to hear rumors - the other tower had been hit, the Pentagon, the Sears Tower, the White House...the stories continued up and down the middle school hallway. I felt uneasy but hid that from the students. Instead, I told them that something newsworthy, maybe history making, was going on, and we turned on my classroom radio. Since then I've thought about how different that day would've been with Facebook, Twitter, and my iPhone. Friends in front of televisions could have gotten me news much more quickly.

But in 2001, we depended on a little classroom radio. To my horror, the first thing we heard was the sound of bodies hitting the ground as victims jumped from the burning tower. I'll never forget my student Shiron looking at me that day and saying, "Mrs. Rigsbee, they're jumping." I turned off the radio just as the bell rang to dismiss class.

What followed was a day of chaos - teachers begging to leave and go pick up their own children from school (who knew where the terrorists would strike next?), students asking questions, staff receiving mixed messages about whether or not to discuss the happenings with children. Too late for me and my kids; we had already heard too much.

That afternoon all events were canceled: there would be no football practice, no meetings; we all went home and sat in front of televisions watching the coverage. I was horrified while watching coverage of the people walking the streets of New York City, holding up pictures of their loved ones, searching through devastation and debris. Some people were holding pictures of their pets - so much was lost that day.

The next morning I stood at my overhead projector and faced a silent class. Here's how I started: "Yesterday thousands of people got up, showered, shaved, brushed their teeth, and headed off to work, not knowing they wouldn't be returning home." Then I took my overhead pen and we did the math: "How many people do you think were on the planes that crashed?" I wrote their estimates down, and we added the number of people who may have been in the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. Our rough estimate was 2,000 who lost their lives. Little did we know we were off by almost 1,000.

The days that followed showed us a different reality. Security was heightened everywhere, even in schools. All outside doors began to be locked with the exception of the front door, a practice that continues to this day.

I remember, a few days later, standing outside of the school and hearing the hum of an airplane. I looked up and said to another teacher, "The planes are back." We had lived under empty skies for a full three days.

The seventh graders in my school today were two years old when our country changed. They don't even know a world without a Department of Homeland Security. Those who travel by air have never seen a time when they didn't have to put their liquids in a clear bag and take off their shoes to go through security. They've never known a time we haven't been at war.

This is, of course, an opportunity for all teachers to talk to children about what the world was like before that fateful day and about how changed we are.

And I wonder if somewhere, as we all tell our stories of where we were on September 11, 2001, my student Shiron is telling someone about the middle school classroom where he sat listening to a radio. There are so many things about that day I'll never forget...and Shiron sitting wide-eyed and looking to me for explanation is one of them.

Unfortunately, Shiron, the events of that day still defy explanation.

This picture of the Twin Towers was taken from a ferry boat in April 1999. It sits on my desk now, a reminder of a more innocent time.

Meeting the Teacher

Let's say a doctor has to have surgery. Do you think he walks into the operating room, holding his surgical gown closed with one hand and examining the instruments with the other? Does he look at the sheet that will cover him, checking to see if it's sterile? Does he check the temperature of the room, ensuring that it's at a comfort level that will be conducive to a successful surgery?

I don't know if all of that happens, but I know some rather intense scrutiny ensues when a teacher attends a child's Meet the Teacher night. I know because I was just that parent...errr...grandparent.

Let me back up. I don't have many memories of my own children's Meet the Teacher night, or "Open House" as we call it at my school. As a middle school teacher, I always had to greet my own students and parents that night, as many of us did, so we arranged to drop by the elementary school and introduce ourselves to the teachers at another time. It was a professional courtesy we offered each other: "I'm sorry I'll have to come by a little early, but you understand...I have to be at my own school tonight." It worked out well.

I did have the opportunity, or let's say I made sure to have the opportunity, to visit my children's high school teachers. Something about grabbing that chemistry syllabus and hearing that teacher's presentation seemed so important. And I realized there was a great deal to be learned on these nights.

Case in point: my son, who attended Open House so he could see girls in summer shorts and tank tops, I'm sure, took a French class one year. I was surprised to enter that classroom to see that it was a Spanish class. Yep...I mean "Si"...everything in the room was Spanish...from the sombreros to the words on the wall. I sat there and looked around: how would my ADHD son ever learn French in a room full of Spanish? Soon, in walked the French teacher (pushing her traveling cart), and she nicely explained that she would be using the Spanish classroom and didn't have a room of her own.

She then sprawled out, in the jeans she was wearing, across the desk, and talked to us about her expectations. I resisted the urge to share my own expectations with her, including that you dress professionally when you meet parents and perhaps consider standing up. Instead I waited until her presentation was done and approached her.

"Do you think," I asked politely, "that you could ask the Spanish teacher if one of the four walls could be reserved for French? Then I'll tell my son to look only at that wall. Otherwise, he's going to be get really confused."

"Oh, that..." she answered. "Actually, I like this arrangement. I never have to worry about decorating a classroom as long as I travel like this." Sadly, in two sentences, Mademoiselle had summed up how committed she was to her job and to her students. And if memory serves me correctly, my son didn't do very well in French. Tres mal.

Fast Forward. Tonight I attended Meet the Teacher/Open House at my granddaughter's school. Taylor will begin kindergarten on Friday, which adds fourteen decibels of emotion on top of regular Back to School - buy the supplies - get new sneakers stress.

I knew walking into the building that I would be a Hawkeyed-Teacher-Nana, looking for any signs that this classroom would not be the best experience for my Taylorbug. I decided to keep an open mind and try to observe like every other grandparent. I began by making positive comments: "Look how neatly she's written Taylor's name! Elementary teachers have the BEST handwriting."

Then the Teacher Police took over. I looked across the room and saw two adults - one, of course, was the teacher, and one was the teacher assistant (also known as the paraprofessional). Which was which? Here's the problem: I should have known because the teacher should have announced, in her bubbliest voice, "I AM THE TEACHER! HI TAYLOR!"

Okay, maybe not. But that's what I was looking for. Taylor's mom filled out 957 forms (we don't have parents complete the forms at Open House in middle school...they take them home, for gosh sakes...which I promptly told my step-daughter...who asked the teacher...who said, "I'd prefer that you do them here." Great.) So while the forms were being filled out, I took Taylor on a field trip...to scope out the other kindergarten rooms. What if another teacher has more/different stuff? We must know this...and fast.

Things seemed mostly equitable except that one teacher had a bunk bed looking loft reading platform thingee with some cool bean bags on it....and a tiny sofa that looked so inviting I wanted to wedge my oversized body into it and read a book. Of course, of the three classrooms, I stalked...errr...visited...that loft is the one thing Taylor saw: "What was that, Nana?"

"Um...that's where those kids take naps. You won't have to take a nap in your room." Back in Taylor's class, her mom was on Form #954 so I seized the opportunity to have a private moment with the teacher.

"Hi," I said girl-to-girl. "I'm a teacher, too."

I waited. I looked deep into her eyes. I thought for sure I'd see that look that old college sorority sisters give each other when they reunite after several years. But no look...just an, "Oh...great..."

I couldn't contain myself any longer. "Look," I said. "Here's the thing. I am Nana. And this is my Taylorbug. So. So...I'll be here a lot. Okay? Like really a lot. Okay?"

At that point Taylor asked me to read her a book from the beautiful book display. She grabbed one and brought it to me. It was a lovely little picture book, and I opened it and formed my mouth to read the first words.

Only I couldn't.

It was in French.

Dear Taylor's teacher,
I apologize ahead of time. Just so you know....

Freedom

I love to hear about Fourth of July celebrations: folks watching fireworks, boating at the lake, tanning at the coast, and eating summertime food. My husband and I celebrated this year by taking a bike ride to the dam at the lake shared by my state and the one above it. I use the term "bike" loosely. To me, it's what I received from Santa when I was nine, but my husband uses the term to refer to a Harley Davidson motorcycle.

Either way, it was a ride through the country, passing beautiful scenery along the way. I wished I had brought my camera when I saw the abandoned, rusty train cars that were the backdrop to a field of Queen Anne's Lace sitting beside a creek. And I wished I had brought a plate when the smells of all the cookouts we passed were wafting in the air (note: in the South, barbecue is a noun, something we eat; you may call the event I was smelling along the way a "barbecue." If so, you "ain't from 'round here." I call it a "cookout.")

Sitting on a motorcycle for five hours gives you a great deal of time to think. It's too loud to talk, and you have to keep your mouth closed anyway unless you want to ingest whatever may be flying around in the air. So I had time to think as we rode. I thought about the scenery; there are so many memories that go along with fields of tobacco (I worked as a "hander" during the summer after my eighth grade year), lakes (swimming in them as a child, living near one as an adult when my children were first born), and yards full of every type of celebration (flags and food and people in lawn chairs.) I saw a dog eating ice cream, right off the cone being held by his master, and a dog sitting proudly on the front of a boat ("I'm the DOG of the world...")

I thought a bunch about freedom, too, and what it really means....just to be able to hop on a bike and ride to nowhere/anywhere with no time restraints. One particular piece of scenery smacked me right in the face with the word "freedom." After leaning into a curve on a rural road I saw a sign that sent me spinning: an arrow pointing in the direction of our state's youth correctional facility.

My heart jumped as I realized that this facility is where my former student D is being held. You may remember D from a previous post that involved a parole officer and a felon "at-large" conversation for me. If you've been reading this blog for awhile, you'll remember my reconnection with D, who was at that time a high school sophomore that I hadn't seen since he was a goofy seventh grader.

Well, now, after spending a couple of months in our county jail, D is serving his time at a prison for youth offenders. While being held in "the county," as D calls it, he found ways to communicate with me. Any unknown number on my ringing cell phone would turn out to be D's sister, or mother, or family friend. Once a stranger called: "My boyfriend is in the county jail. D slipped me a note on a napkin because he wanted me to call you..."

Usually he would send a message saying that he wanted me to visit him. I found out that there are rules for this kind of thing: "Visitation for inmates K-P are on alternating Mondays and Thursdays at 4:30PM. Cash can be deposited into the accounts of inmates K-P on Tuesdays at 9:00 AM and 3:00 PM." Again, I was thrust into a world I didn't know or understand.

I showed up to see him on a few occasions, but my times were off so they never let me "back there." I did leave him a little bit of money a couple of times; as I understand it, they can purchase items like candy bars, stamps, etc. In return, D writes me letters. He always begins by thanking me for the money and for thinking about him. He doesn't hear from anyone else, he says. He's working on his GED, he tells me, if he can only stay out of trouble in the classroom. "They're always writing people up for nothing," he says. (This comment reminds me so much of the seventh grade version of D, who was constantly getting written up at school for "nothing.")

I always write back and try to encourage him, something that I've been trying to do for five years now, but it seems that although I try, his environment is louder in his ears than I could ever be. In his last letter, he sounded more excited than I've heard him before - his brother will be out of prison in five months; he thinks he'll have "somewhere to go" when he himself is released.

I've asked D to write about his experiences and told him that there are folks who may want to read about his life, how he ended up in this situation. He answered promptly in a return letter: "Who wants to read about another poor 'hood felon?"

So as I took in the summer air on a motorcycle and ate my obligatory hot dog and ice cream on the Fourth of July, I thought about freedom, and I thought about D. Just past the sign pointing to the youth correctional center sits a federal prison. I noticed the razor-sharp, winding barb at the top of the fence surrounding it. I saw the armed guards at their posts and wondered what different definitions the inmates inside would have about freedom. And I silently prayed that D never ends up there.

Then I turned my face toward the wind and headed back home to my life.

On Losing Katniss...

Although I am fighting it for all I'm worth, I'm losing Katniss. The loss has been gradual, but inevitable, and I feel it more everyday. I'm trying to hold on to the Katniss I've known for over two years, the one whose battles I've tensed every muscle through, the one whose struggles I've had nightmares over. That Katniss is becoming more and more dreamy; I can still see her, but through a cloudy fog. More and more I'm losing the Katniss that I've imagined, and she's being replaced with...

Jennifer Lawrence.

As a reading teacher, I teach my students to visualize the descriptions in the books they read. My principal refers to it as "the movie in their heads" when they can actually see what they're reading. While reading the Hunger Games trilogy, I visualized Katniss, and she became a friend during those books, one I felt I actually knew, one I missed once the books were completed.

But now The Hunger Games movie is being filmed, here in my own state, so I'm inundated with pictures of Jennifer Lawrence, the beautiful and talented actress playing Katniss. My Katniss was not quite so beautiful...well, she was naturally pretty, I guess, but that's not how I thought of her. She was tough. She was dirty. And she didn't have pouty lips as perfectly shaped as the bow she carried.

Jennifer Lawrence is gorgeous. Jennifer Lawrence doesn't look as if she has it in her to wipe out all the other tributes (16-year-olds selected by lottery to fight to the death - on reality tv - while representing their districts.) But my son the actor says she's a brilliant actress so maybe she'll be able to pull it off. I still miss my Katniss.

I worry about our students' imaginations dying out, becoming extinct from lack of use (like we've been warned about our pinky toes.) Let's take the Twilight series, for example. I haven't talked to one middle school child who can describe the character Edward from details in the book. But they can describe Robert Pattinson the actor to a "t." And Taylor Lautner, too. These guys are plastered all over middle school lockers and notebooks. Their faces (and bodies) are ingrained in the brains of adolescent girls. Who needs an imagination?

And is there one person in the world who doesn't see Daniel Radcliffe when they hear the words "Harry Potter"? But here's J.K. Rowling's description: "Harry had a thin face, knobbly knees, black hair, and bright green eyes. He wore round glasses held together with a lot of Scotch tape because of all the times Dudley had punched him on the nose." He's also described as being extremely thin and small, wearing baggy clothes that are Dudley's hand-me-downs. Well, I for one, don't remember seeing taped glasses in any of the Harry Potter movies, and Daniel Radcliffe looks pretty normal-sized to me.

As teachers we must make an explicit effort to design lessons that foster the use of imagination. We have to model the transformation from author's description to reader's visualization: "How is Katniss described by the author? What does she look like to you?" If we're lucky every student's rendition is a little different, every imagination taking the author's words to varied shades of different directions.

Also, with a bit of luck, we can get ahead of the movies, ahead of the video games, ahead of the music videos that interpret the songs for our students so they don't even have to bother. Hopefully, we can teach them first to think and imagine for themselves.

My son the actor has met Josh Hutcherson, who'll play Peeta, the male tribute from District 12, and one of my favorite characters in The Hunger Games. Josh was a teenager when they talked at the Teen Choice Awards in 2005. Years later, he and my son would share the same acting coach in New York City, and they would have lunch together.

Lunch with Peeta. I can't even wrap my head around that. But thanks to Gary Ross, director of the movie version of one of my favorite books, I may not have to think or imagine anything. I'll just sit back and watch...and fight like a tribute to not allow my Katniss and Peeta to be erased.

Don't Get Comfortable

'Tis the season: folks everywhere are donning fashionable gowns and moving the tassel from right to left. That moment - when the graduating class of 2011 is introduced - the future will lay ahead for the graduates, the veritable "rest of their lives" will be upon them.

My own nephew became a college graduate yesterday, and I was asked to represent the family by providing some remarks to a gathering on Fraternity Row. I was even given a prompt: "Tell the Sigma Nu brothers what they need to know for the future."

Oh, my. That was a tall order. I don't even know what I need to know for my future. How could I place myself back at 22 years old and find words of wisdom?

But that's exactly what I did: I thought about my own graduation from the very same university 32 years ago, and asked myself what I wish I had been told back then.

And after enjoying the huge feast prepared by Big Sam, the Sigma Nu cook, here's what I said:

Finding eloquent words for a group of brilliant young gentlemen like yourselves shouldn't be difficult. Others out there have shared words of inspiration, great words that we all know - Tim McGraw will tell you to "live like you're dying." Leann Womack hopes "you dance." Even John Mayer will tell you "there's no such thing as the real world" as he's running through the halls of his high school.

These are all great messages, but mine's a little different. I have three words for you: Don't Get Comfortable.

I'm not talking about your basic needs. Of course, we want you to eat well, be healthy, have shelter, and so on. I'm talking about your goals for your professional life...don't get too comfortable when it comes to your career.

I had a dream once...to be a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader. It never happened. And as I look back, I realize the problem: I never went to Dallas.

Evidently, you actually have to go there. The Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader Fairy did not come to North Carolina to recruit me. She did not show up on my porch and tap me with a wand, leaving me in tassels and boots.

I had played it safe and stayed home where I was comfortable.

Don't get comfortable. Be a risk-taker. Push yourself beyond what you think your boundaries are. Step out of the safe zone. Be innovative and creative. Don't let complacency rule your life.

I don't want you to look back in 32 years and wonder why you were, um, never a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader. Whatever your goal is, go for it! Move mountains to make your dreams happen. Do whatever it takes.

Just don't get comfortable.

I'm not sure if my words hit their mark with the young brothers of Sigma Nu, but one of the fathers in the audience said to me later, "Hey, uh, Dallas is still there. It's never too late."

Hmmm....something to think about.

My daughter, an NFL cheerleader for the Carolina Panthers, is on the far right, beside the Dallas Cowboy cheerleader, at the NFL Pro Bowl in January 2010.

A Sorta Fairy Tale

Tori Amos' song title is appropriate today as we watched a prince marry his princess...er...duchess, the title she was given by the Queen. It was sorta a fairy tale due to the pomp and circumstance, the regalia, the carriage ride, and the prince/husband. But in some ways it was the same story as my own son and his bride...just a couple of kids who met in school, went separate ways a few times, came back together, said "I will" and "I do" and hope to live happily ever after.

There have been some who have challenged those of us who were mildly interested (or wildly fascinated) at the nuptials today. I get it. As an educator, I have been thrust into the current war zone along with my colleagues. These are times that I feel the need to justify to the world that I am a professional, that my work is important (so important that it can't be evaluated by looking at student numbers that are gathered on one day, reflecting one test.) So that's stressful and important and distracting enough without getting up at oh-dark-thirty to watch television. In addition, as a resident of the Southeast, I have spent a good part of the past two weeks peering out windows, dreading the all too familiar funnel cloud that has been common around here.

In other words, I know there are more important issues than a wedding involving strangers across the ocean. But lest you haters want to judge, indulge me a moment, and let me tell you why I watched and why I felt compelled to provide a play-by-play social media commentary during the event.

First of all, I have a degree in English. I love England, having studied the history of the country as required by my major. Also, I spent the better part of my last two years of undergraduate studies reading dead poets and playwrights who unknowingly impacted my learning, and then my teaching, for almost forty years. When the Reverend Richard Chartres, the Bishop of London, quoted Chaucer during the ceremony, he sent me straight to translations of The Canterbury Tales and my senior English class with Mrs. Gertrude Chewning in a trailer at Northern High School then to an entire semester devoted to "Geoffrey" all by himself my junior year in college. Later during the ceremony the choir sang "Jerusalem" based on lyrics by one of the Romantic Writers, William Blake. At that moment I was transported to sitting in Greenlaw Hall at UNC-Chapel Hill reading Tyger, tyger, burning bright..." Fittingly, both of these literary heroes of mine are buried at the wedding venue, Westminster Abbey, along with Wordsworth, Byron, Shelley, Tennyson, Dickens, and Austen in a section appropriately named "Poet's Corner." If I ever have a chance to see it, I will surely weep.

Poet's Corner in Westminster Abbey - if only those tombs could talk....

So, yes, the English major in me wanted to see the wedding. But the middle-aged woman in me wanted to see it, too. I was there, nose pressed to the television in 1981, rocking a four-month-old and watching the timid Lady Diana marry her prince. A year later, little Wills was born, and I watched him continue to grow through the years just like my own little princess. And I, like so many others, looked on as the marriage struggled, saw the divorce play out in the tabloids, and watched in horror as Diana lost her life and was laid to rest after two little boys followed her casket through the streets of London. Like it or not, this family is a piece of our culture, and for that reason I wanted to watch the next chapter.

For some of us, the royal family is an intriguing history lesson. I tweeted earlier this week that if our country's forefathers could see all the media coverage of this event, they may wonder why they fought so hard for independence. But what a unique social studies lesson for our students: here's where we started, here's what happened next, and here's where we are now. Then we could ask: How about when they sang "God Save the Queen" and it sounded just like "My Country 'Tis of Thee" that we all learned in first grade? Why is that? And why wasn't the Queen herself singing, but her husband was? Cool classroom conversations...

What about the rich discussions we can have in our classrooms about just exactly who among us hails from England? Many of our students originated in other places; let's talk about everyone's heritage while we're on the subject...

Speaking of heritage, my father told me his family came to America from Wales, another reason I found the event today so interesting. My mother's family has traced my ancestors back to Leicester, England. Those of us with ties to the United Kingdom may just enjoy comparing cultures. For example, I have a problem with the fact that if I ever meet Kate Middleton, and I want to display proper etiquette, I will have to curtsy to a 29-year-old and refer to her as "ma'am."

Please. I have sweaters in my closet older than she is. And in general, I was put off by the formality of the wedding. It was too quiet inside the abbey. When the couple was announced as husband and wife, there should have been a few cheers, at least a clap or two. I hate when weddings sound like funerals.

And when the bride and groom exited, I longed for Kate to simply grab Will by the arm; that dainty handholding halfway up in the air looked a little as if they may break into a waltz at any moment.

Which leads me to the last reason for watching the Royal Wedding: the sheer entertainment of it. I mean, seriously, Eugenie and Beatrice, you call yourselves princesses? I call that stuff on your heads target practice! I feel bad for whoever sat behind you.

Here's the thing: in these days of devastation and tragedy, these days of feeling that there is a fight brewing inside us ready to be unleashed at every turn, we need to take a break and celebrate love and beauty, and, well, magic. Life will be back to smack us in the face soon enough.

Sometimes we just need a sorta fairy tale.

My son, Prince Will, and his Princess Rebecca last August. No formalities during this wedding recessional....right down to the Converse sneakers.

Irises and Sweet Bubby Bushes

The Smokehouse at My Grandparents' Old Homeplace

In so many ways, we are who came before us. In many other ways, we are the antithesis of our ancestors, fighting to do better, have more, and be more than our parents and grandparents.

Today I sifted through artifacts (trinkets, my daughter called them) of my grandparents' life. In a house that was built during WWI, my brother, sister, husband, and I waded through the debris that takes over when a house has been abandoned by sickness and death...a house that previously had seen 100 years of Christmas-gift-opening laughter, 50 years of chicken dumplings and strawberry cakes served by my grandmother, 30 years of gathering around the piano to sing "Have a Little Talk with Jesus," countless years of living about to be demolished as new owners will soon clear the land to build a new home.

"Watch out for Tippy's grave," my brother told the buyer.

"Watch out for my memories," I thought.

In the summers of my childhood, when other kids were packing up for camp, I was sent to my grandparents' house. I dreaded it with all the fervor my young self could muster: as a child I thought the country was undoubtedly the most boring place on earth! My grandmother went to bed at 7 PM...and we may as well have been in bed: there was certainly nothing to do there, and by the way, it was darker in the country than any individual from the city could imagine! They didn't believe in lights there. I thought all those old-timey years with candles ruined them - they were so impressed with inside electricity that lighting outside would seem an indulgence.

So I spent those weeks in the summer scared senseless at night, lying awake with bulging eyes because no kid in America could possibly be asleep at that hour, and no kid should have to lie awake and listen to sounds that don't include interstate traffic.

Occasionally, I was scared senseless during the day, too. I was awakened every morning to the crow of a rooster (does anyone really think that screech is a pleasant sound?) The other daybreak sound in the North Carolina Sandhills is that of a Mourning Dove - those "who-who-who's" are still ingrained in my audio memory and remind me of missing my parents during those summer trips.

Once I woke up with an ax-wielding Granny standing over me. My grandmother needed help with a classic country chore - chopping the head off a chicken. I was pronounced the "holder of the chicken." I had a problem with this job on many levels, none the least of which was that Grandma the Chicken Slayer could possibly miss and chop my hand off. Also, I love all living things, and to this day can't even step on a spider in my house, preferring instead to hoist him onto a paper towel and deliver him outside. So poultry-cide certainly proved unpleasant to me. And, by the way, chickens DO run like, well, a chicken with its head cut off...in a circle...all over the yard. Note the post traumatic stress here!

I was also traumatized by the lack of conveniences out there in my Granny's sticks! She didn't have indoor plumbing until I was married and had my own children. I was pretty sure that there were creatures that had not been identified in the abyss that was the bottom of the outhouse. Sometimes I was brave enough to look down there in that hole, but there was nothing discernable - only darkness forever and ever. The fear still lurches in the pit of my stomach today when I think of the child abuse that was going on when Granny made me sit on that hole.

All that aside, I have other memories of my childhood summer place that aren't so traumatic. When I was eight, my grandmother's friend loaded my cousins, my sister, and me into the back of a pickup truck and took us to see The Sound of Music in the movie theatre on the day it was released in that small Southern town in 1965. I remember the bumpy truck ride over rural dirt roads every time I see the movie replayed.

And how many people can say that they have climbed on a wooden pasture fence and jumped bareback onto a moving horse, grabbing the mane, and holding on for life? (But mainly holding on so Mama wouldn't find my body in the pasture and know what I had done.)

How many folks have played in the top of a hayloft, jumping to the bottom floor of the barn (but not getting hurt because of the hay mattress that lay below)? Who's picked blackberries from vines beside the garden, only to be eating warm cobbler thirty minutes later? Gathered chicken eggs out from under squawking hens? Watched kittens emerge from a little hole in the stable door just as they're able to walk? Seen neighbors walk up the driveway with fresh baked goods to share? Snapped beans on a country porch for hours while swatting gnats? Taken a ride on a mule-drawn plow through rows and rows of cornfields? Who's banged on a piano, displaying no talent at all, but yelling, "You like my song, Granddaddy?!" only to hear, "It's beautiful!" shouted in from the other room? (Nothing to DO in the country? Boy, was I wrong...)

All of these experiences make up a big part of who I am. But my parents chose mostly a different life for me, raising me in the city and stressing the importance of getting the education that my grandparents didn't have. I'm a long way from the cotton mill that my grandmother worked in. I'm a long way from that outhouse.

Today my mother pointed out flowers around my grandparents' yard and house. "Just dig up a few, and we'll replant them at home. I want the Seven Sisters roses and the purple and gold irises."

I reminded her that we gathered bunches of irises during our last visit. They're blooming in my yard now. "Well, get me some of that Sweet Bubby Bush then."

Soon we drove away and began our long journey home. For miles I could hear my Granny playing the piano; I could taste her dumplings and home-canned green beans. I could feel crafts between my fingers, the ones I made every summer at Vacation Bible School at the Bright Light Baptist Church. I could feel the rough wood of my Granddaddy's plow.

I arrived home with a sense of homesickness - I walked outside to shake it off....homesickness at home - such an oxymoron.

I walked across the backyard with my dog and caught a flash of color.

I turned and saw the purple and gold of my grandmother's irises, transplanted to the city like me, blowing in the wind.

What Kind of Difference Will You Make?

It is no secret that I've been preaching far and wide about the difference that teachers make. I've lived it, as a first grader, in a dark basement classroom, and I've read it in letters from past students who want to thank me for impacting them in a positive way. I've written articles about the importance of teacher/student relationships, and I've written a book about the difference my own first grade teacher made almost fifty years ago.

A theme that runs through my speeches and articles, as well as my book, is that the nurturing, caring teacher is the one who makes the biggest impact on students. The adult who displays an unconditional regard for students and their learning is "the one" who will be remembered as making a difference in the life of a child. And I'll stick to those words. But I had a conversation with someone a few days ago who had an interesting twist to the story of teachers making a difference.

She told me that as she thought back over her life, she knew the teacher who was the reason behind her eventually becoming successful - an educator, now working on her doctorate - as opposed to becoming a juvenile deliquent taking a destructive path to nowhere. That teacher was a high school math teacher, and my friend was not a good student, particularly in math. Growing up in poverty, she didn't have the tools she needed to be successful in school, and she was not confident about her abilities in math. I waited for her to tell me how this teacher encouraged her, hovered over her desk and pointed to numbers on her paper, giving her a quick hug before moving on to the next student.

That's not what came next. She told me instead that this teacher would often humiliate her in front of the class, would admonish her for incorrect answers, and would mistreat her in unthinkable ways. She said it was during that year that she decided to focus her energy on doing whatever was necessary to be successful in school. She woke up every morning determined to be a stellar student, a student who wouldn't give that teacher the opportunity to humiliate her in front of her peers.

"She pushed me to be great," she said.

Years later, she gave that teacher a call to tell her that she had, literally, changed her life. The teacher did remember her but made no mention of her drive and determination. Instead, she learned that my friend's current job isn't inside a classroom; it includes mentoring and training other teachers. The math teacher displayed some old habits when she ridiculed my friend: "Well, you're not even a teacher." Some things never change.

All teachers have the opportunity to make a difference in the life of a child. I've said before that many times we don't even know the impact we've made. Once I was walking in a local shopping mall when I was approached by a lady who identified herself as the mother of a former student. As she went on and on about my class, how much I meant to her son, and so on, I was horrified that I didn't remember him. His name didn't even sound familiar. But I listened and nodded, hoping she'd say something that would spark a memory.

Finally, she said, "You don't know this...but you're the reason my son made it through seventh grade. He was struggling that year, having a hard time with peers, was so depressed I thought he was suicidal at times, but he enjoyed your class and wanted to come to school because of it." My mouth fell open and my brain was spinning. How could I have had that type of impact on a kid and not even know it?

The point is...we do make a difference. We have the honor and the responsibility of making a difference with every child we teach, every day they sit in our classrooms. Luckily, my friend had an inner drive that pushed her to make something positive out of a negative experience. And luckily, I was able to impact a student in a very important way, even though I was unaware of it and had no memory of the student years later.

How will the difference you make as a teacher be remembered? Will the story your students tell about you be positive or negative? Think about that as you walk through those classroom doors every day. What an amazing opportunity...

Bring It!

Right now, sitting here in an office in my school, where down the hall I worked through the years to inspire struggling readers to greatness, I have never wished to be back in the classroom more than I do right now. Right now this very minute! But not for the reasons you think.

Ever since I was pulled to serve as a "Teacher Ambassador" when I was named North Carolina's Teacher of the Year in 2008, I have, of course, missed kids. Even though I've grabbed up opportunities in the past three years to get myself back in front of the little boogers, I have not had my own classroom since that time. So, yes, I listen intently every day in the hopes that I'll hear the administrators' walkie talkies popping: "Seventh grade is moving..." so I can walk out in the hall and inhale children. So, yes, I do miss the kids, but that's not my motivation today.

I also miss my own learning communities, the language arts teachers I planned and collaborated with...you know, the ones who encouraged me to dress like Britney Spears on our Genre Jam day. Luckily, now that I'm serving as a "teacher-on-loan" to our state education department, I have been able to set up my office in the same building where that "jam" occurred...which means I see my collegues often and can get my collegiality fix. I'm still there for all the social gatherings - the after-school baby showers and book clubs - and some days I just get up from this desk and walk into their classrooms. My friends, and their students, are accustomed to my drop-ins. But I'd really like to sit down and plan again, to look at assessment data and put our heads together to figure out what will enable our students to grow. But that's not why I'm longing for the classroom right now.

I also miss the actual act of teaching, too, and all the stuff that goes along with it: room decorating, lesson planning, assessing, re-teaching, re-directing, explaining, listening, counseling, hugging...I do miss all that. I even miss faculty meetings.

But none of those are the reasons I'm wishing I could be back in my own classroom today. During the current tumultuous times, I want to be there to join in with all those educators out there showing the world it can be done: teachers can and will continue to provide more with less, to survive in conditions that are demoralizing and demeaning, and to make ends meet with frozen salaries and pink slip threats.

I see it daily in my school: teachers continue to advocate for kids while working from dark until dark to plan innovative lessons all while maintaining positive relationships with kids. In short, teachers continue to make a difference even as policymakers negatively impact working conditions by making decisions that raise class size and cut positions, all while raising standards for performance.

Yes, I wish could have my own classroom during these chaotic times. I truly believe that as the craziness would swirl around me, I would feel pushed even harder to do what's right by kids. Threaten my job? I'd keep working until they dragged me away, still clutching the active board marker. Continue to reference "bad teaching?" I'd spend countless hours working to get better and better, sharpening my teaching skills by staying in touch with cutting edge research and technology. Decide to make my students' test scores public, along with my name?

At that I would stand in front of my classroom and talk to myself using the language of my middle schoolers: "Girl, you GOT this!" Then I'd look out the window toward the world and shout,

"BRING IT!"