Our stories have great value. I believe if I connect only as voyeur in someone’s life, it is really my stories I fail to hear. Connecting with kids not only changes their lives, it changes mine.

~

December 20, 2011 - The views to my blog soared. That day my blog received its second highest total number of views since I began sharing here in 2009. It had been almost three weeks since my last post.

December 19, 2011 –  The previous night, was my school’s annual winter concert. For the second year in a row my senior ELA students, grades 9-12, performed.

This year, however, my students embarked on a collaborative creation and knocked the community’s collective boots off.

Hurrah, you might be saying. But hold on to your hats, not everyone was cheering. A few folks were physically uncomfortable with my students’ stories, and expressed dissatisfaction!

However, the cheers resounded from my students’ stakeholders. All of my students’ parents, siblings, friends, former teachers, and many community members shared a big hurrah. And so did my kids.

And sure, after the whirlwind of different dust settled, my principal reminded me how far we have come.  For the past year and half my kids – and I – have been learning how to tell our story. It’s pretty darn amazing considering that our journey is only 16 months old.

We started with the simple typical stuff kids and teachers do: posting, writing, sharing, and inviting experts into our space to share their stories. We then spent five months learning how our experiences and places shape who we are and how we share our stories (Place Based Education). We learned to listen in hospital rooms, coffee shops, soccer fields and abandoned barns. We learned to listen to the stories of trees, rivers, wind and labyrinths where we learned stories we had never heard before.

We were vulnerable.

One afternoon in June, limbs shaking, writing pieces at the ready, we set up a mic and shared our stories in a coffee house while the world went by. Then magic happened. People stopped. People listened. People choose to connect with our stories. Some stepped up to the mic. Turns out what we had to share was good and honest, and really worth hearing. Turns out we were change makers! Turns out that by sharing we find there are heaps more stories yet to share.

And this is how we began this past September…

I know my daughter lives the effects of the story of hospital, but I guess my attendance at UBC has become a non-essential.  And I guess she’s correct.

This winter holiday I have spent a few hours every day hiking near the lake with my dad. I spent every breath of those moments listening. One day we hiked out to the woods with a bucket of warm turkey parts, treats for the coyotes. One day my dad and I snooped around an abandoned cabin, sitting in the sun on its upper deck, watching the birds. One day we shuffled through the wet brown leaves gathered near the willows by the beach, without words, dad and I breathing in the scent of leaves.

Today, dad and I walked along the beach path I walked as a girl. We walked the beach a long, long way. Almost, it felt, until we met the horizon. Almost, it felt, until everything was clear.

That’s the way it is with dad. He is a storyteller. He is my storyteller.

This winter holiday was no different.

December 24^th, after returning from Christmas Eve mass, my family began sharing tales of years gone by. Dad shared that when he was a boy, on Christmas Eve, he went to the early movie, the late movie and then to mid-night mass. His story did not strike me as odd. Dad’s Christian faith has always been steadfast. Then, mom wondered if that had been a time he had had to attend the movies alone, mass alone. This was information, a connection, I knew, but had taken for granted.

I had not been listening.

I knew my dad had been homeless, had raised himself from the time he was in grade eight. I knew he had sometimes found warmth curled in church windows, church services, with a kind-hearted family. I had forgotten how movies and restaurants and church had acted as family for my dad.

I have never before heard his December 24^th story. I turned to dad and told him I loved him.

There I was sitting in my parents’ cozy home, the home they have created for my sister and me, for my daughter, for each other. The home they continue to create for us every day; I mean when my students are giving a performance or heading out for a basketball tournament, they ask if my dad may attend.

My dad is home.

Today, dad and I walked along the beach path I walked as a girl. I heard stories I had never heard before, or maybe I heard them like I never had before. Maybe I was simply ready to hear them. I know as we wound our way by the cottonwoods, both our eyes were filled with tears.

I am 39 years old. I have many more stories to hear, a lifetime of strolls to learn. I love my dad.

The best gift anyone has ever given to me is the gift of storytelling-time.

I hope I listen well enough to give the same…

This fall conference marks the beginning of the second year with this group of kids, and the growth that I see in the ability of my kids to conference compared to last year is remarkable.

The biggest change is that all my kids are using their course’s indictors as their jumping off point.

Using the course indicators and the students’ various portfolios (my students use both on-line and paper portfolios as well as stations with items from other subject areas), my kids reflect on how they have met the indictors in a meaningful way(s).

It’s a spectacular process.

Last June as I was chatting about the growth of my SLC philosophy and preparing to write a blog post, I reflected with a retired administrator. Her words of wisdom stuck with me. “I know your kids have achieved the skills necessary to move on to the next grade, but are they able to clearly communicate these skills with their parents. Just because you know they know, does not mean the community knows about their learning.”

That was powerful, and it became one of my professional learning goals for this ELA year.

Transparency. But more than that, I want my kids to understand the language of learning.

I went back to the curriculum, to the Outcomes and to the Indicators and to my students. The kids and I have worked and worked on this process using the practice of student-led conferences we used last year.

From the beginning of the year the kids have a booklet of Indicators and are taught which indicators we are trying to master with each project. Mastery does not look the same for everyone, and here is where the beauty of the conferences comes in.

Each student was encouraged to reflect on 25% percent of the indicators (four conferences means reflecting on only ¼ of the indicators, a manageable goal). Not all the kids choose the same indicators! We like this. Many kids shared different experiences that helped them gain a level of proficiency with their chosen indicator. “You know, with CR9.1a, I was only meeting expectations. Efficacy and identity weren’t linked, well, not until we began looking at the school’s symbol, then things really made sense. Let me show you my journal entry…”

Many kids were clearly able to express their learning in ways such as, “I didn’t get it here, but later, when we were studying, or discussing, I had a deeper connection because…” My kids were able to share their ‘hows’ not only with me, but with each other before their SLC during practice conferences and with their key stakeholders during SLC.

Our SLCs sure feel like capacity building to me.

As well, our on-going reflection on our learning embraces the practice of Assessment for Learning. I want my kids to make meaningful connections with the world around them. Our course is a language learning course, a course that examines the power of language, theirs, others and our collective voice. It’s amazing what happens when kids actively reflect on how their connections move from surface level connections to deeper level meaning-making connections.

During conference I take notes. This is our first year with the students reflecting with their indicators as guide. During post conference, usually, the same length as the conference itself, I check in with my kids. Here, I find out what went well, where they’d like to improve. Here is the SLC stuff that I’m familiar with.

But there’s more.

I’m always learning from my kids and these moments offer the best glimpse for me, as educator, to listen to what I’m not doing well, and how I need to improve. Here is when my kids tell me.

And you bet I listen.

Turns out, I need to do a better job of teaching my current ELA kids the many different ways they can pre-write and the language of pre-writing than I have been doing. Ok. Noted. This week, we’re on it!

Our conferences are not easy. As a class we spend about six hours prior to each SLC in preparation. The time is worth it. For many of my kids, this is one of their only opportunities to shine in front of this specific group of people, and to shine where they feel safe.

So this week, we begin the process of figuring out what more we need. All but two students asked for longer conferences. But I don’t always control the time, and too, we’ll chat about why it’s important to synthesise as well as we do (isn’t there an indicator for that too?). Anyway, all of this will be a whole-class discussion. My grade nines’ fluidity between their language of assessment, process, product and growth was clearer than most of my other students, and this was their first time doing SLCs. They had nothing to (un)learn.

We’ll chat about that too…

We’ll begin to prepare for January, now, as we always have the Big Picture in mind. In both January and June, our conferences act as oral final-term exams. My ELA students find the preparations for their final exams more difficult than any traditional ELA exams, but the SLC ‘exam’ are also more rewarding.

In the moment, what other form of assessment and evaluation offers wonderment of how one’s learning might be different, tears of joy and hugs all around?

During the Remembrance Day service the kindergartens, grade 1 and grade 2 shared. They shared K’Naan’s Wavin Flag. If you haven’t listened to it, do.

The kids rocked it. I mean really, really rocked it. My senior kids have begun to study performance poetry. Some of my grade 11/12 have been invited into elementary classes to share their passion for performance. So Thursday, when those little ones began rocking out, my kids got fired up. I got fired up. And I have to admit, I did absolutely nothing to quiet my kids. In fact, I joined in. I was joyful right alongside my kids. The south side of the gymnasium where the student body was seated was gleeful. The north side of the gymnasium where the community was seated was… not so much. When one of the grade 1, by memory, recited the lines Drake shares in the young artists’ version, almost every pair of Language Learning eyes from grade 9 to 12, turned and looked at me, and in unison mouthed, “Wow!”

It was a gutsy performance by an amazing group of young kids and their amazing teacher. The teacher is a person my kids know and respect. We are a rural school. We are one close, big family. When the song ended, my kids were on their feet, cheering and clapping. Actually, my kids and I were on our feet, cheering and clapping…

Things sort of went down-hill from there.

The event was not an assembly, but a service.

My students love performance poetry. They love giving voice to issues that need voice. So, with mic in hand, they continued to share pieces filled with meaning for the day and filled with meaning for today’s youth.

The room grew yet more distant, and we had not yet come to the Last Post.

When the trumpets played a child in the section reserved for community began to softly sing and to cry following along with the trumpet tune. I thought the sound, the addition, beautiful.  An adult tried to hush the child.

As we transitioned into a moment of silence, the child continued to sing softly. I think this was my favourite part of the service, certainly, the part that resonated.

I do remember. And so do my kids. And so too will the wee ones who, for the most part, spend each day at the other end of the school.

As my kids cleaned up the gymnasium, a few shared that some of their parents and a few members of the community were not entirely happy with our exuberance.

With the community making its way out the doors, my kids and I returned to our room. Then, a few kids zipped off down the hall to the store room to fetch an old piano. During transport, the piano left a rather large scuff in the wax the length of the hallway, joining until the winter-break-waxing, the elementary end with the high school end. An elementary student, flanked by community members, paused at the scuff and then looked at me.

“What are you going to do about it?”

Well, the piano is for our room, out of tune or not, but wanted. Yes, it is a rather old, dark grey-ish fading piano, but the kids chose it. The moment it was in our room, the kids pulled off a few boards so the piano’s insides became visible. Monday, we begin to graffiti piano’s shell. We do this because we’re a family. We do this to stay a family.  We do it with the Principal’s approval.

I just want to celebrate successes, you know. I get so caught up in the good. I never mean disrespect. This isn’t an apology, since I know in a heartbeat, I’d cheer again. I am just trying to envision remembrance in a space where silence and scuff and kids and cori are allowed room to sing.

The week ending October 21, I wanted to cancel our division wide Open Mic event. I wanted to pull the plug on a performance event for my group of students. Recently one of my kids said I did not look upset that Friday. That was easy, I was entertained. I got to listen to my kids step-up and succeed, and I got to spend some time with former students. But, oh you bet, inside, I was still stinging.

It has been a stressful three weeks.

We have all felt it.

This week, we had simply had enough.

It is exhausting being angry.

But I had some ideas on how to begin to mend.

I shared in my journal, then with my principal. Then, Tuesday I asked every student I teach to reflect, to meaningfully reflect, about how I could better meet their learning needs. As well, I asked every student I teach about how they could better meet their own learning needs.

Most kids spent 60 minutes answering the first question…

I went home at the end of the day angry and, well, selfish.

Oh, I sure understood that I wanted to react. I wanted to jump into the class the next day and tell my kids all the ways they have not been meeting my needs. I wanted to behave poorly. Really, really poorly.

But, I’ve been self-managing my happiness for a while now. And peace is more valuable than reaction.

So, last night as I attended an after school meeting, I listened to the people on the other side of the table share about the people, places and things in their lives for which they are grateful.  It was the weirdest after school meeting I have ever attended; I sat and I cried. I remembered that I love being an educator.

I went home and called my mom (the sound voice of motherly reason, the grandmother extraordinaire and a retired Director of Education). I shared my desire to be selfish and, I too, shared that the spark to respond went against my nature and my philosophy.

I love being an educator.

“Cori, what is your gut telling you?”

~

I cried. I wrote in my journal. I bbm-ed my principal. Then, I tried to sleep.

This morning, second period, with my principal in the room, I had each student and my principal write their name on a piece of paper. I turned the pieces upside down, shuffled them and then set them aside for a moment. Then, I told my students a few true stories. I told them stories of how I had come to find respect and trust in our learning space. I thanked my principal and asked her to step out. Then, slowly, with honesty and love, I drew one piece of paper at a time. Slow, as I read each name in turn, I thanked each student for the gifts they have offered me over the last 9 weeks. We cried. And we spent the rest of the day laughing, awash in tears, gratitude and reflection.

I love being an educator.

Sure, these days wipe me out and fill me up. But they do that to my kids too. These days make us all ask, what more can we do, what more, what more?

These are the kind of days that make kids skip one day to take a breather, and return the next striving for life-goals year after year. These are the kind of days that flood my text inbox with “Today was a good day.” They are the kind of days that bind. They make us more than family. They allow us to know each other. They are the kind of days that offer us moments of love, the kind of days that allow us time to understand.

My kids and I share stories about hope, grief and equity. Because we share, we know each other. For as long as I live, I will never stop fighting for my students. I will never stop while they don’t have voice, while they are in pain. I’ve taught at six different schools and today many of the kids I have taught remain part of my life.

These last few days have been confusing. These last few days have been the first time I have been told to stop lighting the spark within one of my students, the first time an outside influence has told me to give up on a kid. I don’t understand how those who profess to love their kids can simply use them in games, be abusive towards them, or be indifferent about them. I don’t understand how the best interests of kids can be, at times, so easily ignored.

Someone has to help me understand…

The girl on the right has been a Rider season ticket holder a year longer than she’s been alive. There’s nothing like the first night game. The chill night settling onto the stadium, the hope the team will pull out the infamous 400 points in the final 3 minutes. It’s Rider football baby! We don’t leave to beat traffic. We stay late, we cheer hard, and we sort our laundry into three groups green, white, and green and white. We, the collective Rider nation have opinions on everything football; this is after all, our house!  

I never wake to the sound of an alarm. I set it, and then my body wakes me before the buzzer. My internal clock is set early.  For three weeks I was officially a student again, taking a University course. I was up early to read, to study, to write, to edit, to re-revise and to write more. There was no time to mow the lawn, to visit friends, to enjoy campfires. The work was challenging. I loved every moment.

Attending the Festival of Words is always my birthday gift to me. I love listening to writers share their stories, in their own way without any pressure to take notes, to plan, or to organize. It’s a truly selfish gift. This year, two young authors that offered much delight were my daughter, and one of my students, both whom were attending the Sage Hill summer writing experience. Yet the most delicious moment came Friday noon, experiencing Don Kerr as he shared his poetry. I was sitting in a church basement having eaten boiled wheat salad, when this wind-swept grandpa, looking over his glasses at us, walked up onto the low stage. Here was Saskatchewan’s newest Poet Laureate. He flipped through his current book of poetry, “That. Not that. Those are no good. Ah.” He chose one about his mom and launched in. I know I was sitting with my sister and 250 others, but the room fell away and by the end my Nana was standing there in front of me, having driven the Olds 150 km for the first time without a driver’s licence, mad at my Grandpa. There I was hands clasped: Her girl, Wiens woman strong. Later he shared a session with the author of Lakeland, a former student of his. The two fell into a dance from days long past, chatting about process, and Kerr, still critiquing. If it wasn’t for this photo I’d be certain I’d fabricated the moment. Hmm, maybe I did.

Jess and I were watching a movie this summer, sitting on our worn and quite ugly forest green couch. She looked at me and grabbed my hand, “Thanks for never missing a game, Mom.” Soccer mom, as it means to Jess, is my greatest success.

Essential equipment for summer reading: great literature and one giant hammock.

I’m the kind who notices details, sometimes the big ones and most often the important ones. This day I needed to note the odometer turning to 100,000. I needed to click along with the mechanism; I needed to stay the course. It was the kind of day when the big things and the feeling things kept spilling over. I had just hugged so long to my one of kids.

Years ago my father took a group of family and friends to visit one of his childhood haunts, an abandoned church and its grounds. He shared stories of underground tunnels leading to the stables and to the main residence. He told stories of access hatches and glass green houses. That cool fall day we found some of them, and ventured down the tunnels as far as we could without flashlights. I returned this August with a friend who’s never cached, we entered through the trap door, and signed our name in one of the log books I had since placed just near the tunnel. Though I wanted to, we did not linger; there was no moon.      

Towards the end of summer, Jess and I started out on a Grand Adventure looking for her great-great aunt who died from scarlet fever at 12 years of age. My Nana would tell of her not being able to say goodbye to her sister as they took the body away. We wondered if the sister had been buried on the farm, but not likely, since she was taken “away.” Though we have yet find her grave site, we have leads for another adventure this September. Instead, we cached and snooped, “Just go on, the cache is in there. You have to put your head and shoulders into the furnace to reach it.”

The archivist in my daughter had us snoop through the obituaries in my grandparents’ hometown, some 300 km from where we began our adventure. There, in the upstairs room of the museum, done up to look like a classroom, nun and all, were pictures of my parents, married just five years. Mom can’t remember if I’m in this picture, but I was born the following summer. We have no idea what the heck is going on with her hair. I would bribe her with this photo but she’s my mom, if anyone has the goods, it’s her. I think they sure are handsome!

I snapped this image on my way to White Bear Lake mid-August. I wondered where the rainbow was coming from, and why the moon was just hanging round. The field full of bails made me feel at home, you know, this year of rain and heat and driving these adventures; I know where I am when I see a land dotted with bails. When I arrived at the lake, my friend, tired and stressed from helping her father move from the family home, reflected on the lifetime of photos she and her siblings had had to sort. She said she tossed all the ones without people. She feels no one will ever want a photo of hers if there isn’t a reference point of a person. I like land, and I story for me.    

He and I were chatting about his Information Processing course. If you’ve ever read that curriculum, it can feel older than microfiche.

Our school is a rather small K-12 rural school with one computer lab. Though you’d think access to computers wouldn’t be an issue, it is. The timetable goes up and it’s a scramble to get time in the lab.

I’m lucky because in my classroom space I have five computers. My home room has seven students. But my senior ELA class is a bit greater than that. And we like to be together during the creative process rather than scattered around the school finding open computers … But that brings me back to IP.

I teach senior ELA, senior History and a few other courses. The first thing I do every year is get my kids started or refreshed in their on-line spaces. And as my divinely patient principal can attest, last June as the schedule was being made, I ached to be assigned to teach IP so that I would have the time and the access to technology with all my students, while we learn all our subjects. Alas, it simply wasn’t possible for me to teach IP.

Here is the beauty of yesterday’s conversation with Greg: He and I chatted about how our courses could be mutually supportive. We decided that, in all subjects, the kids will be working with me and with him. He’ll set up our Google accounts the first week, then our other accounts, all those essentials that, in the past, I have taken time to set up in ELA or History. By using collaborative teaching, we are ensuring that tech skills are valued alongside ELA and History skills.

As Greg and I chatted and bounced ideas off each other, I began to feel like something magical was happening. I often hear that we should try to make our classrooms a collaborative space, but wow, Friday that collaboration became lived in me, and in my colleague. Imagine how that might transfer to our kids? Think of the possibilities for student engagement? This makes the little hairs on my arms stand up, you know. Good, good stuff.

I was at school Saturday, and Greg and I talked about Friday’s conversation. About how special a jumping off point it had been for both of us, he having shared with his partner, me with mine. I asked Greg if I could share here.

You know, years ago I believed that technology was about tools. Now I know, for me, it never will be. Yesterday, in my room, prepping for the first day of the new school year, I sought many expert voices, all of them knowing way more about the tools than I. I asked my Learning Consultant, one of my students, a colleague. But what struck me as Greg and I were chatting was that I had been organizing with these expert voices technology-based learning experiences all day. What struck me was that I’m simply passionate about the need to embed technology in meaningful ways for our kids.

Dear Jana,

I read your post and I can’t help thinking of my own daughter, Jessy Lee, ready to take a leap of her own. Her move though, is towards high school, grade 9.

Last Saturday, Jess and I were in the city hanging out between soccer games. We were at a clothing store picking up a few things for the new term. I was waiting for her to emerge from the change room. I knew things were going well because I could hear her giggling through the door.

Out she came wearing a t-shirt with the words: I ♥ Quebec. She’s only 14, but she has her sights set on McGill University. To her, that $7.50 T-shirt was the most exciting item imaginable. Later that night grinning ear to ear, she wore all its imaginableness to play laser quest.

Years ago I reflected on moments that I’d never desire to change. Today, every moment with her it’s own beauty. 

One moment Jessy Lee was six and a half and we spent the whole-of-a-day at the beach.  It was hot, very hot.  We swam, sang songs, built a sand castle, giggled, read, and ate PB & J and carrots for supper.  When the sun started to set, I took her hand and she was warm.

When I started my teaching degree she was in grade one, both of us full time students.  I was a single parent and often felt the social stigma fostered by my long hours and time away from Jess. 

Today she is independent and spectacular and fiercely resilient, my girl playing provincial soccer in the middle of summer holidays, dreaming of University while trying on clothes for high school, one fabulous pink-shirt-wearing kid!

So, off she’ll leap and I can’t help but feel, there are only 48 full months remaining…

“Sure,” she says. “There’ll be weekends, mom, and summers. And don’t forget our two-month long end-of-12 trek!”

But I can’t help feeling and I can’t help remembering. Oh, and too, excitedly, thankfully, beautifully, I can’t help dreaming right along with her… 

My, what life we play, linking

hands through time, in our

brown eyed way.

And yet all the while knowing a cheek-chilled clench,

wrinkled brow, that grip of pause. Yet every day in your lovely way, you

remind me gently of how fine life feels, of this space of awe, of a whole new way, remind me of

me and you, and this life we play. So all that past we’ll just let stay. Yet oh,

oh, my brown eyed Jay.

See of all life’s play, the best is the magic in the wonder of

one   more   day.

And our hands stay tight, stay in time, we play to today, knowing

holding home life-linked this brown eyed way.

Sigh

Part of me feels like this is such a tired and old discussion. Yet, at other times, I know, because the discussion was filled with confusion, and because of comment’s like, “Aren’t you afraid of kids having your cell number?” and, “It’s just too personal,” these discussions are still needed.

But the discussion only focused on kids and cell phones, and so often a whole other group other than the kids gets missed: families.

I also encourage my kids’ families to connect. And not only with their kids, but with me: stay in touch with your kids, stay in touch often with me and stay up-to-date with what and how we’re doing here in the class.

In fact, connecting with families, I think, is almost as important as connecting with our students. And I try my best to make certain this begins with face-to-face connections.

It’s how we begin to grow as a classroom family. 

We listen and we connect. We chat and we connect. We share and we connect. We  connect and we trust. It’s pretty amazing, really.

Many of the adults in my kids’ lives like to stay in contact with the school. For me, emails tend to be long, and like many of my teaching colleagues, I’m busy. 140 characters or so feels just about the perfect length.

Last Sunday, though, as I was busy working on a University paper, my cell phone lit up.

“We called you first.”

The key adults for one of my student’s were calling to share news that my student had decided to move. The student’s key adults were concerned and, to say the least, sad too. For the past ten months, for many hours a day, for this family, I’ve been another caring adult. Last Sunday, they needed someone with whom to share their concerns.

After all, aren’t we as teachers connecting too? Doesn’t that start with building a sense of classroom family? Are we or are we not then connected beyond the students in our rooms.

I listened while they shared the events that led to my student’s decision to move, and I agreed, yes, I’d love to come for supper and say good bye. And then, I set the phone down and cried. 

I cried for my student’s best friend who needs him. I cried for the basketball team who will miss him. I cried for the drum set in our homeroom that will stay silent next fall. I cried because my kid is leaving. I cried because I wonder if, as my student steps towards his teachers next fall, scared and lost, and asks for support, will he find it? Will he seek it? Has he learned well enough to use his words and ask for what he needs?

I cried for my boy.

Make no mistake, I am a teacher. I am not a counsellor or a social worker, but you bet, I am a community member and a friend, and just as I am with my own girl, I am always a mom. I cried because I used to think it was OK for my kids to leave, but I’m learning the ‘OK’ feels only ‘OK’ when they are in grade 12. It’s ‘OK’ when we’ve shared all the stories we need to share, when they are almost grown, and this sure doesn’t feel near to ‘OK’ to me. 

Like my student’s loving supportive caregivers, we all need more time.

Every day, my student was a gift galloping in the front doors, questioning, challenging, smiling, wondering, offering, encouraging.

So last Sunday, I answered my cell phone and listened while my student’s key adults here, shared about their boy who has spent the previous week walking around the house in his school jersey, set to step away…

They asked nothing from me, but to come for a meal. And I agreed.

For me, teaching and learning lives in personal connections. Always has, always will. If you share a story with me, spend a period in my room, hike with me, you’ll soon come to know, I’m irrationality crazy about my kid(s). My kids’ families know it and they value our classroom family.

Sherman Alexie states in my favourite middle-years book, “Nervous means you want to play. Scared means you don’t want to play.” I’m in this profession because giving voice to youth matters most to me. I am unable to separate educator from being a mom, a friend, a learner, a child or a woman. And sure, I am always nervous. And nervous is a good, good thing. It makes me cautious and caring, and better planned, and more passionate, and more fiercely resilient than I can possible express. Mostly, it keeps me focused on putting the needs of kids first.

So here is what I’ll share…

I’ll let my student know that he always has us, his team, and that our classroom door will always remain open. The family of our classroom is tangible, after all.

I’ll tell him how proud we are of him. And more importantly, that he has friends here, and a family here, that needs him and loves him very much. And that this family and this family love includes me too.

I’ll remind him how successful he has been here both in school and out of school, and that I believe he will find those same successes there, too. I’ll tell him to never forget the finale of the winter concert, the elaborate breakfasts on the field trip, the 33-year-old provincial track record that he shattered, the conference basketball finals his team played in for the first time in our school’s memory, and the beauty of the poem of the girl on the swing, because after all, all of that belongs to him.

And I’ll hug him and I’m sure I’ll cry. I’ll make certain that he knows I’m really here too, and then I’ll make certain he has my cell number. 

And then, I’ll let my boy go.