Education

Turning Points

April 14, 2018 By Kathie Z

Both of my daughters are at turning points. One is weeks away from graduating from college. The other weeks away from declaring her major. Both are faced with the question: What next?

This question mark is huge. There is absolutely no known answer to this question. Because it’s this question that leads to a slew of other questions. Which, when you share intense passion for creativity and are inherently square-peggish, can be inordinately anxiety producing.

I’ve spent a lot of time on the phone with my older daughter recently. She’s been feeling the pressure of the what next question. It seems everyone she meets from relatives to shop keepers want to know what her next steps are. Some even ask, “What are you going to do?” or “Do you have a job yet?”

The truth of the matter is, I don’t want her to take a “job.” She is an artist. A gifted painter. Her work is beautiful, impactful. And she’s been told by people in the art world, not her mother, people who actually know things that she can make a living as an artist. And live independently. Which is my dream for her.

Her younger sister texted last night, wanting to talk. Which is a big deal. My younger daughter is a very closed-mouth social butterfly. She’d make an amazing undercover operative, we joke. She’s a vault. Except her emotions have a limit and her voice gives her away. She too, is at a turning point. She’s realized she can no longer avoid pursuing her passion, photography. She was upset about changing her academic focus; veering from dependable to unpredictable, disappointing us in the process.

I told her I got it. I did the same thing as a college sophomore. I realized that studying business was not for me. I wasn’t interested in balance sheets or debits and credits. Plus, I was a really bad business student, only good at the “fluff” courses that tapped into my creativity. Numbers numbed me and I over-thank everything. Suffice it to say, I still recall the teary conversation I had with my mother all those years ago when I told her I wanted to study literature instead. And with my father’s blessing, I declared myself an English major, minoring in dance, veering away from a predictable profession.

Until I’d spoken with my younger daughter last night, I’d all but forgotten about the stress of declaring a major in college. When I told her to declare her art major, I felt a heavy burden evaporate. Problems grow to enormous proportions in our imaginations when we keep them to ourselves. Turning points arise when we need them, not when we want them.

The irony of my children being in such synchronicity is not lost on me. They’ve both been feeling the pressure of meeting the expectations of people who don’t matter. Last night I was blunt with my younger daughter. I interrupted her mid-explanation as to why she no longer wanted to pursue the major she had previously (confusing to me) declared. She had to take a course in which she pursued a passion project related to the field. She was stumped for a topic. I told her matter-of-factly, “That’s because it’s not your passion.” She was taken aback a little. I pressed on. “What would make you happy?”

“Photography,” she said through tears.

“Then do it,” I said. “That was the plan, anyway.”

Which is the honest-to-goodness truth.

My oldest daughter picked up a crayon before a pencil. I can’t remember a time she hasn’t been drawing. And my younger daughter became a photographer the moment she picked up her first point and shoot. Both of my children are incredible artists. Who see the world in a different way than most. And the world needs the beauty and perspective artists provide.

I applaud their courage to choose the path of authenticity and creative expression. They’ve chosen challenging, creative fields, but I know they’ll both be fine. Will their chosen passions bring the creature comforts they’ve grown accustomed to? I don’t know. Only time will tell.

But I do know their work is just as meaningful as any other traditional type of work they could choose. I also know, if they choose to turn later on down the road, elect a more traditional path, that will be o.k., too. Their creativity will never die; it’s an integral part of each of them. At this turning point in the road, I want my girls to know what it took me so many years of suppressing my own creative impulses to learn; your work is a reflection of who you are, not the definition.

Tesser Well

March 7, 2018 By Kathie Z

In 1977 I was ten. And I was most definitely not cool. Nope. I was the kid who would likely be labeled as “quirky”-that ambiguous, catch-all phrase for kids who are different. Kids who see the world through a lens uniquely theirs.

In the fourth grade, my otherness became official. A handful of classmates and myself were identified as “multi-talented” and placed in a special academic enrichment program; an experiment in education that shaped the way I see the world and myself.

My classmates and I looked forward to Thursdays, our weekly learning adventure with our funky, brilliant teacher. She was unlike any teacher we’d ever known, any adult for that matter. With long, curly, red hair that hung half-way down her back, aviator glasses and buffalo plaid flannel shirts she broke the mold. She was hip, modern, cool. She spoke rhythmically, enunciating syllables, used elevated vocabulary and encouraged us to do the same. And she listened. Fully.

This teacher was like an enigma and we students were captivated. She enthusiastically instructed us to be imaginative, think in novel ways, encouraged us to pursue inspiration, soar. It was in this classroom, working with this gifted teacher for a few hours each week, that I temporarily morphed from a silent, shy student to a bold, carefree, confident kid.

One of my favorite parts of Thursdays was read aloud time. It was during this time that I discovered my favorite book, A Wrinkle in Time. As my teacher sat upon a desk, reading aloud, everything seemed to fall away, disappear. The story had sucked us in. And I was hooked. So were my best-friend-classmates, the Brown twins.

When summer came, we read and reread the entire Meg Murry series. We spent countless hours discussing the books. We were a ten-year old book club before book clubs were even a thing. All because of Meg. Smart, angry, determined, complicated Meg. Who was lost, struggling to find her place in the Universe. Who was the hero of the story. The perfectly imperfect character. My how we got her. Because Meg Murry was us and we were her, in a kinda sorta way.

Then one day that summer, Mrs. Brown, mom of the aforementioned twins, learned that Madeline L’Engle, our favorite author, would be doing an event for kids at a Hartford department store. Of course, we had to go!

I was so excited as my friends and I rode the elevator to the eleventh floor of the department store. What would she be like, we wondered? I privately hoped she would be a bit like Mrs. Whatsit, my favorite of the otherworldly beings in A Wrinkle in Time. Although she didn’t fit the description in the book, Ms. L’Engle did not disappoint. She had short, gray hair cut into a pixie cut and kind eyes. She seemed like a genuinely nice person.

As she explained her writing process to the handful of bookish kids who’d assembled, her eyes sparkled. We knew the cool kids were at the movies seeing Star Wars and we didn’t care. We were here with one of our real-life heroes, being inspired. Ms. L’Engle talked about imagination, story ideas, and explained her writing process. As she spoke, she sketched an elephant on chart paper (it was an idea for a book she was working on). She gave my friends the sketch and then took some questions before signing books.

I chose my favorite, A Wrinkle in Time, and waited on line. When it was my turn, Ms. L’Engle looked me in the eyes and asked my name, inquired about its spelling. She smiled as she inscribed my book. She looked into my eyes as she handed me the book. “Remember. You can do anything.” Silently, I nodded in agreement.

I walked away, opened the cover and read. Tesser well, Kathie.

That moment remains one of the most special of all of my childhood memories. And my Dell Yearling copy of A Wrinkle in Time remains one of my most prized possessions. How powerful and empowering Ms. L’Engle’s words were on the page and in person.

As A Wrinkle in Time hits the theaters this week, I hope a whole new generation of special kids discover a new hero, Meg Murry. And I hope they read Ms. L’Engle’s book and hear the message and are inspired.

Interconnectedness

February 25, 2018 By Kathie Z

A little more than a week ago, on Valentine’s Day, there was another school shooting. Another.

Looking at my last sentence, I’m stricken by the directness of it. Another.

I’ve been an alphabet soup of emotions ever since. I am heartbroken, frustrated, confused, angry. I cannot believe I am writing about school violence. The thought of school violence becoming a “thing,” something that happens over and over again hurts my head.

But I’m a teacher, a mother, a writer. I make my living by using words; choosing them carefully, using them effectively. I understand the power of words; their ability to inspire or discourage, empower or belittle. So, I must write about this.

When I first began teaching, in 1994, school violence wasn’t even on my radar. I’m sure I would have defined school violence as punches thrown. Over the past two decades, though, the violence has ramped up, morphed, become deadly and come closer to home. Literally.

First Newtown, in our tiny state of Connecticut, a mere 40 miles away; home to one of my dear friends and her family. Now Parkland. Geographically far, but still close.

In the past week, I’ve followed the Parkland story closely. Sound bites, video clips, headlines. I am awed by the eloquence and strength exhibited by victims and parents, alike. I am astounded by the ability of those grieving to speak up, speak out. Forge their grief into action.

Last weekend my husband and I visited our daughter at her college, my alma mater. The flags were flying at half-staff in honor of the victims of Parkland, one of whom we can sadly claim. The victim’s father, an alumna of our little liberal arts college, was a class ahead of me.

Walking on campus on a gray, snowy day I was struck by the interconnectedness of it all. I hadn’t known this man decades ago when we were both students, but I feel a kinship with him, nonetheless. My husband, daughter and I discussed the lowered flags, the senselessness of this tragedy. Another one. Again. Then I remembered another gray day, a little more than a year ago when my husband and I received those texts from our daughter. She’d just witnessed a shooting and was hiding in a locked stock room of a crowded shopping mall. She wanted to tell us she loved us and let us know her phone battery was dying.

I remembered the wave of gratitude that swept over me hearing her voice a few hours later. The police had arrived, secured the area. Miraculously the shooter had missed his target. An odd realization struck me. That gunman had nearly shot someone; his intended target, a young father pushing his baby in a stroller, my daughter, her friend. In an instant, he could have taken someone’s baby from them. What, I remember thinking at the time was, what could make somebody decide to shoot someone else? Harm another’s baby? Then I thought, this person, this gunman, was someone else’s baby. How could this happen? Was it a lack of awareness? Some broken connection?

It’s a question I’ll never know the answer to. What I do know, though, is we are all connected. Every one of us. Whether we’re conscious of it or not. And words have the power to strengthen or weaken those bonds.

To honor all that have been senselessly lost, I will do my best to remain mindful, continue choosing my words carefully. Because words are the currency of education, empowerment and unity. Which, like us, are interconnected.

One Hundred Days

February 7, 2018 By Kathie Z

We educators may seem a bit time obsessed. In our world, every single minute counts. Literally. We plan our lessons to the minute, use timers to stay on task, and make every attempt to transition smoothly and swiftly. We even have bells that ring at key points in our day to remind us it’s time to start or stop or be somewhere.

Time is constantly moving and there are many days I feel like Lucy in the chocolate factory; trying to accomplish as much as I can in the precious minutes I’m given each day. Because we have so much to do, so many concepts and skills to teach. Before we send our students on to learn more, do more, soar higher.

This week we reached a milestone, the 100^th day of school. The 100^th day is one of the best days of the year. It’s a fun-filled, celebratory day. A day of reflection and acknowledgement. We marvel at how far we’ve come together, how much we’ve accomplished.

I love this day because I get to experience the wide eyes and broad smiles from students as they realize they’ve overcome fears and developed tangible skills. To see a child discover that she no longer struggles to read or complete math problems is a powerful thing to witness.

In our second grade classroom, the 100^th day of school is one of joy. A day where we take stock of all of the effort invested, take time to acknowledge individual accomplishments and shared successes.

Coincidentally, this week marks 100 days for my oldest daughter, as well. This week she starts the 100 day countdown to graduation. In a matter of months, my daughter will be a college graduate.

For me, her mother, it’s exciting to consider what lays ahead. I’d love to say it’s the same for my daughter, but her excitement is tempered by the presence of the unknown. And as we know, the unknown can be the source of a lot of stress. And this stress can lead to a full-on crisis of confidence.

Sensing her ambivalence, I instinctively steered towards compassion rather than offering my usual next step problem solving suggestions of “Link in with so and so,” “Go to career services,” or “Reach out to your advisor.” Knowing that this daughter forms her beliefs based on evidence, I took the tactic I take with my seven year old students when they are experiencing self-doubt, questioning their capabilities. I told her to reflect on all that she’d accomplished and write her successes down.

“Yeah, that’s a good idea,” she dismissed. But I persisted. “No, I’m serious. My kids at school are doing this this week. It will give them the sense of pride and motivation to tackle even harder things.”

“No, I will,” she said. “It is a good idea.”

I heard the weariness in her voice. So I started rattling off all of the ways she had demonstrated bravery, pushed past ambivalence, went for it and experienced success; big and small. That got her talking about some challenges she’d long forgotten about. Things that helped her to grow into the amazing young woman she is.

Then I got thinking. Why wait for 100 days to pass before reflecting on accomplishments? What if we engaged in reflection, recognized specific challenges conquered more often? Say monthly or even weekly? And why reserve this review, this celebration for our littlest learners? What if all participated in this exercise, young and not so young? Kept a record of accomplishments to look back on those days when confidence isn’t optimal? I think that would be one powerful practice.

There’s Always Time for Second-Hand Joy

December 10, 2017 By Kathie Z

He’s ba-ack! Or maybe she’s back. Male or female, that pesky little elf is back for its annual spy mission. And I’m not too thrilled. That’s because the teacher me is not a fan of Santa’s little helper.

Before you label me a bah-humbug, unfun curmudgeon, hear me out. Please.

“Santa Fever,” is something all primary teachers learn to navigate. We can temper the Santa excitement with routine and structure. We’re pros at managing work, fun and talk of the guy in red.

This elf thing, though. It’s been a game changer. In the early days, I assumed this elf thing would peter out, go the way of pet rocks, Beanie Babies and silly bands. The elf thing required so much effort, put so much pressure on parents it wouldn’t be sustainable. But, I was wrong. Super wrong.

Between Thanksgiving and December first, elves magically reappear in my students’ homes. Talk of gratitude is abruptly replaced with elf stories. “You’ll never believe what my elf did today!” Day after day, there’s an elf story or three to be told. And as December progresses, my students become increasingly amped up relaying stories, giggling over the silly elf hijinks, gasp and guffaw repeating details of naughty elf behavior.

And all this elf talk takes so. Much. Time. Time which we never seem to have enough of as it is. Ever. Which seems all the more precious during this “most wonderful time of the year.” Bell to bell, every minute of our school day is accounted for. And stories of these little North Pole tourists engaging in their slumber time shenanigans were eating away minutes and minutes of my precious time, derailing learning!

Then I got to thinking about time. And the elf. What if I reframed this perennial challenge? “Reframing,” (in super-duper simplified terms) for those of you unfamiliar with the term, is choosing to look at something differently. What if I tried to see the elf as a good thing instead of a time thief? Embrace my students’ excitement? Experience second-hand joy? Surely I had time to participate in extreme happiness, right?

So that’s what I’ve done this year. Engaged in some serious reframing. And I’ve realized that the most precious time of all is the present. In a year’s time, my students will be third graders, on their way to becoming legit “big kids.” Quite possibly some of them will even decide they’re too old for elf silliness. For now, though, they’re where they’re meant to be; in the company of a mother and teacher who knows from first-hand experience how quickly time passes, how quickly children grow up, how quickly excitement fades. Right now, my students are in the presence of a teacher who is so happy to share in this special, magical time.

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