Human Development

The other day I saw something that made me think: what have I been doing? Let me explain. 

I have been staying at home with my children for the past three school years (this is the third one) after deciding that would be best for our family right now. I really, really miss teaching and school, and it's a sacrifice for me to stay home, honestly, as much as I'm glad I can be here for my children at this time. But when I look back over the past two years, I honestly wonder: what have I been doing?

I see other stay at home moms starting Etsy shops, learning lettering, getting certified to teach yoga. I look at myself and think, I haven't done anything like that. I haven't learned to knit or gotten an advanced certification or restored any furniture. 

But then I realized two things:

1. Staying at home with my children is a difficult, full-time job, regardless of what literally anyone (and everyone) says to the contrary, and 

2. There is something I have been doing (outside of caring for my children) that is incredibly valuable

It's the second point I want to talk about today (and I'm sure I'll address the first one another time). 

I admittedly spend a lot of time on Instagram. Several months ago I began thinking about this and wondering if I spent too much time there. But then I took a closer look at the accounts I was following and what I was reading about all day, and I discovered something: 90 percent of the time I spend on Instagram is spent reading about connected parenting, gentle parenting, attachment, child behavior, fostering a healthy relationship between children and food, mental health, the foster care system, disability, and neurodivergency. 

Since Bert was diagnosed with Cerebral Palsy, I have sought out not only credible CP organizations to follow and learn from, but, more importantly, adults with CP whom I can learn so much from. I have learned the terminology they prefer, the books they recommend, the suggestions they have for parents of children with CP. This has led to an even wider education about disabled people in general and their preferences when it comes to language and terminology, the struggles they face regarding accessibility, and the history of disabled people in the United States. 

I also have a close friend who has a son she believes is autistic, and she's in the process of having him evaluated now. I wanted to know more about that, so I read a book she suggested, and I also followed a few accounts on Instagram that she suggested would be helpful in learning more about autism. 

I know several people who are foster parents or who feel called to foster, so I began following some foster parenting accounts to learn more about the foster care system, and, more importantly, how I can best support foster parents, bio parents, and children in foster care. 

While it might sound like all of this following and reading would only directly benefit my own family and friends, I truly believe that what I have done over the past couple of years is put myself on a path to becoming not only a better mother, but a better teacher, a better friend, and a better human being. Furthering my knowledge on gentle parenting techniques, attachment, child behavior, the foster care system, disability, and neurodivergency will directly benefit my future students, my own children, my friends, new people I meet, etc. because I now have a much broader and wider understanding of people in general. I believe it has made me more understanding and compassionate. You may not be able to quantify or monetize this, but I feel I couldn't have spent my time doing anything better. 

I am no longer looking at my Instagram time as time wasted on social media, but, instead, as professional and human development. 

Instagram accounts to follow:

Big Little Feelings

Busy Toddler

Feeding Littles

Kids Eat in Color

Mr. Chazz

Disability Reframed

Real Chelsea Bear

Cerebral Palsy Alliance

Foster the Family 

Mother Your Mind

Cerebral Palsy Strong

Family and Coffee

The Autism Cafe

Responsive Parenting

Happy as a Mother

This Little Miggy

Cerebral Palsy Foundation 

Raising Good Kids

Dr. Becky at Good Inside

My Babies Grew Up

If you've been reading this blog for a while, or if you know me in person, then you definitely remember my group of students that I lovingly referred to as my "ragtag group of weirdos." They were my first class of seventh grade students my first year of teaching, and I had them in eighth grade as well. The class started with 11 boys and one girl and grew to 11 boys and two girls by the end of the eighth grade. I had been warned that they were badly behaved and difficult to handle, and at first they were. I can't put my finger on exactly when things changed or why or how, but this wild, rambunctious, off the wall class became the thing I loved most in life.

I could sit here all day and list stories about them: the funny things they said, the pranks they pulled, the gift they gave me which I will never forget (and still follows me to new classrooms to this day). But I don't have all day, so all I can say is I love, love, love them dearly and I'd do anything to get all 13 of them back in one room just one more time.

I've been thinking about these students a lot lately because they are getting ready to graduate high school. I honestly cannot believe it. I have been thinking a lot about my time with them and all the things they did and the things we went through together, both awful and wonderful. And I realized that this group, who were always in some kind of trouble for doing some sort of nutty thing or other, this group of ragtag weirdos whom I loved more than anything, are now these people:

- Eagle scouts (Two students!)
- Going to West Virginia University on a soccer scholarship and is the salutatorian of her class
- Going to West Point on a tennis scholarship
- State golf title winners (Two of my students from this class were on this team, plus one student I had a couple years later was on the team, too! And one of my students was the team leader.)
- Selected for the West Virginia Youth Symphony Orchestra and also the National Youth Symphony Orchestra 
- 4.0 students

And these are just the things I thought of off the top of my head that have happened lately and don't even include just the general ways in which they have done good deeds or made other people's days brighter.

***

Tyson, Emilie, Chase, Tanner, Devan, Sam, Armaan, Matthew, Gabe, Tommy, Cameron, Tucker, and Ian (see I can still even put you in alphabetical order quickly!):

I always knew that you would be a huge part of my life's story while I was only a small part of yours. I continue to thank God every day for blessing me with you. Thank you for the joy you brought to my life for the two years I saw you every day. My heart hurts a little bit when I think of those times because I miss them so much. But I am so happy when I think of all the things you'll do with your lives. I love you all dearly, and I am so, so proud of you.

Love,

Miss L. 

God Will See.

Last year, I gave my then-sixth grade students a test on verbs. Admittedly, this is harder than it sounds, as this unit covers everything from transitive and intransitive verbs to progressive forms to perfect tenses and everything in between.

The results were abysmal.

That might sound mean, but it is true. The students knew it, and so did I.

Through no fault of their own, they really did not have a foundation in grammar, and, as they admitted to me this year, they were mostly guessing on the exams.

Yes, I mean exams, plural.

The students took one verbs test the regular way. Then took the same test open book, and some students did even worse the second time. Finally, some were given a copy of the test to take home to work on, in an attempt to help them understand the concepts.

It was a low point in a year that was marked with struggles, which these particular students have worked really hard to overcome.

Fast forward to about three weeks ago ...

"All right seventh grade, we're going to start a new grammar unit today. On verbs."

Ten stricken faces.

"Verbs?"

I told the students that we were going to forget about what happened last year. They had a foundation now, and they had worked hard. We were going to start over.

I started teaching them the verbs unit again, the seventh grade version this time, in much the same way I taught it to them last year: a mix of notes, examples, activities, and practice sheets. This unit is long, and I could tell we were all getting stressed as test time loomed closer and closer.

Until finally ...

"Your grammar test on verbs will be Thursday, October 26, guys."

Thursday, October 26 came. Fourth period. Ten kids took their seats. Everyone took one deep breath in and then let it out. They started.

I monitored this exam more closely than any other in the past. I stood over the students, watching them work. Sometimes I'd stop and see a student having chosen the wrong response. Please change it to E, change it to E, change it to E, I'd think. I'd make a round around the room, come back to that student, and find that she had changed it to E. Slowly, the finished exams started trickling in.

I super secretly took out a note card and copied the answer key from the master book onto it so that the students couldn't see that I was grading their tests as they handed them in. I looked at the first one, and I panicked as I saw that this student was getting EVERY QUESTION WRONG. Imagine my relief when I realized I had accidentally used the sixth grade answer key and not the seventh grade one.

Shew.

I looked at the first test, then the second. Then the third and the fourth. The fifth. The sixth. Class ended, the kids left. I kept looking.

When I graded that last test and wrote 88% at the top, I sat back in my chair and realized ...

They had passed. All of them had passed.

I cried. I couldn't believe it.

And all I could think was T-E-A-C-H-E-R.

At the end of September we had a professional development session where my principal had us watch a video of a speech by Jonathan Doyle, who was speaking on the role of the Catholic school educator (but I really think his message could apply to a lot of different positions and careers).

It changed my life.

Jonathan Doyle said that, as educators, we have to own our purpose and understand that there's a reason God has put us where we are. He said we must understand the story we're really in. Meaning, we can tell people that our job is teaching English, or we can tell people that we are partnering with God Almighty to raise His children.

WOW.

He referenced the movie A Man for All Seasons, in the scene where Sir (now Saint) Thomas More is talking to Richard Rich. Basically, Rich wants to be in a position where he's highly visible and highly regarded by others.

Thomas More: Why not be a teacher? You'd be a fine teacher. Perhaps a great one.

Richard Rich: lf I was, who would know it?

Thomas More: You! Your pupils. Your friends. God. Not a bad public, that.

Interestingly, I received an email this morning from a priest friend of mine, in which he recounted this story:

Have you ever wondered how Michelangelo finished his masterpiece on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel? Was it really that he accomplished these paintings by himself alone?

Quoting Michelangelo himself: 

"After four tortured years, more than 400 over life-size figures, I felt as old and as weary as Jeremiah. I was only 37, yet friends did not recognize the old man I had become.”

Working on scaffolding was physically demanding, and Michelangelo created image after image on an ever increasing scale. He eventually exerted all the power of his mind and spirit, using themes and motifs from past sculptural works in his glorious fresco masterpiece. The four-year ordeal proved physically and emotionally agonizing for the reluctant artist… Perhaps what has struck me the most was his response when someone asked him why he was so serious painting those images even on parts of the ceiling where no one could notice. 

And I also asked myself, “Yeah, why bother to exert your effort to paint something that eventually only a few could notice?”

Michelangelo’s reply to that inquiry was:

“God will see.”

Jonathan Doyle also said that God comes to us disguised as our life. Everything matters. Just keep going.

His point? We're doing much more than teaching. He quotes C.S. Lewis:

"God claims every square inch of the universe, and Satan counterclaims it."

We're in a daily battle for souls, and our classrooms are the front lines.

Doyle said that God Almighty could show up in our classrooms next week, of course He could He's God. But if God doesn't show up in person, how will our students experience God? It's us. It's teachers.

God, make me a better teacher today than I was yesterday. And help me to remember that the things I do and say to my students have eternal consequences. 

T-E-A-C-H-E-R

On Saturday night I had the pleasure and privilege of watching my dear friend Story star as Annie Sullivan in Marshall University Theatre's production of "The Miracle Worker."

I have seen all of the shows Story has been in (and have the autographed programs to prove it!), but this one was truly, truly something special. First, because Story was playing a role that was just perfect for her. Second, because Story was a star. And third, because Joe got to see Story perform, and he also got to meet her for the first time.

Story's mom, Jenny, had seen every performance, so by the time we attended on closing night, Jenny had seen the show from almost every angle. This time, the last time, she wanted to see it from the front row. Now, this sounds like a normal thing for someone's mom to say, but you must realize that this production was in Marshall's experimental theatre, so sitting in the front row basically put you on stage in the show. It was truly a wonderful and unique experience to see the show from so close a view.

I was taken in by so very many things that were said and done in this show. For example, Annie's lines:

Everything the earth is full of, Helen.
Everything on it that's ours for a wink.
And what we are on it. The light we bring to it and leave behind in words.
You can see years back in the light of words.
Everything we feel, think, know, and share in words.

I teach English, so I traffic in words. My life is words. I live for words. Amazing.

While many things about the show were very moving, there is one part where I just started crying and couldn't stop. Just. could. not. stop. I don't mean a few tears falling. I mean like sobbing, unable to get the words out to explain why I was crying.

It happened right at the end. Helen has just realized that the "w-a-t-e-r" letters Annie has been writing in Helen's hands stand for an actual thing, which is water. Helen "asks" Annie to tell her the names of many other things, including ground, pump, step, mother, and papa.

And then.

Oh, and then.

Helen "asks" Annie who she is.

Annie doesn't sign "A-n-n-i-e." (Which is what my family calls me, actually.)

Oh no, she does not.

What does she sign?

"T-e-a-c-h-e-r."

I lost it.

The thing is, I actually took a sign language class in elementary school, and, while I can't remember most things, I have always remembered the alphabet. So before Annie/Story even said it out loud, I "read" what she signed in Helen's hand:

T-e-a-c-h-e-r.

I was crying before Annie said the word.

Teacher.

Oh.

OH.

When the lights came up, and I was still crying, Joe looked at me and said, "You're crying! Are you okay?"

And I said, sobbing, "That's it. That's exactly it. That is exactly what it's like to reach a student who is hard to reach. That is exactly how it feels."

I told Story that, too, after the show, and she said she just knew that I would love that part. (Of course she did.)

Who are you?

Not Anna.

T-e-a-c-h-e-r.

The Currency of Human Contact

In the wake of yesterday's tragedy in Las Vegas, there have been an awful lot of articles, posts, and opinions all over the internet. Really, it's to the point where I am scaling back my already-scaled-back time on social media.

This evening, I saw one thing online, though, that really got me. It was this:

So many people expressed their agreement with this.

And I agree, too.

As a Catholic school teacher, we are lucky to have those extra opportunities to teach empathy in our classrooms through our faith formation classes and service learning.

But the more I thought about when I teach empathy, the more I realized --

it's novels.
it's short stories.
it's poems.

I teach empathy to my precious kids through literature.

I have better discussions with my students over literature than I do any other time of the day.

In "The Kid Nobody Could Handle," Kurt Vonnegut taught us to identify those who feel unloved and reach out to them, because everyone needs a connection.

In Tuck Everlasting, Natalie Babbitt taught us that some decisions that people have to make are not always black and white.

In The Outsiders, S.E. Hinton taught us not to judge people by what they look like on the outside.

In "The Raven," Edgar Allan Poe taught us how to sympathize with someone who has lost his love.

And, of course, in To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee taught us what can happen when we allow prejudices of any kind to infect our society. She also taught us what it means to be honest, fair, and good.

My friends, we teach empathy through literature. We teach empathy through examining these beautiful and broken characters and putting ourselves in their shoes.

And thank God for it. Thank God for these writers whose magic words allow me to have these life-changing conversations with my kids. (No exaggeration.)

The realization that I teach empathy through literature both warmed by book-loving heart and it also gutted me.

Because I remembered:

A couple of weeks ago, I had dinner with my "little sister" J. As I often do when I see her, I was asking her about school.

Me: What are you guys reading right now?
J: Nothing really.
Me: What do you mean?
J: Well, we get these sheets, and we read them and answer questions about them. And then we get another sheet.
Me: What are the sheets about?
J: Like history and stuff.
Me: Wait ... you mean you get passages about things, read them, and answer questions? Like on the standardized test?
J: Yeah. We fill in the bubbles.
Me: Okay. But, like, what are you READING?
J: Nothing. We haven't even gone to the library yet this school year.

I do not mean this as any sort of indictment against teachers or how they run their classrooms, as I know just how many regulations and restrictions teachers face from the state. I simply share this information because it made me sad. Jailuh is in eighth grade. I teach eighth grade. So far this school year, my eighth grade students have read Vonnegut, Stephen King, and Patricia McKissack, among others. They are gearing up for a fall of Washington Irving, Edgar Allan Poe, Shirley Jackson, W.W. Jacobs, and Guy de Maupassant. And it's not because I'm awesome, trust me. I am mediocre at best. It's just that my job is teaching English.

But, guys, I tell you, reading this stuff with the kids -- it's BEAUTIFUL.

I don't know any other way to describe it. It makes my life.

The conversations we have about plots and characters and ideas are just amazing. And, like I said, it's how we learn empathy. It's stories.

"Stories are the creative conversation of life itself into a more powerful, clearer, more meaningful experience. They are the currency of human contact." -- Robert McKee

Our children love stories. We love stories. There is no amount of passages we can read or bubbles that we can fill in that can take the place of stories.

"Everything is held together with stories. That is all that is holding us together, stories and compassion." -- Barry Lopez

You'll Like It. Someone Dies In It.

I teach an afterschool enrichment class on Monday afternoons this quarter. This class is on movie making. I have nine students, and they are split into three groups of three. The students are responsible for writing their own scripts and acting in, filming, and editing their movies. I told them I'd help them with whatever they needed: props, costumes, filming for them if everyone in the group needed to be in the scene.

Today was the first day of filming. The three groups were spread all over the bottom floor of the school, in stairwells, the science lab, and the locker room. At one point, one of my students comes to me and says, "Miss Lafferre, we need you to film the next scene for us since we're all in it."

Of course I agreed.

Then she says, "You'll like it. Someone dies in it."

It's quite a reputation I have going for myself in the middle school. About midway through last year, I think it was, the students informed me that the biggest thing they've learned from me in their years with me is how to kill people and/or get rid of a body.

WHAT.

But then I realized ... YEP.

Between The Cremation of Sam McGee, The Most Dangerous Game, The Outsiders, Tuck Everlasting, And Then There Were None, and, I'm sure, others, I've taught the kids how to poison, hunt, trap, maim, and cremate people.

Which, with my luck, is all they'll remember about Language Arts with me. But I guess it's something.

Knowledge is power.

The Lord Will Fight For You.

Wow. It's been an awfully long time. Longer than long actually.

I've missed my space and the friends that pop by here and share their thoughts on my thoughts.

A lot has happened since I last posted on August 31. A lot. In fact, my life has changed in two very significant ways since that day, and I'd like to tell you about one of them now. I have been writing and planning this post in my mind for months and months, and this week three different people have told me they miss my blog posts, so I decided it's finally time to tell this tale. I think, if you read it all, you'll understand why I wasn't able to write these past few months.

Those of you who have read this blog or known me for a while probably remember this post when I announced I was answering God's calling to be a teacher, quickly followed by this post where I announced I was answering God's calling to be a teacher RIGHT NOW.

Over the past 2.5 years, I have consistently taught sixth, seventh, and eighth grade Language Arts, as well as fifth and seventh grade religion and seventh grade social studies at various times. There have been some very low times, but there have been many more wonderful moments, and I have never doubted (okay, MAYBE after my very first day!) that being a middle school teacher is God's plan for my life. I can't imagine ever doing anything else.

Do you remember at the end of The Wizard of Oz movie when Oz is talking to the Scarecrow? Oz says,

Back where I come from we have universities, seats of great learning -- where men go to become great thinkers. And when they come out, they think deep thoughts -- and with no more brains than you have.... But!  They have one thing you haven't got!  A diploma! 

Well, for the past 2.5 years, think of me as the Scarecrow.

I was doing the same exact thing every single day as teachers all across the nation, but they all have one thing "I haven't got! A diploma!"

I started the Master of Arts in Teaching program at Marshall University at the exact same time I started my first year of teaching. I was taking a full-time graduate load while also being a teacher. There were many times at Marshall that my Catholic school -- and sometimes me personally -- were seen as lesser than because it wasn't public school.

Nevertheless, I continued with my classes, taking full-time loads in fall of 2014, spring of 2015, summer of 2015, and fall of 2015. I did everything that was requested and required of me: wrote lesson plans, presented projects, went to class, earned Clinical II hours in a local high school. All the while, I'm a first- and then second-year teacher, prepping about 35 lessons per week.

Then came the pivotal moment. Spring of 2016, so last year at this time, I was scheduled to complete my full-time student teaching, followed by earning my degree in May. Teaching students who are working full time in a public school are allowed to use their jobs as their student teaching, and West Virginia state law says that private school teachers can only do so if their university offers a one-credit special topics course, covering things that one might see in public school but not private school. (Which is mostly silly, but I digress.)

At first, Marshall told me I could not use my full-time job as my student teaching. This, of course, was devastating to me, because I loved my job, loved my students, and didn't want to leave them. Then, after having a conversation with my principal and superintendent, Marshall told me I could use my job as my student teaching hours, and I would begin that in January with my classmates. I left for Christmas break, thrilled that I could continue working at my job. I also filled out the required paperwork for a student teaching license from the state (yes, you need a student teaching license to teach at your own job), paid the fee, and also got fingerprinted and paid the fee for that too.

HOWEVER.

On January 5, right after I returned to school after Christmas break, and right before Marshall's semester was slated to begin, I received this email. In fact, it came in right before my eighth grade students were returning to class after lunch.

After quite a bit of conversation between Dean Eagle and the WVDE, it appears that what we were originally told about you being able to do student teaching at your current job was incorrect.  After a phone discussion this morning, it was clarified to us by the WVDE that we cannot do that.  According to Policy 5100, 6.4.b.6 candidates who complete their clinical experience in a nonpublic school must also “complete a course which is a component of the institution’s  WVBE-approved  educator  preparation  program  that  provides  information  sufficient  to prepare  the  prospective  teacher  to  demonstrate  competence  to  teach  in  the  public  schools  of  West Virginia.”  Marshall does not have a course of this nature as part of its approved program.  For this reason, if we did allow you to student teach in a private school, you would not meet the requirements for certification.

At this point, you have two options.  We can place you in a public school so that you can finish your program and certification this semester if you want to go that route.  We already have tentative public school placements lined out.  If you prefer to keep your current position and not student teach at this time, I completely understand and will take you off the student teaching list.  Please let me know what you want to do.

Please imagine you are me. Students are getting ready to come in, the graduate school semester is about to start, and all of a sudden you receive a big JUST KIDDING from your university. (You also have to understand that Marshall had been very difficult to work with, to say the least, from the very beginning. This was just one in a VERY long line of things that had been exhausting. I'm a rule follower, and don't believe I am above the rules, but everything I had done had been by the rules I had been given. Also, please understand I am speaking specifically to the Master of Arts in Teaching program, as my Master's in Journalism is from Marshall, and those people were wonderful.)

Seriously?

My principal talked to Marshall about adding the one-credit course as a special topics option for me, but, to make a long story short, they wouldn't.

In my humble opinion, teachers who leave their students mid-school year without a VERY good reason are highly questionable. I would never do that to my students. They don't deserve it. (And I loved them and wasn't ready to leave them. I'm still not ready to leave them, and they've been gone almost a year. :) )

After I taught the eighth grade that day, I went upstairs to my principal's office and just stood in her doorway. She had received the email too. My principal, who has been AMAZING during this process, just told me it was going to be okay, she had an idea.

So I went back down to my classroom, crushed. And then I did the only thing I could do. I prayed. I told God that I started this job in answer to what I believed He was calling me to do. I understood that He had been covering all my mistakes and shortcomings for me. I told Him I would hand all this over to Him, and I trusted He would show me what to do.

And then I hung this on the wall behind my desk, where it still remains today:

Oh, how many days I've looked at that quotation.

My principal, who is a graduate of Wheeling Jesuit University, a Catholic school in this state, had already reached out to people she knew there to see how they could help. It turned out that Jesuit, while not having a Master's program, did have an Accelerated Certification for Teaching program, which would suit my needs fine, and which would allow me to continue to teach at my school and earn my license.

FANTASTIC.

I bet you think you've reached the end of the story, don't you?

You have not.

It turned out that it was too late for me to begin student teaching at Jesuit last spring, so I would have to wait for the fall. It also turned out that they required a class that Marshall hadn't required, so I had to take (and pay for) yet another course, which I took online last spring.

Still not done.

Because student teaching licenses are only valid for six months, I had to apply for (and pay for) another student teaching license from the state and also pay to get fingerprinted again too. Fine.

So, if you're still awake and not bored to death by this convoluted and incredibly long saga, to recap -- I applied for my student teaching license to work at my job and began a new school year this past fall. I also took the required student teaching and special topics courses at Jesuit to accompany my student teaching experience.

If you think I'm done with this story now, you don't know me in person.

So, there I am, working away at teaching school and also going to school as well. I continued to check the status of my student teaching license online, and it said pending all the time.

Until one fateful day in October. October 21 to be exact.

On October 18, mid-semester, I reached out to the state to inquire about the status of my application and why I had heard NOTHING from them. I received this email in reply on October 21:

I regret to inform you that your application has been denied due to ineligibility. It does not appear that a clinical placement in Our Lady of Fatima Parish School with additional coursework (EDF 374) is authorized for issuance of the Clinical Experience Permit. You may want to communicate with your institution of higher education about opportunities for completing student teaching and qualifying for the clinical experience permit. We have been in communications with Jeremy Vittek in regards to this issue. I apologize for the confusion and appreciate your patience in waiting for a response.

The email came in at 12:12 p.m. If you're keeping score at home, I had paid my tuition to Jesuit, had completed my coursework, and had paid for fingerprinting and another license application. I had done my 90-page teaching portfolio. AND THE SEMESTER WAS ALMOST OVER.

To say I LOST MY EVER-LOVING MIND would be an understatement.

I called the director of my program and was more unprofessional than I've ever been because I was basically crying and at a total loss. Luckily he was nice. He explained what happened. And I just sat in my car, in my pink raincoat, listening to his explanation in shock.

You might recall that I mentioned that I needed a special topics course per state law because I was student teaching at a Catholic school. Jesuit offered that course, I HAD BEEN TAKING IT, and it was a course they had offered for years. Apparently, however, Jesuit had not filed the proper paperwork with the state to, I don't know, re-register the course? Renew it? At any rate, the state said the course was invalid. The plan was, according to the director, they would hopefully get the course approved, and then the state would retroactively approve my student teaching application in time for me to graduate in December.

Once again, please put yourself in my shoes. As Atticus Finch would say, climb into my skin and walk around in it.

I'm not sure how I continued to teach classes after lunch that day, but I'm a teacher and that's what we do. We teach. No matter what is going on in our personal lives.

No matter who is trying to tell us that we aren't really teachers.

I kept going back to that sign on my wall. Over and over. I prayed. I asked others to join me in my prayers.

Then, right before Thanksgiving, (that's right, a month later), I received this from the program director:

I just heard from the WVDE and the course was approved! I will get in touch with the certification officer to see what the next step is. 

And then right before Christmas, this arrived at my house:

After all of this. ALL OF THIS. 2.5 years OF THIS. I had gotten that certification.

The next step was to apply for my teaching license, which I did as soon as my transcripts were official. I applied for my license on January 10. I was notified by the state I was missing Form 7, then told my transcripts from my undergraduate institution, Shepherd, weren't on file, blah, blah. I checked my application online every single day.

One afternoon after school, February 27 to be exact, I logged online yet again, in hopes I would see that my Shepherd transcripts had arrived. Instead I saw this

My friends. There are no words. Absolutely no words. I am a words person, I LOVE WORDS, and I have none. No words, no font size, no anything could convey to you how I felt in that moment.

To say it was the greatest day of my life might be an understatement.

I had done it. God and I had done it.

Providentially, the person I first told, the person standing in my classroom when I saw it, was none other than last year's class clown, the trash can kid, back for a visit. His first reaction? "MISS LAFFERRE THAT IS SO AWESOME!" His second reaction? "Are you crying AGAIN?"

I am a person with many shortcomings. I fail multiple times a day. I make mistakes as a teacher every single day. I am a sinner.

But if I can say anything for myself, it is this: I earned every inch -- every centimeter -- of that teaching license. I fought for it daily for 2.5 years. I encountered roadblock after roadblock after roadblock. I fought for that license on days when my students were killing me. I fought for that license on days when parents weren't nice to me. I endured these trials because God saw it fit for me to, and He knows best.

Upon reflection (teachers love that, right?), I realized why God asked me to go through so much for this teaching license. I believe it is because He wants to make sure that I never, ever take that piece of paper for granted. He wants to be sure that I never take the blessing of being a teacher for granted.

Even as I write this now, I am crying. I will never, ever be able to express what is in my heart about this license.

If you are a teacher, I hope this story reminds you why you are one and makes you proud to have that license.

If you are not a teacher but are a parent, I hope this reminds you that your children's teachers, for the most part, are human beings who love your kids and are doing the best that they can.

If you are neither a teacher nor a parent, then I hope the one thing you get from what I wrote is this:

The Lord will fight for you. You need only to be still. 

A Mountain I'm Willing To Die On: A Love Letter to My Graduating Students

I am just ending my least favorite day of the whole year, eighth grade graduation day. Because they graduated tonight, they weren't at school today, so today was my first day at school without them.

And it was awful.

It was quiet, it was lonely. It was too calm, it was too peaceful. I hated it.

Let me first day that I do dearly love my sixth and seventh grade students, and my (thousands of) tears over the loss of my eighth grade does in no way mean I don't love my other students, too.

But today is about my eighth grade.

I've written about these kids many, many, many times before, and I won't rehash it all here. If you know me, you know how much I love them, and if you don't know me, then you're probably not reading this blog. Haha.

I stood outside my door this morning, knowing no one was coming to homeroom, but hoping maybe I'd woken up in some alternate reality and my babies would come down the hall like they have every other day for two years. Of course, they didn't.

So I sat at my desk, holding my coffee, staring out into the virtual wasteland that is a classroom without students. Without students, I am just a person in a room.

Luckily, I did have the sixth and seventh grades today, but I teach those grades in the morning, so starting at about 11:23 (um, actually, exactly 11:23), I was no longer someone's "eighth grade Language Arts teacher" but someone's "former eighth grade Language Arts teacher." SOB.

I lived through the day, then went home around 3:30, knowing I had to be back at school around 6:20 in order to prepare for Mass and graduation at 7. Before I left my house, I packed three tissues. I grossly underestimated the number of tissues I'd need.

I started tearing up when my kids started showing up. (That's a lie -- I started crying on the bus back from our class trip to D.C. and haven't really stopped.) Remember, I hadn't seen them today, so I was seeing them for the first time tonight. We took some pictures with our priest and principal, and then it was time to line up for the processional.

I teared up as my student read the first reading. As they read the petitions. As they took up the gifts. But I really started crying when my student who is the valedictorian read her speech. I had to introduce her, and I'm not really sure how I made it through, but I did. Of course, I continued crying through the reception, just looking at my kids, together for the last time. I cried as I talked to their parents, as I talked to them, as I just stood there by myself.

The thing is -- I cry so much because I will miss them SO MUCH. They have been my homeroom for two years. For two years those are the faces I've seen every morning I've gone to school. For two years I've asked them if they wanted lunch every day. For two years those are the faces who've told me their stories and needed me to bail them out of whatever bizarre fix they'd found themselves in. Today, no one needed my help.

My friend Summer, who also teaches at Fatima, told me tonight that if you do a good job, then they're ready to move on without you. And she's right. They were believed to be a tough class, and in some ways, they were. But it's much, much tougher to be without them. My favorite thing about them is that each one of them is a misfit, but where they fit is together. As I've said before, they are a ragtag group of weirdos, but if there's anyone I should be with, it's a ragtag group of weirdos.

I realized the other day that it's okay to cry and it's okay that my heart hurts so much. It hit me that my students are really all I have. I have no husband, no children. My students are my world. I live and die by what is happening with them on a daily basis. The weird thing about love is that if your heart is hurting so much it's because you loved much. And I really do love these kids much. I had a moment with my friend Jessica, the kindergarten teacher, yesterday, during the eighth grade's last minutes at school. I was taking the eighth grade downstairs, while Jess was taking the kindergarteners upstairs. I said something like, "Oh excuse us!" And Jess sweetly said, "It's okay! My babies are just coming through!" And I said, "So are mine."

Driving home tonight was the loneliest ride of my life, I think. I had said goodbye to my precious children, and I was going home to be all by myself, with no one to talk to or share my memories with. As I started my car, it hit me that only two things would help. The first: I hit the "CD" button on my car, remembering what I had most recently put in the player. As the first notes of Bohemian Rhapsody started, I turned it up LOUD and sang (and cried) it out on my way home. My babies love this song, and, weirdly, last year's class did, too. (Incidentally, I learned that I live about 1.5 Bohemian Rhapsodys away from Fatima, which is what I plan on telling people from now on when they ask how far I live from where I work. I live 1.5 Bohemian Rhapsodys far.) The second thing: I'll watch The Sound of Music tonight. It's the only thing that helps when I'm sad, happy, sadhappy, or whatever weird mix of emotions I can't put a name to, like tonight.

The thing is, I teach English, and I love words, but I don't have the words to convey what's in my heart about these kids. I could write and rewrite all day long, and it would never be enough. They come from all backgrounds, and each have struggles, some much harder than I can even imagine. I have no fantasies that they'll remember everything I taught them, but I hope they remember that I loved them fiercely, and I loved them fully. I didn't always do the perfect thing with them, but defending them was a mountain I was willing to die on.

Will be forever.

3,500 Tickets

As a teacher, one of the hardest things is spending hours and hours planning, worrying, and trying to do your best for your students, who generally would rather be anywhere than hearing what you have to say. Pretty much, you worry all the time that you're not doing enough for the kids, that they hate you, and, most importantly, that you're not making a difference. This time of year is especially hard, as the students (and teachers!) are mentally already on summer break.

I've talked before about my love of teaching, but more specifically I've talked about my deep and undying love of my eighth grade students this year. Because I teach at a Catholic school, I teach all three middle school grades, which means my eighth grade students this year were my seventh grade students last year. I am supposed to be the eighth grade homeroom teacher, but because of a staffing issue last year, I ended up being both the seventh and eighth grade homeroom teacher last year. I say all that to say, my eighth grade students this year have been in my homeroom for two years and have been my Language Arts students for two years also. You form a very close bond with your students, and you form an even closer bond with them when you're their teacher for multiple years in a row.

I have said before that this year's eighth grade class is notoriously difficult. The school where I teach starts in preschool, so a lot of these kids have been going to school together for a long time. They have long been labeled as a very difficult class, and, I will admit, they are. The class is 11 boys and two girls. And, as previously stated, they are the raggiest taggiest group of weirdos on earth.

AND. I. LOVE. THEM.

More than words can say.

No, really. I teach English, I know, but when it comes to my love of these kids, I just don't have any words.

And then, they went and did this to me:

They returned to school yesterday after having been gone on a band trip all weekend (including Friday). They showed up to homeroom in their usual colorful way. I took attendance and lunch count as usual. After the announcements, one of my kids (the class clown) comes up to my desk, and he's holding something. It's this sign that says "Rock."

At first I'm like, WHY ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR SEAT?! Then he starts talking.

He said, "Miss Lafferre, see this? We got this on our trip this weekend. It cost us 3,500 tickets and about $70."

And I'm sitting there like -- why did you bring it to school?! I look at the class, and they're all sitting there listening and watching. And I'm just like what is happening?

He told me that the kids in the class pooled all their tickets because they were determined to win this thing.

For me.

Me.

I just sat there.

"We thought that you need something to remember us by, and we thought this would remind you of us."

I'm still just sitting there.

"Also, it's supposed to light up, but we broke it on the way back. But then we thought it's kind of like us -- trying to do something good but messing it up a little bit."

This kid explains that it broke while he was HOLDING IT ON THE BUS on the way back when they got to a bumpy road. However, another kid tells me that the breaking might have happened when first said kid attempted to pack it in his suitcase. :)

I don't even know what to say.

I'm like, "You guys did all this? For me?"

And they're like, "Yeah."

Then this kid goes and puts it on top of a cabinet, the bell rings, and they leave.

And I'm still sitting there like IS THIS MY REAL LIFE?!

Seventh grade comes in for class, and I'm still sitting there looking at this thing.

The seventh grade, having also attended the band trip, started asking me if I liked it.

And I was just like, "I ... just ... can't ... believe ... it."

I was, obviously, in tears. And in shock.

Then, one of the seventh grade girls tells me that one of the eighth grade boys PAID HER $5.00 for some of her tickets because they needed a few more for this thing.

All I could think to say was, "Seventh grade, you guys better get more awesome over the summer because you have BIG shoes to fill."

The sixth grade came later (also on the trip) and wanted to hear me talk about it, and then the fifth grade came at the end of the day, and although they were not on the trip, one of the girls is the little sister of an eighth grade girl, so she knew all about it. I was totally crying as I told the kids the story.

When the eighth grade came back for class, I was just like "Guys. I don't even. I mean I just don't even. I have to tell you guys that what you did is, by far, the nicest thing that has ever happened to me since I started teaching here. In fact, it's the nicest thing that's ever happened to me at any of the jobs I've ever had."

Their response?

"Really? Because that's really sad if that's the nicest thing."

Kids, man. They don't get it.

After school when I was on parking lot duty, I looked at my principal and said, "I have seriously been in tears ALL DAY."

My principal, who had been on the trip, was like "Anna, I wish you had seen them. They were like 'We gotta win this for Miss Lafferre!' They were so into it."

I went back to my desk after school and went through THREE TISSUES because all I could do was sit there, look at my sign, and cry. One of my eighth grade girls sent me an email with a picture she took of a few of the kids right after they had "bought" my present. Obviously I started crying harder. The thing is, the one kid who I feel like I don't have the best relationship with was the kid who was HOLDING the gift in the picture.

I did the only thing I knew how to do, which was write to them. I might teach English, but verbal words fail me sometimes. I'm much better with written words. (I said that to them in their letter.) I wrote them a letter, printed out 13 copies, wrote their names on them, and put them on their desks with candy.

This morning when they started trickling in to homeroom, I stood in the hall right outside the room, instead of standing in the room like I usually do. I watched as they, one by one, picked up their letters and read them. My homeroom has NEVER been that quiet. Not one of them said a word about it, but one of the kids (the original gift bearer) brought his phone into the hallway and was like, "Miss Lafferre, I thought you'd like to see a video of us on the bus ride back."

Um, yeah I did.

And a few more of them came out and crowded around.

And when the video was over, I looked at the phone-holder, and was just like "I need to give you a hug." So I did. And I hugged the other kid out there, too.

The thing is, I worry that I didn't express enough emotion when they first bestowed me with my gift. In fact, I'm so worried that my reaction let them down. But I was truly in such shock I didn't know what to do with my life. I think I'm still in shock.

Tomorrow takes us to 10 days. 10 more days with these precious kids. My favorite kids. They were always my favorites. I have no idea how in the world I will ever, ever make it without them.

Parents of my eighth graders -- you should be so, so, so proud of the kids you are raising.

Teachers and other parents -- 364 days of the year, we feel like we are making no difference whatsoever. But on that 1 day when we know we are, it's life-changing.

I am not the best teacher in the world. There are many, many other teachers at my school that deserve that honor. But at least I think I can hang with the best of them in how much I love them. Because I love them so much that it actually hurts. Sometimes I can't believe that the Lord would bless me so much. I am so undeserving of these kids, but they just keep coming back day after day.

How a Pair of Hoop Earrings Changed My Day.

Yesterday evening I went to the 5:30 mass, which is not my usual service. There was an event at Fatima that started at 6:30, so I decided to just go to mass and then the event. Since Friday, I had been feeling really weird. I don't know how to describe it, and I don't know if you've ever felt this way, but I guess the best way for me to describe it is that I felt raw. Like my whole body was an open wound. I was very, very anxious, which is not a new thing for me, but it comes and goes in terms of severity. As I was praying before mass, I prayed that God would help me feel better because I so desperately wanted to enjoy the event after mass as well as the community service event I had signed up to help with today.

I finished praying, put my kneeler up, and sat in the pew, waiting for mass to start.

Not three minutes later, one of my students came bounding over.

Well, she's not just "one of my students" -- she's probably the most cheerful, positive, and optimistic person I have EVER met.

She came over and said, "Miss Lafferre, I was hoping you'd be at this mass!" So I said, "Oh really? Because, you know, I normally go to the 7:30 on Sundays. I'm hardly ever at this mass." Then she said, "I know, me neither! But when I was putting in my earrings tonight I was thinking about you and hoping you'd be at this mass because I wanted to show them to you. Look, hoops!" (She had recently gotten her ears pierced, and these were her first-ever pair of hoops.)

Really?! Really?!?!

Really.

We chatted for a few more minutes, just about her weekend and life and things, and at one point she said, "You know, I thought about my life, and I realized that there is not one thing I don't like about my life!"

That. is. Magic.

The thing is, this girl doesn't have the "perfect" life. Her parents are divorced, and that is tough for any kid. But she just genuinely likes her life. And maybe you want to argue that she's only 12, what does she know, but I can pretty accurately assure you that when I was 12 I could not and would not have said the same thing.

I told her that what she had is truly a gift. A gift that helps other people when she shares it with them. People like me.

After mass, she, her mom, her grandmother, and I walked across the parking lot to the parish hall to take a look at the event set up since all the classes had created artwork to be auctioned off. My student and I just stood there chatting about events and dressing up and things and at one point she said, "Miss Lafferre, will you come and teach at my high school after I leave Fatima?" And I smiled and told her I'd love to, but I can't be in more than one place at a time. So she said, "We should raise money so we can clone you!"

And I told her that was probably the nicest thing that anyone had ever said to me.

It is rare that I say a prayer to God and then have it answered within minutes. But last night, it was.

The event itself was a lot of fun. My friend Sarah came with me, and I got to sit with one of my coworkers/friends and her family. The only thing that made it tough is that I had to talk to and interact with a lot of my students' parents, and I am just so awkward. Give me a roomful of kids, and I'm good. Give me a roomful of adults, and I say and do the weirdest things. Sigh.

**********************

Today I participated in my first-ever Helpington. I had been wanting to do this for a few years but have always had scheduling conflicts. I knew I was scheduled to work with my friends and their kids, but I was showing up to a new church by myself this morning.

And, as previously stated, I had been feeling really anxious this weekend, and those feelings usually make me want to stay home and, essentially, hide. Hide from the world. But I knew I couldn't do that, so I headed to church at 7:30 with the best attitude I could muster.

Before we began our community service, we had a worship service in church. One of the scriptures the pastor shared was Philippians 2:1-5 (The Message version, which I recognized because Amy shares verses from that version a lot!)

If you’ve gotten anything at all out of following Christ, if his love has made any difference in your life, if being in a community of the Spirit means anything to you, if you have a heart, if you care— then do me a favor: Agree with each other, love each other, be deep-spirited friends. Don’t push your way to the front; don’t sweet-talk your way to the top. Put yourself aside, and help others get ahead. Don’t be obsessed with getting your own advantage. Forget yourselves long enough to lend a helping hand.

Forget yourselves long enough to lend a helping hand.

I really needed to hear that today. And I tried to follow it.

Helpington turned out to be AWESOME, and I had a great time serving alongside my friends Ryan and Jana and their kids and family. I am so, so glad I went.

An Open Letter to My Students

Dear students,

Often times I think that if I could really tell you how I feel, you'd like me a lot more. Or at least understand my motivations. But I can't because one, it'd be weird, and two, I think you're too young to understand.

This morning during his homily, Father asked (rhetorically) if any of the students prayed for their teachers. Then he asked how many teachers pray for their students. Even though we could presume he also meant that one rhetorically, all the teachers raised our hands. And it's true, we pray for you guys all the time. Several times a day.

This evening, I stayed late to finish grades for the quarter that ended today. It's been a rather defeating week for a lot of reasons, and I really didn't feel like staying at work late. But I had a lot to do, and it was important that I do it. As I was looking over this quarter's grades, I found out that one of you has passed my class for maybe only the second time in the seven quarters we've spent together. But you didn't just pass. You got a B. On your own.

And it. is. AMAZING.

I emailed the principal right away because someone else I had to know this good news that I knew. You don't know that you getting this grade has basically made my life worth living.

To you, it might be silly. But to me, you GOT a B. Holy crap.

Students, what you really don't know is how very much I love you.

I love you when you're turning your work in. I love you when you forget your work. I love you when you you tell me how much you love the novel we're reading and also when you forget your pencil and your book. I love you when you're behaving and also when I have to put you on the clipboard for being disruptive.

But mostly I love you when you tell me things.

My favorite thing to hear you say is, "Miss Lafferre, listen to this ..."

When you come in -- anytime you come in -- with something to tell me, I'm overjoyed to hear you. And the thing is, some of you come in A LOT. In fact, I'm not even sure who is letting you leave their class so many times without putting you on the clipboard. But, really, I don't care.

I love when you tell me what the two of you did at your sleepover this weekend, and I love it when you tell me about that weird fact you read on the Internet. I love when you come back from lunch with tales of your shenanigans (which is every day), and I love when you bring your food sculpture gifts to me.

In fact, as I told one of you the other day, I'm still waiting for you to go to lunch, eat your lunch, and come back from lunch without getting into some sort of escapade.

I love when you trip over the trash can.  I love when you tell me you got sneezed on in class by that other kid. I love when you try to scare me by creeping in between classes, and I love it when you want me to help you pull pranks.

Because I love you.

And I wish you knew how much.

I wish you knew that I live and die by what is going on with you.

By the funny things you say.

By the fact that you show up day after day.

I wish you knew how very much I missed you this summer and how I hardly laughed all summer because you weren't there to do silly things.

I wish you knew how much my heart hurts when I think about having to say goodbye to some of you when you graduate this year. How I am already wondering how in the world I'm going to be able to go to homeroom next August and not see you there for the FIRST TIME EVER.

I wish you knew that I worry about you all the time and hope I'm giving you all the things you need. And that I go to bed every night wishing I'd done better.

Because, honestly, it's really not that important to me that you can explain the differences between subject and object pronouns.

I care more that you feel like you spent a couple of years in a classroom with someone who listened to you and cared about you.

But mostly I worry that you don't know how much I love you. And how grateful I am for you. And how blessed I am to be your teacher.

Because, to you, this is part of your life. But, to me, you are my whole life.

I love you so much, and I'm always here for you.

Love,

Miss L.

I'll Do It Because I Want To, Not Because You Tell Me To!

I have written before about how my mom made me the reader I am today. As I told my students today, the only reason I am the English teacher/reader/read aloud-er that I am is because of how much my mom read to me, took me to the library, and loved books.

You may already know, but today was National Reading Day because today was also Dr. Seuss's birthday. My mom really wanted to come and read to my middle school classes in honor of the day, and I was really excited because I knew the kids would be dazzled by her reading aloud skills.

Yesterday I asked my eighth graders what books they enjoyed reading as kids. I didn't tell them why I was asking, but I was so pleasantly surprised by the results. Every single student had something to share. EVERY. ONE. Even kids who are not great readers. Even the kids who do not like to read. They all had something to share. Henry and Mudge. Green Eggs and Ham. If You Give a Mouse a Cookie. The truth is, I had had a couple of these very students tell me before that they don't remember a parent reading to them, and, more specifically, that they don't remember their dads reading to them. I feel like that's so sad because, although I might remember my mom more, I certainly remember my dad reading to me, too. (He was a HUGE fan of the book Owl at Home.)

My mom came and read many books today. She did a slightly different lineup for each class, but she read Dr. Seuss, The Stinky Cheese Man, If You Give a Mouse a Cookie, and, my favorite, Mrs. Piggle Wiggle, among some other things. (Sidenote: Erin -- Mrs. Piggle Wiggle, we need to stage a reading together. Remember that kid who wouldn't bathe and Mrs. Piggle Wiggle told her parents to plant radishes on her? Yeahhhh.) 

The kids were really well behaved and seemed to really enjoy being read to. The thing is, EVERYONE enjoys being read to, and I think we enjoy it even more when someone is reading a nostalgic book to us. And, even at the ripe old ages of 11-15, these kids are nostalgic for books like Green Eggs and Ham. And, as I mentioned before, some of these kids may have never had a mama read to them, or maybe not read enough. And that's not an indictment on anyone's parenting. I understand we all have different circumstances. But I also know, in my humble English-teacher opinion, reading is THE VERY BEST THING you can do for your kid. (I also have a kid whose mom died unexpectedly a couple of years ago, and if there's anyone who could step in for someone's mom for a half hour, it's my mom.)

I so enjoyed listening to my mom read because, as I realized a few minutes in to her first reading, it's been a looooooong time since my mom read aloud to me. And when I listened to her say "Are you my mother?" I could almost picture myself upstairs on Alma Street where I used to live (and my grandparents still do).

Drinking the Water

I find that I usually blog on one of two themes: one, something serious that is on my mind, or two, something lighthearted and funny (usually something that happened at school). One thing that I don't write about a lot, however, is my chronically single status, and there are many reasons for this. First and foremost, I don't want to sound like a whiner or that I'm somehow sorry and sad. Because I am neither one of those things. In fact, I actually think that as fortunate and blessed as I would be to find someone, there is someone who would be equally as fortunate and blessed to find me. I also don't write about it a lot because if there's one thing I don't want to be, it's a cliche, and a 31-year-old single gal whining about singleness is the most cliche thing out there.

On a matter that will seem unrelated but will turn out to be very, very related, I always try not to lie to my students. When they ask me something, I do try very hard to be as truthful as I can. (In an age-appropriate way.)

We just finished the novel Tuck Everlasting in sixth grade. (If you haven't read it, please go find it this weekend. It'll take you a day to read it.) I have loved this book since I was in fourth grade and have read it many times over the years. A couple weeks ago the students asked about who my favorite character was or something along those lines, and I told them that it has changed through the years. I tried to tell them that I've been reading this book for over 20 years, and that, as you get older and re-read books that you read for the first time at a young age, the way you view those books will change and grow as you change and grow.

Which, if you're in the sixth grade and the ripe old age of 11, means absolutely nothing. :)

In order to understand what I'm about to say next, which is the point of this whole post actually, you need to know a little about the plot of the novel. In brief, it is about an almost 11-year-old girl named Winnie who meets a family (a mom, a dad, and two sons) who drank from a spring and found out after they had done so that the spring caused eternal life. Winnie spends some time with them, and, in a certain point in the novel, the family has to leave town, so the 17-year-old (well, he's really much older because he has eternal life, but you get it) son Jesse gives Winnie a small bottle of water from the spring and tells her she should wait till she's 17, drink it, go find him, and they can get married and spend their lives together. One of the questions I posed to the students was, if you were Winnie, would you drink the water or not?

Today we read the epilogue, which provides us this information:

Then the students turned the question on me -- "Miss Lafferre, if you were Winnie would you have drunk the water?"

And I honestly didn't know what to say.

What I wanted to say was, "No I wouldn't have. The Tucks gave a convincing argument about why it was terrible to live forever, and we know that's not God's plan for creation."

However, what I thought was maybe. Maybe. Maybe I would have. Jesse loved Winnie, and Winnie, as young as she was, could have loved him. And that's a forever (no pun intended) kind of love, the kind they write novels about.

Maybe when I was in sixth grade and had the whole world ahead of me it would have been easy to say no. But, being 31 and knowing what I know about love being so hard to find, I might have said yes. Having Jesse might have been far too hard to give up. So, yes, maybe I would have drunk that water.

What I did say was, "I don't know, guys. I see why it's a terrible idea to drink it, but I also think maybe I would have. The older you get and the more experiences you have, your thoughts on these books you first read when you were kids will change. And you might change your mind about things you used to think."

They'll understand it when they're older.

Ragtag Group of Weirdos

For two years now I've had the same group of kids in homeroom and also in language arts. They were last year's seventh grade, and they are now, obviously, this year's eighth grade. That class has 11 boys and two girls, and we have been through so many ups and downs in the past year and a half that they'd be impossible to enumerate here.

They can be a real handful. They're not always the best behaved, they don't always turn their work in, they they don't always make the right choices, and, frankly, they are exhausting. But, to me, they are wonderful. They are HILARIOUS (seriously, I could write a book), they are rambunctious, they are caring, they are original. Truly, this group of kids could best be described as a ragtag group of weirdos (in the best way), and I absolutely love them dearly. Let's be honest, if there's any group of people I should be with, it's probably a ragtag group of weirdos. They're my people, and I'd do anything for them.

Last week was Catholic Schools Week, and if you talked to me at all last week (and some of you unfortunately had to), you know that my sole mission in life was to get these kids to win the spirit stick at Friday's pep rally. They had a hard job -- they had to cheer the loudest and be the most peppy while also playing volleyball against the faculty and staff.

I usually teach these kids right before and right after lunch, so from about 11:23 to 12:11 and then again from 12:44 to 1:29. The pep rally was to begin at 2 p.m. I made them do actual language arts work before lunch (God forbid they learn something), but then after lunch I let them get ready for the pep rally.

It was one of the greatest things to ever happen to me in my teaching career.

The kids asked me to turn on some music. One of my girls set up an assembly line painting faces, one boy took small groups of kids outside to spray paint hair. They were making signs, getting their game faces on. They all had matching shirts. I went around tying up shirt sleeves with string, making piles of props, and taking photos to commemorate the fun. Around 1:20 I told them we only had about 10 minutes left.

"Miss Lafferre, we really don't want to go to seventh period. Can we stay?"

"Let me ask Miss Saseen (the principal)."

Miss Saseen said they could stay, if I was willing to keep them, and I was more than willing. I was having a ball. They worked together. They came up with a game plan to walk down the hall and enter the gym. At 1:55, after a few rounds of Sandstorm (Incidentally, who knew that's what that song was called? I thought it was just called like Euro Techno Club Jam), Thunderstruck, and Eye of the Tiger, it was time. I kept watch in the hallway, making sure the other kids in the school were well on their ways into the gym, and then I opened my door.

"It's time guys!"

They walked down the hall in silence, following their game plan, and carrying the tee-shirt of one of my sweet kids who had had his ankle broken in a basketball game earlier in the week and wasn't at school. They were silent, except for this one thing they call their "Celtic chant" which goes a little something like "Ahh-ooh, ahh-ooh, ahh-ooh." It's great.

They ran into the gym screaming, then went into the locker room. They wanted to make an entrance, and I wanted them to have what they wanted.

"Miss Saseen, they want to run out of the locker room when everyone else is seated."

"I'll have the cheerleaders make a tunnel like we do for basketball."

"Perfect."

I went to the locker room door and opened it. I could hear them getting pumped up inside, so I just stood there for a minute, listening to them and smiling. I went over to them and told them I'd open the door when we were all ready and that the cheerleaders would make a tunnel.

When everyone was seated, I opened the door. They went tearing through the gym, yelling and shouting, making tons of noise. All the other kids in the gym were cheering for them.

IT. WAS. AWESOME.

But not even the most awesome thing that was to happen.

First we took our spot on the bleachers and participated in some of the cheerleaders' crowd cheers that were part of the spirit contest. They did great! Then it was time for volleyball.

They took one side of the court, and other faculty and staff members and I took the other side. Playing against my own kids man, the worst. I played the first game with the staff and then my principal waived me over.

"They need a pep talk."

So I ditched my team for the eighth grade. I picked up a sign, took my place on their sidelines, and told them to pump it up. The ones who weren't on the court at the time would run over to the bleachers and pump up the crowd, yelling and high fiving. They were playing volleyball so hard. Hearing them during time outs in a huddle was amazing. They were pumping each other up and working together, all of them. What was awesome was that the kids in the stands -- the kindergarteners through the seventh graders -- were cheering for them USING THEIR CHANT. I was like "GUYS. Do you hear them chanting your chant?!"

Very sadly, they lost to the staff by the narrowest of margins (I'm still not convinced the score was totally accurate), but even then they kept up the pep. One of my quietest kids, upon them losing the game, said to the rest of them, "We have to keep it up guys."

And then, it was time.

"The winner of the spirit contest is ...

... the eighth grade!!!"

I. DIED. There were tears in my eyes.

They were dying too. They got the actual spirit stick and were waving it around.

Everyone got dismissed and they went back down the hall, so excited. I picked up all the stuff they left behind in the gym (one of the only two times I've EVER cleaned up after them ... time number two was after school when I cleaned up the bomb fallout that was my classroom) and went back to the room to join them.

I was like Guys. GUYS. I am so proud of you.

They wanted to do a victory lap. So, of course, "VICTORY LAP AROUND THE SCHOOL!" I took it with them.

We went back to class for afternoon prayer, and then I took a couple photos of them with the spirit stick. Then it was time to go home.

The thing is, we needed this so bad. These kids needed to feel like they were looked at in a good light by the people of our school. (Some of them. Some of them love them as much as I do!) Like I said, they have been notoriously hard to handle for YEARS, and that can be exhausting. But they have changed so much, and they needed that change noticed. Every single one of those kids contributed to the win. No one sat on the bench, no one was too cool. They all gave it their all. It was validation. Winning this spirit stick meant so much. It was validation.

In fact, one of my kids, one whom you would probably think really wouldn't have cared, said to me: "I have waited nine years to touch that thing."

If I hadn't already been pretty much crying, I would have cried.

And, as only this particular story with this particular group of kids could end, when I went back to class after parking lot duty I couldn't see the spirit stick anywhere. I was like REALLY. We have lost this thing after 10 minutes.

But then I quickly realized, what I am saying. These kids are the ultimate pranksters. (Turning things upside down, putting my class raven in the bathroom, etc.) So, after looking for about 15 minutes, I finally spotted it, wedged in between a metal cabinet and the wall.

I put it in its rightly deserved place of honor, in the front of the room.

Since Friday I have reflected on the fact that this spirit stick mission was truly my whole life. Like my current happiness depended upon whether or not 13 eighth graders. won a pep rally. spirit contest. And you know what? I'm okay with that. If that is my life, then I'm okay with it. Some people might think that is small when other people are out there saving lives and winning court cases and traveling the world and caring for their own kids, and maybe it is. But it was worth something to me. And the thing is, it had nothing to do with me. It had everything to do with them.

I just feel super lucky to know them and to teach them. It was one of the best days of my life.

For the First Time, One Time

Spoiler alert: I give away the endings of some books. But seriously, you should have already read these books anyways. :) 

For a lot of people, students and teachers alike, heading back to school after Christmas break is a real challenge. I'll admit, having time to myself has been nice, but I was really looking forward to heading back to school.

I really missed my students, and I was also really excited for a big reason -- January brings novel studies to each of my Language Arts classes. In the fall I concentrate mostly on short stories, plays, and poems, but the second semester is devoted to novels.

As I've said a lot of times, even recently, reading is so my thing. It always has been. And I know it's not everyone's thing, but I really believe that ALL children -- all people -- love stories. They love hearing stories, and, what I've found my students also really like, is having stories read to them. The students in my classes are all at various levels of interest about the books we're reading, but I've promised if they'll just trust me and stay with me, they'll love it ... or at least like it or find some value in it. Also, I told them that I don't purposefully go out of my way to choose boring books. I mean, for real guys, I have to read these books, too, and why would I want to go through 45 minutes of torture three times a day? It makes no sense.

The truth is, there are just few things in this world that are better than cracking open that book cover for the first time, opening to the first page, and reading those well-loved words for the very first time. I get SO excited that it likely borders on weird. But my students already know I'm weird, so they don't really flinch. :) I told each class a few times today, "I am so excited! I am SO EXCITED!" I just LOVE LOVE LOVE Beginning-a-Novel Day. (And, truth be told, other than that, today was just terrible, so teaching those novels was much-needed magic.)

Right as we all are opening the covers, hearing that distinct crack, and turning those first few pages to get to where the story begins, I say, "Who wants to read?" But before I call on someone, I add, "... with the knowledge that you will be reading the first words of our new book. And that is sacred." (I know, I'm a weirdo. Again, they know it too.)

8:56, second period, seventh grade, brought me: "When I stepped out into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the movie house, I had only two things on my mind: Paul Newman and a ride home."

10:40, fourth period, sixth grade, brought me: "The first week of August hangs at the very top of summer, the top of the live-long year, like the highest seat of a Ferris wheel when it pauses in its turning."

12:44, sixth period, eighth grade, brought me: "When he was nearly thirteen, my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow."

Guys. I get PAID at my JOB to read STORIES with KIDS. I mean, my job is really exhausting and frustrating and sob-inducing, but at the end of the day I read books with kids. Sometimes I seriously cannot even believe my luck. 

The thing is, I know how these stories end, they don't. And it both makes me smile and breaks my heart at the same time. I know that Winnie chooses not to drink the water and be with Jesse and he visits her grave later. I know that Johnny dies from his injuries after telling Ponyboy to "stay gold." And I know that Boo Radley saves Jem and Scout ... and after Scout takes him home she never sees him again. (Are you crying yet?) 

I know that, if these kids open up just a bit and let them, these characters will burrow into their hearts and stay there forever. My kids know that I've read these books over and over and have loved them forever. 

One of them said yesterday, "Miss Lafferre, I think you pick these books to relive your childhood." 

And it made me smile because, heck, maybe I do. I have nothing but the happiest, fondest memories of reading these books, but they are well-loved classics for a reason. 

As I told my eighth grade students last year, "You can only read To Kill a Mockingbird for the first time one time." And I want these kids' first times getting to know the Tucks, the Greasers, and the Finches to be some of the best of their lives.