The Invisible Trophy

Lots of thoughts and probably not much focus, it seems as if I could write about any number of things and call it a blog.

Hugs. Reycina hugs me, and anyone, like it's the last hug she'll ever give. Just one of those per day this last week has been a worthwhile gift from God.

Teachers. There's been a huge amount of talk online and within the media about our "failing" schools. I even had a student this week who wrote down, "our schools are failing" on a graphic organizer designed to help them brainstorm problems in their communities. There's a movie coming out soon called "Waiting for Superman," whose conceit is to prove that our schools are failing by showing the lives of several different parent's on their quest to find the right education for their child outside the public school system. I'm dying to see it and give my own opinions. As an educator, I feel that we need to realize the trends and pulse of what the public perceives about our profession. It does teachers no good to hide and cry foul. Go watch it. Connect. Talk and share.

I know the movie features the work of Geoffery Canada, founder of the Harlem Children's Zone. His story was shared on CNN's "Black in America," and I found his story riveting and what he was doing with education a step in the right direction.

I read an article on HuffPost about how to fix our schools. Much of the article feels like an attempt to dartboard the issue without really saying how or what changes should take affect. Part of this stems from a seemingly political attempt to discredit teachers' unions and tenured teachers in particular. Any union right now gets lumped in with lazy workers, high pensions and ineffectiveness. By letting the unions speak for us, we sound like blamers and avoiders. If unions do end up being broken over the next several years, what then? I feel as if the public wants us to be more qualified, work more and give their child the necessary tools to pass a test. It's also almost an American right to complain about anything and everything, especially in regards to education, from homework to teachers. I believe that alot of the funding issues that plague schools, are part induced by inefficient building managers (most teachers have no say-so on what gets purchased in a building, nor are they privy to their respective schools' budget). There's millions coming down in the way of grants, and taxes, so why do we still have buildings without computer labs? Why are we continually going back to operating levies and higher taxes, when we cut teachers and bloat the size of the classrooms, thereby eliminating the quality of a teacher by having to manage 30 bodies instead of 22/23?

Schedules and sports and daughters. This past week saw the end of my son's baseball season. It's been fun, and I didn't lose sleep on having some daddy-ball meltdown on the field or from mentoring-gone-bad moments by chewing out some poor kid. I did learn that baseball is just as beautiful as a sunrise and sometimes more frustrating than what i'll give it credit for. Lisa's volleyball season is ending very soon. She's playing softball this weekend. We used to tell her that she didn't have an option of not playing because it was better than what some of her friends were doing at the time. Now as we near the end, we're exhausted and frustrated. Burned slightly. Egos deflated. If colleges spend more time looking for character and realized the type of girls they were asking to represent their schools, perhaps they'd think otherwise. Lisa has put alot of time into her sports, I too as a parent have sacrificed quite alot of time. Your human side wants a payoff, some recognition, but in the end it's hard to realize it isn't about you, it's about her. What a kid. God brought us Lisa to teach us a few things. I'm looking forward to enjoying her company in the upcoming months, regardless of what softball may or may not bring. No one gives awards for love.

Redistributing the Tears

Today, I finally accepted new kids into a room the way I always wanted: with applause. Never in the history of room 160, or my other rooms for that matter, did a new student arrive with any fanfare whatsoever. Normally, I am scrounging for books, ripping out papers of a notebook to be used again, sharpy-cross-out name of a student's agenda book for it's new owner, name tags that are promised but eventually forgotten. They are rushed into their new area, set up with a partner and eventually become part of the scenery.

New kids come and go. I've lost and regained students, at about a rate of 10 kids per year. Kids move in with their dad, move in with their mom, lose jobs, relocate, get sick of the school, try something new. Some I try to coax with bus passes not to leave, and others' attendance is so blatantly poor, I've prayed they move just so their child attends school SOMEWHERE. Sometimes, kids get transferred within buildings, they leave because they qualify for services we do not have, or because of too high of enrollments in other grades, get split up between teachers. This happened to my school this last week.

I "adopted" 5 more students, which considering what some of my partners went through, was anything but a blessing. We're more crowded and we suddenly grew louder, but I get to teach the same material Monday. I wont have two grade-levels to maneuver through, plus getting to know kids again like it's day one.

According to the faces of the children in the building, redistributing kids to other rooms was quite traumatic. For those teachers that had to move buildings, or chose to teach split classes, you feel a sense of relation and disconnect at the same time. I wouldn't know what it would be like to teach second graders, and I've not taught third grade in so long, I would imagine I'd feel defeated teaching little ones before the day would even start. I'm used to independent readers, workers, kids who get inside jokes and have little mood swings. You feel compassion for all they work they must have this year, and you feel almost a sigh of relief that the buck passed you and went to the next person. You stand in front of class and tell your students, no one is leaving, and the kids you think hate you, the kids you think you haven't figured out, they are the first ones to clap and fist pump when they realize they are not leaving. It bothers them to know you don't like them, or perceive that you don't enjoy their company.

Kids were in tears today, which is something you don't see much from kids other than sick ones, hurt ones or stubborn ones. Real general tears is something you want to avoid at all costs. And kids today just don't cry easily. Oh, there's some great fakers, and some real actors and actresses, but to drop genuine tears among the waxed floors in a building will not only draw them out of you, but you start looking for someone to blame, someone to point to and say, "it's your fault!" Numbers and figures. Hearts and minds. Learning and relating. I'm not sure how much learning happened today, except for me.

So we clapped those kids in the room. We played games. We got loud and we laughed. So what. It beats tears anytime of the day.

Floating Effect

There's a scene in some Spike Lee movies I always liked. It's the staple that follows many of his protagonists, watching them literally "float" down a local sidewalk. Denzel Washington floats towards his death in "Malcolm X" (and floats twice more, once in Mo Better Blues and "Inside Man"), Mekhi Pfieffer in "Clockers." Other movies include the "25th Hour" and "Crooklyn." Regardless of when it happens or why it's happening, it's the scene I most resonate with now. I think I'm currently in my own floating scene. Floating by while those around me are desperately trying to reel me in from drifting away. I can't sense any soundtrack except for my own frustration.

Now I'm the one to blame for this floating effect. I fully admit it. Could I be doing a better job with my devotions? Should I have been making better financial decisions over the past few weeks/months? Am I helping my body adjust to the stress and lifestyle with my diet? Have I been willing to make those sacrifices I know are good for me? I know the answer to all my questions, yet I'm the one refusing to adhere to what I know will help my feet touch the ground again.

I told my share group tonight that before I was a "Christian" (not that I was an atheist before, just uncommitted to anything but believing that I had everything to do with me), it was easy to be a jackass. The world values sarcasm, a commitment to oneself. You're an exhausted dad? Leave those kids and party! You deserve it! Save money? What the hell for, you can't take it with you, that's for sure. Relationships? I'd be lucky to remember your name, much less value any time I was going to spend with you. So now, as I see myself spinning aimlessly, doing the same things that I know aren't what God wants from me, and I honestly said, "If I didn't know what I know now, I could just be an ass and be okay with it."

And I chuckled, because I knew when I said it, that God never intended for me to be ignorant of his grace. He doesn't want any of us walking around not knowing forgiveness, and love and genuine relationships. He wants the best for me, for you, for all of us.

Today, on a Monday when everything worked at school, and the lessons had been prepared and the day ran without a hitch, a student told me if I had woken up on the wrong side of the bed. so there it is, in my face, Jesus reminding me in the smile of a child, in that concerned face of hers, that I needed to cheer up. I immediately fought back with a "no," but I know what she was getting at.

So, tomorrow, let's wake up with a smile. Hug the kids and kiss my wife. Is there really any other way?

Mindful Redirection

Three weeks into the school year and I feel like I'm a month behind already. I hate that this is my opening line to my blog. Way to be positive, right? Perhaps this is the therapy I need to get myself going into the right direction.

I told my wife today that perhaps the decision to go off my medication (for those in the dark, I started a round of Lexapro a few years back for the demons/immaturity of depression, with mixed results and have been off them since this past spring), not because of an outburst or because I'm losing my mind, but because of the lack of focus that has seemed to plague me over the summer. I routinely find myself driving back to the house to pick up something I missed, or driving home and forgetting that I had to stop somewhere (like now, I have pictures at Target to pick up). I start one project at school, and I stand up and realize that other things need to be done. I lay my clipboard down somewhere and freak out when I cannot find it. Perhaps I've been ADHD all this time, it would explain some of my boyishness as a kid, but then again, it's probably just an excuse. My memory is quite acute, as I could vividly remember past events as if they were unfolding before me. I forget names but not faces. Why is it I cannot remember where I laid my wallet?

In my refusal to read boring basals and stick with the old, I've been working on novels in Reading, which would explain some of my trepidation coming into this week. Along with a newfound focus on vocabulary, I feel like I'm generating new lessons every day. I create, I adjust on the fly and I evaluate. Thank goodness for that kind of leverage, and I surely wont go back to the old just to make myself more comfortable. My Monday, however, was pretty typical of what my mind must be doing.

I get a new student about five minutes in, no paperwork. Cleaned out a desk and got her to work. Phone rings two or three times, parent wanting work (he's recovering from a diabetic fit and a hospital stay, and thats what a parent wants? Seriously?). Computer is slowing down with every touch of the Smartboard. Music teacher comes in, suddenly other kids are reminded that they need to talk to her, lose five students. Afternoon comes, forget there is an assembly, lose 20 minutes. This bleeds into today, Obama speech at 1pm, lose 30 minutes redirecting sleeping students to sit up, remind them of their "personal code," which apparently has nothing to do with zoning out to streaming video of their president's motivational speech as it freezes and makes him look like he's giving funny faces ever half minute.

What am I looking forward to? Reading my student responses to their personal code of conduct based on their 6 levels of happiness (thanks to Rafe Esquith's "Teach Like your Hair's on Fire"). I'm reinforcing the why we behave and that it has nothing to do about rewards or incentives (which are great motivators of used correctly). Not a new concept but I'm working on making our room the place where acting the way we are made to act is safe and conducive to learning. Let the games begin!

Emmaus Gathering 4th Day Speech, September 8, 2010

(What follows is a transcript of my speech yesterday. I'm still feeling the after effects today, like a high still, of being called up to speak at church of all places. Who would have thought I'd ever be asked to speak at church. I will use this to undoubtedly fuel me for as long as it will take me.

As my nervousness wore off, I distinctly remember faces and expressions, and it felt as if I weren't reading at all. And I still recall my first ever speech class in college, when I dropped the course after I bombed the basic "introduce your neighbor" speech. God is great)

My name is Reynaldo Cordova. I attended the Reynoldsburg Men’s Walk #59 and sat at the table of Mark. I am honored to stand before you as a brother in Christ to deliver two messages for you today. One, what did the Emmaus walk mean to me and what have I done since then.

My experience with church and Jesus began as a four year old boy in Houston, TX. I am told that on that first visit, I began asking my mother what was church. And after given an explanation that church was a place where a man named Jesus lived, I decided to find out who that man was. In doing so, I shouted upon entering Catholic mass that Sunday, “Where’s Jesus? Where’s Jesus?” Little did I know that it would take me almost 33 years before I listened for an answer.

As a teenager, I surely asked where Jesus was in my life. I longed for that fatherly relationship from my dad I saw on weekends and rebelled against the step-father who was raising my sister and I. I tried drugs in high school, alcohol, questionable friends and unhealthy relationships. I questioned every moment and looked for the unfairness of life. Why would Jesus take my Uncle Richard, just married and handsome, so full of life? Sometimes I would think that Jesus only lived on the walls of that church growing up, a figure so distant and painful like the tears of a viejita at church, like the Jesus oil painting above my grandmother’s kitchen table that watched as I guiltily ate tortillas. My relationship with Jesus mirrored a church statue of the Virgin Mary that sat regal in a glass encased podium, no doubt bullet proofed and free from the oily touch of us parishioners.

But little did I know that all the turns I made in Texas would eventually lead me to Ohio. You see, roads in Texas are flat, straight, narrow. Five lanes of sameness. You make 3 right turns in Texas you end up back where you started. You try that in Ohio, you end up in Chillicothe. The roads here corkscrew and deviate from the norm that I was used to. I remember being frightened of hills that make your stomach churn, fearful for what was ahead. I know that to have stayed in Texas would have meant I was not to grow as a man, as a new husband, as a potential father and later, for my spiritual growth.

Recently, I struggled with one such road. I volunteered to drive my daughter’s softball team after a canoe trip in Hocking Hills. Because I had dropped them off the day before, I didn’t feel I needed the GPS to get back to the camping area. Once there, I realized I needed to be down river, and without any phone service, I raced down and found the girls had found other means of transportation. So here I am, ready to take route 33 out to anywhere but home. How embarrassing. This was just another scab on this summer’s résumé of being late to games, getting lost, the stereotypical man who won’t stop for directions. I began to drive back, ready to crawl into a hole. My phone rang then, and to some of my friends, the next part they will never believe I did unless they were there sitting next to me: I answered it. On the other line, Emmaus. In my worst moment, when my confidence was zero, surely not enough to stand before you today, God wanted me. He called. “Reynaldo, I’m here.”

So as a married man and teacher living here, struggling with selfishness, with pride, with the role of a man, I didn’t even know where to ask, “Where’s Jesus?” I even promised Jesus I would straighten up after fostering our now adopted daughter. Two kids later, he was still waiting for me to make good on that promise. Depression followed, and something a great friend saw in me led him to suggest an Emmaus walk. And when John Hack shows up with paperwork to sign, you sign it.

That Saturday night, the answer I had searched for since childhood filled my bones and soul like a fever. And like all good answers, it made me realize he had been there all the time, and that it was me who moved too fast to realize the answer. It was in the loving advice of my mom, the narrow escapes from troublesome situations, the guiding hand of my wife, the love and acceptance of my in-laws, to college scholarships that just happened to be discussed as I walked into the registrar’s office. “I’m here, Reynaldo, just accept it.”

What have I done since then? Since then, I see parallels to the game of “Perfection.” You know the Milton Bradley game. You take 25 random geometric shapes and place them in corresponding holes on a game board before an arbitrary timer springs the gameboard upward, spilling your hard work all over the floor.

Sometimes, I play the game like my 3 year old daughter. I spend more time fitting shapes into the wrong places. Like my lack of devotions or church attendance this summer. The timer suddenly goes off and I’m picking up the pieces.

Other times I play the game like my six year old son. He’s a little more advanced. Sometimes, he actually gets most of the pieces right, like bible studies, share groups and teaching Sunday school. Other times, just when I think I’ve won the game, the schedule erupts yet again. Softball practices, volleyball, meetings. Some weeks the timer doesn’t shake my world, and other times it does.

And sometimes, I play to win. And like most board games in my house, you realize there are missing pieces. Gifts I don’t have, my fears, my hangups. What I have realized is that the Emmaus community, and to a better extent, my church family, is behind me the entire time, rooting for me. Every hug, every positive facebook post, every phone call when you’re feeling down. That’s Jesus right there. In your face. “I am here, Reynaldo, remember?”

So friends, continue to gather, continue to join a share group. If you aren’t in one, find one. I’m blessed to have my buddies Ted and Doug, and sometimes Matt and Jay, meeting every Saturday mornings at Tim Horton’s. I’m beginning to love that place. As a people watcher, I love the families coming in, the soccer moms, the one guy with 4 boxes of bagels, the men that sit next to us that make the back of the room feel like a barbershop. Donuts and extra large coffees, and the best conversation one could ask for. I’m amazed of our similarities, from our teenage daughters to raising boys into men, from nerdy movies and fantasy football. We’ve come to understand that fooze ball can be considered a call to discipleship. Sometimes we even meet at the Waffle House, which means if you haven’t prayed over the sound of sizzling bacon and Flo calling out something “smothered and covered”, well, you haven’t really prayed at all.

Volunteer too. And when you feel it isn’t for you, try something else. Keep playing because the timer is going to run out eventually. The greatest thing is, you’re not alone. I haven’t been feeling much like a Christian lately, but that’s because my game needs a slight adjustment. Some refocus. Some new game pieces. I know God is going to help me find it, because of that answer I gave him that Saturday night. “Jesus, I love you and accept your grace.”

De Colores

Tales of a Nomad

School starts (it has now been one week in now that I'm editing this) Monday, which really means a day of meetings, one day of dusting the cupboards and Wednesday we welcome the kids. Should be exciting this year. I feel that my mind hasn't been too much in the clouds (well, as it pertains to work that is) this summer, and reading books and concentrating with my wife, having those great talks about improving should be a great motivator.

The kids have been especially rambunctious. Cruz has been on a non-stop question barrage since Monday. We get into Wal-Mart today for some last minute room supplies, he asks me about color coded staples and when he's going to play in the Major Leagues (a running theme over the last several weeks), partly from X-Box MLK withdrawal (our game system showed the red ring of death recently), watching little league games on ESPN and the arrival of fall ball machine pitch.

Reycina was shipped off for a few days. She inadvertently wrote with dry erase maker on our newly 5-coated waxed floors at school (according to Lisa, she also likes to write on her dry erase board in the room, except with Lisa's mascara or lipstick, walking down the stairs looking like a drunken Cleopatra applying makeup) , which drew out naturally a verbal reprimand by the custodial staff's supervisor who probably had his eye-twitch when he noticed her handiwork. She came back today, talking even more and looking a year older.

But school is pretty good, all things considered. Financially, it is actually good to keep me in a building away from my wallet. Back to lunches and routines. This year, we are down 15 minutes from our cushy one hour lunch break, so there's no opportunity to eat out, which will be good for us in the long run.

School continues to challenge me and awakens me to a side of people that I would otherwise never have known. As a father myself and with a child in the building, I'm even more aware with how I'm supposed to talk to children (the "old" Mr. C sometimes will unleash itself on a unsuspecting elementary student), what I expect from parents and being patient with what kids deliver to me, in terms of their learning, work ethic and achievement.

Amazing how so many people can live on the Earth and everyone has a different opinion on what raising their child for school really is. What makes a parent choose a charter school, only to watch their kids fail and return? What makes a parent not bring the required paperwork from building to building, knowing that the school has a legal requirement to uphold a child's disability? I moved around almost every year when I was a kid. I know there were years I saw the principal more than the classroom, and other years that the teachers held on to every sarcastic musing and wondered when I was going to perform up to my ability. Never having been that "A" student, I relate to the hyper kid, the funny one, the all-out-boy. The baby boys and the quiet, wall-flower girls, those are the challenges. The learning disabled boy, raised on hip-hop, strife and bad teachers. One tells me recently, "I never got a 3 before (the equivalent of an A)" after his right answer. My young man, it's only the beginning.

Summer Madness

This coming Monday, I will return to work (sort of). I'll bring the kids into my room, breathe in the 5 coats of wax on my floors, struggle to find something for my two little ones to do and start unpacking drawers, sharpening pencils and fret over the first week of school. If the kids really knew that I'm just as scared they are going to revolt on the first day, I'd be working in the book warehouse.

This August also brings some self reflection time, some pertaining to the new year, what I want to do differently, looking over months long notes I wrote to myself in professional development seminars and idea forums, trying to construct some kind of meaning from them. I recall ideas driving, and swerve to place them on a sticky note on my phone, etch them into a notebook, stitch them into the very fibers of my shirt. I hear a good tune on the radio, all is lost.

Personally, it's also a time to reevaluate my goals, my past year, my imperfections and chest-thumping.

Perhaps it's because my birthday, perhaps it's my own conscious focus on my past failures and trying to somehow make amends for them. Three years ago, I gave my life to God. Having been someone who had no idea what that really meant, I've been striving for the right to proclaim it loud in the streets. To me, it's more than being a Republican, or a conservative, or having a value system, or whatever labels Christians get lumped in with. But the last three summers, I've done the exact opposite of what being a true believer would exercise.

So, here I am, doing yard work this last Thursday, at least attempting to do so with a stubborn weed eater that never stays on long enough to bend a weed stem. I threw a monumental tantrum, the kind that if caught on youtube, would have been one of those that would have generated hundred's of posts about "that crazy dude." On top of that, I end up crying myself to sleep about how blessed of a family I have at 3am after a round of card playing and sharing dinner jokes.

Needless to say, on the eve of my 36th birthday, losing patience with the dry erase board schedule that seems to be shrinking with available days, knowing that I was possibly more bummed out by not going to Texas like we had planned took more of an effect on me than I realized (as for that reason, what an unpublished bit of work that would become!), and that my loved ones are rooting for me to succeed. I used to think those in my inner circle were secretly wishing for my demise, to bring me down a notch, to show me just how fragile life can be by yanking the rug right out from underneath. Perhaps it was MY wishing that on others is why I have such a workable knowledge on that area. Oh, the life of a selfish man!

But teaching will arrive soon. In a song I heard at church, God has "potter's hands" because of how he shapes our lives, makes us whole and each of us, unique and gifted beyond belief. In a sense, I know he has shaped me, and is allowing me to build upon the foundation originally set by him, crafted with a future unseen by only him. How cool is that, that I am allowed to water the roots of a young mind? It surely is a kick in the head!

So, Happy Birthday to my new students, and to my loved ones. You have brought life into my mind and body, built onto my foundation, and have made me the man I have become.