Fishing

Summer is two weeks gone, and it's feeling like an entirely new year. Delcina nor I received summer school opportunities, so we pretty much thought we'd be twiddling our thumbs and wondering what to do. For me, this meant I would get the chance, perhaps, to serve more at church, to actually attend church consistently and to live within our means.

Living within our means will be the toughest hurdle to leap. We have active/busy lives that lead to poor eating choices, late nights and an entertainment bill that sometimes soars. We like our movies, our favorite restaurants and taking the kids somewhere to play.

The serving part has been easier. This was supposed to be the week we started school. Instead, I volunteered for Vacation Bible School. And I went in full force by becoming a large group leader, which means I rotate with two others and teach the lesson of the day. I get to dress up like a cowboy (well, one who wears funny looking chaps made out of bathroom rugs), and be silly. It's pretty much me doing a monologue, reading lines and playing games. Aside from Emmaus, it has to be one of the most fun experiences I've been a part of.

Being a teacher, I guess it's not a stretch to teach the same lesson to 4 different groups, ranging from pre-K to fifth grade. However I have been blessed by their intelligence, patience and willingness to allow a grown man to be silly in front of them. This past week has led a lots of reflection of where I am and where I am going.

Recently, it seems as if God has been pin pointing me for something I am not too sure I can handle. You know, it is said that he will give you only what you can handle, but sometimes the earthly, worldly living wants to take over. It wasn't too many years ago that I was doing things my way. Avoiding church, seeking out selfish endeavors and basically trying to be the biggest ass in the room. Now, this is not saying I don't still do these things! I'd like to think I do them with less frequency, with more forethought and reflection afterwards and with a feeling of becoming everyone's best friend.

Recently too I've been receiving challenges to do even more. Friends that are dealing with pornography issues, marriage issues, running bible studies and coordinating life groups. This is from the same guy who would seek out the foulest video store just to view their curtained back room where the XXX tapes awaited. The person who has thrown countless hundreds, perhaps thousands down the drain on websites and videos. The same person who used to think shows like "Two and a Half Men" didn't quite get foul enough.

So this is me, the guy who isn't being asked to hang out at bars during the week. The guy that my wife says the kids "love" at VBS. The guy running life groups and being asked to speak. Lately, I've shrugged off the pressure, but when I sit alone with the computer in front of me at night, that computer that would offer me anything within one click of a mouse, I get to fishing. Fishing my brain for that past self to resurface. Was that one tantrum I had with my wife earlier the start of something? Was my lack of patience with the kids going to continue? I literally have to close the laptop, and it's not that those thoughts and desires wont follow me to bed, but it's a point in my favor when I can resist.

And the next day, I greet the day, do some reading and head to church (this week, with a slight congestion!). I clap and smile and sigh at getting as close to winning as I can possibly do. The smiles of those around me tell me more about where I am than what I think. Jesus is proud, I see it in the smiles of my friends, and those kids. What else is there to do but accept those looks and smile back, right?

Time-lined Confessional

Tomorrow marks the last day of this 2011 school year, my ninth year as a fourth grade teacher. It's been a special year. Not discounting the other ones, but they were in order:

2001: My first year, the one where I went into team meetings feeling like I had nothing to offer. The year a colleague was forcibly transferred during Christmas and by the end of the year, I ran myself into a verbal confrontation with another partner. This was the year of 9/11, when I walked past the hallways where kids were watching cartoons for indoor recess on a crisp, sunny day while the teachers were huddled in an empty room watching people fall from the sky.

2002: I took most of my third graders to fourth grade this year, moved hallways, found new partners and made bonds that have lasted me throughout my teaching career. All my point systems and discipline models worked. I felt accomplished. The fifth graders down the hall scared me. The boys had facial hair and the girls all wore tight pants and smiled suggestively. The entire wing smelled of bathroom, spoiled milk from the dumpster and recess sweat.

2003: My second year in fourth grade was a team-teaching year with two of my best friends. We raised test scores, took kids to Kings Island at the end of the year and I started to get this crazy idea of starting a soccer team. I started to recognize most of the kids in the building and they knew who I was. No more strange looks when i told a kid to line up. High fives in the cafeteria. We would joke in the teachers' lounge on how many kids were named after alcoholic drinks.

2004: This began the "golden era" at my old school. I started my soccer team with zero funds and plenty of passion. I drove those kids to practice, home and their games. We scuffed up the floors and wore our uniforms on game days. We would kick soccer balls on the roof during recess so I would make periodic walks up this thin air chute/ladder and wave at kids from the roof as school released. This is ironic in how I viewed the entire neighborhood and my role as a staff member. I started thinking of myself as a prima donna. I acted like the school needed me instead of the other way around.

2005: A tumultuous year for me. I had my largest class size to day, about 31-32 students. Most of them did not get along with anyone, much less me. I yelled a lot. I grew cocky with administration. Soccer was rocketing forward. In my personal life, my wife had been pregnant and miscarried twice that year. It was this summer that we began to foster care. Lisa came to live with us.

2006: I moved to the very last room on that back hallway, which was another indicator of how I felt within that school. My attitude only grew worse, more from burnout in running the soccer team everywhere, home, a lack of spiritual life and lots of other issues that were something then but nothing now. I think I was probably the most sarcastic I had ever been, and I began to draw battle lines.

2007: My last year. I dropped all soccer commitments that summer as Cruz was getting older and Milly had just been born. I needed to become more of a father but had no idea what that role was to be. I had a great group of kids. Two girls who fought constantly, a kid from Africa who made proved that our own American kids just didn't have much of an educational priority. I sat on my ass a lot that year. The heat of the building was both literal and figurative, and it burned a hole through the middle of me.

2008: My first year at Shady Lane. I was teaching with my wife, a new school, a new principal. It was a brand new start. I was given 20 something fifth graders who tested my patience and ran the batteries from all my timers because I was always giving them ultimatums and prisoning them with deadlines. I thought I was a horrible teacher and no one was going to tell me the truth because my wife worked there and telling me so would hurt their friendship with her. I grew paranoid, but by October I took on a 4/5 split class and enjoyed the fruits of probably the highest class I have ever taught.

2009: My most polite class. Loved these guys. I went on my Emmaus walk in the winter of this year and it has since propelled me into looking back and appreciating where I am, where I've been and where I am going. I wanted to bring those qualities out in my kids, and it just has given many of them a safe place to act like how they have been raised to act.

And cut to now. My old arrogance hasn't completely diminished. Being the only man in the building gives me the idea that if I just had more men with me, we'd have this school-thing down pat. I keep having to apologize for things I say, and I realize that I rarely tolerate apologies in my classroom--"You wouldn't need to say sorry if you were doing the right thing" I would say, or "Show me your apology in your actions." I haven't found the thin line between encouraging the adults around me and being discouraging with my own complaints. Same goes for my kids. I read some old letters today, and more than one noted that I would get angry, or that I would "get" those that don't do their work. I look through cumulative folders and see a drop in someone's grades and wonder if it was me. I have high expectations as my neighbors surely do, no more, no less. Surely I haven't been as sarcastic as Mrs. Such-n-such? Was it a wasted year for that kid? Did I reach them or push them away.

Tomorrow, I'll be playing games with my kids and enjoying their company. I'm giving hugs and being hugged. I might even tear up a little. Not because of missing them over the summer, but for the work that is yet to be done. I cry for their futures. And I cry for mine sometimes too.

The Smile of a Teenager

This Thursday my daughter leaves for Harvest, Alabama. Maybe some of you know that Harvest was one of the towns in Alabama that was devastated by tornadoes, killing hundreds, uprooting homes and totally destroying people's lives as they knew it. I don't even remember where I was or what I was doing when the tornadoes hit. I may have been arguing with my wife. Perhaps I was napping, or playing on the computer instead of spending time with my son. Maybe I was complaining about the rain in our own area. All this I take for granted. My daughter will be going to try and make sense of what happened there, her and about 60 kids from her church and high school. Kids of different faiths, personalities and goals. I cannot be more proud of her.

The last few days I haven't been the best dad to her. I've been short tempered, jealous somewhat, perhaps even envious. I've been stingy with my time but unhinging in my attempt to get more time out of her. There's nothing really anything that Lisa ever does wrong. She loves others more that herself, she radiates kindness and I'm sure that her friends would attest that they are the only ones in the room when they are in the room with Lisa. She loves the way kids should nowadays. She's not the norm.

Back when we first opened our home to her (it was truly the other way around!), we heard so many horror stories of foster kids. We heard about teenage runaways, kids who would wipe feces on the bathroom walls, kids who failed in school (and if anyone knows anything about schools nowadays, no one ever truly fails unless they really want to).

Lisa never exhibited any of those problems or behaviors. She only cried when she had to go to bed when everyone else was awake, and the only B she ever had in elementary was changed on a technicality. She shaved her legs once before Delcina could show her how. Other times she seemed to have her favorite parent once every other week. She argues in semantics. Stubborn, but not unruly. Maybe afraid to share her feelings until she's ready.

About four years ago, we began going to Reynoldsburg United Methodist Church. Del and I had not been church goers before we had Lisa, and then Cruz and Reycina suddenly, and felt we needed to do the "church" thing to be good parents. Church wasn't a priority then, something to make the appearances. I would think of inappropriate images and would rush out of there when service was over. Something entirely different was going on with Lisa, though. She enjoyed going. She would help out in the nursery. She stayed after church for the youth "coffee table" talks.

At first I felt this was a typical Lisa move. Lisa is making friends again for possible strategic sleepovers so she will get out of chores or something. When she would tell us stories of the kids who gravitated towards her in the nursery, I would scoff and remind her she had two siblings at home she could babysit at any time. When she would stay for coffee talk instead of going to lunch with us, I would argue that she was trying to get out of "family time." This was the parent I had become, watching as my daughter was beginning to grow into the young woman she is today, as I grew bitter and more foolish. God was again pursuing me and my obedience, and here I was fighting it tooth and nail. My daughter the teacher.

Needless to say we are closer to being on the same page. We sometimes still nag each other about what Jesus would say about watching "16 and Pregnant" (her) and cursing (me). We both serve in some capacity at church. And when she told us she wanted to go to Alabama (and later this summer, Puerto Rico) to help the victims, I didn't hesitate to sign over a check (despite postdating it to that pay day!).

While I sometimes remember things friends and my family have told me regarding how much Lisa's life would change considering we've given her an opportunity to shine. I really think it is the other way around. God chased down my reluctant heart with the smile of a teenager.

Stripper Batman

There were a few distinct details that something was amiss when the costumed Batman arrived at my Aunt Ginger's house for my cousin's birthday party (at least, I think it was them or it was Jacob). For one, his leggings/pants were way too tight for any normal human being to be wearing, and two, he didn't seem to have any kid-show related props with him. Third, he didn't have that underlying smile that party clowns have. His jaw line protruded from the mask a look of a man in the wrong place. Batman never seemed unsure of himself.

That's what the month of May has been like. I've felt like I'm playing the part of a party clown at the wrong party. Mind you, the Batman was a male stripper sent to the wrong house is somewhat ironic, as it was a random company error. You do what you're told and you wing it. By the end of the afternoon, he was making balloon animals while fighting off the advances and peeks under his cape by the women--my mom included. God sends me out, and I'm looking around thinking, "He must be sending me to another place, right?"

Lot's of rain this month, plans delayed. A sore body. Who needs two good knees, right? A schedule printed directly from the missing floor of Dante's Inferno. Every woman is wearing tank tops and short shorts (hey, not that I minded before, but ladies, do me a solid and cover up every once in a while). I see relationships around me crumbling, holding on like that character in an action movie that's been kicked down a cliff and all you see are their dirty fingernails pressed into the ground, gripping for something tangible. Sometimes, prayers are all I can do and there are times when I think, "Is this all I can do"? I'm underestimating those powerful prayers right now, but sometimes I'd like to just lay my hands on someone, shake them and say, "Will you just wake up?"

There was a moment at church recently. This moment started before service, pretty much even the evening before. I had no intention of going. I selfishly was feeling lousy, unworthy. Today was just not the day to sing or help other kids (my Sunday School class) find their religion. No way I'm showing up for baseball practice. Let it rain!

So, I end up going to church. And this service floors me. It's about loving one another and loving the unlovable. Not really doing my part. I'm in tears from the performances of the youth. Wow, that's courage. Still not up to class, and we end up going and we have 12 kids that morning, about 4 or 5 more than usual. I'm perpetually checking my phone for the weather. I'm sniffing out rain droplets on the windows. Fields still open, phone battery draining. Kids are into the lesson, and we have one kid who is literally showing me how to love the unlovable. In the end, I end up talking to the kid about his video games. I don't question the fact of why he has an R-rated game for his handheld gaming system. Don't judge. Love.

Cruz and I bolt from the church, frantically past the sing that reads, "You are entering the mission field." I almost walk back because I feel a rain drop. I'm actively trying to be late. Maybe they'll cancel on the way. We end up getting there, hustling through warm-ups. During a routine play at first, I quickly turn to remind shortstop to cover second and I feel a thrust against the back of the head. One of the kids thought I was ready and threw the ball, striking me upside the head. I'm rubbing it like it's a brisket. I think I heard a snicker from the dugout. God's laughing too, I'm sure.

Get over it, Cordova

In Parenthesis

I took a walk around the neighborhood this afternoon after school. I hadn't set out to make a stand, or to cause a raucous, but it all had to do with protecting my turf, my school, my territory. I hadn't done so in quite some time. As the years have multiplied on a great, and sudden 10 years of teaching, I haven't been as free to storm down the neighborhood drives with the kids. Priorities change, my kids come calling, there's grass to be mowed. Go home.

At my old school, the principal and I used to walk the lane with students until the road ended on a cross street and into the dilapidated apartment complex. My first teaching assignment on the East Side of town was a place I felt destined to have worked there. It was a neighborhood school, where most of our kids were walkers. The students who were bussed in were primarily of Hispanic descent (those kids' stories are in a future blog to come). I was reminded of my second grade year, Park Place Elementary, and also even younger, when I walked to my kindergarten or first grade class across a weed field where my grandma and her life-long partner, Benny, would look on above from the comforts of the porch balcony. Also, my high school years, not necessarily in the demographics (primarily white jock, white preppy or white trash) but in the fact that the minority kids were bussed in from remote locations, primarily the Acres Homes kids, in an effort to integrate our high school. (As a hispanic student, it didn't really matter that I was brown. I was basically white, too, because I did not associate myself with the mexican kids and I surely didn't fit in with the black kids other than I loved rap music.)

Anyway, we had to walk home with the students on Fridays because Fridays were "Fight Nights." The kids would meet in the complex and simply break into a series of fights. Sometimes it was boys, other times it was girls. Young kids, older kids, and sometimes even adults who chimed in or fought with other adults as well. With us there, most of the kids simply walked home. Maybe they fought later, maybe they didn't, but we were somewhat a deterrent. Once a mom yelled at me after school for not allowing her girl to fight after school. Another time, we chased a kid away who had run from another bus stop to get a kid. He was not too happy.

Now, there was nothing of the sort going on in the neighborhood. Not yet. There had already been fights, and intimidations. Threats and rumors of war. I chose a side tonight. I chose to make a presence. Now, a lot of my colleagues will say walking away the problem is a primary fix. I simply cannot do this every evening. One day, I'll meet a parent. One day it will be a group of kids. I watched the group of girls I had been walking with, one going down the lane alone, the other with a younger sister. Pretty girls, the kind I wouldn't want walking anywhere alone. Yet they do this every day and don't think anything of it. I have either sheltered my daughter or not given her enough credit for being brave if she had to.

Delcina and I were talking a lot about this very intervention over the past few weeks. Do we rely on the school's authority to control the students once they leave our school? I've heard many times and read on he news of bullies and the blaming of a school that fails to respond. I also see the ramifications of neighborhood fights and the intensity written on a Facebook pages that can cause problems for a teacher in their classroom. Some of my fourth graders have Facebooks, most don't. Ultimately, fourth graders are babies. They don't know how to start drama--yet. Fifth grade is a whole other ballgame. Over half have accounts. Their names are unintelligible garbage. Their pictures are sometimes too risqué for their ages. Yet they have them. Next year I think I want to speak to our PTA and teach a net etiquette class. It's needed now more than ever. Do I want to be proactive or defensive? What would you call my jaunt in the neighborhood?

Earlier in the day I whispered to one of my fifth grade boys. He's a special kid. Charismatic. I chastised him yesterday in front of his classmates for having a "ghetto" Facebook name. Today I knelt down beside him, and asked, "What's wrong with you God-given name? Are you ashamed?" He had the middle name a month ago, "Jesus Christ" and I said, "What would he say?" He looked at me, nodded. He knew. I told him, "I see your beautiful face on your profile. I want the best for you. So does He." We hugged. Today I noticed he reverted to his old name. His "swag" name was in parenthesis. The world wants us to show or swag. If we were really that courageous, we wouldn't have to boast about it.

Sun Snakes

Today. Eventful and uneventful. Humbling and boastful. Rewarding and surprising. We end the night with my wife wrapping birthday gifts for my son and me finishing up some quick lesson plans for school. A nice glass of tea, a carpet that needs vacuuming and crumbs on my arm I'm brushing off from my peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Delcina was not with me for most of the day. She had ANOTHER root canal, so she headed off early. My kids were sleepy and unwilling. Perhaps they were feeling like we were feeling. One coffee ordered at Tim Horton's and we get the furrowed eyebrows, "Only one"? "Despicable Me" plays on the kids' DVD player. Cruz isn't buckled.

Dropping off Reycina. School. Meeting early about trust. Seriously? I know who I trust. Who is with me? Lately, everyone seems to not trust anything. Even trust in themselves seems to have wavered. Silence in the meeting. We must look like surly teenagers who don't want to speak after being reprimanded. Bell rings and we bust out of there like one of those movies where the kids run out the building as the roll of toilet paper slings across the quad. I didn't wear a belt so I'm already heaving up my pants.

It's day 2 of working on my new discipline plan. I released my "good" kids from the bondage of having their cards flipped. It doesn't mean you will never get in trouble, I remind them. But it does mean I expect more. The others? I remove their yellow warning card. No more chances. The calls and texts to mom haven't worked, our encouragement hasn't worked. You've graduated, my friends. Surprisingly not one kid smirks. Even the smirker isn't smirking. One kid tears up and I place my hands his shoulders. I know you are working hard. Focus a bit more, it will come. One kid writes me a note: "I think this is a fair class." I tuck it into my back pocket along with those yellow cards. Padding.

Recess duty. I make the kindergarten kids raise their hand and yell, "I'm ready!" And we walk to the station in funny Olympic style walking man poses. Reading class goes very well. We learn more about how the sharecroppers felt when life wore on them. They looked to their faith and kept their heads high. I notice some heads nod when we talk about the fear of seeing one's father in jail. I silently hope no one says anything. It's always for me, the most awkward part of my day, to realize at that very moment that they are literally on the line of just throwing their supplies in the air and crying in despair. But they don't, but the bothersome details still linger.

Second recess. Copying homework and stopping by to talk to the new kid who has already bought herself a 2 day in school suspension. Although she isn't in my class, I can see her acting tough hasn't impressed anyone. I told her that I hoped she would have a good weekend and that I want to see her smiling at school on Monday. Love wins. I get a kinda-smile. It's better than nothing.

After school, I get to hold baby Hannah when I arrive to get Reycina from childcare. I make baby talk and try to make contact with her little blues. I imagine that's what God does with us. Cradles us until we look. Sometimes we look all around at the colors but we sometimes don't look at who is holding us.

Mowing grass at home. First pull and the engine turns. First time for a spring day. Grass is thick and lime green. Wads of it stick to the sidewalk. Cruz runs through and turns his socks into moldy fungus. Ice cream man comes. Delcina arrives too, with cousin Alexis who is going to the walk to Emmaus (ironically, that kid I talked to earlier had the same name). I'm jotting down to-do lists and mad how my lazy endeavors have turned into lazy Christmas lights that haven't been taken down, the back yard trash can full of water, the water hose that has burned a line through the grass like some sun snake.

I end the day with a call from my brother. (Ironically, I'm watching "Parenthood" where the two brothers refuse to talk to one another. I feel suddenly grateful). We talk about my dad. "I have no choice," he always replies when asked about how he just keeps going and going. I try to bring up the point that doing anything on your own isn't what God wants from us, but I don't see an in. I back off. I think of the mom from "Sounder" we are reading in class. "You gotta walk that lonesome valley, you gotta walk it by yourself." I'm just not so sure it's so lonesome. He's cradling me. He's looking into my eyes. What is my response?

Uncool Vanity

I had the chance today that many teachers do not. Just how many teachers get their haircuts from a mom whose kid they just disciplined the day before, sent to detention even? Not many. But as I walked into Great Clips, I knew already that the possibility of seeing that parent. In that moment, my vanity of having a proper fade won out over any misgivings.

I just read an article about the life of an uncool teacher and it struck me that sometimes this is what I really do. In fact, I've been on display for much of my life. Sometimes it has been a shameless ploy for attention. I remember my days as a junior high student, making bad jokes, grabbing girls' butts, searching for hugs in all the wrong places. Popularity was a must for a 12 year old kid. Even if it meant the occasional grounding from parents or the acceptance and ridicule of teachers, office workers or administration alike. I specifically remember Mr. Bell, my 8th grade science teacher and basketball coach. I was in the office working the charm on the secretaries and in he walks. He realizes I'm waiting out the final hours of my suspension by waiting in the office. Why was I suspended? For fighting. For fighting a classroom kid who we relentlessly teased day in and day out. Wherever Robert Warren is now, I'm sure he's drinking a beer in disgust of us.

So Coach Bell goes into this tirade as I sit there. All I'm thinking is, "Why is he so upset? I didn't fight in HIS class or beat up HIS kid?" I understand it now, though. I'm Coach Bell at times, too. I shake my head and go into tirades (hmmm, like this Friday?) towards some of my brightest and best. Perhaps Coach Bell saw something in me that day succumb to the lowest denominator. Perhaps he felt I was going to be another kid lost to the crowd.

Back to teaching. Since day one, I have been tirelessly promoting good will from all my students and the future ones as well. I high five, act like I'm going to eat their PB and J sandwiches, talk funny and listen to their stories. At first, it was a way for me to prove that attitude and popularity was all you needed to be a successful teacher. Watch me out-teach these old ladies! Of course, I also shouted, stammered and burn myself out for those first 6 years.

I still do a lot of these things. I play basketball with my fourth graders like every game is my last. I tease some of my fifth graders from last year and I try and promote something more than myself--God. God wants my best, everyday. Sometimes it's a daunting task, especially when I don't seek his help. But, it's a far less exhausting task than before when I just promoted myself. Promoting yourself led nowhere. I burned a lot of bridges along the way, and some of those people continue to be in my life. Far better than I deserve.

So, here I am getting a hair cut. I wrote her kid up on Friday, and she's telling me the story of how bad his day was on Friday. I chuckled at her smile, and the fact that there wasn't a question as to the validity of the offense. We started to talk about the classrooms, todays kids, technology, the dangers of facebook and so many other things. I'm blessed to be one of the few carrying on a meaningful conversation while the others are sitting silent.

But the coolness factor still rears its ugly head. I got a chance to learn a monologue as if I were the character of Barabbas. You know him, right? He was set free by the Jews who had turned their backs on Jesus. Barabbas was the guilty one. But, he was the one set free, the first sinner to be saved by the blood of Jesus. And talk about following the crowd--what of Pilate? He had the power, he knew it was wrong, but he washed his hands and let the people decide because of their wishes. Been there, done that.

And I decided afterwards to quietly head out the building. I didn't want to hear, "good job," even though secretly I did. That's vanity. During awards assemblies, the principal would call our names and the class would cheer raucously. I loved being THAT teacher. This past year, she nixed that because I think some teachers actually got booed. I hear the kids tell me to fail them so they can come back. "No, you must leave and grow, my dear." Fifth graders sneak back into my room and talk to me.

Sometimes I have these silly visions of leading a kids' chorus, a performance. Like the kind you see on youtube and you think, "I want my kid to be in THAT class." Maybe that's God's way of saying that he wants me right where I am. The leader of the chorus. The Band leader. March on.