On Being Done With Having a Hard Time

Today. Hmmm. Well, I'll just say that it involved a flat tire, a dead cell phone, and being locked out of my apartment. All of this is small potatoes in the realm of real problems. I'm privileged to have a car with the flat tire on it, enough money to buy groceries, and an apartment from which I can be locked out. This "bad" day made me think of some other truly bad days I've had in my life...but more on that soon. 

This past Friday night, I got to eat dinner with two of my favorites, Sam and Julia. You've met them before, but in review, they are my friends through Teach for America. They were there with me from day one of our training at the crazy summer of Institute, teaching middle school even though we would all spend our first year in lower elementary. We all were at three different schools with different challenges, but our experience was the same: it was a Hard Time. I will be real with you and tell you that my first two years of my adult career life involved lots and lots and lots of bad days. Not just "bad" days either, but the real kind. 

Julia phrased it this way: "It's so great being done having a hard time." All three of us completed two years of teaching at our placement schools, and all three of us chose to stay in this teaching profession after our commitment to Teach for America was done. We all found new jobs for our third year of teaching (a healthy decision for all of our lives) and came together to share about the new things going on. Boyfriends, husbands, apartments, coworkers, classrooms, students, principals, and travels were all on our minds and in our conversation. All those things, of course, in between our rants and raves about the fantastic food we ate at Big Jones, the place where we met. Can you say fancy fried chicken?! (Seriously, go visit.)

At the end of our night, Julia made that comment. About how wonderful it is to be past a really hard time in our lives. And how it is so special to now have that awareness of how hard it truly was, on the other side, alive and okay and still somewhat emotionally intact. I'm realizing, upon looking back, that I had no idea how lonely, depressed, frustrated, and difficult those two years were for me while I was living them. I was so obsessed with making it through the day, finishing my action items from four different managers and bosses, following my to-do lists, keeping up with grad school homework, and surviving each milestone (....Friday......Christmas...summer??...) that I had never paused to take stock and feel, truly feel, the weight of what was going on around me. I felt like a failure, but I hardly had any time to process that. Failure or not, the next day was coming and the next week had to be planned. I just kept going. My full schedule kind of saved me from feeling anything too deeply. 

Does God do that on purpose - overload your life in the hardest of times - to protect you from the hard stuff? Does he add weights to your feet so that you never look up toward the surface to realize that you're drowning? I truly think that's how we all made it: too busy running around to know that we were run down. It was chaos for sure, and these are two of the only people I have in my life who know exactly what that felt like. And yet, in those hard times, we became something. 

We became grownups, advocates (for ourselves and others), and teammates. We became teachers. We became graduates of schools and of an organization with a mission dear to all of our hearts. We became better people, capable of intelligent conversations based in experience, and more fully able to show compassion to others in a struggle because we lived one ourselves. We became more aware of our world and how we can best take our places as agents of change and redemption within it. 

So sure, we all will have "bad" days here and there. We still have hard times...sometimes...and in different ways. But it is so sweet to know, that in the ebbs and flows of life, that you have made it past a difficult season. You've come through a Hard Time and are done with it. Maybe a future season will hold something even more difficult; surely dark days are on the path of everyone's journey, right? But for now, for one Friday night, it was sweet to celebrate the light. 

The best part about being done with having a hard time?

Sharing it with friends who made it through with you. 

We're So Fancy

Sam called me up (and by that I mean texted me up, but "called" sounds cooler) a few weeks ago asking if I happened to be free. I happened to be. She said she had a Groupon for a cool salon downtown and wanted to do something classy. I said I was totally in. I vicariously live through Fancy Nancy half of my life, so may as well live it out for a change. We planned to get a blowout at this salon, then out to lunch at a cute champagne bar called Pops For Champagne where they charge you like 57 dollars for a glass of bubbly liquid (don't worry we found a cuter/more reasonable drink to consume).

So we first meet up at the salon, where we are led to the back room to get our hair washed. We of course begin talking about our kids and teaching and what we're going to dress up as for Halloween. Sam had plans to put together a Ms. Frizzle (it's a killer look, people) that day, and I was contemplating becoming a ninja turtle, obviously. The girl-with-perfectly-bold-eyebrows who was washing our hair heard me say "I think my boys would like the ninja turtle thing," and immediately decided that I was referring to my own biological children.

Anyway, she chirped in, saying "Wow! You look great for having boys of your own." I said "Thanks?" I'm...Ron Burgundy??? At first I felt a little lame, then I decided that dang it, I do look good for someone-who's-had-kids-but-actually-doesn't-have-kids. I informed her that, no ma'am, I will not look like this if I ever happen to have a kid, explaining that should that day ever come, I will be the frumpy hippo that comes back and asks for a blowout.

After getting our hurzz blown out (Okay confession: I've never had a blowout at a salon. I asked the hairdresser "What is it really, that you are doing today? Just washing my hair and drying it, like I do each morning?" And she replied in the affirmative. It wasn't until later that I realized she just is wayyyy better at doing those simple activities to my hair than I am. It was cool.) and styled we went down the road to get to our superclassychampagnebar. As it turns out, superclassychampagnebar is closed until later in the afternoon. We were hungry. Upon looking up, we saw none other than the sign for Chili's glaring at us like a signal from above. We decided to follow the signs and indulge in a super classy meal at...Chili's. Yikes. Could we get any more midwestern than getting all done up only just to walk into a Chili's in the loop? Nope. But we came, we saw, we ate fajitas. (The fact that chips and salsa were inhaled by a certain someone goes without saying. I still stand by the assertion that they are my favorite food ever.)

After that classy moment, we actually got to our intended destination, consumed bellinis, felt really fancy, and fulfilled the classy plans set forth for the day. Wouldn't want to class it up with anyone else. Just look at this girl's hair flip.

The Wall

Over the past week I've been in the process of moving my whole life from this beautiful little Pilsen world over to our new apartment that Brian and I will live in after the wedding. This is a bittersweet process. This apartment has been the site for my coming of age years, it saw me through TFA ups and downs, and introduced me to some fabulous roommates. I love this place so, so, so much. One of the things that I love about it is a little tradition I started on the first weekend there. It was July of 2012, I had just finished TFA Institute training, and was painfully nervous about entering adulthood, meeting people at my school, and starting to work at this crazy job on August 1st. I decided that a little inspiration and encouragement was just the right thing to focus on, so I took a note from a friend with particularly kind words and taped it to the wall. And the Wall of Kindness was born. 

As any Teach For America teacher knows, one little note of encouragement is surely not enough to help you last through the year :) My Wall of Kindness kept growing; with each wonderful note from a wonderful person I had another artifact of goodness to keep me going. I got notes from cousins, sisters-in-law, friends, students, roommates, people from my hometown, and then even a few notes from that Brian Whartnaby guy started showing up in the summer of 2013. Handwritten notes are something that I value deeply, and I loved the daily reminder of the love I have in my life. 

So, as I had to move on and clean out my room, the Wall of Kindness of course had to be dismantled. It was sad. But it was also great. As I peeled each one down, I remembered the person who wrote it, pondered the sweet words on it, and each one brought a smile to my face. It reminded me to add to other people's Wall of Kindness too. So if you were one of my featured favorites, thank you for helping me wake up and face each day for these past two hectic, crazy, and wonderful years. 

Second Fridays

Earlier this month Brian and I finally got to get out in Pilsen and my surrounding 'hood. It seems that winter, finally, is really gone. We walked around for Second Fridays, the monthly open gallery night in the Pilsen Art District. We meandered through studio apartments set up for art displays, sipping wine as we pretended to understand the content. There are some amazingly talented local artists in Chicago, and their work was beautiful. I'm moving to our new apartment next weekend, and I'm starting to get nostalgic already. Nights like these will make me miss living in the city. Good thing we can always visit :) 

Catch Up

I've been looking back at the last few weeks of May and realized that I haven't done too much reflecting, and therefore not all that much blogging. A LOT has happened and many little things have popped up, both really good and sometimes not so good, but I've been hurtling in fast-forward-mode for the past month or so. I have a lot to catch up on. I would say that it would be a lot to catch YOU up on, as a reader of my blog, but that's not quite how I work when it comes to writing. I'm not so concerned with how the audience thinks about my life. Perhaps that sounds a bit selfish, but I process things through writing about them, and so it's good for me to sit down, think something through, and catch myself up on it just by writing about it. It's like I don't know how I really feel about something until I write about it. Then I read what I just put on the paper and that's how I know my opinions, feelings, fears, and desires. Odd, I know, but it's a lot cheaper than a therapist. For now, I'll catch up on that very thing: catching up.

Fancy grilled cheese. The kind that sticks to your ribs. In the best way. 

Last week I had the wonderful opportunity to catch up with two dear friends of mine here in Chicago: Sam and Julia. They represent my struggle and my sanity here in these two years through TFA. We three started in the very, very, very first day of training together and taught summer school at the same school that first summer. While we all work at different schools, I cherish the chances I get to catch up with them because they've been there from the start. They get it. They always will get it. And they will get it in a way that many other people just can't, simply because many other people just weren't there since the very, very, very first day. I also cherish the fact that they have fabulous taste in restaurants and want to meet me at fabulous locales.

Brian always thinks I say "sammich" because I don't annunciate the D in
"sandwich." I like to argue this point. 

This time was no different, as we met for dinner at the Little Goat Diner, the cafe-style restaurant in the West Loop associated with the blockbuster Girl and the Goat restaurant for which it might take 6 months to get a reservation. Thankfully, this spot had a slightly more affordable venue and a considerably shorter wait. I highly recommend it. We got a spot at a communal table (one of the quirks I love about the place) and gawked at the interesting offerings. Sam and I both opted for the fancy grilled cheese, and we three split some unbelievably good pies for dessert: a PB and J pie, as well as a passionfruit-oreo concoction.

PB & J pie. And passionfruit oreo. 

Sitting there, stuffed to the brim, sipping the last remains of my Spanish Cava that left bubbles in my nose as I listened to updates, rants, and funny stories, I was pleasantly pleasant. Two friends that are unbelievably smart, kind, thoughtful, and with great taste. Something about making it through Teach For America together will keep them forever in my heart. And my stomach. Because trying a great restaurant is a fabulous excuse to catch up, at least in my book.

The Week from H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks

This week did me in. Please excuse the title of the post. Childhood Anna would have been slapped on the mouth for saying that one. My mother raised me better than to allude to that. But it was a rough, rough week on me, and I suppose one of the perks of adulthood is permission to write quasi-vulgar blog post titles.

In some cruel coincidence of the darkest of forces, our school's standardized testing week coincided with Teacher Depreciation, oops-I-meant Appreciation Week. 

The test, THE test, that our kids take in order to evaluate the teachers, happened this week. Can I tell you something that makes me sad? It makes me sad that six and seven-year-old children have the pressure and weight on their shoulders to perform on a computerized test for around forty-five minutes to gauge how well their teacher taught them for around 10 months. It makes me sad that in the last few months, I had to make decisions on what to teach my kids, not based on what I thought they would love to learn about or things I thought that six and seven-year-olds should know, but based on what will help them do well on this test. I was consistently put in a position of asking myself: Should I teach my class based on what's best for kids to learn? Or should I teach my class based on what's best for this test we have to take? More often than not, like most teachers, I settled for somewhere in the middle: I gave them tools to succeed on the test, hiding skills and supplementing here and there so they didn't feel the pressure of it. I couldn't live with myself and give in completely to test prep mode. It's an unfortunate situation we have put our teachers into, particularly our teachers in low-income communities. It's unfortunate that this situation also affects the students who need the most support in the most unfortunate ways. Ha. I say the word: unfortunate. As if it's unlucky, a random force over which we have no control. (Except that real people make decisions about these tests, teacher evaluation practices, curriculum choices, and support services for kids, every single day.) 

Yet here we were. Taking The Test. On Teacher Appreciation Week. That too, was tough. Each day I scrolled through pictures of my teacher friends who were rolling in gift cards from Chili's, trinkets, and handmade cards from their kids. It was a little different for me. No Chili's gift cards happened, I can tell you that. This week, one of my kids said he wanted to shoot me. I had a lot of attitude, rolling eyes, and defiance coming in my direction this week. 

I say this not to complain, but to make the one thing that happened on Friday all the sweeter. 

Here I thought: "This week is it. I am done. I can't come back on Monday, and I won't be able to come back the day after that. I just can't do it anymore." 

That's what God does, doesn't he? Right when you believe that you can't handle it anymore, he gives you grace. 

This Friday, after school, after Teacher Appreciation Week had technically expired, my grace came through a mother picking up her child, who handed me an envelope through the window. It wasn't accompanied by a gift card, a potted plant, or balloon. It was just a card, but it said this inside:

"Often teachers are unappreciated and not recognized for the work they do. Please know that not only do I appreciate you but thank you for all the work you've done with my child and all the other students you work with. You have encouraged her in so many ways and we're so blessed to have experienced your ability to help the mind grow. Teachers are blessings and thank you for being ours. The best statement you said to my daughter was, "I wish I had a classroom full of students like you." She loved that and will never forget it."

That was all I needed. In spite of feeling defeated and kicked while I was down, I know that one mother and one very sweet girl noticed and cared and are thankful that I'm in their lives. I know that one girl knows and will remember that she is smart. And that she is loved. 

And after a week from you-know-where, that was pretty great. 

Good Friday

It was a true Chicago day. Brian came over in the morning and kindly agreed to go on a run with me to the lakefront - a favor that was more lengthy than my usual requests. We jogged to Soldier Field and went up the lake past the Shedd Aquarium. Besides the intense wind, it was an awesome experience. The water was aqua-greenish-bluish as it splashed on the rocks, tourists were out and about taking pictures of the skyline, and life was good. I love these things that put me outside, out of the constraints of four walls, and into the fresh air and cold wind. I love to leave my apartment on foot, not knowing an exact time of when I will return, and not having anything blocking me in to necessitate my prompt return with obligations and appointments. It’s nice to get out of temperature-controlled-everything and experience the world as it is, right now.

Then, after lunch, we started the afternoon at a great coffee shop in Bucktown called The Map Room (go visit!) before meeting up with Reese and Danny, friends who guided us around their neighborhood between record stores, thrift stores, and of course, Urban Outfitters.

In his natural habitat. 

The Good Friday service at my church was Heartbreakingly Good. Every word so meaningfully spoke to my heart. It is so convicting, to sing “Ah Holy Jesus, How Hast Thou Offended?”, a hymn about the suffering of Christ on the cross, and finishing the second verse with the words “I crucified thee!” It was not just the uptight, legalistic, religious leaders who crucified Jesus Christ. It was my sin, my nature to believe that I have the ability to atone for my own shortcomings, the belief that my grace is sufficient, the lie that I have the resources and qualifications to save myself, that lie that I am self-sufficient and not quite all that terribly bad, that lie that I fall into day by day…this is what crucified Jesus Christ. Good Friday services are so meaningful. They are also so heavy. It’s remarkable how seldom I reflect on the magnitude of Good Friday. And it’s remarkable how I am so forgiven in spite of my neglect of the magnitude of Good Friday. It was a beautiful service.

By the end of the night, we hadn’t eaten a thing, so we hopped over to Estrella Negra, a restaurant on the West Side, to indulge in some fabulous goat cheese quesadillas at a delicious BYOB joint.

All in all, it was a good good good day. A good day full of friends, happy memory making, painful remembering, and thankful reflecting. Good with a “capital G.” One time, a long time ago. Brian texted me, saying that “good” is an overused, understated word in our culture. We use it too much, and don’t mean it enough. I agree with him; I think he is right. Well, then, I’m going to try and redeem the worn-out word and say that this Good Friday, to me, was truly Good.

Mad Scientist

Last Friday the whole first grade went to the Museum of Science and Industry. If you're a teacher in Chicago, let me do you a favor and tell you to GO THERE. For Illinois residents it's free. Completely free. We had a blast touching gadgets, learning about weather, and playing with air pressure, wind, and simple machines. We sat in tractors, airplanes, and steered ships. It was such a good time. My group had some tough characters in it but they behaved like champs. 

I'm thinking we'll have to go on a field trip every Friday. Hmmmm. 

'

Those Kids

I'm about to go on a small rant, because a few little words are bothering me lately. They're adjectives. Of the demonstrative variety. THESE and THOSE. Sometimes these two words serve as demonstrative pronouns, where they replace nouns. For example, instead of "Wow, the flowers are beautiful," one might say, "Wow, these are beautiful!" But sometimes "these" and "those" can be used as adjectives, as descriptors to nouns, as an add-on to help narrow down exactly what you're discussing. Instead of saying, "Look at the couples! They are dancing and having a great time," you might say, "Look at those couples! They are having a great time." You know, you're helping your audience understand a more specific cross-section of the whole to which you're referring. Add in these and those, the ever-helpful demonstrative adjectives, and you help people figure out exactly whom you're talking about. But I digress.

All of this is just grammar. I was an English major, after all, and most people don't care about all of that anyway. What's the point?

It's not that I'm against demonstratives. They've never done anything to me. It's not their fault. These and those are just as good as any, so I can't really say it's the words with whom I am peeved. It's the people who use them. And, in my opinion, misuse them.

It's odd, because the demonstrative adjectives, THESE and THOSE, are being unnecessarily attached to some humans (who are near and dear to my heart) on a daily basis. I'm finding more and more, especially now that my radar is buzzing for it, that people are using THESE and THOSE for some very special people. For my kids. My class of first grade kids.

Last fall, someone said to me, "Well, teaching at your school, with THESE kids, it's almost like babysitting instead of teaching."

Right before Christmas break, I went to a day-long workshop and was learning alongside teachers from all over the Chicago area. It was centering around how to run and organize the behavior management in your classroom. When I asked a question about a hypothetical interaction with a misbehaving six-year-old, the presenter asked where I taught and the nature of my school. She replied, saying, "Well, I believe this will work for most kids, but THOSE kids especially need boundaries clearly set."

During Christmas break, a well-meaning friend said, "Anna, I can't believe you're still teaching THOSE kids."

Last week, during my grad class, my professor said, "Well with the type of neighborhoods that THESE kids come from, you never know what you're going to get."

Finally, a few days ago, I overheard a fellow teacher (not from my school) saying "THESE kids are just too difficult."

Now I'm not saying my students don't need clear boundaries, or that sometimes it's not overwhelming to be their teacher, or that their neighborhoods are perfect. But I guess I want to call some people out on their grammar. Why THESE? Why THOSE?

Why words specifically chosen to call out a small group from the whole? Why do I never hear about kids from Winnekta being referred to as THESE kids? What do you mean by THESE kids and THOSE kids anyway? Do you mean naughty kids? Poor kids? Chicago kids? Black kids?

The problem, I guess, is that by attaching the THESE and THOSE labels to my students, you'd never think about B, who is reading at nearly a 3rd grade level, comes from a loving family, and asks me at the end of each day if she can "please Ms. Gesch just keep learning because I want to learn all day."

You'd never think of M, who has gone from not knowing the alphabet in August to picking up books and reading the words in them by December.

B and M and all the others aren't THOSE kids. They're MY kids.

THESE and THOSE cut out all the humanity from your brain and cause you to jump to a label instead. I'm not saying I've never in my life fallen into this mindset before, I'm just more sensitive to it now that I know and love my students. I am, however, saying it's time we start choosing words more mindfully.

I have an idea. And once I share this idea, I'll lay off the grammar and stop being so picky, I promise.

Maybe instead of talking about THESE kids and THOSE kids, we could start talking about OUR kids. When we're talking about the challenges facing education, and the topic of  kids ceases to be those, and starts to become ours instead, that's when the conversation is starting to go in the right direction.

Because OUR kids deserve better from us. 

Advent

Yesterday was Christmas. It finally got here.

It wasn't the usual explosion of cheer that December 25th brings. I'm 24 now, and so it was a chill and happy day at home. My brother, Heidi, parents, and I opened a few presents. We ate a steak dinner at home, then we all took naps. We talked about the coming year and made a few plans. We watched a movie. I never actually left the house. It was a long and peaceful day. But I'm still waiting for something.

This year, the Christmas season has been characterized not by the day of December 25th, but by the waiting. The leading up to something. The patience. The Advent season. For good things to come (more on one especially wonderful thing soon), some necessary things to come, and some other things that I'm not sure if they're coming at all.

My church really follows a cool tradition during Advent, with reverent readings and candle lightings and the whole shebang. Sometimes, in times like those, I feel the wait for what's to come to be an exciting and almost magical thing. But for the most part, in the day-to-day, I'm weary in the waiting. The term Advent, in itself, means the arrival. So I suppose I'm waiting on another arrival.

Let me tell you what I mean. As much as I am a teacher on Christmas break who does not want to even think about school, this whole waiting thing actually happens to be all about my life at school.

This year, much more than last year at least, I am aware of the challenges and home lives that make up the realities for my kids every day. I'm asking more questions and am overwhelmed at what six and seven-year-olds are accepting as normal, not because they want to, but because they have to, because they don't know anything different.

Parents in jail, parents with cancer, parents who aren't around, 

parents who are, parents who were shot last week.

Food that isn't there, gas tanks and bank accounts that aren't getting filled, 

presents that weren't wrapped.

Missed rent checks, missed job interviews, missed bus rides. 

Missed payments and the cold that kicks in when the heat is shut off.

Shootings down the street, sirens up the block, 

and bed bugs on the floor where he sleeps.

Cuss words and candy bars for dinner.

And this is the world we have for our kids? This what they wait for? 

And I know I should be positive, not thinking about only the struggles and challenges when there are so many good things to see and be thankful for, but at times waiting for this Advent can be overwhelming. I'm longing for it to be resolved, but here I sit, patiently looking ahead. I feel like Lucy when she was told that it's always winter and never Christmas.

Of course, in my own stupidity, I get stretches of time where I think I can fix things. Where I can patch it up. Where I can speed up the Advent, hurry along the arrival of The Way Things Are Supposed To Be. It's hard for a girl who was brought up as a Dutch Reformed kid to realize that even diligent work towards a redeeming cause might not produce the results that you want. So here I still wait. In one week and a half I'll go back to school and walk past the litter on the street right back up to my classroom. And I'll still be working and waiting for that world I want for my kids.

A perfect little thing happened on Christmas yesterday. My Grandpa Gesch was asked to pray before lunch. He can hardly maneuver around my house anymore and needs my dad to cut up his steak for him. But one thing he'll always be able to do really well, no matter his age or physical limitation, is pray. And he said, on Christmas, that God should help us remember to be loving to each other, to show kindness every day, and to take care of each other by giving each person around us what he or she needs. It was beautiful. And while I can't do many things, one thing I can do while I wait is to love my kids. I can't fix their entire world, although I will continue to do everything I can to try, but here in the meantime, in the midst of the waiting, I have my mission: I want to love. I want to be kind. I want to take care of people. That's the stuff that helps make the wait worthwhile.

Baby It's Cold Outside

Okay before I start my writing, can we all agree that the song to which this post's title refers is a thinly-veiled poppy version of date rape?! "I really can't stay?" "Say what's in this drink?" Terrible. Girls, it might be cold outside, but get the heck out of that guy's apartment. Put the hat back on, go home, and deadbolt that door.

....Pause for a reflection of this creepy song and a transition to fun things....

Now, onto the warmth and cheer. It has been freezing outside. I got into my car this morning and the temperature on the dash read -3. Negative three. Gah. Yet with this abominable weather, there have been some lovely little moments. And, of all places, these moments happened outside in the midst of the frozen tundra. I absolutely hate being cold yet here God put all these fun moments in my life, right in the middle of negative degrees and numb noses. Sorry that sounds sentimental, but I am sentimental. I'm overtired, and I taught Christmas activities to antsy overtired children all day, and I'm in grad class on the last night of the semester, and therefore I'm loopy and therefore sentimental. Oh well. Here are some positive moments from the past few weeks when the temperatures were in the negatives.

Over Thanksgiving weekend, we took part in the Christmas parade in the tiny town adjacent to the tiny town in which I was raised. Sawyer was a little elf (very cute I might add) on the float and I was the official face-painter and sign-maker and glow-stick-passer-outer-to-the-crowds-er for my dad's business. Ah small town life. And a backseat selfie. 

It's hats and hoods and gloves time at recess. My kids love going outside, even in the cold. It makes me rethink my laziness of my "I don't wanna go out there" when it's freezing cold and consider the joy of a six-year-old going down a slippery snowy slide. And also the joy of a fur hood selfie. There's that too. 

Karley and Sam asked if Brian and I wanted to walk around The Magnificent Mile to see the lights. I hadn't been downtown in forever - funny how living in a big city makes you take the touristy things for granted - but it was awesome to stroll in and out of shops, sip hot chocolate, and soak up the Christmas spirit. And, of course, another selfie. SO MANY SELFIES. 

The Colah Run

The pronunciation of this post's title is meant to help you pronounce "Color Run" as if you were an old lady from Brooklyn. As in, "Dahhling. I went out layast weekent ta do tha Colah Run. The colahs. They wah gawwgeous." And the reason this post is entitled in such a ridiculous manner is thanks to Melanie Lawrence, who has been speaking back and forth with me in said accent since 2009. She also was the one to text me expressing her deep disappointment in the fact that a post dedicated to this shared event has not yet been published on my blog. The disappointment, of course, was expressed with a high percentage of sass. One might have called it a SASS ATTACK. Little did she know that this post was already ready to be published, but that I had scheduled to put it up today, Sunday the 20th of October. I've since added this paragraph to let Melanie, and the rest of the watching world, know, that WE DID THE COLAH RUN. IT WAS FAAHBYALUSS. AND WE HOPE YAH AWWL SUPAH JAHHLUSS.

The pictures below depict the fab time I had with Mel, Becky, and Gina on a Sunday morning in September. I've been wanting to do a Color Run for forever and these were the perfect three with whom to join in on the fun. I conned Brian into driving us to the race to avoid taxi costs (suckerrr!) and we had a great time jogging around, getting plastered with paint powder, and catching up between the paint stations. Afterward we all went out to eat at Simone's, which is a nearby bar and restaurant that by now should probably just have a permanent seat reserved with my name on it.

Post-race! 

As far as this run compares to the others I've done in the recent and not-so-recent past, this one by far was the most joyous. I highly recommend it for sorority sisters and girl scout groups to sign up. It isn't, however, the most competitive or physically challenging atmosphere. Most people are walking, even just standing still, right in the middle of the road and running path, just because they're having too much fun talking and catching up and doing this fun activity with their friends. I'd call it more of the "Color Fun" than the "Color Run" but that's a-okay. I'm signing up when they come back to Chicago next year and recruiting all of yous off of the couch and out to join in on the fun!

Becky and me. For a cousin picture, of course. 

 

So Long, Sweet Summer

I have this moment every year. This moment when I realize that, yes, truly, my summer is over. Done. Gone. Never to be seen again until I make it through the horrendous Chicago winter. Dashboard Confessional plays in my mind (gets you nostalgic for high school, doesn't it?) as I look back on all the stuff I fit into my (extremely short) summer this year. Four weeks wasn't much, but I enjoyed it! 'Til next time, summertime. I'm already over three weeks into my year of teaching and it is time for some happy memories from summertime, Chicago, good people, and good food.

It's just not summer without a trip to Miller Park. 

 

Roadtrip with one of my faves to go see two other favorites. 

Architectural boat tour of the city with Heidi, who got to spend two days with me! 

My favorite restaurant ever with the roommates

Camping with Trinity friends, compliments of Karley's talent for planning things

Beautiful friends coming in to go and attend some beautiful weddings. 

Multiple trips to The Bean. 

Actually having time/energy to go out on the town with friends. 

Lots of good times with this cutie. 

This cutie too. 

And, to top it all off, a disgusting selfie after finishing my first half marathon. 

Incidentally

I had a really good day at school today. Which is good, because yesterday had me thinking I should throw in the towel altogether. Isn't it funny how life can swing back and forth like that? My math lesson went well, my kids were generally kinder today toward one another, and we packed up for dismissal without any problems. Let me tell you: that was an accomplishment. Because if you think it's easy to pack up 23 6-year-olds without a hitch, you're delusional. But when I got home, after I sorted the mail and dropped my stuff on the floor with a thud, I sat and stared at the wall. Because even though it was a good day, it didn't feel like a good day.

It didn't feel like a good day because there was an incident.

An incident, of course, means that something happened with a weapon, violence, or the gangs near my school. An incident means that something unsafe just happened and now you need to react. Today's particular incident involved passersby carrying a firearm near our older elementary kids on the playground and asking them to look at it and take it from them. A ten-year-old was asked to take a gun and shoot it today. During his recess. That's the world we are living in. That's the Chicago we are living in. 

When you hear that there's been an incident as a teacher in my school, you kind of just shut up, listen to directions for contingency plans that you need to know right now (dismissal locations, Gym/Recess schedules, and other logistics), and go read your email or meet with the administration at the end of the day to get the more descriptive details after the fact and after everyone is safely home with whomever picked them up from school. It's happened more often than once in the last year, and it's even happened more often than twice in the last year. For the sake of my parents and other people who worry about me and where I work in the city, I'm going to leave it at that for the count of incidents around which I've had to maneuver my class of children. Today this incident meant that my kids had Gym in the classroom instead of walking down the street to the big space where we usually go. There are only so many running in place games, jumping jacks next to your desk games, and rounds of "heads-up-7-up" you can play with kids before they get to the point where they just need to go run around in a big space. But, because of the incident, it was the safe decision to have Gym in a classroom. And I'm thankful for my awesome principal and co-workers who keep it together in the midst of chaos for the sake of my kids. 

It's odd to me, though, that we call these things incidents. I naturally think of the words "incidental" and "incidentally" when I think of the word "incident." "Incidentally" means that something happened by chance or a random occurrence. You know, you might incidentally run into an old friend in the frozen pizza aisle one day. You might incidentally trip on the sidewalk and scuff the side of your new shoes. You might incidentally catch that you have a virus or infection on a routine checkup at the doctor. But these incidents at my school are far from incidental. They're not chance. They're not random. They're not happenstance.

These incidents are symptoms of the growing beast that lives in the poorest neighborhoods of a powerhouse city, the beast that gains momentum every time a kid loses his or her right to just be a kid. These incidents are not incidents at all, but real stories of the patterns of violence and injustice that continue to make the act of growing up and achieving your goals and becoming something new increasingly difficult for kids like mine. 

No one will hear about this incident on the news tonight. No one will read about it in the paper tomorrow. To most, it's either something you shake your head at or worse...just something that's happened...incidentally. Oops! Bummer! Another weapon incident on the West Side! Change the channel. When will this stuff start to really matter to us?

You know what's the oddest thing of all? This incident happened in the same exact spot where, exactly 24 hours earlier, there was an Anti-Violence Rally where teenagers and community leaders spoke out about keeping the peace in East Garfield Park. I suppose one could say that the rally and the subsequent day's events, so closely related and also contrasted, happened...incidentally? 

I, for one, do not even believe in the term "incidentally" at all. I believe that things happen because something or someone causes them; things don't just happen. Chance doesn't cause things. People, both broken and also redeemable in the most confusing and wonderful of ways, cause things. We cause things. And when we cause things, they are for good or for harm. We need more people to decide to cause good to happen. Even when I'm not capable of causing good to happen on my own (because believe me, I mostly just mess things up), I have to rely on the One who can make it happen for me and through me in my life. We all have to. No more incidental incidents happening incidentally. It seems to me like it's time for us to stop pretending that things happen by chance in Chicago and to start causing things to happen in Chicago instead. For good.

Until then, my kids will be living, as 6-year-old kids on the playground, from incident to incident. 

T-SWIZZLE FO LIFE

The immaturity of this post's title is meant to reflect the age I am about to seem after you read it in its entirety.

Thirteen.

Because that was the median age of attendee at Taylor Swift's concert on Saturday night. Never mind I happen to be a decade older than that.

But I don't care, because Karley, Mel, and I had a magical experience at Soldier Field in her majesty's presence and none of y'all haters can take that away. Let' s just say that after all 90 glorious minutes of her performance, the only words I could put together on my lips, parted in sheer awe and dazzlement, were, "Today was a fairytale."

But for real though, you guys. The three amigos have been pro-T-Swift for as long as there WAS T-Swift. Taylor is our age - three months younger than me and three months older than Karley and Mel - and speaks to us in each and every stage of life. We were there at age 17 for her debut album, started college to the tunes of Fearless, finished junior year and the last stretch at Trinity to Speak Now, and met adulthood face on jamming out to the tunes of Red. She was basically the soundtrack to our friendships, relationships, and all the other ships that were going on.

We absolutely love her. Sorry, we are NOT sorry. 

And we kept just saying things spontaneously throughout the night that made us seem all the more ridiculous. "She's so pretty." "She's amazing." "I love her outfit." "That song is so true." "She's the best." "This is the coolest thing I've ever done." "She's SO pretty." And more obnoxious proclamations.

Basically, I had an amazing Saturday night. Sitting with two of my favorite people in the world, watching one of my other favorite people in the world jam out to the songs I've been singing over and over and over for the last six years. Next to 10-year-old little girls out with their soccer moms and red pom-poms. It really was a fairytale.

Jolly Lolly

I had the privilege to attend Lollapalooza 2013 for the day on Sunday. Now, if you're wondering why on earth I bought an all-day concert ticket on the first Sunday of my school year, that's a valid concern. To be honest, I bought the ticket in April without much consideration for the pure exhaustion that sets in for teachers at the beginning of the year. I came home tonight from school and told my roommate Jen that it felt like I had endured a 3 hours of a pillow fight; I didn't have any specific physical pain of any kind, but my whole body felt sore and I had no energy. At least I assume that's what a 3-hour pillow fight feels like. 

But I digress. Back to Lolla. I fought the exhaustion and had an amazing time with my friends Sam and Stephen (and their college friends), and Gina from Trinity. Gina and I ended up getting separated from the pack and just ended up catching the last few bands that we wanted to see. We found out that it is pretty much impossible to find anyone or meet up with anyone due to crap cell reception, but we caught some amazing bands on Sunday. We got tidbits of lots of good ones, but got a good dose of Tegan and Sara, Vampire Weekend, and Phoenix really close to the stage. All of those bands were impressive, and I was particularly impressed with Tegan and Sara. They sounded amazing live. Which, if you sing their songs in the car, you know that it is not easy to sound good live whilst singing their songs. Plus now I want to go buy a real leather jacket because Sara looked super cool in hers. In our efforts to get close to the front of the crowds for these shows, we had a lot of wait time in between. Here are a few selfies from our giddy and happy day on Sunday while we waited for our bands to play. Def going back next year, first week of teaching or not.

A happy day. 

13.1

On Sunday, July 21st, I ran in the Rock 'n' Roll Chicago Half Marathon. 13.1 miles. Yes! I did it! I'm throwing myself a small party with this blog post. I mainly do this so that one day in December when my life is a mess I can look back and see that, indeed, I was successful in accomplishing something this year. Last fall I ran the Hot Chocolate 15k so I figured I could step it up and try a longer distance. Somehow, I finished at about an 11-minute-mile rate. (All you real-life-runner-people-with-7-minute-miles, I don't want to hear your scoffs.) My next goal will be to do one with 10-minute-miles, but in the meantime I'm just giddy with excitement that I did cross the finish line and that I still have legs. It went oddly well. It made me oddly positive and happy and excited and proud all at the same time. Running will do that to you.

A gross, sweaty, yet triumphant picture of me, compliments of Brian. 

Once again, my favorite part of the race was the people watching I got to do along the way. Let me tell you about a few:

1. There was the guy in a Pikachu costume, a plush, heavy, and smelly outfit to wear on a race in the middle of July.

2. There was the engaged couple who apparently were mandated to run this race by whomever was facilitating their premarital counseling, because I spent about 1.2 miles with them as they bickered back and forth: "You go run! You hate slowing down for me anyway!"..."No we're DOING THIS TOGETHER, remember? I'll be the jerk if I leave you here!"..."Well if you wanna walk the rest of the way with me in silence then BE MY GUEST!" Whew. AWKWARD. Best of luck to you two.

3. There was this little old white-haired lady wrapped up in a turtleneck and blankets as she sat in her wheelchair and silently holding a tiny sign on the sidewalk that said "Go Sara Ann" and it may or may not have broken my heart of sweetness.

4. There was the Pentecostal church who volunteered to hand out water to the runners who said "You are BLESSED! KEEP GOING!"..."Today is YOUR DAY!"... and "GIRL I KNOW YOU CAN DO THIS!" as I went past their tables. This event was good for my ego.

5. There were the frat boys in the bro tanks and very short American flag running shorts. They wore neon green Ray-Bans and high fived a lot.

6. There was a 12-year-old who ran by me at the speed of lightning right before Mile 1 and by Mile 2 was sitting down on the curb catching his breath. Nobody gave him the pacing talk. Poor kid.

7. There were a lot of chicks in tutus. Weird.

8. Finally, my favorite people were those cheering everyone along; bystanders were indiscriminately handing out encouragement for free to just about every single runner. I saw hilarious signs that read TAKE A TAXI IT'S WAY FASTER, JUST KEEP SWIMMING, and, my favorite, at mile 12, IF YOU HAVEN'T POOPED YOUR PANTS YET THEN YOU'RE ALL CHAMPIONS.  Profound.

Other than the fact that my hamstrings still feel as tight as skinny jeans fresh out of the dryer, I'd say the whole experience was a success.

Peach People

I took a class towards my Master's degree this summer that has my mind spinning. It was a course called "Teaching in Diverse Classrooms" and focused on issues that surround diversity of gender, race, socioeconomic status, ability, and more that we see here in Chicago. It forced me to exercise those dormant brain muscles reserved for uncomfortable, convicting, and troubling conversations that surround these kinds of categories.

We read course texts and took notes and all that good stuff, but we spent most of the time in class reflecting and discussing these things in relation to our own experiences and the experiences of our kids in the classroom. We discussed things like gang rape. White privilege. Segregated proms that are still happening in Mississippi. The pressure on girls to be perfect and the ads, TV shows, movies, and songs that promote it. Racial slurs. The American Dream. Hate crimes. Affirmative Action. Food deserts. Unjust systems, societies, and sovereigns. Immigration. Where they money goes. And more. I know a lot of those things are buzz words for people on both sides of many of those issues, and believe me, my head has been buzzing ever since.

I often left class feeling overwhelmed. But it was good.

When I was a kid, I thought people were peach. I had a crayon labeled "peach" and it more or less matched my skin color. I looked around me and all I saw were other peach people. Every so often I would encounter someone who wasn't a peach person and I mentally noted which crayon he or she might be. I distinctly remember doing so with one of my favorite people: I loved Michael Jordan when I was growing up, and he wasn't peach. So I figured he was "brown" because that's the crayon that matched him. Later on, I learned that my coloring-book-theory of race relations was not acceptable. I was white. Michael Jordan was black. And that's without addressing all the other kinds of people on this earth besides the two categories we so harshly box up with neat little labels.

But back to the class.

Beyond being simply a student, I carried my faith into that classroom with me each day that made all of the brokenness and darkness that we dug up to be all the more harsh, confusing, and disorienting. I still have a million questions swirling around. How could our world look like this, so broken and hurtful? How am I supposed to move on? How can I, just one person, love people like Jesus loves people? How do I embrace all the differences we have and be someone who looks past the neat little labels so carefully affixed by people to other people? I'm somewhat frustrated at myself that at age 23 this is the first time so many of these questions have been on my mind. I'm frustrated at all of us for being so unloving to one another in the most nasty and subtle of ways. How do I even start? I'm just that one person, remember?

In the week since the class ended, I've been thinking about what it means to be a peach person in this black and white world. The starting place, I've decided, has a lot to do with my everyday life. It has a lot to do with the words that come out of my mouth, the thoughts I assume about people, and the time I put into listening to others. It starts with me deciding to be an ally against injustice. It starts with me waking up each day of teaching this year and asking God to help me love my kids for who He made them to be. To encourage all the hues of personalities, people, and ideas that come from our neighborhood on the west side of Chicago. To see the box of crayons for all of its beautiful colors. 

Both Sides

Both Sides Gallery: reason #4692 why you should come to Pilsen. My wonderful friend and outing-coordinator-extraordinaire Sam got two other friends and I a Groupon to this awesome place for a beautiful Sunday.

A “retired” (I put quotations around that because this chick is really young and cool) CPS teacher had enough of that high-stress life (word up) and decided to change careers by following her dreams in the non-profit industry. She opened Both Sides Gallery, which is half art studio, half tutoring center for kids in Math and Science. The name is obviously derived from her passions of cultivating both sides of the brain intelligently. They host parties for people who want to get together and paint all afternoon and that is precisely what we did.

Sam, Chase, Laura, and I sat down in front of empty canvases and looked through albums of pictures for plagiarism (cough)...I mean...inspiration and got started on our way. It was a fabulous three hours of painting, chatting, wine-drinking, and pretzel-eating. I call that therapy. Check out the pictures for our finished results! (Laura and I both liked the same picture. Come see mine hanging on the wall in all of its glory in my bathroom). 

Can you think of a better way to spend a Sunday afternoon before a hectic week of teaching? I submit that you cannot. 

Please check this place out! Do it. Now. It's cool. 

No Air

This year my eyes have been opened to the other side of Chicago (and, I believe, also the other side of this country) on the opposite end of what I've been seeing otherwise for my whole life. Recess is one of those times when I see it the most.

I grew up with a soccer field, a baseball diamond, four swing sets, a jungle gym, four basketball hoops, three slides, monkey bars, teeter totters (I hear you people also call them see saws), and tire forts in my playground as I was going through the primary grades a few years shy of 20 years ago. I was able to run free and tear around for two, sometimes three times during the day. There was enough room for snow forts, kick ball, world cup soccer, freeze tag, and vicious games of boys-catch-girls. If we, heaven forbid, had an indoor recess due to extreme rain or snow situations, we had a big gym with tons of equipment in which to get our energy out.

My kids rarely get outside. They get one 15-minute recess a day. Where do we go outside, do you ask? It's called the grassy pasture by my school's administration. I call it the dirt patch. It's a chunk of ground that's about 15 feet wide and 15 yards long. No slides, no monkey bars, no basketball hoops. Just dirt. A brick border wall. Random shrubs and trees that have popped up and invaded games of red rover and tag. Oh, and a nice little sewer drain right in the middle. That's in case they successfully avoided the bushes.

Not only does this patch get ridiculously gross whenever it rains, it falls in the shadow of the school most of the day so the sun can't dry it. If we are within 15 days of any rainfall, it's a muddy mess and we can't use it. It's not my administration's fault that we have little to no options, the building where our school rents has restrictions that they need to follow as well (the first two floors are offices and a day care, and a class of 23 second-graders running around doesn't allow the little kids to nap with all the noise). My principal usually is really good at using her resources as best she can, but there are some things she can't do. She can't wave a wand and give us a field. She can't make a playground appear out of nowhere. She can't ask the day care center below us to have their 2 and 3-year-olds just not nap all day. She knows it stinks and she wishes it could change too. It is just a crappy situation. 

But what, then, becomes of my kids? With virtually zero access to fresh air (our windows are sealed shut and can't be opened due to security and safety reasons) throughout the day, recess often happens inside our own room. It happens within the same four walls where we eat breakfast, give instruction, eat lunch, have art class, and learn Spanish. I almost don't even care about the equipment any more. I'm almost even happy with the dirt patch when we even get to use that. It's a far cry from soccer fields and jungle gyms and kickball, but at least it's fresh air. It's outside. They can run. They can make up games. They can be kids. 

To the right, they're throwing a ladybug funeral in the wood chips. 

But, as I've seen throughout this whole year, East Garfield Park is not an easy place to be a kid. It can even be suffocating at times. There's not much air out there, but we're gasping at any chance to take a breath.