Home

I recently went back to my hometown for our beloved Toni Chestnut’s memorial.  It was a beautiful celebration of her life. The first person I saw was her mother at the church.  She greeted me with an enveloping hug filled with comfort and said, “I can’t believe you’re here”.  I started to cry a bit, but she put a stop to that quickly.  “Toni wouldn’t want us to cry today.  No tears.”  I did as I was told.  This was a directive from one of my favorite people, so I willingly acquiesced.

The memorial was a touching and beautiful celebration in the church where I grew up.  The sights and smells were so familiar---the impressive white marble altar, the skyrocketing stained glass windows, the angelic voices.  The music was beautiful and reminded me of sitting in those same pews a lifetime ago. I cried when I heard a familiar hymn and the verse, “I love you and you are mine” got me.  That song was one of my favorites and really cemented the reason for the day.

One of the best parts of the day was seeing some familiar faces from home; dear family friends and people I had gone to church with my entire childhood.  Those are the faces you never forget.  One of those people has become the church deacon.  After the mass, this gentleman said to me, “You look so familiar to me.  Do I know you?”  I told him my name and he said, “Wow! You’re all grown up!  How is your wonderful family?” Home. 

You can’t replace that feeling that coursed through me at that moment.  Recognition, belonging, love.  It meant so much that he remembered me.

 

I have lived in North Carolina for 20 years now.  I have not been home in quite some time, so it was natural that some people didn’t recognize me.  Some said, “you had long hair when I last saw you!”  I think they were being nice.  It couldn’t be that I have aged in the 20 years that have elapsed.  How kind they were to spare my feelings.

As we made our way to the luncheon after the memorial, I got a feeling of trepidation; much like when you go to school for the first time.  I wondered who my husband and I would sit with at the luncheon.  I know that’s a crazy thought and I should have been focused on Toni, but I did wonder where were we going to belong?

My fears were not realized as I saw some family friends from the very beginning of the gathering.  They welcomed us with happy, warm smiles, big embraces and pulled up two chairs at their family’s table.  Home.

As we sat and ate lunch, we reminisced, laughed and were smacking the table in delight.  At one moment, I glanced back and saw a picture of Toni on the television in a slideshow prepared for the memorial.  I felt guilty for a quick second for having so much fun, but then Toni’s mom came up behind me and hugged me.  I felt the reassurance that Toni would have loved this celebration.  It was real and genuine.  All of the people she loved from home in one place, smacking the table and laughing like crazy.

I realized.  You can go home again.  And home will welcome you with open arms, a seat at the table and lots of joy.  

For Toni Chestnut

I grew up with Toni Chestnut.  Why was she called Toni "Chestnut"?  Who knows?  My outrageous grandfather gave her that moniker long ago.  It stuck.  My whole family calls her Toni Chestnut to this day.

Toni is my best friend from childhood.  All of my best memories as a child have her in them.  Our families were close friends, so we would have family get-togethers; impromptu barbecues, birthdays, Christmas parties, etc..  Sometimes these family parties would end with Toni and me begging our parents for a sleepover.  Toni and I had lots of sleepovers as our parents were usually delighted to give in to our requests.  Before bed, we were allowed to watch shows like "The Muppets" or "The Facts of Life".  In the morning, I was treated to the most exquisite array of cereals anyone ever had.  I say exquisite because as a kid, my mom would stock our shelves with All-Bran or Total.  If she was feeling kicky, we might have scored some Raisin Bran.  At Toni's house, Cap'n Crunch and Cookie Crisp abound!  I felt like the character Oliver from the musical, Oliver! - "please may I have another bowl?".

We were also the youngest members of our families; the little sisters. My older brother used to hang out with her older brothers and we were the quintessential pains in the necks.  We'd spy on them and tell on them when they were shooting bottle rockets off in the parking lot behind their backyard.  They thought the blanket of evergreens shaded them.  Ha!  Trees were no match for our investigative skills.  In retribution, they would try to trip and tackle us as we ran through the sprinklers in the backyard.  

I think my favorite times with Toni were our covert missions.  Not only would we spy on our brothers, we would sneak into her living room and grab a particular book down from the bookshelf.  This book was entitled, "Where Did I Come From?".  It's a book about how teach your kids about sex.  Toni and I thought this was the funniest book ever.  We would howl in laughter looking at the two hairy cartoon characters doing the deed under a 70's patchwork quilt.  That image still makes me laugh to this day.  In fact, I recently bought this book to explain the facts of life to our kids.  I still have not mustered the courage to read it to them.  I will have to stifle my gaffaws, and I'm sure they will too!

Our friendship drifted a bit through the years because we went to different schools.  However, we still remained in touch.  In seventh grade, I asked her to come with me to a junior high dance.  We applied our blue eye shadow amidst clouds of Aqua-Net hairspray (it was the 80's), while strains of "Sowing the Seeds of Love" by Tears for Fears played in the background on MTV.  We had fun at the dance, but our time was cut short because I dislocated my knee at the dance.  Yes.  If the teenage years were not awkward enough, I had to injure myself at a dance!  The horror!  Toni took it all in stride and took care of me.  She practically carried my hobbled body to her dad's car and he drove us home.  She's always been someone you could count on in a crisis.

Although we went to different high schools, I attended her school's musicals.  Toni was always the star; playing Marian the Librarian from The Music Man and Maria Von Trapp with a voice every bit as sweet as Julie Andrews' famous pipes.

We drifted apart through college; both doing our own thing.  She met her husband in college and I was invited to their wedding.  An epic snowstorm kept me away from their happy day, but I saw pictures.

We had a Christmas card kind of relationship for the next few years until cancer.  That's right.  I said cancer.  Toni has breast cancer and has kept up a valiant fight for years now.  Recently, the disease has journeyed to her lungs.  I have been able to reconnect with her because Toni has kept a blog that has reflected on her odyssey through cancer.  Most of her posts are filled with life, spirit and optimism.  She is one tough cookie.

Last year, she went to Disney World with her family and had a joyous time.  The trip even culminated with extended family hosting a family reunion all tied in.  She looked jubilant in her scarf as she hugged Mickey Mouse and posed for pictures with her whole family.   I sent her a little gift before her trip and one of the essays I wrote to give her some inspiration  In true Toni fashion, she gave ME inspiration.  She called me her lifelong friend and I cried.  She is so special to me.

Her posts have changed tone in the past few weeks.  Her posts began as hope, fight and showcased sheer tenacity.  Now, they have turned into shades of bewilderment and pain.  Her sunny personality still shines through, but you can see the difference.

I want to ask why does this have to happen, but that question is searingly painful to excavate with no answer to be had in the end.

Even though I have observed her fight from the cheap seats since we live hundreds of miles apart, Toni Chestnut has given me so much and I wanted to give her something in return.  So, in a very small way, I wanted her to know how much she means to me.  In the immortal words of Jim Croce, "I'll have to say I love you in a song".  Or, in this case, in a blog.

Observing in Disguise

One of my favorite books is Garlic and Sapphires by Ruth Reichl.  In the book, Reichl is a New York Times food critic that goes to restaurants in disguise while she reviews the quality of the food/service at a restaurant.  She started to use disguises in her work because chefs would recognize her and up their game accordingly.  She was not getting a true depiction of the caliber of food or usual service at the restaurant.  After using disguises, she found that she could freely experience the restaurant as any other patron would and her readers would receive a more authentic review as a result.

This gave me an idea...

Part of my job requires me to observe part-time instructors in their courses.  I do not schedule these observations ahead of time because it would be a logistical scheduling nightmare.  So, I pop in and watch the instructors work their magic.  I think of it as a very positive process, but the look of sheer terror on the part-time instructors' faces as I walk in the room makes me feel like I am a masked intruder with a gun.  

I know how they feel.  I have a wonderful supervisor.  I love to get her advice and talk with her one-on-one.  However, when she walks into my classroom to observe my teaching, I am a clammy-palmed mess.  I feel like I'm under a microscope and everything I'm doing is not up to par.  Now, I have been teaching for a while.  I have some cred.  But, knowing someone who is an expert is watching my teaching.  BRRRR....sends shivers down my spine.  

Why?  I am not trying to find fault with the instructors in my observations and neither is my boss.  So, what's the problem?

Observation.  Critique.  Knowing you are being evaluated.

I have a solution; inspired by Ruth Reichl.  I want observe part-time instructors in disguise.  YES!  I want to be a real student in their classrooms.  I want to see what these classes are really like when the teacher is at ease in his or her own environment.  And, the costumes would be epic!!!

So, who would I be?  I have a few ideas based on former students I have had in my classes.  Please note:  these names below are completely fictional, but the profiles are not.

I could be Sarah....

Sarah is an 18 year old student.  She is fresh from her high school wounds of teachers telling her she is "not college material".  Sarah sits in the back of the room and does not ask any questions.  She averts her eyes when I make eye contact with her and feels wholly unworthy to be in this course.  Without fail, Sarah apologizes for her work on each assignment she submits.  Yet, she is an A student.

Or, John....

John is a 25 year old veteran who has done two tours in Afghanistan and Iraq.  He scans the room and is frustrated by the students with their apathy-tinged breathing exercises; the dramatic sighs coming from the back of the room when they are called out for texting during instruction time.  John thinks to himself, these kids don't know how good they have it.  I have seen people aching to learn, but there is no school in their village.  I was one of these slackers before, but now I know how tough it is out there.  John sits in the front row and although he struggles writing his truth in his essays by reliving his battles, he feels proud when many of his peers and his instructor are moved to tears by his revelations.

Sandy is an interesting choice....

Sandy is a 41 year old mother of two.  She sits in class desperate to see the useful application of what she is learning.  She attends evening courses because she has a full-time job.  Sandy wants to see that her time is not being wasted.  During a lull in the lesson, Sandy gets frustrated and thinks Ok, teacher.  Better get on with this lesson.  I could be doing a million more productive things right now than sitting here listening to you.  How about I start my shopping list?  It will look like I'm taking notes.  Sandy keeps the instructor on his or her toes; waging a subtle challenge for the teacher to "bring it".

However, my favorite choice would have to be Arthur.... 

Arthur is a 90-year old former engineer.  Although he already has a graduate degree and had a very successful career, he wants to take courses just for fun.  Sitting in the classroom makes him feel alive and relevant.  Before class, Arthur thinks, I need to be diligent about doing my back exercises.  It would be so embarrassing if I couldn't get out of my seat after class today because my back seized up.  I would hate to ask one of these youngsters for help.  He is delighted to be in the classroom as he reflects on how grateful he is to learn what is being taught today.

Arthur is my favorite choice for a disguise because he is so positive!  He views going to college as an opportunity to grow and learn- even though his contributions may be short-lived.  I aspire to be that person.  Thank you, Arthur.

Now, if I could just combine my passions and figure out how to be a teacher and a food critic...  That would be the perfect job for me!!!  

Dance Like Nobody's Watching

"MOOOOMMM!!!" John screamed from the playroom.  UGH!  One of them cracked his or her head open.  I knew it!!!  They were wrestling again!  I blame my Irish heritage for my worst case scenario go-to thinking.  As I walked in the room, John was ecstatic.  "Mom, listen to this..."  He played a song from his favorite show, Odd Squad.  The song is called, "Dance Like Nobody's Watchin'"  As I listened, I thought this tune is pretty funky for a PBS joint.  Immediately, a dance party ensued...

As John was showing me his dance moves- a series of impressive jump kicks inspired by karate and simple 9 year old grooving- I remember that his love for music goes way back.

In 2006, my husband and I went to see the movie Walk the Line.   It is a biopic about the life and music of Johnny Cash.  I was about 7 months pregnant at the time and as the opening music commenced, my little man started kicking.  He did not stop.  Throughout the whole movie, this fetus was keeping time with Johnny Cash's brand of railroad track percussion.  I nudged my husband, Mark, and he marveled at how my belly was moving in time to the beat.

After John was born, Johnny Cash did us another solid by placating our fussy baby with his songs.  Whenever John was crying his eyes out, all we had to do was turn on "Get Rhythm" or "Folsom Prison Blues".  The red face and ardent squealing would be replaced by calm and comfort.  We were very grateful to Mr. Cash and his music for providing us with instant serenity.

Later on, John introduced us to The Wiggles. We had them in our house for a long time.  They were fun, but I was not disappointed when he progressed to more "adult" music after watching The School of Rock.  After being mesmerized by Jack Black's performance, John decided I needed to make him a "Mr. Schneebly mix" after Black's character.  I was excited because now my boy was listening to real music- Led Zeppelin, Van Halen.  The good stuff.  Whew.  No more "Fruit Salad" on repeat.

Our daughter, Colleen, has very different tastes.

Colleen fell in love with the movie, Mary Poppins,  at birth.  She was just as entranced with Julie Andrews singing "Feed the Birds" as I always was.  Still, to this day, she asks me to sing her that song at night after her bedtime stories.  I love that she is so connected with my musical tastes.  Colleen has also progressed through a number of genres in her 5 years on this earth, but her favorite songs of late seem to be feminist anthems; "Girl on Fire", "Let It Go" and "All About That Bass" are both on ad nauseam in this house.  Secretly, I couldn't be prouder.

As for song lyric recall, Colleen's aptitude is impressive.  She can learn a song after the first or second time after hearing it.  However, she alters the words.  For example, in "All About That Bass", Colleen will sing "all about that bass, 'bout that bass, no trouble" instead of the word "treble".  In fact, after listening to Duran Duran's "View to a Kill" song for the first time, she demanded I sing the lyric, "a fatal kiss is all we need" as "a big ol' kiss is all we need".  I still sing that song her way.  She cracks me up as I used to do the same thing when I was a kid.

I always loved music as a child.  When I was very young, I would hold concerts in the family room of our house.  I would sing along with an 8-track of Elvis Presley tunes.  "All Shook Up" was enthusiastically sung as "Marsha Poke".  Colleen does not take after anyone strange...

When I was a pre-teenager, Madonna was all the rage.  I would dress up in my slips and put on every Jelly bracelet and necklace I owned.  The show would go on only when my hair was higher than the Empire State thanks to Aqua-Net and my make-up of blue and purple eyeliner and shadow was set.  This show was only put on for an exclusive audience.  ME!  Just me. I would lock the door to my bedroom and crank up "Dress You Up" as loud as I could.  My parents would come to the door and say, "What are you doing?  Moving furniture?"  I would reply, "Nope!  Just dancing."

Dancing with myself....as if nobody was watching. Nobody better have been watching!!!!  Oooh, I shudder at the thought...

Parallels of Tenacious Youth

I have a deep, dark secret that very few people know.  This secret has grown stronger this week since the secret came to an end.  I will share my secret with you now, but please know it is difficult to do so.  Are you ready?

I love the show "Glee".

Whew, there is freedom in saying that declaration out loud!  It's funny.  I have always loved this show because it blended my love of musical theatre with hysterical satire.  Jane Lynch, as Coach Sue Sylvester, is a masterful comedian and always delivered her droll lines perfectly.  The first season was the best.

There is another character to which I was drawn while watching this show;  Rachel Berry.  If you are not in the know, Rachel was the head geek of the Glee club.  She was a fantastically driven, yet extremely talented member of the Glee club and later in the series emerged to be the head of the Glee club and a Broadway star.  But, why did I like her so much?  I always wondered until this week.  Then, it came to me.....I was Rachel Berry in high school.

Now, before my high school friends say I wasn't, I will reflect on ways I was completely Berry-esque.  

I was not the singing giant Rachel Berry is in the show.  My Berry qualities revolved around journalism.  I was the Editor-in-Chief of our high school newspaper, the CHS Voice.  I loved to write satirical columns as well as hard-hitting articles focusing on social injustice.  For instance, while other students were skipping school to get high, I skipped school one time to interview New York State Governor, Mario Cuomo.  Did I have an appointment with him?  No.  Did I even have any credentials to do such a thing?  No.  But, like Rachel Berry, I was tenacious as hell at 17 years old.  I was going to get that interview.

Governor Cuomo was in town to propose to put a nuclear waste dump in my home county.  As you can imagine, there were protests.  So, I made my own credentials (a press card I made in the art classroom after school one day and laminated it myself).  I masqueraded as one of the protesters, showed my "credentials" to the officials and got into the press conference.  I got a few quotes and asked a question.  I was a full-fledged journalist (in my own mind).

In college, the tenacity to get an interview followed me and I was happy to get access to a number of famous people who came to my college and surrounding colleges to do concerts or speaking engagements.  I dated a fellow "journalist" for a while because I really liked the way he wrote.  He said our relationship was like the movie Reds.  Even my dating life revolved around my quest to be a journalist.  So funny, now that I think back about it....

My Rachel Berry sensibilities followed me on my term abroad in college.  I was not content enough to just take classes while I was in London, but felt that I had to stretch my journalistic skills.  I muscled the director of our program into getting me an internship with the university's public relations department.  This internship served to be a huge disappointment as all the director wanted me to do was get him coffee and fawn over his accomplishments.  I was bored and deflated until I got the offer of a lifetime one night at a dance production.

My friends and I went to a Twyla Tharp dance recital one night.  I happened to be sitting in front of a nice couple from New York (I could tell by their accents).  I struck up a conversation with them as I was from New York as well.  It was a great conversation because I was a little homesick at the time, but when the gentleman offered that he worked for Bloomberg Business communications, my Rachel Berry tenacity went into overdrive.  I immediately started listing my credentials and gave him my contact information.  While his wife was focusing on inviting me to their house for a nice meal, the husband realized I was serious and told me he would be in touch.  I could not focus on the dance!  All I could think about was working as a professional journalist in London!!!

He did call a couple days later and invited me to an interview.  I really thought, "this is it!  I have arrived!!".  I did well in the interview and was offered an apprenticeship.  I would have to fly back home to get my visa organized before taking the position, but I was hired.  I rushed home to call my parents.  On the ride home, I felt like Tom Cruise in the movie Jerry Maguire when he was singing "Free Fallin" in his car.  I was beyond excited.

My excitement dwindled when I called my parents.  My parents are the most supportive people on earth and as they were trying to figure out what I was breathlessly saying about visa status, they asked me if I would finish college.  I hadn't even thought of that.  Really?  Not finish college?  The thought had not occurred to me.  If I took this job, I would have been leaving college in my junior year.  And, talking with my family made me miss them like a pain.  After our conversation, I made the decision to go home and finish my degree. This decision was a pivotal moment in my life at the time.

For years, I would second guess and regret my decision to come home.  I thought of the Frost poem, "The Road Not Taken" and I thought I chose the wrong road.  After moving to Charlotte and meeting my husband, I began to realize I made the right decision.  However, professionally there was something wanting.  My inner Rachel Berry was screaming to be noticed.  I didn't realize until after I quit my job in university admissions that teaching would be the realization of my dreams; to share my passion for writing.

There's nothing like the feeling of knowing where you belong.  I never quite felt that feeling in high school, college or in my early 20s.  I was always regretting and reaching for something beyond my scope.  But, teaching writing and conveying my deep love for writing to students was all I ever needed to quell my inner doubts and feelings of regret.  Teaching is where I needed to be all along.

Do I still push myself?  Absolutely!  In fact, this blog is the manifestation of pushing myself to write.  This blog is for me; dedicated to my former journalist self. my inner Rachel Berry.

The Art of Being Human

I read a wonderful article in the Chronicle of Higher Education the other day entitled, "To Help Students Succeed Professionally and Personally, Teach the Art of Being Human" by Lisa Dolling.  In her article, Dolling pointed out that you cannot separate the personal vs. professional in higher education.  She remarked, "Either you believe the purpose of going to college is to be able to secure a (preferably high paying job), or you think there is something more intrinsically valuable to be gained from the years spent earning a degree...developing the intellectual capacities needed to succeed as professionals and  human beings" (Dolling).

Teaching the art of being human...

So, I began to think about how I teach students to be more human.  What do I do to model humanity in my classroom?  So, began the quest to be more intentional about teaching this supposed lost art.

I thought about how I write with my students.  We do writing prompts in class and I ask them to reflect on a subject. We write together and I share my product with them.  Sometimes, I am on it.  I did what I intended to do in my writing and I am proud of it.  Other times, I laugh at myself because when I read something I have written out loud to them, sometimes it just doesn't make any sense.  So, I laugh at myself...with them.  I thought this was showing them I was human, but there is more to achieve than just laughing at my foibles.

Human.  Teaching the art of being human.  Hmm....compassion, maybe?

In my class, I ask students to dedicate 2 hours per semester on a service learning project.  This project is where they go out into our community and volunteer their time at a local food bank, animal shelter, homeless shelter...whatever they choose.  Then, they write about their experience as part of our final project for the course.  My intention is to teach students that they are not only part of our writing community in class, but part of a greater community out there in the world.  I want them to know how fortunate they are to be pursuing a higher education.  Through service, I am able to reflect on how grateful I am for my family and how I lucky I am to be teaching.  Service learning is a reminder of how human we are.

Compassion, humility...what else is there?  I think that teaching the art of being human starts in your class when you are given the opportunity to share your feelings and opinions through writing.  I encourage students to draw from their experiences to learn from one another.  Some of my veterans choose to process their thoughts about what they observed in war.  These observations are the most haunting, yet revealing cathartic exercises.  I am honored to have them share these reflections with me.  Other students reflect on difficult decisions they have made in the past; whether it is to move to another area or leave a marriage in which they are being physically or emotionally abused.  It is humbling that students trust me, or their fellow students in our classroom, enough to share these all too human situations.

Writing allows us the opportunity to explore the art of being human because it invites the author to draw from personal experiences and reflect on their choices.  Writing in a college course is more than just regurgitating facts or structures of writing.  It is the invitation to the human experience.  Write about it.  Express how you feel.  Tell us your thoughts...

As a result of Lisa Dolling's fine article, I am going to be more aware of how I teach students, not only how to be good writers, but how to be human.  I will need to do some self-reflection on this topic as I am still a work in progress as well.

Here is a link to her article. I hope you enjoy it!  http://chronicle.com/article/To-Help-Students-Succeed/228281

Transferable Experiences

I was at a writing conference this past weekend and the keynote speaker spoke to us about knowledge transfer.  Knowledge transfer is basically when students utilize skills from a previous learning experience to help them perform a present task in our classrooms.  It was a very interesting discussion that led my mind to drift wondering about transfer...

Transfer in our own lives...

What experiences transfer from childhood into our adult lives?  How do they transfer?  After this speaker's address, I found myself spending a lot of time thinking about my kids.  What days/experiences would transfer as they get older? What will they remember?

My mind thought in horror...oh!  Will they remember those snow days when we all were getting on each other's nerves.  You know...those "Mom of the Year" moments where I was yelling at them to just "calm down".  And Colleen proclaiming, "Mommy is a mean mommy".  Oooh!  I shudder just thinking of it.

Or, will they remember our dance parties in the kitchen; twirling around to the sounds of music while laughing our heads off?  Perhaps they will recall story time before bed where Mommy and Daddy do all of the silly voices while laying with our precious ones snuggled in their beds.

The mind reels.

So, I brought this topic up at a dinner with our friends.  We were talking about going to Disney World and I asked one of them what he remembered about Disney World as a kid?  He said, "Space Mountain, It's a Small World...that's pretty much it.".  Huh!  That's what I remembered too, except with a little "Mr. Toad's Wild Ride" and "Snow White" thrown in for good measure.  But, it got me thinking.  How long had our parents planned, scrimped, ruminated, and saved to make this magical vacation for their children---only to have us remember 3 things?  Why doesn't every magical moment transfer?

The memories that transfer most from my childhood are happy, everyday events.  I remember those in detail.  For example, I used to hang out on the front porch of our house and pretend to be sauteing up some greenery from our front lawn.  I was preparing dinner for my husband, Han Solo, while fighting off bad guys from our kitchen.  I remember the pungent scent of the lilac bushes in our side lawn and using the leaves as currency to buy my groceries.  I also converted a stinky, moldy shed into a home for my dolls and Han.  I spray painted it silver and didn't worry that while I was fixing up the shed, the boys from our neighborhood borrowed my spray paint to spray slugs.  Ah, youth!

I know that as my parents read this blog, they will be thinking....what about this vacation or that special treat/event we shared?  I would be asking those questions as well, if I were them.  But, what I have realized is that it is the everyday, run of the mill days that transfer into my memory.  The good stuff is in the small stuff.

So, for my children, I really hope that the memories they transfer into adulthood and reminisce about in their older years will reflect the warm and happy feelings in the song "These are Days" by 10,000 Maniacs and not the dreary, filled-with-regret tune "Holding Back the Years" by Simply Red.