Their Eyes Tell the Story: Figuring Students Out

Covid-19 has changed the field of education, as well as just about all other aspects of our lives. What was once largely based on learning faces, hearing their loud and clear voices, and watching them smile and laugh- is now muffled and covered. It feels weird to never see their curious and engaged faces. It is a world of masks. A classroom of sterile learning and hidden emotions. I don't know about you- but it has been challenging to put a name to a shielded appearance.

I loved hearing laughter and conversations buzzing. Now it is difficult to hear them. I am almost constantly asking students to talk louder so I can hear them from behind their masks. I still do group work, albeit in smaller groups (isolated to assigned tables). There is no makerspace, students should not be sharing supplies. But I do have some markers in a bucket and students wash them down with sanitation wipes. It feels very different than years past.

I had some classes in person last year, when many were 100% virtual- so I got to see their shining, eager faces every day, at least some of my students. It was surreal last year, mask covered conversations led me to really pay attention to my students eyes. Eyes tell a story, we are just used to the tales coming from the verbal. I miss seeing their smiles- it does really help make connections. But, I think we are all getting used to interacting from behind a cloak or veil.

Recently I have been having students express themselves using only their eyes. Going wide for surprise or looking down if they feel sullen or confused. We are making sure we use our eyes as a form of expression when our words seem distant. I ask them to also use their hands a lot more to express themselves- crossed fingers for restroom break, a fist for confusion, two fists for I understand. Little subtle action that can be seen from across the room.

But voices are the human bridge- they are the vibration that winds together to form the tether between us- teacher and student. So I have trained myself to speak slower, louder and more direct. If they can't see my facial expression, they often don't understand my intent. I repeat myself more than I have in the past. I ask them a lot of questions. The eyes tell the story- if I use my eyes as a guide with my verbal tone- it helps them focus and engage.

There is a lot of computer use at my new school- Chrome Books in class, Google Classroom, and I do use them- but I feel hands on learning is still so critical- it is more so after a year of many of these students being isolated on Zoom or Google Meets. They need interaction. They need to make eye contact and hear student engagement happening. So daily we are playing with Lego or drawing comics, or writing songs and skits. The more they interact and collaborate the better.

Mindfulness is still integrated into my #teachmindful classroom. We watch "Mindful Minutes" videos on You Tube, write mindfulness prompts and have classroom discussions on how we feel, what is stressing us out. It is so important that students feel the freedom to share their emotions- because a mask hides them. They need the chance to let loose too, and just be kids.

Figuring students out this year- these last three weeks- has been fun. A bit rocky at first, again masks hide their personalities. But, I have been playing Spotify music (modern classroom appropriate songs) to let them sing while they are working on projects. I have been talking a lot about their interests and telling jokes and getting silly. This has let me see their eyes smile. Even behind their masks I have begun to hear their excitement more and see them engage more.

It is not going to be back to the way it was pre-Covid- classrooms with more organized chaos and makerspaces, stations and moving around the room freely- any time soon. It is about precautions and safety protocols now. But, we can create safe ways for students to collaborate. We can keep things clean and sterile all the while learning in a fun, interactive classroom. I strive for that every day. I take lessons and tweak them every morning to have a twist.

These twists keep them safe, keep within the safety protocols but also gives some surprise. A new way of doing things so they feel the unexpected amongst the routine. My eyes tell a story too. I widen them when I am speaking, I use my hands a lot when I am speaking to them, and I am overly animated sometimes. This pulls them in. The more we use our eyes to communicate the more we will feel a deeper connection. That is what they are seeking most of all, after the last year, to feel a part of a classroom, a school, a community.

So eyes expressive, voice exciting, body language energetic everyone- and lets make this story, this school year memorable.

I Specialize in Bold Mistakes

This is dedicated to everyone who has struggled with standing up for themselves or felt unworthy or like they were never good enough. To you I say- you are good enough you are wonderful. If 'they' whomever they are, don't see that- then it is their loss. I see it. Thank you for being a shining star. 

You are valued and you need to know that it is not your fault. When people judge you or refuse to raise you up- those are people to avoid. To move away from. Because we all deserve a happy life. To everyone who has felt like this- I hope you have more good days, better days and optimism.

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I specialize in bold mistakes. Not because I make them frequently, but because I own them. I am an adventurer and I appreciate a skinned knee every now and then- it reminds me I am pushing myself. Pushing myself further away from the pessimism and unforgiving gaze of them.

Accidents are inevitable- but forcing someone to feel like that mistakes are all they make- is unforgivable. I must leave those accidents, those placed upon me, behind. There will always be rock-slides and upheaval- but of my making, of my living, I accept these, willingly. I have been trapped beneath the rubble of both, many times in my life. They have made that so. The guilt is sharp. Earth might be solid, sturdy and hardened in many parts of my life- but it is not fixed. The tectonics of experience are constantly sliding and maneuvering me about- that is the geology of life.

It is the preparation to ride the friction that matters most- feel the shake, meet the quake.

The color of my dreams, always seems to be the color of the haze, that follows me the next day. Vibrant or dull. Dark or bright. I walk about in a fog of discomfort some days not knowing why. I am not unhappy necessarily- but there is a lag in my mindfulness as of late. It is a conundrum: feeling free of the control but also missing it. A lifetime of it- means it is engrained, like sediment compacting and cementing into me. It is my unavoidable foundation and hard to dismantle.

It’s much more complicated than that though. There is a strata of disappointment that weighs heavy on me. Years of someone else’s words taunt me- telling me I am not good enough, that I am a disappointment. At least in their eyes. Divorced from a family I thought loved me. Anxiety vibrates, shifting- with my allowance of hateful speech, words, to enter my boundaries. It stings like the gas spewing of a violent volcano. Choking and suffocating me at inopportune moments.

Gaslighting is what some call it.

It melts my sturdy frame into a molten swirl of magma. I feel trapped sometimes, depressed sometimes, anxious and betrayed all the time. Like what I am attempting to achieve far away from the abandoned broken, stained, cobble stone streets of my past, is fruitless. I am a state away- yet the burn and singe still reaches my spirit. The howls of anger and resentment followed me- to this new mountainous terrain.

It rumbles when I am silent and focused. It shrieks and bellows at my happiness- dragging me back down into the mantle of their design. I have to metamorphosize- alter my fragile sediment into crystals and minerals both shiny and beautiful and leave behind the fragments of negativity. But it proves challenging. It proves to be a struggle most days- although I smile and keep buggering on. It still hurts. So, I bury it deep, hoping the heat and pressure of progress will transform me.

The exhaustion- fatigue- aches and worry, they boom loud. So, to circumvent the convection of doubt and fear I send- a piece offering to extinguish any gloom for my own arrival of another year lived. But it backfires, it bubbles and gurgles- tearing apart any hope of reconciliation and reformation. Words are spoken mechanically, diligently to be harsh- mean, hurtful. They know how to erupt and decimate- and I delete the barrage, but the words reverberate. Hardening into igneous matter- closing any fissure of hope.

I can’t find it in my heart to hate or dislike. It feels like a waste of time. But I need to let go of any hope of forgiveness. For this, like a fault - runs deep. Decades deep. It is scar tissue on this earthly plain. But it is at sea level, and I have climbed a mile- into the clouds of the mountainous. I have ventured far away from the negative.

I must smash the obsidian bridge I left erected out of expectation of compromise. I must let it melt into the lava and sink below into the magma- to be reformed into something new- a memory of good times. Not a regret of something I did- but simply an experience- an Earthquake, a volcanic event- that pushed me to a new location.

Family, like strata is a sequence- a layered part of our life- full of fossils and imprints of our childhood, adolescence, and adulthood. It is thick with the tumultuous weathering and erosion of our upbringing. Speckled with successes and failures. Mistakes and adversity. Family is permanent in our spirits- whether it cooled slowly or fast- it is a part of our structure. Its marks are permanent.

We may try to completely leave it behind, but it still deposits memories wherever we go. They stick to us making us who we are. They shape us: digging canyons, eroding valleys, converging our plains into plateaus. So, no matter how destructive their forces may be and how much we push back- they forge ahead. They create chasms we can’t escape. So, we have to construct, pile, and protect from their effects. Moving on - is sometimes the firm escape, the necessary route.

I love deeply. I do not understand their point of view. But it is not my job to do so. My adventure is my profession. My life is my own. My choices are my own. I make bold mistakes and I own them. Choosing happiness- choosing to be near those who love me unconditionally is not one of my mistakes. It is one of my triumphs.

I shy away from confrontation. Leaving the negative is my coping mechanism. Turning to silent mode, my refuge. This is my escape plan. My adventure. The dirty, smog may corrode some days. The acidity of judgment may sting and cause me anxiety and sadness, but it is temporary. There is always mountain air on the horizon. I’m on top of the world- I paid my dues to the dirt, the sediment, the strata. I am above the canyon now and can clearly see the years behind me.

And now…. Like all cycles…

My conversion is underway. My transformation has begun. Haze is swirling, dark and gloomy- but it is dissipating – the volcanic ash has settled, and clear skies are ahead. Sunny skies drying out the muck. The warmth of the mountain air is fresh and for the first time in my life- I am breathing in crisp, regenerative nourishment and the pollution is starting to fade.

The gaslight is flickering.

And my interior is beginning to match my exterior. Hardened not by regret or sadness but by experience that has led me here. Reflection that has driven me here.

A rock, I am, once bits and pieces of a doubt and low self-esteem, guilt, and judgement. Carrying a burden. I am now free to metamorphize and transform into something new, something unique, something that is alright with bold mistakes- because that is who she is.

 

 

Blossoms, Petals and Morning Glory's

The sun rises and warms. Sprinkling the dew with magnificent shine. Blues meet yellows in splendor like sequins humming. It is morning and there is a newness, a subtle fragrance of beginning, that tickles my nostrils. I am excited, exhausted, and energized. A strange combination on the precipice of this day- this sunrise- this holler and quiet moment. This goodbye. I stare at the pinks and ruby that stream between the nimbus and stratus. “This is it,” I whisper. My breath is hesitant and rough from a sleepless night. But I say it louder, pushing past the hoarseness “This is it; this is it.”

 

It is chilly momentarily as each breeze encapsulates the stillness- it is whispering back. It is vibrating around me, warmth yet goosebumps- enticing me out of my dream. This street, this house, this city has been home for eight years. Three of my children graduated here, the youngest entered elementary school and is now moving to junior high. This was a home. Then mother nature swept in with water, cold and heavy- hurricanes and freezes- damage and loss. But it was still home, it was our haven.

 

Change is difficult for many- for some it presents itself loudly, beckoning frequent pivots. I appreciate the daily adjustments, the daily opportunities for growth, the mindful mayhem that finds me as I teach. But, big change, moving, letting go and starting over, has never been my cup of tea. I have taught at three schools in my twenty years- now I am heading to my fourth, my first charter school, my first mountainous city. A mile up, edged by Sandia's and wide-open skies. From sea level to the mountain edge, I go- and I am ready.

 

We have all been through a tumultuous year. Many have asked me why now, as our lives open up temporarily- why now do I venture to a new place? I often ask myself this question, now that I have travelled the distance and settled in Albuquerque. My only answer is, I felt it in my gut, in my soul that I needed to go. That something frustrating, stressful and beautiful awaited me. That I would stumble and fall between the sharpness of tumbleweeds and cacti - but that after- I would see the blossoms, petals and morning glories.

 

I am blessed to be able to move and buy a house- find a school I am eager to become a part of. I am lucky my family was ready to navigate the bumpy terrain with me. Uprooting and replanting in a new city, state, neighborhood. Quiet and energetic this place is thriving in its way. It is not expansive, yet it feels like it covers the desert. This high desert that is now my home. First week of school has passed- with flavor and grace- and a little mayhem. Like any other first week of school, it was full of adjustment and relationship building. Some isolation and anxiety. But positivity and optimism surrounded me.

 

I think that the most unbalancing thing was feeling alone. No common planning, so flex time is isolating. I am near the flex/cafeteria space and as much as I felt cordoned off, the din was constant- making it feel like I was on the outside looking in. A strange combination, in a new place, a new classroom, a new city. But I embraced this discordance- I focused on the juxtaposition and created my own rhythm. My cadence, my big band instrumental, merging with the calm sensation of solo guitar. This merge, this semblance of my tune.

 

I love to teach; my heart is one of an educator. I see my role and I embrace it. I want to be a part of a classroom where students need me- where I need them just as much. Conversations peaking and swirling around personal, content and mindfulness. I seek those moments where I can make a difference- eye contact from a mask covered face, corny jokes, stories of adversity and fulfillment. Listening intently to their tales of on-line learning and isolation. They remind me - I am just like them. Finding my niche, searching for my place. I love this time- and yet it still feels surreal- this space, not familiar. But isn’t that what shapes us? Unfamiliarity.

 

As we all enter new schools, new beginnings, familiar classrooms, or unfamiliar ones- we must remember we are not alone. Students feel apprehension as well. They need a smile from behind the mask- they can feel it beneath the cloth. They need our eyes locked with theirs, seeing them as the beautiful, unique people they are. We need to be ourselves, show them the genuine us. They do not want the facade- they want the real, the true, the glorious magnificence of the sprinkle, sparkle and sequin.

 

I can see my comfort expanding. I feel the sense of familiarity upon me. An eagerness bubbles inside, hindered only by my fear. I have always been a stranger in a sea of connectedness. People do not actively seek me out. I have always been alright with this. It is wonderful how my friends from afar are reaching out. Remembering me. Calming my nerves. I feel the tether back to them- strong and loving. I know there will be a new web of friendships here- time strengthens threads. For now- I will focus on them- the reason for my move- my students. Opportunities 44 days long to meet and bond before another population loads.

 

The clouds roll over the Sandia’s- a hello from mother nature. Pink and ruby glowing from within. It is a sight to see at the sunrise. Reminding me I am no longer there, but here. That this elevation is different. This space is new and fresh and inviting. That sunrises are unique every morning and if we take the time to really look- we can see a reflection of ourselves in their bursting, luminous, brightness. They tickle the senses, warm our spirit and light the way for opportunity to find us.

 

Between me and the mountains lies desert, appearing barren yet full of life- blossoms on cacti, petals intertwining with the sand, blanketing the earth with a tapestry of renewal. The morning glory of the beginning I set out on- willingly. Reminding me of that morning just a month ago- excited, exhausted, and energized. The fragrance of this day is different, the air a little thinner, the clouds more vibrant. I whisper, “This is it; this is it.” I made my pivot, I started over, and my voice no longer hoarse- sounds clearer now. Filled with hope and wonder and from within me- a tune, a hum, a song- I am just beginning to write.