I did not expect to grieve so much. The year ended not with a bang but a whimper. There was no closure. It just suddenly stopped. There were many tears during that first year. I missed my students; still do. I missed my school colleagues; still do. 

I did not expect to have insomnia. My body apparently forgot how to sleep when it wasn’t “teacher tired.” It has taken a lot of time and effort to re-wire myself. 

I did not know that my knees and ankles would not improve much once I was no longer on my feet all day, but here we are. 

I still worry about those kids who needed me, especially the ones whose lifestyles or identities were judged harshly by most. I especially worry about the gay students who may not have someone to support them. It’s a very lonely, scary existence to be different in any way in high school. If your sexual identity does not match the prevailing community standards, the consequences can be brutal. I never overtly singled them out or tried to make them talk about it, but always hung close, kept an eye on them, and made sure they knew I accepted them. Numerous times over the years I’ve stepped in when they were being bullied. Who will be there for them? 

I profoundly miss those days in the classroom when a student had an “aha” moment. As an art teacher my importance in the school was usually related to how good Homecoming and prom looked, but the core of my purpose was crystal clear to me when a kid realized they had created something meaningful that they did not know they could do. Art is not just a class in which you learn to master certain skills and materials. It is a process that, when taught appropriately, reaches into the deepest levels of consciousness. I considered my career to be a journey of self-discovery and spiritual growth for myself as well as my students. It is part art therapy, part imagination journey, part relaxation, part skill mastery, part whimsy, part problem solving, and a lot of perseverance.

All art is self-portrait. To think of it only as decorating for events, although those are also important, is to completely miss the true value of arts education and those who teach these classes. People have been creating and imagining for thousands of years. Long before they developed language and numerical skills humans were painting on cave walls and making utilitarian or aesthetically pleasing objects that expressed their values. They give us an understanding of ancestors and culture. Creativity is at the core of what makes us human. A good art teacher needs this sense of history in order to fully appreciate how fundamental it is to our existence.

Yes. I really am that passionate about it. You may see a childish rendering of a daisy, but I see a small glimpse into something that intrigues that child. They may have spent hours thinking about daisies and how perfectly God created flowers. Art matters. Teaching is not just a job.

Retirement is not without its special charm however. I had always looked forward to the lack of morning chaos. Getting up and ready for school was a challenge my whole life. Arriving anywhere on time–major challenge. Now my mornings are usually quite enjoyable. I can sip coffee for as long as I want. Having that gentle buffer into the day is one of life’s simple pleasures. 

I had also looked forward to not having to rush around all day, then go back later for ball games, conferences, school programs, special events, etc. These days it’s hard to pry me out of the house after 5 o’clock in the evening and I’m ok with that. 

As a retired teacher I reflect on all those years, starting as a naïve twenty-something who had actually hated high school. I saw myself in the kids who felt the same. They sat at the back of the room, sleeping or watching suspiciously, guarding themselves by acting out or withdrawing. I felt my sense of purpose and commitment grow quickly when I realized that they were a big part of the reason I was there. I hope that my presence in their lives made a difference. I believe it did.

Most teachers I have known in my career have so much grit, dedication, and love for their students that they would walk through fire for them. Teaching has always been a demanding profession because in order to do it well you must be all in, heart and soul. Teachers work from instinct as much as lesson plans. Maybe more. They constantly monitor and adapt what they are doing and how they interact with children. They know when to throw out the lesson plan and take an interesting detour. Teaching absolutely cannot be quantified or judged based on data alone. Children deserve to be evaluated as whole people, not by test scores. The obsession with constantly changing technology is gutting education by not allowing the time needed for teachers to do what they know is best for their students. Endless data evaluation, strict pacing guides, test prepping, and micro-managing of content do not improve education. Educators improve education. 

Growing pressure from radical groups demanding to know every single detail in a year of lesson plans, months in advance, are making a challenging career almost impossible. The narrative has become increasingly negative, and paints an unrealistic picture of what is happening in Arkansas public schools. A small but vocal minority of people would have us believe that schools are a hotbed of subversive troublemakers. Nothing could be further from the truth. In recent years teachers have had to grow a thicker skin than ever before. The barrage of criticism has become a very heavy burden. Young teachers are leaving the profession in disillusioned droves. Veteran teachers like myself are retiring heartbroken because we do not know who will be there for our children in the future. 

Too many people in decision-making positions do not understand any of this. They continue to beat the same drums, demanding more from educators while offering no additional compensation or respect. Any governor or commissioner of education should be in constant contact with those in the classrooms who work with the students every day. They should come out from behind their office doors and go into communities to listen and learn. There should be a seamless two-way system of communication with school employees so that ideas can flow freely. State governments spend millions of taxpayer dollars on companies and consultants peddling “the next best greatest thing.” These programs claim to solve problems perceived to be present in public schools. These companies and consultants exist to make a profit. I propose that we change course entirely. We should convene groups of highly trained professionals with advanced degrees and many years of experience who know exactly what education should look like. If the pandemic experience has taught us anything, it is that teachers have proven that they possess the organizational skills and the vision to make education happen under the most impossible circumstances. Imagine what they could do under optimal circumstances, provided with adequate time, space, and compensation. That is how you improve education. 

There is no more valuable resource than our future adults. They deserve the best education that we can give them…one that does not come from outside companies. It comes from teachers. History will judge the decisions we make today. Isn’t it time that we made the right one?

The post The Art of Teaching appeared first on Arkansas Strong.

I dream of the days before my mom’s health completely deteriorated; before my grandmother’s partner of thirty-plus years lost her battle with lung cancer; before my beautiful grandmother herself passed away unexpectedly; before my papa withered after years of fighting cancer, too. 

Before my parent’s house literally started falling apart at the seams. 

With insulation exposed, drywall falling and floor sagging, the twenty-some-year-old trailer that we built our lives in is now decaying. And there’s nothing I can do to fix it. I used to think the trailer was a metaphor for my mom’s mental and physical state, as twisted as that seems. Lupus. Fibromyalgia. Depression. Anxiety. Agoraphobia for most of my teen life, rotting away in her room and relying on her child for any and all sustenance. In fact, most of my life my mom communicated via whistling for me, as if I were an animal she wanted to train. This was especially a point of contention with my father, although he never said anything to her directly. I guess it worked, because I knew exactly what to do when her shrill pitch made its way down the nicotine-stained walls and in through the crack of my bedroom door.

I think I hated my mom until Covid happened. And I know how that sounds, but I need to be one hundred percent honest with myself here. As a teenager I didn’t understand the complexities of the human mind, much less something as damaging as Agoraphobia. To be fair, neither did my mom. In her mind she was okay, and our lives were “normal,” but the few friends I trusted enough to come over would tell me that her behavior was anything but. So I was forced to take on the role of my mother’s caretaker—long before she was wheelchair bound and on oxygen.

Now that I’m older I understand that she was afraid. In high school I often wondered what happened. She wasn’t always like this. We weren’t always like this. 

I grew up in Greenwood, in the same decaying trailer that now rests in Sheridan. My parents both worked in Fort Smith, and despite our financial troubles and Southern Baptist ties, they decided to send me to a small private school called First Lutheran. My mom told me she was bullied, and she blamed it on the “ungodliness” of public schools. 

One of my earliest memories is my mom crying on my dad’s shoulder in a lawyer’s office while filing for bankruptcy. That’s the first time I felt this overwhelming feeling of grief just for being born. I didn’t know what was happening, but I knew I was somewhat responsible. Those feelings of guilt grew with every screaming match and fist-sized hole in the wall. I used to pray every night for my parent’s divorce. I thought they would be happier. I would often catch myself fantasizing about their lives without me. Would my dad be less angry? Would my mom feel heard? I didn’t think it could get worse, but it did, and it continued to spiral downward, where I’ve been until present day. 

Mom put herself on the back burner for many years because I was born with Cerebral Palsy, a fact I would be oblivious to for years. Physical therapy, muscle relaxers, leg braces, and botox injections all ate away at most of our funds, not to mention that expensive private school tuition my mom insisted on paying. This left her to suffer with undiagnosed Lupus for more than five years. I watched as my family accused my mom of being lazy, of lying. I think this is what led to her negligence of her mental health, and to mine. 

Following her diagnosis, things were better. I was happy to see my family smiling, but it didn’t last. Pretty soon after her diagnosis, we found out that my dad’s company was shutting down. They had already started laying people off. It was like a switch flipped, and we were back to where we started, except this time we were losing our main source of income as well as health benefits. Perhaps the worst part, at least to my mother, was the reality that she would be returning to a town she hated. The town of Sheridan had never accepted her, and now she was being forced to move back. 

My dad and I weren’t happy about the move, either. We were a family of introverts, and we had built new friendships that none of us wanted to leave. I felt especially devastated knowing I’d be leaving my best friend Maddie. But there was no other option for my family.

When we settled in Sheridan, a tidal wave of depression and anger tore through our aging trailer. I was sad all the time. I was mad. I felt the heat of hatred bubble up inside me. Guilt quickly turned to rage, and my mother would usually bear the brunt of it. Looking back, this is my biggest regret: directing all of my anger and frustration towards her, a woman who had already felt the blow of loved ones doubting her. And now, her only child had joined the bandwagon. 

I know she would tell me none of this was my fault, but I can’t help but feel responsible for her falling into herself the way she did. It started slowly: not going to ball games, getting visibly angry when asked to leave the house, etc. When I got my driver’s permit, she would sit in the safety of her tinted windows while I bought groceries for the family. This was my least favorite errand of all, due to the number of times I had to leave a cart full of food at the checkout line because our bank card was declined. By the time I had my full license, she stopped leaving her room altogether. I can’t explain how this made me feel. Somedays the guilt would come back, and I was left in my room to ponder all the reasons my mom could have for hating me. And she was asking herself the same questions about me. 

Fast forward to 2019: I’ve been on my own for five years, and my mom and I are finally able to have a conversation that lasts longer than two minutes. A miracle. She had started taking antidepressants, and for the first time in my life, I was able to see past the walls and into her true self. But her years of being docile were unkind. We took a trip to see my Oma’s grave in Texas, but my mom couldn’t walk longer than a minute at a time. The most heartbroken I’ve ever felt was seeing her cry as I proudly pushed her around Texas. She called herself a burden, and in that moment, everything clicked. My mom had spent all of her adult life feeling like she didn’t deserve anything. Love, compassion, trust…just like me. 

When I got home from the trip, I spent a week in my room sobbing over the revelation. Who was I to have been so quick to judge? After all, in the five years I spent away from home, I’m pretty sure I spent a quarter or more of that time cooped up in my room surrounded by half-empty soda cans, chip bags and dirty dishes—a scene I grew accustomed to when taking care of my agoraphobic mom.

In that moment, everything clicked. My mom had spent all of her adult life feeling like she didn’t deserve anything. Love, compassion, trust… just like me. 
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Shortly after the trip, the world was brought to its knees by a deadly pandemic. The day the first case was reported in Arkansas, I called my mom. My heart dropped. She had been in the hospital with pneumonia. She said she didn’t want to worry me, but in that moment I felt the weight of my culpability. I could hear the absolute pain in her voice and the soft hum of the oxygen machine keeping her alive in the background. I made it my personal mission to ensure her safety. 

At that moment I wanted nothing more than to be in that broken home, taking care of my mom like I’ve done my whole life. 

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