JunePile 2023

I am a school superintendent, and it is Board Meeting Night. My amazing team and I have been preparing for it. We are prepared! Still, with everything swirling around me, it feels odd to pause to do a little writing. Yes, I have work to do. However, as I gaze across my office at the empty bulletin board that is no longer covered with these adorable walruses, I simply must take this time to reflect and consider what’s ahead.

Throughout the school year, the incredible art teachers in my school district share their students’ work with me by creating a gorgeous, thrilling rotation of art in my office. The walruses were from kindergarten, and were created through guided drawing. When I had these, I picked out a new one every day as my favorite. I’m particularly fond of the one on the bottom right, the little guy with the “giant forehead”, identified as being fabulous by a guest in my office one day.

Below is the breath-taking art that came down from my board last week. It came from fifth and sixth graders. Can you believe it?

Students needed their artwork back because the school year is ending. As of today, there are only nine days left. Nine beautiful, meaningful, active days. And, emotions are everywhere. That goes for students, staff, families — those who are leaving, coming, wondering, worrying, celebrating, and reflecting. My board is empty, and I hate that. I’ll fill it with some professional looking plans for the future that I typically have elsewhere in my office, and that’s all good! But oh, I will miss having it plastered with our students’ learning and creativity.

The art coming down last week was a marker for me that indeed the school year is ending. I realized that it was time to revert to JunePile thinking. If you’ve read some of my past posts, you may have come across this before. I’m revising a little as time goes on, but the point remains the same.

It started when I was a teacher. Every year, every May, there would come a day when I would just start tossing things in a pile to deal with “later”; later meant after the last smile was shared with a student, after the last grade was given, after Field Day. After the last day of school. I never knew when the day would come — just one afternoon I would realize that there were only a few weeks and lot left to do with my class, and I could only spend precious time on papers, projects, and tasks that would really mean something to my students. The rest would have to wait until school ended, in June. The JunePile.

It continued when I was a principal. I tried to keep an organized office, so the JunePile became a JuneBox which was stashed under my desk. And if something wasn’t important to others before the end of school, well, then, it wasn’t getting done until everybody went home.

Of course, now, most of my JunePile is electronic — more of a JuneList, if you will. And as superintendent, I have many projects that are best done in the quieter summer months, anyway. But nonetheless, the habit continues. I’ll get very stressed about how quickly the end of school is coming, and one day will breathe a little sigh of relief when I remember that there are SOME things on my list that don’t have to get done right away. And anything that won’t directly affect students, families, or staff gets put in the JunePile to be dealt with after the school bus pulls away for the last time.

The end of the school year is always such a rush, isn’t it? Educators are amused when folks who have not devoted their lives to school ask in May, “So, is school winding down?” Winding down? Winding DOWN? Hilarious! School does not wind down. We run like crazy to the edge of the cliff, and try very, very hard not to fall off of it. That’s it, and everyone who lives by the rhythm of school knows it.

But that last day of school WILL come, and then indeed it will be time for me to dig into my JunePile. I do wonder, though, why am I even considering doing things that don’t have a direct impact on students, families, staff, or other administrators? So, perhaps my primary responsibility on my first day after school lets out should be to cull the pile, continuing my commitment to spend time on work that is important. Yes, there is filing that went undone this year, and I’d eventually be sorry if I couldn’t find something I need. Ok, I’ll crank the music up in my office and file. But I’ll hold myself accountable for ensuring that everything else enhances the work or life of someone, or supports my own learning and reflection.

Of course, summer is much, much more than a time to catch up with work. We all have a right and reason to use time in the summer to do whatever is most meaningful for us. Many years ago, inspired by a Chicago Tribune column, I was motivated to capture my summer memories by buying a pack of notecards, numbering and dating them, and every day of the summer writing down at least one summer activity that I enjoyed that day. I still have those cards in my nightstand, and occasionally use one for a bookmark, and I find peace, adventure, or luxury in a summer memory. One example (and the movie title gives you an idea of how old it might be): “7/3: Getaway to Wisconsin — Lazy Nap, Lovely Anniversary Dinner, Movie — Spiderman!”

Aside from work, my JunePile includes reading a stack of books that I can’t wait to get my hands on, riding my new bike, visiting the Botanic Gardens and enjoying other long walks with family and friends, lots of dining al fresco, and exploring parts unknown with my husband. Also: treasuring time to talk with the people I love.

Those summer pleasures are what really belong in the JunePile. So, what’s in yours?

The Sisterhood of the Traveling Margaret

The movie is not out for over three months, and women my age, many no longer in need of Margaret’s Pink Softies, are already going crazy. We are watching the trailer (OMG LOOK AT THE FONT!) We are fawning over Judy Blume. (Home with a mostly boring case of COVID this week, I caught part of the interview with her on the Today Show, and felt my heart growing flowers.) We are celebrating with our daughters, and swapping stories about the level of importance of the book in our lives. We are planning our watch parties. (A friend who lives across the county has suggested that perhaps she could fly in to see it with me. Another across-the-country-friend stated that at the very least, we should plan to watch it on the same day. One of my adult daughters who IS coming across the country and will be here by the time the movie comes out has commented that of course we will see it together.) We are chanting, “We must, we must, we must increase our bust!” at each other. And all of that has only been this week. The excitement will surely ramp up.

But this post is not actually about Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret, or all of Judy Blume’s books that taught me and so many others about ourselves. It is about the importance of having books that bind us together. Books that make us a Sisterhood.

For me, and for so many of my grew-up-in-the-’70s female friends, those books were Judy’s. Well — white female friends. White straight female friends who grew up in the suburbs. White straight female friends who grew up in the suburbs with solid nuclear families and enough money to buy what they needed and at least some of what they wanted. (Of course, now I deeply want to know what Sisterhood books bound girls who don’t meet that description. So that learning is next for me, I hope.) I’m told that ’80s girls also called Judy’s books their own. The books made us feel normal and seen and connected, and depending on when we read them, they gave us a peek at what was coming next. (Ok, a precocious reader with an older sister, I read Margaret when I was in second grade, so THAT was eye-popping! Also, who amongst us DIDN’T read Forever before we were ready? And what about Wifey? Now there’s an education…)

I also need to mention Norma Klein’s books here. If you were a teenage reader in the ’80s, did you read those books? They did not have the cultural importance that Judy Blume’s books have had for generations, but they certainly meant a lot to me. They made me feel older and like maybe I knew a little somethin’-somethin’ when I read them.

For my daughters who are in their mid and late 20s, that connection book seems to have been The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants (Ann Brashares), although they, too, passed around Margaret. After all, Judy Blume’s books were of the ’70s, but the themes transcend time. Margaret taught about puberty and liking boys and questioning spirituality and friendship and where/how-do-you-fit? Sisterhood was skewed older, and taught about falling in love, and regrouped families, and death, and the regret of not-in-love sex, and friendship, and wondering who you are. What binds these books together, and binds them to the girls who read them, and then binds those girls together? They both explore friendship and normalize the ideas of change and questioning yourself. I’ve also been reminded of The Care and Keeping of You, an American Girl classic that talked directly to girls about what was happening to them, no punches pulled. But, in a texting string with my daughters and my similarly-aged niece, I’m getting the sense that none of those books had quite the heightened importance and universality that Margaret and Deenie had to my friends and me. Why is that? Perhaps for girls who went through adolescence in the 2000’s and beyond, there were simply so many ways to learn about and talk about growing up. But for us, well, it was Just Judy.

Sisterhood books, the books that bind girls together, women together, are IMPORTANT. They give us common language and giggly predictions. I am now wondering how closeted trans girls feel. Do they read the books and want desperately to discuss them but can’t? And I am wondering how closeted trans boys feel. Do they avoid the books and discussions around them? So much to wonder.

And this all brings me to wanting to know about the Sisterhood books that came before Margaret and those that have come after Sisterhood. What was the book for my mother and her friends? My mom has Parkinson’s, and she has been slowly receding for years. Her receptive language is now very difficult to judge, and her expressive language is limited to a few words per visit or phone call. So, I don’t think I can get this information from her, but I want to know. This is the first time I’m writing about Mom, and I can only press on the bruise a very tiny bit. But I’ll say this: Sisterhood is a peer-thing, but it is also a mother-daughter thing. Linguistically, that does not makes sense, but if you are a daughter or a mother with daughters and you have or have had a loving mother/daughter connection past childhood, then you know what I mean. I read this blogpost recently, and it brought me to tears. If you don’t feel like going to the post, here’s how it starts:

On the day we got new carpet installed, my mom messaged me and said, “Big day for you!” This is because moms care about the things no one else cares about. Not about things like brushing your teeth and whether you’ve had a vegetable lately, although moms do generally care about those things. But about the minutiae of daily life. The little details that make up the big picture. The things that, if you told most anyone else about them, they’d think, “And this is supposed to interest me how?”—but that your mom follows like it’s a page turner and she’s hanging on every word.

When you can no longer connect with your mom about the minutiae of daily life, you look for others in your Sisterhood with whom to share those things. I send my thanks out to my friends who have filled that role (you know who you are!) and to my own daughters who listen to my minutiae. It is one of my deepest honors to listen to theirs.

I indulged in a bit of a segue because, well, it seems that I wanted to write about my mom just a little bit. And of course, this is all about connection. So, Sisterhood, let’s connect about the books that connect us. Whether we know each other or we don’t, I’d love for you to add in comments about the books that meet the Sisterhood definition. When did you grow up, HOW did you grow up (would be so glad to hear from folks whose life experiences don’t mimic mine and Margaret’s), and what books helped you to know who you are? What have been your Sisterhood books?

Take a Moment: Thanksgiving, 2022

I wrote the below blog post four years ago, on the Friday after Thanksgiving when I enjoyed a beautiful walk at the Chicago Botanic Gardens with some beloved visiting family members. This year, I took the same walk with the same family members on the same day after Thanksgiving. But of course, it wasn’t the same, because time has passed and we are all a little different.

As we enjoyed this gorgeous fall day together, I remembered my original post, and thought about all that has changed since then. As I walked, I couldn’t quite remember how much time had passed since I’d written it. Surely six or seven years, I assumed. I was very surprised to come back to my blog to find that it had been only four… just like in your family, so much has happened in the intervening years.

Here’s a short list: We’ve had a beautiful wedding, which became the last big family gathering before a sudden and terrible death. We’ve had fun vacations and difficult, sad visits. We’ve had new homes and new jobs. We’ve had the disappointment of a pandemic graduation. We’ve experienced the fear and uncertainty and strength and loss and closeness and resiliency that came with COVID.

The six grandparents mentioned below are now five, and four years of aging has brought significant changes for some and smaller changes for others. Some of the conversations that are described below no longer come as easily. Like so many of our peers, Larry and I are now firmly a part of the Sandwich Generation in ways that we were not four years ago. There are changes in all of our family members, but the love is ever-present.

My house was very full this Thanksgiving weekend, with family members visiting from all over the U.S. (and Canada!), and two guest rooms in use. Now, the Sunday after Thanksgiving, the night before returning to work, with the peace of my home around me, I’m reflecting on the value of noticing and remembering the little things — the value of remembering to Take a Moment.

I don’t think I’ll list my own little things here. I’ll keep them in my heart and look at them once in a while with wonder until we roll around to the next Thanksgiving. It was a great weekend, but of course it wasn’t a perfect. Was yours? Probably not. In truth, I’m not quite sure what perfection would have looked like. Anyway, we don’t need perfection to feel immense joy and gratitude for what we have.

Below, my thoughts from four years ago…

(Take a Moment: Thanksgiving, 2018)

It is the Friday after Thanksgiving, and we are enjoying a stroll at the Chicago Botanic Gardens — my parents-in-law who are in town from Minnesota, my brother-and-sister-in-law who are in town from Calgary, and me. It’s cold, but not too cold, and the gray sky perfectly complements the landscape, which is turning from rich golds and reds to cool blacks and whites. There are plenty of people here at “The Gardens” with us, happy to welcome the holiday season this way, although most of them seem to be gathering at a special exhibit. So, our walk is pretty solitary, and the place is quite different than it is when all is in bloom. In June, the beauty here is bright and sweet smelling and romantic and full of potential – kind of emotionally wonderful and loud. In November, the beauty is quiet, and it is perfect for contemplation.

I’m walking with Joel, my father-in-law. Well, to be very specific, he is my step-father-in-law, but when you marry into a family that is rich with a mother, step-father, father, and step-mother, you just kind of have two fathers-in-law, and two mothers-in-law. That’s what I have. Add in my two parents, and my daughters have grown up with the gift of six loving grandparents.

Anyway, Joel has always been quiet and observant. He is not going to tell a long story in a group at a party. He’s not going to intentionally call attention to himself across a room. However, one-on-one, he does have stories to share, and if you ask the right follow-up questions, they might just come out, not in a tumble necessarily, but in a satisfying trickle. Over breakfast this morning, when it was just the two of us, I learned that his father died when he was thirteen, his mother remarried when he was fourteen, and then his life changed again when his baby brother was born, when he was fifteen. I have known Joel for 31 years, and I did not know any of these things until this morning. Maybe he wasn’t telling; maybe I wasn’t asking. Anyway, now I know.

Because of today’s walk, I also now know that a shrub like this grew in his yard when he was a boy in St. Paul. He helped to tend that yard, and as I have always known him to be someone who closely examines his surroundings, it is hard for me to imagine him quickly mowing the lawn and pruning the shrubs. I envision him stopping often, distracted by something that he found odd, or puzzling, or beautiful. Of course, that may not be true — he may have rushed through the job like any other boy, and then run off to play baseball. But I like to imagine him a bit like Dickon from the Secret Garden, talking to birds and coaxing saplings.

Here he is, today, carefully examining an unusual vertical garden. There was a sign in there, and he wanted to read it. Most people would not have seen it, or if they had, they would not have taken the time to gently move leaves aside to be able to see it well. Joel did. He was curious, and was not in a rush. In the 31 years that I have known him, I have never seen him be in a rush.

Joel is also a classical musician, a cellist. This past summer, while relaxing in Minnesota on the beautiful porch that he and Harriet, my mother-in-law, have created, I learned that he hears music in his head, almost all of the time. I don’t mean the annoying ear worm riffs that get stuck in all of our heads from time to time. He hears full symphonies. They play in the background of his thoughts, both when he is quietly introspective and when he is engaged with others. Sometimes, his mind composes. (“Do you ever write them down?” I asked. No, he doesn’t, and he said something self-depreciating about his internal compositions. But I bet that they are wonderful, and that the world is missing out by not being allowed to hear them.) While we walked today, I brought this up again. He’s been hearing these since he was 8 years old, when he began learning the cello. Yes, he was hearing music right at that the moment — he was re-experiencing the beautiful concert that he and Harriet had enjoyed at The Chicago Cultural Center two days prior. Take a moment, please, and try to imagine what that would be like — to have beauty in your head at all times.

Harriet and Joel were married a few years before I married my husband. Here they are, together, enjoying this fall day, this day after Thanksgiving. Really, in fact another day of Thanksgiving. Tonight, soon, we are entering Black Friday Excitement at Barnes and Noble where my daughter is working. They always have an option for holiday gift donation books there. I doubt it is on the list at the register, but maybe I’ll buy a copy of The Secret Garden to donate, in honor of this walk, in honor of Joel. Anyway, tonight — a Black Friday store and a nice dinner out. But today we experienced a quiet walk with loved ones, and for this I am extremely grateful.

My colleagues, Alicia and Jeff, and I agreed that this weekend we’d each blog about a connection between our work and our Thanksgiving vacations. (Please check out their reflections: “Grandkid” Suits Me Just Fine and Of Gratitude.) And yes, I do have a connection. Today we moved slowly and looked closely. At work, I have to fight with myself to be able to do that. There is so much, and it all happens so quickly. And it is important to take time, to examine and not rush past. Beautiful, quiet moments happen all of the time if we are intentional about slowing down and SEEING. In my school world, that moment worth seeing is usually a child making a discovery. It’s too easy and too terrible to miss it.

I’m Still Learning from Summer Camp

“My heart is full and mushy and running over with feelings.” Not very eloquent, but it is pretty much what I said to my daughter as we walked the grounds of the overnight camp that taught us each so much about ourselves. It was Alumni Day, and both of my daughters and I are all alumni, having collectively spent 24 summers there.

It is not possible explain what this camp means to me. Here’s the anecdotal data, though: when I was seventeen, I spent the summer there on the work crew, where I cleaned bathrooms and emptied garbage FOR FREE. Need I say more? If you were lucky enough to go to overnight camp and loved it, you understand that it does not matter that you drank “egg water”, ate indescribable food, gave up all privacy related to your personal hygiene, slept in cabins or tents that horrified your parents (“We are paying all this money for you to sleep in THAT?!?!”) and were driven round the bend from the itch of mosquito bites (while there) or maybe lice (a delightful surprise after you got home). You understand that you want your own kids to go there, and if they do, you are sure to either drop them off or pick them up (instead of putting them on the bus both ways) so that you can experience having your heart quicken as you drive through the camp gates and hear the singing and smell the smells. Ok I could go on, but I think I’ve made my point. I love my camp.

As I drove home with my brimming and mushy heart, I considered why people who are lucky enough to attend overnight camp often feel connected to their “summer homes” in ways that supersede their attachments to their schools. After all, unless you move often, you certainly spend more hours in the year at school than you do at camp. However, although I went to excellent public schools and have great school memories, for me, at least, there is absolutely no comparison.

We could talk about the joy of independence with no meddling parents around, of making our own daily decisions about things that are both not all that important and also enormously important. We could talk about the value of choice, of picking which activity to attend (basketball or friendship bracelets? paperbag dramatics or canoeing?), and of learning from counselors who are maybe just 4 or 5 years older than us, and therefore hilarious, wise, and incredibly cool. We could talk about possibilities of summer flirtations and all-out romances, if that is our type of thing. But what is on my mind just now is the idea of Belonging.

My PreK-8 school district recently created new Values statements. I am thrilled to realize that all of them touch on why I loved camp. In so many ways, they are about Belonging.

We foster creativity through wonder, imagination, and powerful questions that lead to discovering innovative opportunities and solutions.
We believe we inspire, motivate, and provide opportunities that lead to maximizing personal growth and empowering learners.
We embrace a culture that honors integrity and respect for all.
We maximize student engagement and develop critical thinking skills that lead to lifelong learning and global thinking.
We believe achievement is individual and is realized through collaboration with others.
We value proactive collaboration that supports decision-making built on consensus.
We believe that an involved community empowers everyone to participate in shared experiences.

Yes, well, that is indeed exactly how I felt at overnight camp. I had opportunities to be creative, inspired, and empowered. I felt respected. I developed critical thinking skills. My achievement was boosted through collaboration. And, perhaps most importantly, all of this happened through shared experiences and a sense of Belonging.

Of course, not every camper is a happy camper. Children leave before the session ends, or muscle through but never return. Ask them for their stories, and there is a high likelihood that they were shown by others, usually campers, that they did NOT belong. Like schools, the camps keep trying, but haven’t made it right for all kids.

When I think about my own school experiences, there is one particular middle school teacher who brought school connection to me and so many of my friends. His teaching techniques were unusual, and I’m sure our parents rolled their eyes often at what they heard about and saw come home in our backpacks, but his message was clear and it worked: “If you are in my class, you are part of a community. We care about each other, we risk showing each other who we really are, and we are safe.” If you happened to attend Maple Jr. High School in Northbrook, IL a while back, there is no question that you know exactly who I mean. He was a legend. I returned to observe his classroom while I was preparing to be a teacher, and quite frankly was appalled. I was learning the science of teaching then, and what I saw did not at all fit with what I was studying at college. Now that I know more, I wish I could go back and take a peek at the art of his teaching. For sure, a huge part of why he helped us to feel connected to our school and to each other was because he showed us that we belonged.

Most kids do not get to go to overnight camp. It is an expensive luxury, and well out of the realm of possibility for the vast number of families. Lots of kids would not want to go, and lots of parents would not want to send their children. And of course, families have a myriad of ways of creating wonderful summer memories for children that have nothing at all to do with camp.

Going to school, though, well that’s pretty common. So what can we learn from camp? How can we help our children love school the way that I love that bunch of buildings, trees, and people who gather every year next to a lake in Wisconsin? I feel sure that it is less about drinking “bug juice” and telling ghost stories, and more about creating a feeling of Belonging. That, we can do, and we are getting better at it all the time.

What’s In Your JunePile? (2021) (8 Days of Positive Impact)

Well this is interesting. I wrote the first version of this blogpost on May 28, 2018. Rebooted it with some new thoughts on June 1, 2019, when I was transitioning into a new role but was the same person and educator at my core. And here I am, on May 20, 2021, returning to it once again. We are nearing the end of what is clearly the longest school year in the history of school years, and again I’m thinking about my JunePile and Positive Impact. So, this has become a little log of what runs through my head as an educator at the end of the school year. Perhaps your thinking is similar.

May 28, 2018:

It started when I was a teacher. Every year, every May, there would come a day when I would just start tossing things in a pile to deal with “later”. Later meant after the last smile was shared with a student, after the last grade was given, after Field Day. After the last day of school. I never knew when the day would come — just one afternoon I would realize that there were only a few weeks and lot left to do with my class, and I could only spend precious time on papers, projects, and tasks that would really mean something to my students. The rest would have to wait until school ended, in June. The JunePile.

Of course, now, most of my JunePile is electronic — more of a JuneList, if you will. And as an assistant superintendent, I have many projects that are best done in the quieter summer months, anyway. But nonetheless, the habit continues. I’ll get very stressed about how quickly the end of school is coming, and one day will breathe a little sigh of relief when I remember that there are SOME things on my list that don’t have to get done right away. And anything that won’t directly affect students, families, or staff gets put in the JunePile to be dealt with after the school bus pulls away for the last time.

But that last day of school WILL come, and then indeed it will be time for me to dig into my JunePile. This year I’m wondering, though, why am I even considering doing things that don’t have a direct impact on students, families, staff, or other administrators? So, perhaps my primary responsibility on my first day after school lets out should be to cull the pile, continuing my commitment to spend time on work that is important. Yes, there is filing that went undone this year, and I’d eventually be sorry if I couldn’t find something I need. Ok, I’ll crank the music up in my office and file. But I’ll hold myself accountable for ensuring that everything else enhances the work or life of someone, or supports my own learning and reflection.

Truth be told, writing this blogpost was indeed in my JunePile. It definitely did not have to get done prior to school ending! But then it was Memorial Day weekend, and I had some time, and was in the mood for reflecting. So I went for it.

Of course, summer is much, much more than a time to catch up with work. For me, it is also reading in a hammock and walking after dinner with my husband and exploring Chicago neighborhoods with my daughters and going to Botanic Gardens with my parents and eating on a patio with friends and completing the Summer Challenge at my yoga studio and if I’m lucky, some traveling. Many years ago, inspired by a Chicago Tribune column by Mary Schmich (or perhaps Eric Zorn? — I cannot find the column, I’ve tried!), I was motivated to capture my summer memories by buying a pack of notecards, numbering and dating them, and every day of the summer writing down at least one summer activity that I enjoyed that day. I still have those cards in my nightstand, and occasionally use one for a bookmark, finding peace, adventure, or luxury in a summer memory. I just pulled one out; it reads, “7/3: Getaway to Wisconsin — Lazy Nap, Lovely Anniversary Dinner, Movie — Spiderman!”

And there you have it — those summer pleasures are what really belong in the JunePile. So, what’s in yours?

June 1, 2019:

So, why bother to repost about the JunePile? Well, because a lot has changed for me. I am an educator, leader, and learner in transition, and that has somewhat changed my JunePile. A few months ago, I was offered a new job, and thus am transitioning out of the position of Assistant Superintendent for Human Resources in one school district and into the position of Superintendent in another school district. 1 transition is actually 3 transitions:

# 1 I am transitioning into my new role with new administrators, central office team, Board of Education, teachers and staff, all with the help of the generous superintendent who is retiring.

#2 I am transitioning all of the projects and responsibilities (and physical stuff) of my current role to the wonderful administrator who is taking over as Assistant Superintendent for Human Resources in my current district. And HE is currently a middle school principal in this district, so…

#3 We hired a new middle school principal, and the two of THEM need time to transition.

All of this takes an enormous amount of time. So, what am I doing on a rainy Saturday morning when I have 100 transition tasks in front of me? Writing a blog post! But the writing is purposeful, as truly it helps me to keep the Main Thing the Main Thing. And what is that Main Thing? Positive Impact.

About two weeks ago, I was having a pretty hard day. And at the end of that hard day, my response was to realize that I only had 20 work days left before turning in my keys and ID, taking a glorious two week vacation, and starting my new job. Now, I’ve never been a person to count down to the end of something — for me, that’s just never felt like a positive way of looking at time. However, once I DID, well then, I KNEW. And I realized I would keep counting down, which caused me to understand that I needed to attach something meaningful to the countdown so that the passage of time would be focused positively.

Thus… Days of Positive Impact

Every day, starting on Day 20, I’ve had the countdown in my calendar with that label (so, yesterday said 11 Days of Positive Impact). And at the end of the day, I create a list of all of the people or situations that I think/hope I’ve positively impacted that day. I recognize that I’m letting myself be kind of vulnerable here, announcing this strategy — depending on who you are and how you roll, Days of Positive Impact may seem a little “woo woo” and dorky. Don’t care — it’s how I roll.

Last year at this time, I wrote about the importance of culling the JunePile, and knowing that I should only do the things that have a direct impact on students, families, staff, or other administrators. I knew I needed to cull the pile, continuing my commitment to spend time on work that is important. Well, friends, now that I’m leaving my job, that commitment is ever more important. It would be very easy to focus on details that are not meaningful. I could make myself crazy by crossing every T on things that won’t help anybody, that will just allow me to feel finished. I could worry about all of the projects that I wanted to do in this job but just couldn’t complete or even start. There are many! But I’ll leave those for the new guy.

So here we are. Monday will bring 10 Days of Positive Impact. 10 days left. I can spend them on work that will help the organization and people around me, or I can spend them on busy-ness. I know how my time is best spent. Yep. Time to get to work!

May 20, 2021

It has been roughly 14 months since we closed our school buildings due to a pandemic. It has been roughly 3 months since we reopened our school buildings for hybrid learning. It has been roughly 2 months since we opened our doors for as many students as wanted to be onsite.

We have published… maybe 5 plans for schooling? I’ve lost count, really I have. I have forgotten exactly how many times I’ve stood before my school board with my amazing team to describe what school would look like next.

We have given up on the idea that the directives that we have to follow and make reasonable for our setting will be the same directives that we’ll receive tomorrow. We have given up on the idea that what happened before will substantially inform what will happen next. We have given up our egos — they didn’t serve us anyway.

It has been 9 months since I had shoulder surgery. It has been 4 months since I fell and broke my arm — same arm! I have been to exactly 65 Physical Therapy appointments since September. I know this. I just counted. I went on my birthday. I went this afternoon. I’m going again tomorrow.

But also… when I look out my office window in the middle of the day, there are now fifth and sixth graders hanging out at the picnic tables in the sunshine. Our exhausted teachers continue to show up physically and emotionally for our students every single day. Our weary parents and guardians appreciate so much more about teaching now that their living rooms/bedrooms/hallways have been classrooms. There is, I think, more gratitude than grief just now.

And also, I’ve added yoga back into my routine. It hurts, a lot. It feels great, a lot.

And also, it turns out that when you give up ego, you gain trust.

So back to that JunePile. It is huge! But also, it is shared, much more so than ever before. It isn’t mine, it is ours. And we’ll get through it, and toss what we don’t really need to do at all.

And the Days of Positive Impact? Well, there are exactly 8 days of school left. So, I just wrote 8 Days of Positive Impact on my calendar for tomorrow, and 7 for Monday. Days of Positive Impact. There’s no time for anything else than that.

We’re on the Last Leg of this Thing

How steep is too steep when cycling uphill? | Cyclist

Beth was a strong triathlete. I was a sluggish runner. And to celebrate our 40th birthdays, we decided to race together. I used to think that this story was about me, and the power of determination. Now, with humility, I realize that it is about my friend, and the power of support. Oh! Well now, that’s kind of embarrassing.

Beth and I have been best friends since my seventh birthday party. Secrets, sleepovers, summer camp, gymnastics team, school plays, we shared them all. And then, when we turned thirteen, she moved across the country. Somehow we kept the friendship going, and now we have hilarious and touching letters and audio tapes that tell the story of our friendship and our lives.

Exercise had always been a part of our connection starting way back to that YMCA gymnastics team, so racing together seemed like the perfect way to celebrate our entrance into our forties. I found the race for a wonderful “Girlfriends Weekend” in Galena, Illinois. Beth would fly in from Denver, and we’d drive from my home in the Chicago area to the sleepy town of Galena, filled with farms, wineries, gift shops, and bed-and-breakfasts. We’d race, drink wine, and relax at a lovely inn. There was only one problem: while Beth had been competing in triathlons for years, and I had run some races and liked to bike, I didn’t really swim. I mean, I COULD swim — I just had no interest in training as a swimmer.

But good news! The Galena event was a triathlon and a duathlon! Here’s the description of the event: For triathletes, the event begins with a swim in the waters of Apple Canyon Lake with a beach start & finish. Duathletes begin with a 2-mile run. The 2nd leg of the race is a breathtakingly beautiful 16.8-mile bike on the hilly & winding country roads of Jo Daviess County. The final leg is a 4.3-mile run, which winds up and down the picturesque lanes & roadways.

So, great! Beth could do the triathlon, I could do the duathlon, and everyone gets a trophy! (Ok, probably not that last part…) I wasn’t worried about the double run. I knew I could do a 2-mile and then a 4.3 mile later. I figured that the bike ride would be the challenge, as all of my biking had been for pure childlike enjoyment. I had no bike races behind me. So, ok, there was plenty of time to bike train between registration and the race. Problem solved!

But not really. Life got in the way, and while I kept my running going, I never really did get around to that bike training. Ok but no biggie! I can ride a bike, and I like it! I’ll just probably be really slow! That’s ok, I’m not in it to win the thing, just finish.

Have you been to Galena? I had not been there for years, and really just remembered that it was pretty and that there were a lot of shops. And I didn’t think much about that line from the event description: … 16.8-mile bike on the hilly & winding country roads of Jo Daviess County.

I remember my breath kind of catching in my throat as Beth and I drove into the county, her racing bike strapped to my car alongside my clunky bicycle. Hilly & winding country roads? Oh my. I mean, these were HILLS. Huge, steep hills. Up and down. There was, I knew, absolutely no way that I could bike up those hills. I was unprepared. I was quiet, and Beth was, too. She knew, too.

But hey, we said we were going to do this! So, we signed in, found our B&B, had our carb-loading dinner, and showed up early the next day, ready to race. Well, as we now know, Beth was ready to race. I guess I was ready… to have an experience. This was before we all toted cell phones around all day, so we figured out how we’d meet up after finishing. Then we gave good luck hugs, and went to our respective starts.

My start was that 2-mile run. This should have been no big deal for me… except that it was one mile UP a hill, and then another mile back. Um, I was used to running in the flat Chicago suburbs. By the time I was about halfway up that hill, I was already in last place. There it is.

On to the 16.8 bike ride. As I remember it, there was nobody around when I got up on my bike… that’s how far behind I was. Off I went, discovering within the first few minutes of the ride that I was absolutely unable to bike up the hills. Did not want to quit, though. Was not going to quit! So, I went with the “experience”, and, for 16.8 miles, I marched my bike up hills, chatted with the cows and lambs in the beautiful countryside beside me, got back on the bike at the top of each hill, and whizzed down. I was FAST going down those rolling hills! Look at me go… WHEEEEEE!

At one point, I heard someone calling to me from behind on a megaphone. I later learned that Beth, long finished with her race, had tearfully alerted the officials that her friend was still out there. Something must have happened to her friend! They were certain that all racers were in by now, and they were closing the course. NO! HER FRIEND WAS STILL OUT THERE! SHE WAS WEARING A BLUE SHIRT! So, yeah, there was a police car behind me, wanting to know if I needed help. I refused to talk with the officer, because I was afraid that in my exhausted state, I’d give in and climb into that car, defeated. BUT I WAS NOT GIVING UP. I was going to finish, and so I didn’t engage with the nice officer. I did turn once, though, and looked just long enough to see that behind me were that police car, a truck, a bus, and a line of cars. No, I’m not kidding about this. I had stopped traffic. In retrospect, I can see that it was really quite rude of me to put my own stubborn needs in front of those who had somewhere to be. I wish I could apologize, so many years later, and deeply hope that I was near the end of the bike ride when I made this selfish choice.

There, at the very bottom of the last hill, was Beth, running towards me with her arms up in either a hug or a V for Victory. Probably both. “You’re done!” she shouted. “You’ve finished!” She was laughing and kind of crying with relief that her friend was ok. And I looked at her, and said something like, “What? No I’m not. There’s one more leg! Still have that last run to do.”

So Beth, having already completed a 660 yard swim, a 16.8 mile bike in the hilly and winding country roads of Galena, and a 4.3 mile run, having already FINISHED HER RACE and gone through extreme worry about her hapless friend, decided to do that last leg with me. Yes, that’s right. She ran alongside me for another 4.3 miles. Supported. Me. The. Whole. Way. I can only imagine how exhausted she must have already been when she decided that she had over 4 more miles left in her, harvested because her friend needed support.

So I’ve been holding this story back. I’ve been blogging for a few years now, and told quite a few of my own stories in those posts. Not this one, though. I think it was because I couldn’t figure out what this story was about. Is the story about my own determination? Well, that’s just obnoxious. Is it about being so stupid that I would go forward while so ill-prepared? Well, that’s just embarrassing, and I’d like to think that I’ve learned a thing or two about the importance of preparation since then. I have people who count on me, and I can’t just forge ahead without putting in the work first (and I don’t).

Only now, as I reflect on this past most difficult year, and as I look forward to the next few months, do I realize that the story isn’t even mine. It’s Beth’s, and it’s about supporting others.

Here we are, 12 months into a pandemic. There has been so much loss. We have been worried, we have been in pain, we have been wretched. In the midst of all of that, we have also found the strength to pick people up around us, to run beside them when they need it.

Here we are, on the last leg of this thing. We can’t give up now. We can’t decide that we are all the way at the end when, in fact, we are not. There is still a 4.3 mile run ahead of us, and this last leg is incredibly important. Realistically, finishing that duathlon so long ago was important only to me. But doing this thing right, finishing strong when it comes to the pandemic — well, that should be critical to all of us. We are depending upon each other.

In schools (yes, my work as an educator always brings my focus back to schools), we have been through so much. We have planned and changed, drafted and scratched it out, stretched. We’ve done things we never, ever thought we could do. We are proud, and have learned. There are moments that we probably hope to forget. Through all of that, there has been support. Now, as we lean into the last few months of school, we are changing again. We are filled with pride and excitement and, yes, fear.

Please, everybody, grab a friend. Offer support and accept the grace of those who care about you. Finally, we are on the last leg of this thing. We can finish strong, together.

Turn Right

It was the summer of 2019, and I had carved out vacation time between leaving one job and beginning a new one. I wanted to clear mind clutter so I could start my new role completely ready to go. Central Park was my perfect setting, and I was meandering through the park, alone.

But first, all this: I have a very, very emotional connection to NYC generally, and to Central Park specifically, built through some wonderful visits. Although he primarily works from home (and of course, works completely from home in the Coronaverse), my husband’s work is based out of NYC. This has meant lots of travel there for him over the years, and I have tagged along quite a few times. During those trips, a typical day includes me wandering the city solo while he works, and then meeting up for a delicious dinner, maybe a show, maybe a fantastically crappy slice on the way home from a show.

So excited to see Trevor Noah… before it was the Daily Social Distancing Show!

Those meanderings through the city have meant so much to me. I have always been a good solo traveler/explorer. Being alone away from home allows me to completely immerse myself in a space, encourages me to take in the sights and smells and sounds in ways that I can’t when my attention is also on someone else. I once jotted down fragments of fascinating conversations that I heard on a blistering summer day in NYC. That may sound sketchy and creepy, but all I can say is it did not feel so at the time. I had a blast spinning mind fiction about what I was hearing. (Did you read Harriet the Spy as a child? One of my favs… it was kind of like that.) Of course, I love exploring the city with my husband, and have also experienced very special duo trips with each of my daughters to celebrate their 16th birthdays, and I have cherished opportunities to meet up with friends in the city. In short, for me, just about any way to vacation in this city is a good way.

And oh, the adventures that are possible! My college roommate and I stayed with my now long-passed great aunt in Manhattan for a few days in our early 20s. We got separated on the subway (one on, one off) due to a confused get-off-here-oh-no-the-doors-are-closing moment, and a madcap chase around the city ensued. This was long before cell phones, and included one of us sticking a note to a subway post with chewing gum. We also looked up and met a musician whom I had admired as a teenager. (In the end, he maybe was and maybe was not actually that musician, and this was perhaps a risky evening.) My oldest daughter Eliana and I ended her special birthday trip with a race to the airport after an unexpected, extended afternoon when we discovered a Red Carpet event for a Harry Potter movie premier, with stars galore. Also, Larry lovingly stores up his own culinary adventures from solo work trips, and then showers them down upon me when we visit together! Oh, and the music — truly, I can’t even. Add to these the quiet moments that are available, like breathing in the stillness of the New York Public Library main branch third floor in Manhattan, or staring up in wonder at the Ceremonial House Ceiling in the Oceania Exhibit at the Metropolitan Art Museum (“The Met” for us insiders…) (I must insert another children’s literature shout-out: cannot go to The Met without imagining being locked inside for a night, just like Claudia in From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler.) Every visit is an exquisite mix of the exciting and new and chances to re-experience spots that have grown familiar.

I always must visit the magnificent Ceremonial House Ceiling at The Met.

Perhaps one of my favorite elements of this city is that there is a surprise around every corner. Unlike my beautiful hometown of Chicago, which I feel has “these parts” and “those parts”, each with their own wonderful flavors, in NYC it seems as though the city can completely change as soon as you turn right down another street. Mixed-up flavors. Don’t like what you are looking at? Turn right! And, the park is like that, too. What do you want? Zoo? Bridge? Garden? Tower? Lawn? Monument? Boats? Bikes? Bench? All there.

Came upon this bench during my last visit to the park. How cool!

And, everybody who loves NYC (and the park, too, maybe) has their OWN NYC. Everyone wants to tell you about their special places and the BEST restaurants, and cannot believe that you have not visited them. Unless you really hate cities, there is truly something for everyone. Some reading this may be thinking, “Parks, shows, museums, libraries? Doesn’t this woman ever go to a sporting event?” (Do you know me? No.) “What about shopping?” But anyway, that’s the point. We are all different, and NYC celebrates all of us.

Way at the top of this story, I was wandering around Central Park, reflecting and clearing my mind. And now that I’ve made it through a tiny love letter to New York, I’m ready to return to that walk. It had been a rough and stressful spring for me for a lot of reasons. (See What’s in Your JunePile? Reboot… if you really want to know, and perhaps consider the Days of Positive Impact strategy that I used to get through the end of it… which could maybe be useful for any one of us just now…) I was ready to start my new job, and really wanted to shed myself of those stresses before beginning anew. And I had a visual for it. I’d walk into the park with that heavy backpack of stress weighing me down, I’d empty it somewhere along my path, and emerge from the park light and ready. Corny? You betcha. Didn’t care, still don’t. It was exactly what I needed, and it worked, and while unburdening myself, I also picked up two momentos from the day.

The first is the painting featured at the start of this writing. I came upon an artist in the middle of the park, and fell in love with his work, and spent at least an hour selecting the piece that spoke to me most. Let’s be honest — it is kind of gaudy. I know that, and I love that. But, while the colors are loud, the spot is serene, and that perfectly sums up a lot of what I typically need in and for my head. I also had fun searching the park to find the real spot, pictured below. That’s part of the magic of wandering alone. You can do exactly what you want, and I wanted to find and photograph that spot.

When my new painting arrived at home via FedEx tube, Larry and I hung it in our guest room, easily viewed from the hallway. I gazed at it often, remembering that trip and why it was important to me. And then the pandemic hit, and the guest room became my home office. Now, the painting hangs behind me, and every single person who has been on frequent video calls with me has seen it. With those bright colors, it isn’t really fade-into-the background art. Sometimes during a meeting, my eye will catch on my own image and background, and I will think about all that is on hold, and all that is waiting for us when we can emerge from this situation together. Some things will be forever changed, hopefully for the better. Also, hopefully, we will be able to return to what was already wonderful. To that end, I note that I was hesitant to even write and share about this now, as we ALL have things on hold. Some of us have lost people, moments, resources, and opportunities that we will never get back. So, to some extent, the fact that I’m yearning for a visit to NYC is a pretty low-level concern. But, yeah, maybe that’s part of the point. In the midst of true tragedy, it is still ok to acknowledge smaller losses. We can make space for desires alongside needs.

The second memento from the 2019 Day in Central Park is more of a talisman. I purchased a metal Central Park-themed water bottle for my new workplace. Knowing that I was headed into a new role in a new district with new stresses, I expected to have a special use for it: I’d have it with me in meetings, and if I needed a moment to gather myself, to pause before speaking, I could focus on that bottle. It would center me. Yes, it has been in use. I may have people from my work community reading this, and now they know that if they see me focusing on that bottle in a meeting, I may have something going on. That’s ok. I’m a real person who occasionally needs to settle down, just like everybody else. You might as well know.

Why did I take this seemingly random school picture during that last NYC trip? Well, it’s about another quirk of mine. Ever since I became a school principal in 1999, every single time I’ve passed an elementary or middle school during any trip away from home, I have paused to wonder what it would be like to be a teacher in or the principal of that school. Not a conscious choice, just something that happens. What would the families be like? How could I best support the staff? What would the children need? What would I learn there? I note that when I began working in school HR, I didn’t wonder about the HR needs of that vacationland district. Now that I am a superintendent, I don’t see another school and wonder about what it would be like to be the superintendent in that far-from-home community. I absolutely love my role in education, would not be doing anything else, anywhere else, but still, those imaginings are always about being a teacher or principal, being within the beating heart of that school. So, yeah, I took that picture then, and now I am wondering how the NYC students and parents and staff are faring during the pandemic. I know what I read and see on the news. I know how it is for my school district. Everywhere, we are doing our very best, and everywhere, we are exhausted, worried, frustrated, proud, learning, and, when we can muster it, motivated and hopeful.

Last May, our youngest graduated from CU in Boulder. We had travel plans and accomodations booked, family coming from all over to celebrate our daughter and enjoy Colorado. Of course, in the end, we could not go. Sophie did not walk, but there were still graduation pictures!

In the midst of our combined sadness about not being able to be there to celebrate graduation, we promised Sophie that when we can do so safely, we’ll treat/meet her for a trip to NYC. I’m not sure who that cheered up more, Sophie or me. Anyway, we WILL do it. And even though we will be in the city as a family, I expect that I will crave a trip through Central Park alone. However, instead of visualizing the shedding of stresses like last time, I imagine that I will be reflecting on all of the new skills and knowledge that I’ve gathered since the start of the pandemic. I won’t want to lose those, just figure out how to put them to the best use as I turn right towards a new view.

On Being Found by a Mentor

Cast Photographs | Oliver! | Oliver twist, Nancy oliver twist, Theatre geek — Well of COURSE that isn’t me at the age of 14 playing Nancy in Oliver! Don’t be ridiculous…

How do you get from singing along to the Broadway station on Sirius XM to reviewing your professional mentoring history? I’ll tell you how…

I was on the way to work, distracting myself from some major worries with show tunes. Love me, don’t judge me! On came a song from The Pajama Game, the musical that my junior high school produced when I was in the sixth grade. THAT brought me to the next year’s musical – Fiddler on the Roof. I played Hodel, the political activist daughter who follows her man to Siberia for love, and eighth grader Mark Adams played Tevya, my father. The NEXT year we did Oliver! I had my heart set on the female lead role of Nancy — the saucy, gutsy, abused girlfriend who is bludgeoned to death. (I could NOT make this UP! And, for what it is worth, I have no memory of any “listen kids, abuse is wrong, please don’t be traumatized, we’ll help you through this” talks from any adults who were connected to the show. That is perhaps another blog piece.)

Anyway. What I remember about the audition is that for some reason, Mark Adams, last year’s leading actor, now a high schooler, was present for the auditions. Maybe he was invited to “help”? And before I brought my small self up to the front of the room, he handed me a notecard. On it were some notes, some tips, written just for me. I think there were some vocal suggestions, but the specific comment I remember was: “Don’t play around on your clogs.” (It was 1980. We wore lots of clogs.) I didn’t. Maybe in part because of Mark’s tip, I stood firmly and confidently, sang my heart out, and got the role!

Ok, so WHY in the world do I remember that? I am pretty sure it is because it was my first brush with mentoring. In a very small way, Mark was mentoring me. Here’s the deal… this high school boy had no designs on me. I don’t think he was asked to hand out notecards (I didn’t see anyone else get one.) I think he saw something in me, and wanted to help me along. I remember the moment because this older person, someone I admired, showed me that I was worthy of his time and attention. Mentoring.

My next mentoring memory? I was walking down the stairs at my friend David’s house. He and Andy and I were all teachers, and David and Andy were just finishing a principal preparation program. The two of them were trying to convince me that I should pursue the role, too. They told me that I would be an awesome principal, and probably told me why. I hadn’t been thinking about that path, and then suddenly I was. And I did it. Now, many years later, I am a school superintendent. In this case, mentoring was just a gentle push, again coming from someone seeing something in me.

(Please keep in mind that all of this thinking is going on with The Broadway Station playing, while driving on autopilot, early in the morning…)

After that came, I think, a bunch of No Mentoring. Or, at least, I don’t remember anyone taking me under their wing for a long time. I could have used a mentor as a young teacher who could not find my place on my teaching team. I could have used a mentor as a beginning principal who went right from teacher to principal. (Yes, now that I think of it, I did have a wonderful formal mentor who was paid to work with the new administrators. She was a retired principal, and excellent, and I was grateful to learn with her. But — that is different from having someone see something in you and say, “Yes. Of my own volition, I want to help this person. I want to help her develop into who she can be.”) Anyway, teacher-to-principal is pretty difficult, and I could have used someone around who voluntarily filled my bucket.

Indeed, I do believe in formal mentoring programs, and in fact built one for a statewide professional association when I served on their executive board a few years back. Participation was voluntary for mentors and mentees, and I feel that we helped people. Still, though, not the same as someone specifically selecting you, helping you to find your greatness. There is, I believe, a vast difference between being assigned a mentor, and being found by a mentor.

Kate was also my mentor. She was my superintendent for four years, and she made it very clear, very early on, that she was invested in me becoming a superintendent. She was there to listen and advise and question and gently push. I came to her undecided. By the time our working relationship ended, I was decided. I am so very grateful for all of her words of wisdom. Now, every once in a while, I will think or say something, and realize: I am channelling Kate.

This brings me to two amazing mentors. The first is my husband, who is currently in the other room blogging, too, and does not know that I’m writing about him. Many years ago, Larry was a youth group advisor and religious high school principal, and the connections that he built with his high schoolers most definitely surpassed the typical student/advisor relationship. And it wasn’t because he was a friend. He was a mentor. He pushed his kids, he asked them questions, he expected things. He gave each of those teenagers all of the time that they needed. He helped them find their truth. All these years later, he still gets invited to weddings, is sent baby pictures, schedules coffee dates with his former students. I feel very sure that many of them have paid it forward, going on to become mentors themselves.

This brings me to Rabbi Mark Shapiro. Rabbi Shapiro was my rabbi growing up, and Larry worked for him during that advisor/principal period of his life. There is a Facebook Group called “I Am a Jewish Leader and Mark S. Shapiro Was My Rabbi!”, and there are 127 members, some of whom are pictured above in a photo from… probably the early ’90s. I know almost all of the people in this photo, people who looked to this magnificent rabbi as their mentor. Those people became who they were professionally at least in part because Rabbi Shapiro watered that seed for them. He let them know that they could and should do it. He let them know that they were needed. He mentored them. When this great leader passed away a few months ago, everybody who knew him had a story of how they were touched by him, how he made them feel special. And those who were truly mentored by him know that it is their duty to go out and find heart and talent and beauty in others.

Of course, writing all of this, I have thought of many others who have played mentoring roles for me. I won’t write about all of them here, as really, this isn’t about me. It is about our collective responsibility to find greatness in others, to invite, to suggest, to give of our time. I am committed to this concept, and feel confident that it is a moral imperative for each of us to let others know that we see something special in them, we see something that maybe they don’t see themselves yet. This is work that should never be finished. So, I’ll leave it here:

Thank you Mark. Thank you Andy and David. Thank you Kate. You probably don’t remember any of this. But I do, and I’m trying to pay it forward, feet solidly on the ground, not playing around on my clogs.

I Bonded with a Third Grader at the DMV

**Yep, that’s me, entertaining myself with a window selfie while waiting in line at the DMV**

I bonded with a third grader at the DMV yesterday. We were in a wretchedly long line. She was along for the errand with her mom. I had to renew my license, which expired in the spring when all of the DMVs were closed. It was time — waiting any longer would mean that the socially-distanced line would just be colder. So, yeah, first we bonded over the freezing temperature. We both wished we were wearing hats.

A little later, though, there was something more interesting to discuss. A fellow line-stander needed to talk with one of the officials, but was having trouble communicating. My new friend’s mom swiftly stepped in, interpreting Spanish and English. It turned out that this man didn’t need to wait in the long line in the cold at all. (Have I mentioned that the line was long? Have I mentioned it was cold?) Off he went, happily.

Then, I eavesdropped as mom told her daughter how important it is to keep speaking Spanish whenever possible. She told her that being bilingual is a gift, and that she could use that gift to help so many people. Ok, yeah, and then I joined in the conversation. Maybe this was obnoxious of me. This was a beautiful moment between a mother and her daughter, and Educator Lynn jumped in. (As I write, it just seems more and more obnoxious…) But anyway, I apologized for eavesdropping, and then told the third grader that I was a teacher and a principal, and that I completely agreed with her mom. (Didn’t mention the superintendent part. Who cares? Certainly a 9 year old would not, but maybe “teacher and principal” carries a little weight.) Mom explained that her daughter’s father speaks Arabic. The daughter only knows a little. And on we went, more conversation about all she could do in her life, all the people she could impact, knowing Spanish, Arabic, and English.

Of course, yeah, then we talked about how school is going this year. She told me that she is remote for the first two trimesters, and her mom says maybe she will be onsite for the third trimester. She loves math! Math is easy! She does not like Language Arts, but when her teacher invites the students to leave the online meeting and work on their own, she stays online because she knows that this helps her. But, really, she absolutely does not like Language Arts. But again, she really loves Math! I told her that the Spanish/Arabic/English/Math combo is golden.

We chattered on for a bit more, and then she got to go hang out in the car while mom and I kept waiting in the line, both of us lost in our own thoughts and phones. She came back on line now and then, and we jumped up and down in the cold a little. When we got inside, we agreed that we couldn’t feel our feet.

It was normal stuff: a student and an educator connecting about what is great about school and what isn’t, and thinking about the future together. Mom was generous to let me talk with her daughter; she could probably tell that I was starved for student interaction. It was just what I needed after an especially rough week, as well as seven months of hard decisions in an ever-changing landscape.

It is true that we don’t know what the rest of this school year holds. It is true that school won’t be “normal” for a long while, and when it is, it will be forever changed. Hopefully we will have taken the bright embers from this thing to help us improve what we had before.

Whatever happens, I hope my friend keeps her Spanish, and develops her Arabic. We will need her, for sure.

“I’m tired of talking to adults and nothing happens, nothing changes.”

“I’m tired of talking to adults and nothing happens, nothing changes. It feels like they are just checking a box.” Take a moment, please, and imagine the context. Can you think of a few? I can. I can.

I have not written here for awhile. My mind and heart have been very full over the past few months for many, many reasons, so much so that I just couldn’t let anything dribble out in the form of writing. But something happened today that made the dam burst, and here we are.

Today, I had the honor of attending my first meeting of the Illinois Coalition of Educational Equity Leaders (ICEEL). This group of teachers and administrators gathers together a few times a year to consider matters of equity. From this, my first meeting, it seems to me that the focus is equal parts reflection, learning, and call to action. Without question, I received opportunities for all three today.

I’ve had many reasons to reflect upon concepts of racism and equity over the past twelve months. Last December, my husband and I had a difficult and emotional conversation with our young adult daughter around a white comedian using the N-word in context of humor and intentional social commentary. She was incensed, a lot. I reflected. A related topic was discussed today, and I was lead to watch this short video of Ta-Nehisi Coates explaining that it is indeed white privilege to believe that all words belong to everyone. (Spoiler Alert: they don’t.)

In January, I accepted a job for the next school year in a district that has created a Diversity Policy, along with a host of other statements, brochures, posters, and guiding principles that speak to topics of diversity, equity, and inclusion. I rejoiced in the knowledge that I would be working in the right place, a place where I could lead and learn and daily consider topics of social justice.

In July, I read the book White Fragility by Robin DiAngelo, followed by attending a two day training in Courageous Conversations about Race. It’s not possible to express here the extent to which these experiences affected me, except to say that they humbled me and helped me understand that I did not know what I did not know. And so I have continued to study this fall, learning from several other books, workshops, and meetings. I’ve been particularly grateful to be a part of my school district’s Equity and Inclusion Committee, as it is filled with parents, teachers, and administrators who are eager to continue on a journey of self-discovery and to grapple with issues of equity in order make important change for students, families, and employees.

This brings us to today, to the ICEEL meeting. Attorney Jackie Wernz taught us about equity issues in relation to the new Illinois law requiring school districts to teach about LGBTQ history, and then in small groups we discussed practices and policies that support equity, or, more often, inequity. Truly, there is so much to do.

And finally, more dramatically, there was a call to action which came in the form of five high school students. Each ICEEL meeting ends with a student panel so that educational leaders can hear about the real impact of what they are doing (or not doing). Today, a Muslim student explained that it is not enough for a school to have a place for daily prayer if a student requests it – true respect comes in the form of being offered a place to pray. Latinex and Chinese students spoke about assumptions that are made about them due to their racial backgrounds. And an African American student, enraged that her district has taken steps to combat racism in the school by providing a four day “N-Word Curriculum”, saw through and past the positive intent around that decision with the statement, “We don’t need four days of discussion. We need four years!” Oh. It is hard to argue against that point.

This same student told us that “adults need to listen to our solutions, not just our feelings.” But she began where I began: “I’m tired of talking to adults and nothing happens, nothing changes. It feels like they are just checking a box.”

I asked these students if any of them are writers (some very clearly are), and wondered aloud if they are blogging. I suggested that the adults who appear not to be listening may need chances to listen and read and think. I didn’t imagine that they would be writing publicly; making themselves vulnerable in front of this group of adults who may not be moving quickly enough but are clearly passionate about equity is not the same thing as exposing themselves to their peers and the angry world at large. But I wanted them to be thinking about it. Their responses to my questions were thoughtful; one put it like this: “I can’t narrate my experiences while I’m living them.” So anyway, I’m blogging for them, now. I had a chance to speak with three of the students after the meeting, and one of them told me that she is writing about her experiences with racism in her college essay. She promised to send it to me. Oh, I hope that she does so that I can continue learning from her.

As I discussed with the students, the adults in the room who are learning about equity and are eager to make changes are indeed on a journey, and adult learning takes time. Change takes time. But these students don’t have time. Their now is NOW. There is so much to do. We cannot be just checking a box.