Photo Essay

I gave my students the assignment to choose a family photo in which they could write a reflective, descriptive essay. I told them that I would do the assignment as well. This is my attempt:

"It was the best of times; it was the worst of times" so says Dickens about the French Revolution. It also describes high school, at least for my daughter anyway. One moment she's exuberant and laughing with her friends; the next she's slouching through the door trying to hold back tears. I fear she feels the wounds of her own revolution, trying to be herself, modifying her mannerisms, pleading for acceptance. She'll argue about that last one. "Bah. Who needs to be accepted by Morons?" But even the peasants in France sang the song- notice me, nourish me, let me live my life.

I remember being 16. Like my daughter, I was tall. Taller than every girl and towering over most boys. Never in my life do I remember feeling small. In 5th grade when we learned about the Amazon and the mysterious warrior-like women who ruled there, I couldn't help shrinking in my seat fearing that someone would blurt out "Hey, kinda like Amy!" Or in 7th grade when the basketball coach issued shoes and demanded my shoe size. "10," I whispered, but he didn't hear me, and I had to answer loud enough so everyone could snicker. I remember hating the stick figure girls who dared to suggest that they were "getting fat." Oh, please. Looking back three decades, I can almost laugh. Life has bent and pushed and pulled and stretched, but I'm still the same size now as I was then. Finally, comfortable in my skin.

There's a photo of my daughter and me that I keep posted on the refrigerator. She took it with my camera after playing with the settings- shades of grey. I'm shocked at how much our eyes are similar. Hers are blue and mine are green. Both look like my mother's. Her hair is the softest shade of sun-bleached wheat. Women would die for hair like this; boys undoubtedly long to touch it. I notice her extra three inches and feel small next to her. How is that possible?

I remember the day she took this picture. I was rushing out the door, purse strapped on, hurrying to jog from one busy mom moment to the next. "Wait, I want to try this out," stopped me long enough to snap the shot. "Come with me," I invited, and we spent the day doing trivial things and discussing daring climaxes. How should I make Ben die? How do I get Wyatte and Braxton to make up? What if I give her mom a chronic illness?

She writes because it makes her feel. Words burn and she has to ease the pain. Pages and pages in notebook after notebook. With her pen she creates characters in love and war. She captures on paper the personalities that plague her. I tease that she'll have to "change the names to protect the innocent." We laugh and plot and dream.

I used to be a writer too. I wrote volumes in diaries and letters to friends back in the day when stationary came in thick or thin and a rainbow of colors. I remember sealing letters and the sweet taste of glue. I remember the anticipation of waiting for the postman to deliver a response. The joy of finding a letter on my dresser when I returned home from school. One boy who grasped my heart like Braxton has grasped my daughter's. Every once in a while I'll open aging pages and read of my own teenage revolution. The best times equaled boys and gossip; the worst times equaled gossip and boys. Times have changed but the war has not.

Somehow, I muddled through and my girl will too. If the pen is mightier than the sword, then she's got it made on the battlefront. And maybe someday she'll see a picture of herself with her daughter, and she'll smile and feel the love of a mom who's been there.

Okay so I'm not so good at this. . .

Blogging. Mind blogging for sure. Great idea to post thoughts, feelings, stories. It's just not happening. I still like to sit with the worn leather of a favorite journal and my flowing pen. Most often I record my life while sitting in church on Sundays. I like to listen to the hymns and allow my mind to wander to the highlights of my week. I remember little things like a hug from a son who begins to tower over me and never fails to say "I love you" when he gets out of the car. I think of my children serving God and spreading the gospel in far away places. I ponder the economy and the state of my bank account. Most importantly, I express my thoughts on paper in a way that's cathartic. The cramp in my hand that aches when I press my stress through the ball point. The doodles that spring up when my mind feels weightless and free (which by the way happens a little more often now that I've learned to apply the old adage "Let go. Let God.") I may or may not get the hang of this blogging thing. It doesn't matter really. I've already got a handle on exploring my inner feelings with a couple of friends flat and thin.

Verb thoughts...

I hope~ to bask on the beach soon.
I hurt~ when I try to walk with aching ankles in the morning.
I love~ my family more than anything.
I hate~ to see my students fail.
I fear~ my children moving too far away.
I crave~ that white sparkling sandy beach.
I regret~ not holding my babies more and cleaning the house less.
I cry~ when my children hurt.
I care~ for the kids who don't care enough themselves.
I embrace~ challenges that make me grow.
I listen~ to teenagers, so they know I care.
I sing~ praises to the Lord for His bounteous blessings!
I write~ Christian romances.
I breathe~ and sigh and bow my head in thanks.
I play~ a little piano and a lot of music.
I miss~ my St. Louis days and closest sock-folding friends.
I feel~ eager for the summer break from school.
I know~ that Jesus Christ lives!
I say~ believe and He will heal you.
I search~ the scriptures for His truth.
I learn~ as I face my trials.
I succeed~ when I rely on Heavenly Father.
I fail~ when I try to take control.
I dream~ of feeling the warm sun as I lay on that beach.
I sleep~ way too little.
I wonder~ about the people my children will marry.
I want~ the greatest happiness possible for everyone I know.
I give~ of my time and talents to serve the Lord.
I fight~ for the rights of the ones who can't fight for their own.
I need~ time to read.
I think~ I'd like to hear from YOU!

School's Out for the Summer. . .Almost

"What subject do you teach?" That's one of the first questions people ask when they find out I teach high school. My initial response is usually the one they expect. "English." But the truth is, like every other educator I know, I teach a whole lot more than my content area.

Every time I hear the argument about public education, and how it is failing students, I seethe with righteous fury. Never do I hear that the family is failing children. Of my 130 students, I know exactly which ones have parents that love and support them, which parents involve themselves in their child's life in the hopes of helping him have a future. Way too many parents leave it up to the teacher to do the job the parent should be doing at home. It's frustrating is the ultimate understatement. It's frightening is the blatant reality.

Take Mario as an example. Here's a 16-year-old boy, handsome and smart. He comes to school almost every day. He smiles and laughs with his friends. He looks to have everything going for him. He should be making at least B's in all his classes. He can write with wry humor and natural ability. He should be preparing for his future; instead, he is throwing it away. He's earned 1/2 of a credit in the two years he's been in high school. He's had so many discipline referrals for insubordination and lack of cooperation in his classes that the majority of his teachers have lost count. This kid simply does not care. So, where are the parents?

See, that's the funny thing, I met with his parents. We had a nice little parent/teacher conference. We sat in a classroom- the students, both parents, and six of his teachers. We all had the same concerns: What are you doing with your education? What are you doing with your life? No answers. No excuses. No nothing. And two parents who simply did not have a clue. "What do we do? We drop him off every day and hope that he won't get in trouble." "We've tried everything to get him to do his work. We don't know what else to do."

I wanted to scream at these people. "You take away his top of the line cell phone! You stop giving him money. You stop buying him new clothes! You make him get a job, and you make him prove that he's trying at school! Stop whatever it is you are doing, and let this kid grow up and learn responsibility!"

When parents give give give to their kids. The child will just take take take. Isn't that the nature of the beast in all of us? The only way a child learns responsibility is to practice it. Lots of "if/then" scenarios that teach him there are consequences for his behavior. Lots of corrective discipline followed by tons of hugs and laughter. Children respond when parents take the time to show love and not just say "love."

So, school's almost out for another summer. I breathe a sigh and I think about the beach, wishing I were already there basking in the warm sun and tasting the salty air. My thoughts turn to Mario, and I hope he makes it to his 17th birthday. I fear that dealing drugs is just one of his bad choices. Someday I hope he realizes that he had an English teacher that tried her best to give him tools that could help his life. I encouraged. I cajoled. Finally, I cried.

But then there's Luis, and he's a whole different story. . .

This is Us

My three youngest sons sang with a group of young men, all dressed in white shirts and ties, in church today. We have been born as Nephi of old, to goodly parents who love the Lord. My heart swelled with a love for these three stapping boy men who usually stink with football sweat, as they furtively eyed the congregation and sang from their hearts. We have been taught, and we understand that we must do as the Lord commands. In my mind I saw them five years from now as part of a great army of missionaries serving the Lord just as their older brother is now. He is in the Philippines loving the filipino people and loving his Father in Heaven as he brings souls to Christ. Although this son is half a world away, I could hear him singing, too. We have been saved for these latter days to build the kindgom in righteous ways. He called home this past week to wish me a happy Mother's Day. He spoke in broken English and laughed like a foreigner. His favorite thing as a missionary is seeing the light of truth change the lives of the people he's come to love. He studies the scriptures daily looking for ways to touch the hearts of people who are seeking truth. We hear the words our prophet declares: Let each who's worthy go forth and share. Oh, the joy of a mom to have a son who is a righteous example of truth! Yeah, life is good...but it gets even better. See, I have beautiful daughters that match my strippling warrior sons! My oldest daughter is also dedicating her life to serving the Lord. She's a missionary in Salt Lake City at Temple Square. She teaches visitors about the Latter-day Saints, and she loves it! Like her missionary brother, she studies the scriptures seeking to grow in her own testimony, so she can help others find truth. We know his plan, and we will prepare, increase our knowledge through study and prayer. Her letters testify of her love of the work and of her love of the Savior. She encourages us all to strengthen our testimonies and to open our mouths and share the gospel. She's a delight and a great example to her two sisters who are fighting their way through high school and the drama years. They, too, are delightful and beautiful and all things that make a mom proud. Recently, a friend asked my husband what we've done to raise such incredible children. I think the anwer is~ We love them. We repect them. We teach them. We pray with them. We read the scriptures with them. We have fun with them. In return, our children turn to our Father in Heaven, and they turn to us. The thing is, we are all in this together. This earth-life I mean. Daily we'll learn until we are called to take the gospel to all the world. The Lord Jesus Christ lives. He loves us. The Father of us all has blessed us with families to nurture and to love. How very grateful I am for the incredible blessing of being a mother. Yes, life doesn't get much better than this.