It’s been long. Too long. Way too long…
A lot has happened since my last blog post.
I finished grading final exams, packed my classroom, hugged my kiddos and coworkers, and said goodbye to San Miguel.
Similarly, I packed my convent “nun’s cell” into my tiny little CRV and three bursting FedEx boxes that forcibly outweigh me at least 2:1[1] and said goodbye to my housemates and Tucson.
My parents and I then drove 1,756 miles through dramatically changing alien landscapes,[2] relentless, thankfully not damaging hail, and hours of Dad’s insanity-inducing infomercials.[3]
After unpacking, I cleaned out, purged, and organized my room, which hasn’t been fully “dealt with” since high school, while Mom stood over me like an ancient Chinese ancestral god reaming me for my incompetence: “Get rid of EVERYTHING. DO IT. DISHONOR. DISHONOR ON YOUR WHOLE FAMILY! DISHONOR ON YOU! DISHONOR ON YOUR COW…!”[4]
I formidably plowed forward, full steam ahead, with my job search and sat for several—brightly clothed—interviews and resolutely remained on my feet while surviving a few sucker punches to the gut, only to miraculously receive (and accept!) an offer at a premier college prep school close to home[5].
And, I officially completed my two-year Master of Education program by graduating last weekend as a proud, newly minted “Double Domer” of the University of Notre Dame.
Phew!
While I have to admit I am proud of all these “life accomplishments,” I am perhaps most satisfied with my room’s transformation from something straight out of “Hoarders” to [almost] a staged show room in HGTV Magazine. The struggle was real, but we did it, friends mom. Slow clap.
And, while these events are quite notable, this still is no excuse for my lack of writing. I have high expectations and demand commitment and execution, both from my students and from myself[6]. It is shocking how a blog—something you brought to life and you continue to choose to nurture—can haunt, stalk, and goad you into guilt like a culpable conscience. I could almost hear the accusatory moans and judgmental reminders as I plowed my way, nose to the grindstone, through May and June: “Write! Write! Write, dammit[7]!” This just goes to show that cognitive dissonance[8] is alive and well, nudging me along in the evolution of guilt-plagued ruminations and internalized goading despite my life commitments and future-facing obligations: I want to write, but I can’t write, but I should write, ahh I must write…
So here we are. It’s good to see you, old friend.
This is something I’ve been concocting and hatching in my mind for a while now, but, ladies and gentlemen, this blog post is brought to you today by the color red. Please, hold your applause.
My former high school, San Miguel, proudly dons red and gold as its spirit colors[9]. As I was nearing the end of my school year in Tucson, I knew I wanted to blog about my school in some fashion, but I wasn’t sure what to say. My two years at San Miguel have been thoroughly challenging, confusing, comical, tiring, thought provoking, influential, formative, and rewarding, but how could I possibly capture these myriad emotions and sentiments in a post that was both accurate and wholly cliché-avoidant? The conundrum was mine to solve. That is, until our faculty flash mob. Life has a funny way of both surprising you and giving you priceless writing material, and I consider it my gracious duty to wholly accept and capitalize on whatever ammo is thrown my way. Let me explain.
A week or so before finals, one of my esteemed coworkers and friends, Mitch, had the radical idea of organizing a faculty flash mob. In case you aren’t familiar with the concept of a “flash mob”—it is a relatively new concept—it basically consists of a group of people who assemble suddenly in a public place, perform an unusual and seemingly pointless act[10] for a brief time, and then quickly disperse, often for the purposes of entertainment, satire, and artistic expression. Oh yeah, and FUN.
Mitch, our fearless leader and choreographer, selected the music, mapped out all the moves, and arranged to host several “practice sessions” prior to the main event. Regrettably, I missed the first practice only to find my inbox filled with YouTube videos Mitch had made and recorded to send out to me and the other delinquent faculty mob dodgers who had skillfully evaded (or so we thought) our moment in the spot light. Indeed, the dedicated Mitch had left our school rehearsal[11] only to go home and film himself modeling each of the moves. He is a true teacher, through and through.[12] After laughing my way through watching the video, I resolved that I had to go to the next rehearsal. I couldn’t miss this.
After the final school bell rang, I arrived in my housemate Matt’s classroom to find desks enthusiastically pushed aside to create space to shake, rattle, and roll. As more and more of my colleagues nervously arrived to rehearse, I tried to ease their panic by limiting my proud affirmations of “I do Zumba” to a moderately appropriate level[13]. Once Mitch herded us into the appropriate spaces, introduced the songs, and walked us through the dance moves, I knew this was gold. Utter gold. Those students were in for a rude awakening: We teachers are FUN, and, come tomorrow at lunch, they wouldn’t know what hit them.
It was Thursday afternoon, and all the teachers, adorned in Viper red, were gathered in the school cafeteria. We were ready. Although only a few teachers are usually present in the lunchroom at a time, the entire faculty nonchalantly wandered up and down the lunch table aisles exchanging silent smirks and knowing looks of what was to come. The students clearly acknowledged that something us “up.” They grappled with our presence with the same perplexed uncertainty they demonstrate on a previously unseen, challenging multiple choice exam question:
- “Why are you all here?” they quipped.
- “Why are you all wearing red?[14]” they inquired.
- “Are we in trouble?” they feared.
- None of the above, students. None of the above.
Suddenly, it was time. Mitch gave the signal, and my colleagues and I casually left the main gym to find our respective assignments at the various entrances. The excitement and energy was palpable as I stood crowded between my coworkers, goose bumps spotting my arm in eager anticipation. I could hear the students proceeding as usual: Noisily standing in the lunch line, nervously chatting about upcoming finals, raucously snapping whatever the heck teenagers take Snapchats of… And then, as if out of nowhere, this casual din was sliced by the hauntingly melodious, tantalizingly tasty, somberly soulful dirge that was insuperably uttered with a mere word:
“Hello.”
And then, silence. Time stopped. In that moment, everything changed.
Although I couldn’t yet see her, I could viscerally feel the velvet curtains open to feature Sister Mary Ann center stage, habit and all, arms gracefully poised like a prima ballerina in Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake.
The. Students. Went. Wild.
“…It’s me. I was wondering if after all these years you’d like to meet.”
Envisioning Sister Mary Ann executing the interpretive dance moves with all the grace and comedy she practiced yesterday to Adele’s expressive ballad was not nearly as rewarding as hearing the students’ audibly react despite my obstructed vision. It was working! We were pulling it off!
Before I knew it, we “were on.” Our feet were not our own as we were alluringly beckoned to the center of the gym by the booming, echoing refrain: “Hello from the other side…”
I honestly can’t describe what ensued next. Our execution was anything but flawless, but it didn’t matter. We transitioned from Adele’s “Hello,” to Rihanna’s “Work,” to Bruno Mars’ “Uptown Funk,” to Walk the Moon’s “Shut Up and Dance,” to our school’s famed “ Viper Spirit Check” with all the skill-less enthusiasm and unabashed aplomb that only dancing educators of teenagers can truly understand. The students howled and applauded with surprise, fervor, and appreciation of their “cool” teachers and the surprise we successfully concocted and executed. When the final song ended we were met with roaring applause and a standing ovation. If only our teaching was met with this matched interest and zeal. No matter: I’ll take my tiny victory and revel in it for all that it’s worth.
Notably, a buoyant, tangible energy pervaded campus for the rest of the day and let everyone in high spirits even as the final bell rang. My coworkers and I seemed to magically form an unspoken agreement and understanding that we would meet for happy hour at Barrio and revel in our celebrated accomplishments. Of course while we were off being dancing fools, an adult in the crowd had maintained the wherewithal to film our escapades, and we must have watched the YouTube video[15] a thousand timessssssss[16], picking out a newly featured faculty member to focus on (and ridicule) each time. It was deliciously fun, and I can honestly attest that it was the epitomized highlight of my San Miguel career. We wore our Viper red, put ourselves out there, took a chance, and danced as a community of supportive teachers and friends, and I will never forget it. For all the craziness that has been San Miguel, nothing could better conclude and capstone my experience.
How lucky am I to have had the opportunity to wear red alongside these excited students, phenomenal coworkers, and, most importantly, flawless dancers. Go Vipers!
Check out our sweet moves: https://m.facebook.com/story.php?story_fbid=499190236944978&id=405622302968439
[1] Who knew so much STUFF could fit into such a teensy room meant for a modest nun? I’m not sure “who knew,” but I would say it’s safe to bet certainly not a nun… I’m placing bets on Ms. JCrew/HGTV/Idon’tgetridofanythingever 2016… I bet she knew exactly just how much stuff she could jam in there.
[2] Here’s looking at you, New Mexico. I can safely say I don’t know what happens in that state. It’s just so… barren. And desolate. Now I know why there was a “UFO” citing in Roswell: Because some conniving trickster (who was probably bored to death living in the valley of death) knew no one would want to take the slap in the face that is driving through New Mexico to verify and rat him out. Hence, a conspiracy was born. Well played man. Well played.
[3] Why Dad INSISTED on watching seemingly endless advertisements for “My Pillow” in lieu of the more mainstream and favored option of listening to the radio (I know: Who does that?!) is beyond me. I don’t know why, but I do know that Mom and I will never be the same. Heck, bring back the hail and New Mexico: I consider them welcome friends over the infamous “ My Pillow” [of doom].
[4] This may be a slight embellishment. Only slight, though. You get my point.
[5] Happy dance and Victory March, commence!
[6] I can almost hear the collective sigh of relief that has settled over Tucson since my departure.
[7] For the record, I know this makes me seem crazy, but I promise I don’t actually hear voices. Most of the time…
[8] “I brought you into this world, and I can take you out, blog! Just kidding, I love you, I’m sorry!” All the feels.
[9] I should also mention our mascot is a “viper.” We hiss and everything. Yeah, that happened.
[10] I consider the word “pointless” to be relative here.
[11] They are called rehearsals, not practices. I’m très cultured.
[12] Although I have never seen it, from what I have heard reconciled with what I know about him, I think Mitch has a promising future on “Dance Moms.”
[13] I don’t know if you know this or not, but I “do Zumba.” You may have read about it.
[14] Perceptive. Oh, now you notice things? Where was that skill during the close reading portion of my written exam, hmm?
[15] Notably, since we danced on a Thursday, the vast majority of my freshmen were off campus working at their job sites. They returned to school Friday fully equipped with the knowledge of relived experiences that only modern social media can provide. They celebrated our accomplishments and called me out on my dance moves: “Miss! We saw the tiny jumping one in front and knew it was you!” The “tiny jumping one,” eh? Touché, kiddos. Touché.
[16] Hehe, get it, Adele? “At least I can say that I tried.”
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