Tag: Writing

Of Snow Days and Coming Off the Bench

Featured ~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

I’m sitting in my living room looking out at my snow-covered neighborhood. The temperatures are so low that we’ve only had school twice in the past 10 days, and it seems likely that we won’t have school for the next couple as well. Every educator loves a snow day, but if we’d had this many in my teaching days, I might be getting a little antsy by now. This many days out of school would mean my scope and sequence, my pacing, and my lesson plans would all need adjusting. The plans I wrote for two Thursdays ago would no longer be relevant. The lesson I was going to lead with today would need adjustment before we went back.

However, considering the current circumstances, I am thankful. We’ve missed four days of school out of the last two weeks, and I have been using the time — almost all of that time! — to get caught up and to get ahead.

Why? Because once again I am coming off the bench. The next day we have school, I will be teaching.

Last May I taught what I thought was my last English Language Arts lesson. It probably revolved around revising and proofreading since my seniors were getting ready to submit their final high school paper. My husband, ever thoughtful, sent me flowers to mark the day. He, more than anyone, knew I’d been teaching in one venue or another since the fall of 1988 when I did my student teaching at a high school in Ft. Wayne, Indiana. While not all of those years have been in a classroom –I stepped away once to stay home with my young children then again to recover from a significant health challenge — I have spent almost all of those years teaching, writing, or instructing in one way or another.

When, due to autoimmune disease, I hung up my hat (and gave away all of my teaching gear!) in 2014, I really thought I was finished with the classroom, that I had entered retirement at the age of 48. Last spring, after five years back in the game, I really believed I was moving into the season of instructional coaching and that my days managing a roomful of teens were over. I thought I had secured my spot permanently on the bench.

Both times I was mistaken.

This past fall, I onboarded two certified ELA teachers — exactly what we needed for our small school. One would teach freshmen and seniors, the other would teach sophomores and juniors. I was so excited! Both were experienced; both were people of color! It was like a miracle!

Throughout the fall, since they were on my coaching load, I observed them teaching many times, and met with each one at least weekly. Together we began to build what I hoped would be lasting relationships.

One is getting settled into our culture. One resigned over the holiday.

This is what education looks like right now. We have more classrooms in America than we have teachers, so folks can decide midway through the year to take a different path. It can be liberating for a teacher — to know that if your current setting doesn’t fit, you have options. It can be demoralizing if not devastating for students.

In this case, the sophomores and juniors, who were without a science teacher for most of the fall semester until we found a strong candidate in mid November, are now without an ELA teacher. To complicate matters, the SAT is in less than three months. For the juniors, this the highest-stakes test of their educational career so far, and half of the test focuses on mastery of English Language Arts skills.

How, how I ask you, can we hope to overcome literal centuries of educational inequity for students who routinely experience staffing shortages throughout their educational journey — not to mention inequitable facilities, insufficient supplies, inadequate transportation, poor nutrition, and other realities of institutionalized racism. What can we — those who envision something different for these folks — do?

I came back from the holiday break with a directive (not to mention my own ass-kicking, name-taking internal drive) to support the students through the end of the semester — to make sense of where they are, to grade the work they had completed, to give some kind of a final, and to help as many as possible receive credit for the class. Three weeks and four snow days later — done, done, done, and done.

Somewhere in the course of those weeks, my supervisor communicated that I would be taking over the junior classes in the run-up to the SAT. I was to provide high quality instruction that would prepare these students to do well on that assessment. My internal desire is to also give these students — these kids who have marked time first in their Earth Science class and then in their ELA class — a good experience. I don’t want to merely get them through to the SAT; I want them to fall in love with a book, to learn the power of a growing vocabulary, to see what happens when you write down what you think, to understand the complexity of language and how it can reflect the complexity of our inner lives.

So, when the first snow day happened, I spent the day updating the grade book for these students and unpacking the curriculum I would be teaching. I will admit to a significant case of the grumpies as I began that morning. I might have been muttering under my breath about the audacity of a teacher to leave three weeks before the end of the semester without finalizing grades. I might’ve been clenching my guts in anxiety over how I was going to manage high quality instruction while still being our school’s testing coordinator (managing the SAT, MSTEP, and WIN Work Readiness tests). The neighbors might’ve heard me sputtering for the morning, but when I rounded the corner and moved from cleaning up the mess to planning for instruction, my mood shifted.

I opened up the curriculum for the class, determined I would use the text Their Eyes Were Watching God, purchased the audiobook so my students could hear the rich dialect as they followed along and annotated the text, dug into the unit plan that focuses on “figuring out yourself in a complex society” and I. was. stoked!

The ideas started pouring in. I began to picture the faces of my students engaging with the text, describing for me things that are obscure compared with things that are pervasive. I saw the connections to their lived experience, and I was energized. How would I change the classroom set up, what visual aids would I need? What tools would I use for motivation? How would I begin to build strong relationships? The gears were fully in motion.

And then we had another snow day, so I spent two days of what I thought would be a four-day MLK weekend visiting my mother and then found out that we would have another snow day to make it a five-day weekend! On that day, I prepared a final exam.

When we did have school two days this past week, I spent it giving that final exam, entering grades, and convincing these students who I had not yet taught to turn in one more assignment to get themselves across the finish line.

And then we had another day off for extremely cold temperatures. I used that time, too! Each day I tick a little off my to-do list. I’m not sure how I would’ve gotten all of this done — or how I would’ve mentally made this transition — without the time off from school!

As I finish up this post, snow is falling. Forecasters predict anywhere from 2-7 inches followed by more windchills of -20 degrees. Although no official announcements have been made, I’m going to guess I’ll have the next couple of days at home. I already know how I’m going to use them.

I’m going to audit the grade books of the teachers in our building and close out the semester. Then, I’m going to continue preparing for testing season and getting myself fully prepared for my juniors — they deserve a teacher who has intellectually prepared with them in mind, not someone who has slapped something together on short notice.

I’m thankful for the gift of all this time, and for the years and years of training that have taught me how to use it.

This old girl has still got the moves, kids, so get ready. It’s almost game time!

Before they call I will answer;
    while they are still speaking I will hear. Isaiah 65:24

Would you or someone you know like to come join our team at Detroit Leadership Academy?

Want to help me supply snacks and incentives to my students?

Reply Requested: Singapore and the Archives

Featured ~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

Dear Reader,

I’m breaking from my recent rhythm of ranting about the new year in hopes that you can answer some questions for me. I’ve been writing this blog for going on twelve (12!) years. In the beginning, most of my readers were folks who knew me and who were following my journey through a recent chronic illness diagnosis and my resulting exit from teacher life. I was writing my way through a major transition and my readers were empathizing and cheering me on. Much has changed since then — while I still write about my journey into a healthier existence, I more often write about my life back in the world of education, about current political issues, or about my inner journey to emotional healing. My readership has changed, too!

WordPress has an app where I track my statistics — how many people view a particular post on a given day, what country each reader is from, and what was the referral source. I will admit to being a bit of a data geek, and recently I have noticed an odd trend. In the past few months, the overall activity on my blog has increased — overall views have more than tripled — and it doesn’t seem to be because my recent content has been more engaging, more inspiring, or more colorful. No. When I look at the stats, it seems the increased viewership is coming (at least partially) from abroad and the engagement is with stuff that was written a year, five years, or even twelve years ago!

Most notably, I’ve seen a surge in views from Singapore! Substantial clicks are also originating in India, Germany, and China! This information has me over here scratching my head.

In full transparency, I can locate Germany, India, and China quite easily on a map, but while I’ve heard of Singapore, I definitely needed to go to Google to learn that it’s an island nation off the south of the Malay peninsula (home to Thailand., Cambodia, and Vietnam). While its inhabitants are Chinese, Malay, and Indian, one of its official languages is indeed English, so some folks there can easily read this blog, but why, reader, why would you want to?

Where is Singapore?

What does this middle aged white woman from the United States have to say to you? And, frankly, to those of you from India, Germany, the United Kingdom, and other places around the world? What is resonating? I’m dying to know!

The statistics tell me you are reading those early posts about chronic illness but also posts from the Covid era; about racism but also about minimalism. It looks like you’re interested in my teaching but also my exploration of emotions. Even my readers from the US right now seem less interested in what I’m currently writing and more in the archives.

I’d like to open this up for discussion. Would you be willing to engage with me?

I met with a long-time friend over the weekend for coffee. We’ve known each other most of our lives, but we’ve recently been reconnecting. We talked and talked for a while, as you do when you are catching up. I gave her my “latest” then said, “I think that’s all I have. What’s going on with you?” And, being asked, that dear friend trusted me with part of her story. And, in her sharing, in my sharing, we found areas of connection, of commonality, of shared experience.

So, I’m asking you — where are you from? what’s going on with you? where do you find connection with me? Maybe your responses will lead to a further conversation. I hope so! I know I have something to learn from you!

To share, you could use the comment feature on Word Press, or you could follow this blog on Facebook and comment there. Let’s see what happens, shall we? Maybe someday I’ll even travel to Singapore!

Whether or not you decide to share, thank you for taking the time to engage with my writing.

Life These Days

Featured ~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

The question of the moment around folks my age — and for the record, I’m just shy of 60– is “how much longer do you think you’re gonna work?”

My most frequent response is often something like, “I’m not in a hurry to be done. I love what I do. I hope I can stay at it a while!”

This is, of course, not how everyone feels. Many my age have put in a long, hard 40 or more years of work in jobs and careers that have taken a toll — physically, mentally, relationally, or in other ways that might make a person want to walk away.

Let’s be honest, if you’ve spent 30-40 years on an assembly line — you might be ready for a change of scenery. If you’ve led a corporation and had the weight of the bottom line, personnel challenges, and inventory management on your back, you might be ready to sit by a pool, sipping a cool drink. If you’ve been in a classroom for 40 years — attending to the needs of children, designing instruction, managing behavior, and adapting to continuously changing policies, cultural norms, and learning challenges, you might be ready to just have a day that doesn’t involve managing anything but yourself.

And while I have certainly had my challenges and seasons of disillusionment and burnout, none of those scenarios truly describe me. After working in many different settings over the years, I find myself in a role that feels like a culmination — the place I was intended to arrive at, so I don’t find myself asking how much longer I want to work, but rather: When I look back at all I have learned, what do I have to offer these days?

In the early years — the first 3-5 of my career — bravado carried me past insecurity so that I could survive in situations that were way outside my experience. A middle school special ed classroom in Detroit? No problem for this secondary English major from small town Michigan! A self-contained classroom inside a residential facility teaching not only ELA but also social studies, math, science — I got this! I faked my way through and while I can’t say that my students (or I) won any awards, everyone learned something — including me. I learned about being overwhelmed and about working with limited resources. I learned to lean into the uncomfortable and to try just about anything. Did I occasionally lose my shit and come undone in front of a classroom full of typically behaving students? Sure. Did I also take a van load of Detroit teenagers on a day-long adventure to Ann Arbor? Yes, I did! Did we overfill our day with activities? Absolutely! Did we arrive back to school late after dismissal? We sure did! Did those kids and I have a ball touring a college campus, going to a hands-on museum, and eating at Pizza Hut? Yes! Rookie me swung for the fences, folks.

The bravado only carried me so far into my years at home with my own children. In fact, I think it was day one home from the hospital when I called a friend emergency-style to come save me because nursing wasn’t working out according to plan. I wish I would’ve admitted right there and then that I was clueless about mothering, but faking it until I made it was my theme song, and I just kept singing. Before I knew it, I was sitting on the living room floor with three children of my own, reading stories, learning letters, and playing games. Those days were exhausting and precious to me! We had a lot of fun, but I was making it up as I went along, so I certainly made plenty of mistakes. I pushed myself and the kids way too hard, and I expected way too much, but in continuing to give it everything I had, I learned how to schedule out a day that included learning, adventure, rest, and play; how to turn a few hot dogs and some popcorn into a baseball watching party; and how to get through a puke-filled night with little to no sleep. I learned that I could manage much more than I imagined, that I had a lot of people who were willing to help, and that it wasn’t a weakness to ask them.

When I returned to the classroom the first time, it was to a position that was far bigger than my experience — the English Department Chair and Dual-Enrollment ELA teacher at a small private high school. Not only would I, once again, be faking it ‘til I made it, I would be doing so all day long in a new environment while I was also still —at home — learning how to parent my own children who were in the process of transitioning from childhood to adolescence in a new home in a new city in a new state.The lift in both arenas was immense, but I was gonna make it happen. I learned a curriculum, read dozens of books, short stories, poems, and essays and adapted to a modified block schedule and the world of Apple computers while I also navigated the needs and ever-changing emotions of a family that was struggling to find its footing. For nine years, it seems, I was in constant motion — either preparing to teach, teaching, or grading in one space or cooking, cleaning, driving, scheduling, or otherwise parenting in another. Those years seem like a blur as I look back, probably because I never stopped running.

And then, all the motion came to a halt. Readers of this blog know that those years ended in an autoimmune diagnosis and an exit from the classroom followed by convalescence and a [next chapter] of re-learning how to live which landed me where I am now.

I came into this season humbled by the knowledge that I did I have a limit, and that I did not indeed know everything. When I was offered the position to teach ELA at a small charter high school in Detroit, I was grateful to be in any classroom at all. The fact that it was familiar territory — teaching seniors about college and the skills they would need to be successful — meant that I would NOT have to fake it til I made it. I could just be the authentic me, sharing what I know and loving the students who were in front of me. Granted, I still had much to learn — our school has an instructional model that was new to me, and I would, for the the first time in my career, have a coach, but none of that was overwhelming. In fact, it was comforting to know that I had support and that I wouldn’t have to find all the answers on my own.

That was over five years ago, and now I’m no longer teaching but coaching other teachers who may be in their very first year or nearing their 10th or 20th year. Some of them are faking it until they make it, some are disillusioned, and some are managing a lot in other areas of their lives.

I have a front row seat to their experience and that’s why I’m asking myself this question: What have I learned and what do I have to offer these folks?

I’ve learned that showing up and doing your best goes a long way — even if your best isn’t amazing, it’s likely good enough.

I’ve learned that being brave can lead to remarkable opportunities that change you forever.

I’ve learned that others are willing to support you if you are willing to ask.

I’ve learned that family is much more important than work and that your health needs to take priority over any perceived deadline.

I’ve learned that who I authentically am is much more valuable to my students and the people I love than getting every decision right or accomplishing every task.

I learned these things the hard way over the last many years, and maybe these folks — the people I rub elbows with every day and those that I coach — will have to learn them the hard way, too.

I think what I have to offer right now is the empathy and compassion gained from my own journey. I have a rare opportunity to offer support and encouragement, and the wisdom that comes with each of these gray hairs.

I’ve got perspective — each day is important but no day is definitive.

I’ve got plenty of gas left in the tank to come alongside the members of my team, to see their passion, their frustration, their hope, and their fatigue. If they are willing to keep showing up, I will, too.

Maybe I’ll get a chance to share what I’ve learned. More likely, I, too, will learn something new.

Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom. Psalm 90:12

Capacity

Featured ~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

Did you ever wonder what your capacity is? How much you can truly hold, carry, manage, or deal with? Have you, like me, recently found yourself staring that limit right in the face?

Yesterday, I walked into my principal’s office for a meeting we had scheduled. She was wrapping up a conversation with a student who had lashed out at a classmate because she “just couldn’t do it today” — she couldn’t handle his joking, couldn’t deal with the annoyance.

“Every other day I can just ignore him, but today wasn’t that day.”

“You didn’t have the bandwidth?”

“Nope.”

“I get it. I’m glad you’re talking about it. We all have days when we have reached our limit.”

At the age of nearly 60, I’ve had loads of days where I have reached my limit. When I was a child, I might’ve reached my limit quite quickly — I might have fallen to pieces simply because it was time to leave my grandparents’ house. When I was in high school, like the student above, a classmate’s comments might have pushed me over the edge.

But here’s the thing about life, as you move through it, you build muscle — and capacity — and you are able to manage much more than you ever thought possible. Still, everyone of us can find our limit.

I mean, everyday life can be seemingly at the “this is working” phase — you’ve finally found something that resembles work/life balance. You can meet job demands and also attend to the laundry, meal prep, family needs, and even routine maintenance of the house and the car. In fact, you can also easily manage your role in meeting the ongoing life and healthcare needs of an aging family member. You’re feeling pretty good because you also managed to budget for and schedule your participation at a weekend family vacation/celebration in the first quarter of the school year and you’ve plotted out on the calendar how to keep all systems functioning while you are away.

But then.. just as you are packing your suitcase, a major household system (think HVAC, plumbing, or electrical) has a major issue.

“No problem,” you announce boldly. “We’ve prepared financially and we can deal with it fully when we return.” You’ve been through enough difficult situations in your life that you know this isn’t the end of the world. A frustration? Yes, but meltdown worthy? No.

You merrily leave for the event, and upon your return home just a couple days later, you realize that said major household issue could possibly still be an issue, but it’s late, and you’re tired, so you try to get some sleep.

You wake the next day, to “knock out” a deliverable on a pre-arranged work-from-home day, only to realize it’s not the kind of thing that can indeed be “knocked out” in a day, so you lift up your concern to a supervisor who directs you to “just A, B, and C”, so you spend a few hours doing A, B, and C, and then your supervisor’s supervisor drops into the group chat and says, “No, A, B, and C won’t work. So, I’m just going to complete this deliverable so that you can run with it,” and your face falls flat. You close your laptop and go for a walk.

Did you let your supervisor know that you were annoyed? that it bothered you to spend time on a project that was subsequently dismissed? Did you perhaps have a tone? Did you perhaps register your complaint a bit too strongly and too repeatedly?

Perhaps. But have you hit capacity? Not even close. You can’t even count how many frustrating days you’ve had at work, how many hours you’ve spent on projects, or how many times you’ve had to toss the product of hard work.

However, while you were elbowing your way through your work day, your husband was discovering that the major house issue has actually turned into a much more major house issue involving multiple contractors, several estimates, insurance adjustors, and scheduling.

“Ok,” you say, taking deep breaths, “we are still ok. We’ve gotta keep doing yoga, keep eating right, keep walking, keep writing, but we’re ok.”

Your husband, thankfully, continues to manage most of the house details, while also meeting his own professional responsibilities, and you pinch hit when needed while juggling the demands of yours.

The next weekend arrives and while he stays home to continue project management, you head north to support the aforementioned family member. The weekend is less than demanding, and you catch up on sleep, before returning home in time to eat, rest, and return to work on Monday morning.

The work week starts out typically, but on Tuesday, things start to pile on. The family member needs additional medical tests, you learn the work on the house isn’t scheduled to start until December, and as you leave work, you find yourself driving through a torrential downpour so that you can make an appointment for a routine oil change. After waiting for an hour and managing various pieces of correspondence, you learn from the technician that it’s time to replace the tires and she has prepared you with three separate quotes. You can feel your affect going flat just as you receive a notification on your phone that the storm has caused a power outage at your house.

And that was it.

You hit capacity. You couldn’t talk about it. You couldn’t process it. You had not one shred of bandwidth.

You drove the 20 minutes home in silence, made your way into the house, and plunked into a chair by the window overlooking your husband who was trying to start an uncooperative generator.

You needed food. And sleep. And something to shift.

Somehow, the two of you found your way to a vehicle, drove to a restaurant, ordered food, ate it, and returned home. You had cleaned up and crawled into bed just before the lights came back on and the furnace kicked in.

[Thank God.]

The next day the repair date was moved up to the first week in November.

[Exhale.]

The family member was seen by the doctor and a plan was put in place.

[OK.]

The tire replacement was scheduled.

[We have a plan.]

Just enough shift happened, and somehow, everything seems manageable again.

For now.

Take it from this old head, wherever you are in life, trying times are going to come and test your capacity — you may lose your mind when someone eats a bag of corn chips that were intended for the evening meal, but the experiences of today are building your capacity for the difficulties of tomorrow. And, be assured, tomorrow will certainly have difficulty — maybe just an irritating boy at school, possibly just a flat tire on the way to work, hopefully just a major house system repair that can be done and dusted in the space of a month. We need those light and momentary troubles so that we can manage it when the shit gets particularly real. And that will happen, too, I’m sorry to say. That will happen, too.

And at those times, you may find you have reached capacity — you may find you don’t have words, or reason, or the ability to make a meal. I pray you discover you are not alone or without hope. I pray that something shifts and you find that once again have some capacity.

[Indeed…] in this world you will have trouble, but take heart [I have endless capacity,] and I have overcome the world. John 16:33

It’s complicated

Featured ~ Kristin ~ 1 Comment

The seemingly unintelligle words of hospice — one month, a few days, 48 hours, probably today — all started making sense and then were undeniable. My stepfather took his last breath in the early morning hours last Saturday. In the days that followed, we gathered, made arrangements, gathered again, handled details, cared for our mom, and came to terms with the fact that my stepfather, Roger, is no longer here.

We’re still working on that last part, of course, and for me, the essence of our relationship makes it little complex.

While many found him charming, Roger and I had what was often a prickly relationship. We didn’t agree on hardly anything — politics, the setting on the thermostat, the way to wash dishes, vacuum a floor, wipe off a table, or do just about anything. I found him to be demanding, opinionated, and critical. I often felt great irritation toward him over our 50-year relationship, probably because I always felt that he usurped the position that should’ve been held by my father who I have long-adored and often idolized, likely because he and I haven’t had many opportunities to interact on politics, the thermostat, or dishwashing.

Because of this complicated relationship with Roger, it came as a great surprise to me when I found myself feeling tenderness, compassion, and love for this man as he declined, as he lost his agency, as he forgot where he was, as he was unable to breathe, as he was confined to bed — a man who rarely sat still, who worked and golfed and bowled and rode a motorcycle halfway across the country. I was stunned to watch my heart shift from irritation to caring, advocating for, and comforting this man who has been an annoyance in my life for most of my life.

When my mom married Roger, she had four kids aged 8-14. He had two kids aged 8 and 10. Together there were three boys and three girls — just like the Brady Bunch, which was in vogue at the time. For a few years, the eight of us took vacations together and hung out together, but as we turned into teens and then adults, we were rarely together. In fact, my three birth siblings and I have only managed to all be together on a dozen or so occcasions in the last 30 years, and the six of us “kids” hand’t been together in the same room for close to 40 years before we all gathered on a Monday night for pizza a year ago.

Who knows how this happens — people are busy with their own lives, and if one person doesn’t act with intention, folks never come together. But last year we did, and then, miraculously, Roger took his turn for the worst just as we were scheduled to all be in the same state again this past month.

We all worked together — getting him moved in to assisted living, taking phone calls, running errands, and sitting by his bedside. We took shifts. His daughter, who claimed the overnights, fell asleep holdng his hand that last night, saying, “Good night, Dad. I love you” and reading him the 23rd Psalm.

We crammed in a small room at the funeral home — writing an obituary, picking out flowers, deciding on printed materials, then shared a meal with our mom, who kept saying, “I can’t believe this is happening.”

And then, on Wednesday, we all rolled in — the six kids, and our kids, and even some of their kids. Because of the nature of this complex family, some cousins met each other for the first time. Some nieces and nephews met their aunts and uncles for the first time.

Families can be like this, can’t they? Frustrations can lead to fractures and before you know it, you’re meeting your brother’s kids for the first time, marveling at their kids, and watching your own kids (and nieces) interact with their new-found family with curiosity and grace.

I probably won’t ever understand the complexity of Roger — why he was the way he was — but I can celebrate the fact that despite my irritation with him, he remained invested. He cared for my mom to the end (even if that in itself was complicated) and he cared for all of us in his own way, too.

Mom and Roger married when I was 10, and maybe because of “ew — cooties” or that previously mentioned loyalty to my dad, I rarely let Roger touch me — not a hug or a pat on the back, let alone a kiss on the cheek. So imagine my surprise when near the end, I found my hands on his waist steadying him, or when I agreed to scrub his back when he couldn’t shower himself, or when he grasped my hand to say goodbye, or when I kissed his head to reassure him when he was afraid.

We don’t know the love we have inside of us that is sometimes buried under hurt or anger or a little girl’s longing for her actual dad, but it is there, and it surfaces when it matters — when you need to sit beside a hospital bed, empty a urostomy bag, or say “I’m sorry this is what’s happening right now. I know you want it to be different.”

It doesn’t mean I don’t love my dad or that you could ever take his place. It means that I saw you show up and hang in there, even when I found you to be annoying, critical, demanding, and cootie-infested.

It’s complicated, that’s true. Much of life is.

Rest well, Roger, I’m pretty sure it was complicated for you, too.

Love one another. John 13:34

Here’s the thing(s)…

Featured ~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

*A quick note, sources and resources are linked in the text.

I’ve been kind of quiet in this space lately. It’s May, and I’ve only posted six times so far this year. For a girl who posted almost daily when this blog began, six times in four months is virtually silent.

But here’s the thing….

Just kidding…there isn’t one thing that is keeping me from putting words on the page (or rather the screen)…it’s more like a steady stream of things that seem to keep coming at me (at you?) in such a way that I can’t really focus. I can’t keep my eyes on one thing for long enough to form a thought, let alone an opinion.

At work, I’m down to just a few weeks with my seniors, and their excitement/ambivalence/annoyance would be a lot to process and respond to on its own, but we’ve also had Family Conferences and Decision Day. Each of these events takes a team effort to prepare for and execute. (You know the drill — communications, set up, station assignments, and the running of the actual event, and although neither is my responsibility, I am a member of the team.) I also have had the responsibility this year to recognize students of the month (one for each teacher in the building) and honor roll recipients. This entails identifying honorees, pulling them from class for a photo, and sending those photos to someone — preferably not myself — to have them loaded into a Canva document before they are printed out and posted in the hallways. In addition to all of this “normal” school activity, the authorizer of our school charter is visiting us this week for an educational program review that we learned about just several weeks ago. Such a visit, like school accreditation, requires the submission of countless artifacts such as lesson plans, IEPs, coaching trackers, professional development documents, etc. I was part of a team that pulled all those together and submitted them electronically. This past week leadership and staff met to prepare for the visit that will be spread over three days — all while school is in session, you know, the actual teaching and learning part. Spring is always busy at school, but this year is exceptionally so.

At home, things are a bit more relaxed –we have no major repairs pending, and we’re happily in the midst of installing our garden — but if home life includes extended family, then I have to disclose that my mother and stepfather have had some pretty difficult challenges for all of 2025 that just right now seem to be stabilizing if you don’t mention the fact that at least one of them is recently ready to start exploring assisted living facilities, which takes the coordination of six adult children to do lots of fact finding. I would also be remiss if I did not mention that my dear Aunt Margaret, after many years of relative health, has taken a sudden and recent decline.

All of this is, of course within the realm of “normal” adult life. You have also had busy seasons at work and at home — they come and they go — and although they are at times taxing to navigate, we somehow make it through to the other side in time for the next wave of whatever it is that is coming.

But these are not the things that are blurring my focus. No, they take time, of course, and energy, but they are manageable. I think what has me off balance may have many of us off balance — the continuous stream of government actions that may or may not impact us directly, but nevertheless are jarring to the brain and that lead us, at least me, to at times retreat, to dissociate, to not want to process or deal with any of it.

In 2018, presidential strategist Stephen K. Bannon bragged about that administration’s strategy to “flood the zone” with initiatives. The idea was to roll out a constant flow of orders and directives to throw “the opposition” (you know, other Americans) off balance so that they could not respond (Source). Since that administration regained the presidential office this past January, this strategy is being used again, only to the nth degree.

In the first 100 days of this administration (in just under four months) we have been overwhelmed by actions such as: the pardoning of those who invaded the US capitol on January 6, 2020; the freezing of funds for cancer research, Meals on Wheels, and disaster relief; the implementation of tariffs on every country in the world, the pause in tariffs, the subsequent roll-back of said tariffs, and currently, the exponentially high tariffs on China (which will certainly impact most of us); the firing of countless federal employees followed by the attempt to rehire some of them; the withholding of funds to public universities who refuse to comply with the administration’s agenda; the deportation of countless immigrants, some whom are legal residents, with some being sent to foreign prisons; the continuing and hard to follow involvement in the ongoing conflicts in Israel/Gaza and Russia/Ukraine; the president’s attendance at the funeral of the Pope followed by his posting of an image of himself dressed as the pope on social media; and this is just scratching the surface (Source). You might be shouting at me right now, “what about the…[fill in the blank].”

Frankly, I’ve got to look at what is happening on the national scene through a peep hole with one eye covered. I can’t look at it in full — and that’s exactly the idea. This administration is using the everything, everywhere, all at once strategy to keep us all in this state of slack-jawed disbelief.

And that is where I find myself, only I’ve moved from stunned to numb. I feel detached from reality, not wanting to engage because I can’t keep up. But that is what this administration has said it wants — to “flood the zone” so that we become overwhelmed.

But here’s the thing — the actual thing — we can’t do that.

We can walk away. We can take breaks. We can sit for two hours after a long day and work on a 1000-piece puzzle depicting van Gogh’s “Irises”, or take a walk through the park plucking lilac sprigs, inhaling their beauty on a glorious spring day, or lose track of time choosing the latest fiction from the library shelves, or binge-watch “The Four Seasons” on Netflix, but then we’ve got to re-engage.

We’ve got to notice the actions that are being proposed — such as cuts to education, to PBS, to NPR!! — we’ve got to let our voices be heard — through letter writing, phone calling, boycotting or participating in peaceful protests. What we tolerate, what we look away from, what we allow — these are the things we accept.

And, overwhelmed though I might be, I cannot accept funding cuts to public education — not when I see the inequities that already exist. I cannot accept the devaluing of other humans — not immigrants, not members of the LGBTQ+ community, not minorities, not women, not anyone. I cannot accept that as the profits of billionaires increase their taxes are not commensurate, especially not at the expense of the poor. I cannot accept a disregard for the fragility of the environment — when we know better we have to do better.

We are indeed looking at a flood of issues, and each of us also has our own life to manage. None of us can stop a flood alone, but we can each do our part — we can warn the others, we can grab a bucket and start bailing, we can plug a hole, we can help those who are drowning.

Together we can weather a flood.

Beloved, let us love one another. 1 John 4:7

Re-post: For a Pair of Shoes

Featured ~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

**I wrote this is Spring of 2024, and here we are in Spring of 2025. Track season started Monday, and we have a handful of kids who need running shoes. If you would like to contribute, an address is at the end of this post, or you can choose to reach out via message.

I’d been watching the girls’ basketball team all season — from the first game of their first season ever, where very few showed any evidence of having played the game before, where one girl received a “traveling” call for carrying the ball football-style while running down the court, where our players froze in place as the other team stole the ball, where the referees pulled our girls aside to teach them the rules in the middle of the game. From that game forward, I had been encouraging the girls, both on the court and in the hallways, letting them know I was seeing their progress. They were not only learning the game –the skills, the rules, and the strategies — they were also building confidence, stamina, and resiliency.

Many on the team were girls I had had the previous year in my reading intervention class. They had been freshmen– freshmen who had spent most of middle school on Covid lock-down, freshmen who had missed some social development experiences, freshmen who had very little capacity to manage challenge, difficulty, or conflict. So when I saw them during that first game, barely hitting double digits on the score board, I wondered if they would make it the whole season. Could they take the losses they would certainly face? Could they [and their coach] see this for what it was — a building year. Could these young women show up every day, practice the basic skills of basketball, and arrive at the end of the season better for it?

Only time would tell.

But here I stood at the end of the season, watching this same group of girls prepare for one of the last games. As the other team was rolling into the building, our girls were practicing an inbounding strategy while the coach called cues from the sideline. The girl with the ball slapped it loudly, and the four on the floor quickly shifted to their new positions to receive the thrown in ball. I stood on the sidelines, recording the scene on my phone, grinning with pride.

I was there to sell concessions, so I was in a little room at the corner of the gym with one eye on the game and one eye on my concession window, when I noticed that one of the players, the center, was shuffle-jogging down the court. I had noticed that she wasn’t a very fast runner earlier in the season, but I had assumed it was as fast as she could move given that she was about 5’10” and probably close to 200 pounds or that she simply didn’t have the stamina to run up and down the court for an entire game. Being the first season, the team only had about ten team members total, and typically only six or seven of them were eligible to play on any given day. Whoever showed up typically played all four quarters — that’s a lot of running for anyone, even those who are are in top physical shape.

But for some reason on this day when I noticed her shuffle jogging, my eyes moved toward the floor and I noticed that her shoes appeared to be untied. When I looked a little closer, it appeared that they were not actually untied, but in a permanently knotted state of floppiness. She could neither tie nor untie them., so the laces flopped as she ran, and the shoes, a pair of high tops that appeared to have seen some days on and off the court, seemed to be of little support in her efforts to improve her pace.

Is this the pair of shoes she’s been wearing all season? Why didn’t I notice this before?

Now look, every day at my school I see need. I see students who need food, who need new clothing, who need a haircut, personal hygiene supplies, pens, pencils, or even a water bottle, but this pair of shoes got to me.

This girl, who against all odds shows up for school every day, goes to basketball practice every day, has a C average, and dares to put herself in front of an audience of classmates, teachers, and parents, has been doing so inside sneaker head culture where the shoes on your feet can be linked to your status, your belongingness, or your ridicule. (It would take another whole post to examine the complexity of sneaker head culture within the context of high poverty neighborhoods, so let me just say that yes, a student may have brand new Jordans and still experience housing insecurity or food insecurity. It is what it is.)

This girl, despite her classmates’ comments and/or ridicule, has enough grit and determination to continue to show up on the court in these beat up kicks for the entirety of the season. That should tell you something about her.

So, I’m standing, watching the game from the concession stand, a game in which an adult in the stands got in an insult contest with one of our sophomores that escalated into a fist fight that DID NOT disrupt the game play — nope, our girls kept right on playing as security officers wrangled a punching mass of bodies out of the gym–a game in which they were down by double digits, came back to tie and go into overtime, a game where they lost by two points at the buzzer, and I’m taking in the wonder of these young ladies who could barely bounce a ball at the beginning of the season, who were making eye contact and passing, who were boxing out under the boards, and I’m understanding the impact of it all on their development — their ability to overcome difficulty, their ability to stay the course, their ability to trust themselves in difficult times.

I was overwhelmed.

A couple weeks later, after the season had ended and track season was getting started, the same group of girls was walking down the hallway, headed to practice.

“Ya’all on the track team?” I asked.

“Yes, of course!” they replied.

“Excellent!” I said.

“Are you going to come to our meets?”

“Definitely!”

And during this quick exchange, I noticed that all of the girls had on the same shoes they had worn to run up and down the basketball court all season — including that beat up pair of high tops.

And something inside me snapped.

A few minutes later I saw the track coach, “Hey,” I said discreetly, ‘I notice that K’s shoes are not really appropriate for track. I’d be happy to anonymously fund a new pair for her. Is there a way to make that happen?”

“I’ll figure out a way,” she said.

A few days later, I mentioned the situation to our athletic director. “I don’t know how many students you have that could use running shoes or spikes for track, but if I gathered a few hundred dollars, could you put it to use?”

“I would love that,” she replied. “Let me take a little inventory and see how many pair of shoes we need.”

So here I am telling this story, friends, because this is what I know how to do. I know how to tell you that having athletics is transformational for all kids — but for my students, who have experienced poverty and trauma beyond what I can imagine, who have every reason to give up hope for a brighter future for themselves, sports can offer an opportunity to practice navigating low stakes wins and losses and build the muscle they need to weather bigger wins and losses outside of sports. For my students, the power of athletics is essential.

My school is doing what it can to build programs. Two years ago, the only sports we offered were boys’ basketball, football, and cheerleading. Last year we added track. This year we added girls’ volleyball and basketball. In the fall, we hope to have a cross country team.

Teachers show up to coach, to run a clock, and to sell concessions because we see the impact of these programs on the educational engagement and morale of our students. If they aren’t passing classes, they don’t get to play, so they get more invested in their classes. When they are invested in their classes, they learn more, their grades improve, and they have more opportunity for their future.

It’s not hard to connect the dots between athletic programs and successful adulthood. We’ve known this for decades. All students should have access to programs that lead to a hopeful future, and they should have everything they need to participate in such programs.

So I’m asking, friends. I’m asking you for help — again. If you love sports, if you love kids, if you have an insufferable belief in transformation, please consider joining me in building an Athletic Shoes Fund for my students. Funds will be used to provide athletic shoes for students like K who cannot otherwise purchase their own.

Email me at krathje66@gmail.com for details on how to give or simply send a check with “DLA Athletic Shoes Fund” in the memo line to Detroit Leadership Academy 5845 Auburn Street, Detroit, MI 48228.

And if this isn’t your project to give to, I hope you’ll keep cheering us on as I keep on sharing our stories.

Why boycott?

Featured ~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

Note: If you are listening to this blog post, several links are embedded in the print if you are interested in reading further.

Many years ago, not long after I met my husband, we began discussing a topic I’d never really considered before — boycotting. As I’ve mentioned here before, I grew up in a family that rarely, if ever, discussed politics. I remember when the Watergate hearings were on TV, but I have no shred of memory of how my parents felt about Nixon or the scandal. I have no idea, even, how they voted..

So when I met my husband, it was a little surprising to hear open political discussions — in the back yard, over dinner, on a car ride — about elections, of course, but much more specific issues such as unions, public assistance, and even (gasp!) abortion.

When I learned that in my husband’s family everyone drove American made cars or were required to park across the street when visiting, it made sense to me. My father-in-law was a retiree of General Motors and brand loyalty mattered. However, when my husband said he didn’t want to shop at Walmart, I had to ask why. He explained that Walmart was anti-union, and as a child of an autoworker, he had learned the power of the union to protect and support workers. He preferred not to support a company that wouldn’t allow its employees to organize. I didn’t feel passionately about it at the time, but I could get behind it.

As the years have passed, I’ve learned more about how Walmart underpays its employees while the owners become billionaires, I’ve grown my own distaste for the company and have shopped elsewhere. (This Time article chronicles some of Walmart’s journey including attempts they have made — under pressure from boycotting! — to improve.)

Of course, Amazon is similar in its practices. While it has made moves to reform, well-documented accounts cite drivers not being able to stop on their routes to use the bathroom and how they adapt to this expectation by carrying urine receptacles in their vehicles or by wearing disposable undergarments. Other accounts cite unpaid overtime, unsafe working conditions, and low wages, all while corporate profits rose to $88 Billion in the first quarter of 2025.

Amazon, Walmart, and other large companies are known for using employees — many of whom are low income and/or people of color — working them just up to the number of hours that don’t require them to pay benefits like insurance and sick leave and hiring for “provisional” employment and firing before the employee qualifies for permanent status. As a result, many employees of these companies remain on state and federal assistance while their CEOs pay a lower tax rate than the average American.

I have seen many of my students lured into jobs at Walmart, Amazon, and McDonald’s, promised pay raises, promotions, and an actual future, only to realize just weeks or months later that they had been misled.

So, what’s a middle-aged, middle-income woman like me supposed to do? How can I show that I don’t stand for this kind of corruption, that I don’t agree with these unfair practices? I vote with my purse. I’ve been doing this for years — avoiding companies that I don’t want to support and purchasing from those that I do. For many years this has been an isolated act that helps me feel like I have integrity. I doubt that I’ve made much impact, but I’ve slept better at night.

But this year, in 2025, anything can happen! All kinds of everyday people, using the engine of social media, can rise up and say, “You’re not getting our money!” If you take away your DEI programs, “you’re not getting our money.” If you won’t pay your employees a fair wage, “you’re not getting our money.” If you stand behind causes that harm our fellow Americans, “you are not getting our money.”

In 2025, I am not standing alone! People across the country are cancelling their Prime memberships and refusing to shop at Target, Amazon, Walmart, and other retailers. Last weekend, many refused to spend any money at all for 24 hours. This week, thousands are abstaining from Amazon purchases, and this is just the beginning!

Organizations like the People’s Union have coordinated efforts to systematically send a message to corporations that will hurt their bottom line without jeopardizing the jobs of those who currently work for these entities.

And the beauty of this protest is that it doesn’t cost anything, you don’t have to go anywhere, no one gets hurt, and if you don’t like it, you get to make your own choices. That’s what is great about living in the United States — we still have the freedom to say what we want, to spend what we want, and to support what we want.

For me, that means speaking up about inequity wherever I see it — in education, in health care, in commerce.

Now, I’m sure I still spend money, unwittingly, at businesses that have practices that don’t jive with my guiding principles, and if I learn about them, I will shift. It’s as easy as that.

What do I hope to accomplish? I truly hope the combined efforts of all those who are shifting their buying habits (some sources say 24% of Americans so far in 2025) will get the attention of these corporate giants and they will begin to change some of their policies. I think this could happen, because although the pen is mightier than the sword, money is what really talks.

If this movement can sustain itself long enough for these large corporations to notice changes in their quarterly earnings, we just might get their attention. And if we get their attention, they may hear our message — you can’t abuse people and still get our business.

It’s a small action of many that stands up for those whose voices are not being listened to; it’s an expectation that in a country that professes that all are created equal, that all would be given equal opportunity. Period

That’s reason enough for me to boycott.

uphold the cause of the poor and the oppressed; rescue the weak and the needy;
    deliver them from the hand of the wicked. Psalm 82:3-4

Home On Their Own

Featured ~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

I’m at my parents’ house this weekend. I’ve been here quite a bit in 2025. In their early 80s, they have been having health issues for years, but this is the first year that we’ve seriously considered that living on their own might be just beyond their reach, especially since my mother fell and broke her femur last month.

However, nothing convinced my mother that she wants to stay in her own home more than two and a half weeks in hospitals and rehab. Although (or perhaps because) she worked in a hospital for over 40 years, she does not like being a patient, particularly not one who can’t get out of her bed unassisted.

So, she learned how to get up by herself, how to use a walker, how to transfer into the shower using a special bench, and how to pull on pants healing-leg-first. She allowed my brothers to carry her in a chair up the seven stairs into her house and acquiesced to hiring a home health aide to come to the house for four hours five days a week.

That lasted one week.

Having allowed this aide to make her breakfast, do her laundry, and clean her floors, my mother has determined that having her just two days a week will be adequate. She and my stepfather can manage the rest of the time on their own.

My husband continues to remind me that our parents are adults and can make their own decisions. And I’m working hard to stand back and let them.

It’s a little like parenting teenagers except I’m older and a little wiser. I think I know better than my parents, but I’m trying to be willing (along with my five siblings who seem much less controlling than I am) to let them call the shots and, as my oldest sister says, “let the changes be their idea”.

She’s right, of course.

When I look at my mother and her fierce determination to be at home and take care of herself, I know that I will be just like her in 20 years or so. I won’t want my kids calling the shots. I will need to see for myself when I’m out of my depth, and I’ll want to be the one to yell “help” when, and only when, I’m about to sink.

I don’t want them to get there, of course. I don’t want to watch my parents flounder, but who I am to determine how much struggle they can manage? Who am I to say when enough is enough?

I’m just a kid looking on, watching my parents navigate their reality.

And right now their reality looks like side by side rocker recliners in front of the TV watching cooking shows, Perry Mason, football, Jeopardy, and Wheel of Fortune. It looks like excitement over a chocolate shake or a delivered chicken chimichanga. It looks like rearranging the furniture to accommodate walkers and canes and oxygen machines. It looks like my brothers and sister-in-law dropping by several times a week to bring in mail and groceries, to pay bills, to manage household maintenance, and to simply check in. It looks like me coming on weekends to work on projects, to problem-solve, and to bear witness.

What it doesn’t look like right now is me taking charge, me kicking butts, me taking names.

It looks more compassionate than that — more understanding — more loving. It looks like running to Meijer two days in a row to get the items that weren’t on the list my sister-in-law took with her the day before. It looks like picking up a McDonald’s milkshake at 2pm and a Wendy’s Frosty at 5pm because I was asked and someone who is all but confined to a recliner doesn’t need my judgment. It looks like bringing all the towels in the house to the living room so that my mom can sit in a chair and identify which towels go upstairs, which go downstairs, and which go to the rag pile. It looks like making a pot of chili, instant chocolate pudding, and scrambled eggs and toast– “I’ll take mine with strawberry jelly.”

For a while last night I sat with my mom on the edge of her bed showing her how to operate the television my brother installed — how to use the remote, how to access Netflix, how to navigate with the Roku to watch her regular shows. She did a lot of nodding then asked me to write it down step by step, which I did. I placed the instructions, laminated with packing tape, on her bedside table under the remotes.

This morning I found them sleeping side by side in their recliners. Evidence suggests that my mom tried to sleep in her bed but just couldn’t get comfortable and so carried her pillow back to the chair where she finally nodded off. They were still sitting their unmoved at 11am when I finally decided to make them some breakfast, deliver their meds, and load my things into the car before my trip home.

My exit was made easier because my brother and his family showed up. I didn’t have to leave them alone in their chairs, even if I did know that that would be their eventual reality. I got to leave believing they were in good hands, not worrying if one of them would fall, if they would forget their meds or my stepfather’s breathing treatment.

I called, of course, when I got home. My mom picked up and said, “hold on a minute, let me get to my chair.” I felt myself get tossed into the bag attached to the front of her walker, heard the step-slide as she crossed the floor, and, moments later, she said, “OK, what’s up?”

I knew she’d have to get back out of her chair to heat up dinner, to change into pajamas, to go to the bathroom. I knew it was gonna be a struggle every step of the way.

Everything is going to be a struggle for a while, but they want to give it a try.

This is me trying to be ok with that.

Honor your father and mother. Exodus 20:12

In 2025…anything is possible

Featured ~ Kristin ~ 1 Comment

The turn of a calendar page, particularly from December to January over the line of a year, can signal a fresh beginning. We can get our hopes up that this year life will be different — the bills will all get paid, the friends will all get together, our health will improve, and we’ll witness less violence. But we weren’t even to the dawn of the first day of 2025 when we were reminded that terror still exists; we weren’t two solid weeks into this new year before we had to admit that tragedy will still come. Grief will be part of 2025 just as it was part of 2024.

It’s not what we want — we who make resolutions, who join gyms, who buy dot planners, who clean out our closets. We don’t want to read that teenagers were killed as they celebrated, that houses of thousands have burnt straight to the ground. We don’t want our loved ones to be sick, our friends to be overwhelmed, or ourselves to have anxiety about the future.

But reality is what we have. Our parents are admitted to the hospital, a strained relationship marches right into the new year, an appliance breaks down, work stress increases over night, and you suddenly notice a crack in your windshield.

Turning the page on a calendar isn’t magic. No. It’s just a moment in time.

So, shall we throw our hands in the air? give up hope? trudge on knowing that there’s nothing we can do?

You already know that’s not what I’m about here. You know I’m the one with an insufferable belief in restoration. You know I believe the pain could go away, the relationships could be renewed, the bills will get paid. You never know — your savings might grow in 2025. Your appliance might start working again. You just might figure out that impossible issue at work.

But it won’t happen just because you turned the page on a calendar. No. You might have to take action. You might have to start exercising and do the PT they showed you how to do. You might have to forgive someone and change your own behavior. You might have to stop buying that bougie coffee you love so much and put that money in the bank. You might have to call a repairman. You might have to ask for help.

We don’t love asking for help — we who like to pull ourselves up by our own bootstraps, we who kick butts and take names, we who take pride in getting shit done. We like managing things on our own, thank you very much.

We don’t love interruptions to our routine — broken equipment, illness, accidents. We like things to go as planned.

But in 2025, just like in all the years before, interruptions will happen. The sink will get clogged, a copier will get jammed, and the traffic will back up. In those moments, you might find a solution on your own, but you might have to network as a team with a spouse, a sibling, a coworker, a qualified professional.

Or, you may just have to wait it out.

But friends, don’t lose heart. Things are not worse than they have ever been. Nope. Since the dawn of time, the struggle has been exceptionally real. And people just like us have found a way to come together, to find solutions, to face the unexpected, to overcome difficulty, to not lose hope.

I am not sure how they did it in days of yore — I’ve heard tales of women gathering over quilts, of dinner parties where folk discussed issues and devised strategies, of community organizing in dusty offices under glaring light. I’ve read of sweeping movements that have made dramatic change in the culture, in policy, in the everyday lives of people.

I don’t know if I have the steam for all that, but I do have what it takes to get out of bed every morning, to write a few words on the page, to practice yoga, and to put this hopeful hunk of flesh in my car, drive 30 minutes east, and show up for my students. And, I can also find the wherewithal, when the unexpected happens, to pivot. When a call comes early in the morning, I can point my vehicle in a different direction and show up for my family.

I think that’s what I am bringing to 2025 — the knowledge that things are going to be as they always have been and the willingness to keep showing up anyway.

My goal is to show up without judgment and full of hope.This is the challenge, isn’t it? to show up without an attitude, without preconceived notions of what others should or should not be doing, with a heart that says anything is possible. Already this year I have shown up once or twice annoyed, irritated, and wringing my hands — this would all be different if only they would …fill in the blank.

But it’s still January, and I can’t expect to be hitting my goal with 100% accuracy from the jump.

It wouldn’t be a goal if I could already do it.

So here’s to 2025 — may we keep showing up full of hope. After all, anything truly is possible.

May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in Him. Romans 15:13