Facebook Told Me...

Facebook Told Me...

By Erin Coulter

You're depressed.

I get it.

Another desperate plea for attention.

You your life!

Uh-huh. 

A vulgar display of pretended perfection.

You're a star.

Sure you are. 

Of a reality show created by you.

But use caution

Because often

Truth, when created, is simply untrue.

Use care

When you share.

Because here words and images become your reflection.

And, if wise,

You'll realize

That we're all here in search of a human connection. 

Comfort and Joy

Top Five Reasons This Christmas is Awesome

5.  As we cuddled up in front of the computer to watch Owen's personalized video message from Santa, he was at first surprised and then a little taken aback by the fact that Santa was calling him by name.  However, as the video progressed, there was a genuine look of wonder on his little face that brought a lump to my throat and a tear to his dad's eye.  This year, Santa is perhaps as real as he'll ever be for Owen, and it's so much fun. 

See Owen's Santa Video Here. 
 

4.  It's been a few years since I felt the need to wield a cookie cutter, but after re-instituting the Fife holiday cookie baking tradition at Grandma's house, there's been no lack of treats this season.  We may have sprinkled and frosted ourselves into a larger pants size, but that's just another reason to buy a new pair of stretchy pants.  And, really, life IS better when your pants are stretchy. 

 

There are at least 6 ornaments on this
especially "boo-tiful" branch.

3.  Even though I was nervous about allowing Owen to hang my highly prized, antique glass ornaments on the tree all by himself, I managed to suppress my Type A tendencies enough to make the tree decorating a family affair.  Sure, there were a few ornament casualties, and the bottom third of the tree is a little more heavily decorated than the top, but my spacial issues are put to rest each evening when I turn on the Christmas tree lights and Owen reminds me that, "Oh!  It's Boo-tiful!"

2.  Trying to navigate the grocery store with my child in tow is an especially harrowing experience during the holiday season.  Having a well thought-out list and a secret lollipop stashed away for use as anti-meltdown collateral gives me the confidence I need to get in the door.  Inevitably, though, around aisle five, the lollipop begins to lose its luster and the cart becomes a little too confining for Owen.  It's usually at that point that I also realize that I forgot to get an apple from aisle one and missed the black olives in aisle two.  At that point, I start to sweat.  The rest of the trip becomes a blurry dash to the checkout line.  By the time I unload the cart at the register (and take stock of all the items I missed on my list), my annoyance level is a code red, and that's when I notice Owen's tiny voice behind me.  He's quietly checking out the impulse buys that are stacked neatly beside the counter and entertaining himself by singing the world's cutest rendition of "Have A Holly Jolly Christmas," and suddenly I can't help but feel merry and bright.  

1.  And this is all I need to keep me warm for the rest of the winter.   

 

Merry Christmas!!!!

Noise Solution

Sometimes I get overwhelmed by noise.  When I'm confronted with too much of it, I can feel my body and brain physically react.  Too many different noises at once will literally set my teeth on edge and cause my jaw and neck muscles to tighten as I work harder to concentrate.  My intolerance for background noise is weird because I consider myself fairly proficient when it comes to multi-tasking.  I can cook a grilled cheese sandwich, sweep the kitchen floor, and update my Facebook status all at the same time; I can grade an essay, shoot off an email to a co-worker, and make a mental lesson plan in the five minutes before school starts.  I can do lots of things all at once, except when it comes to listening. 

When a grown-up conversation is interrupted with incessant pleas from my three-year-old for "more juice," my ability to communicate shuts down until I can appease the child and restart the conversation.  In a classroom full of high school students, many of whom are somehow still unfamiliar with the concept of raising one's hand, I've been known to loudly and forcefully call for a moratorium on talking when my attention is being pulled in too many different directions.  My hatred for shopping is probably linked to my noise aversion; loud music piped through speakers and other shoppers attempting to talk over top of it sends me from zero to annoyed in a matter of seconds.  In the event that I have to grocery shop with my child in tow, my ability to concentrate is so compromised that I'm lucky to make it out of the store with ingredients for one complete meal, and I'm sure my hatred for my cell phone also has something to do with this pesky noise issue of mine. 

I feed my need for quiet whenever and wherever I can.  My drive home from work is usually radio-free, allowing for fifteen minutes of noise detox that I so desperately crave after a typical day of work; I shudder at the thought of how many more detox miles I'd have to accrue if I taught elementary instead of high school students.  Sometimes during lazy winter evenings, Neil will watch the news while Owen watches a movie on the portable DVD player, and I am compelled to retreat to the kitchen to tackle a sink full of dishes.  While I do like to clean (I know, I know.  I have issues), it's not the act of washing dishes that makes me feel better; it's the sound of the water coming out of the faucet, drowning out the din of the dueling televisions with a white noise that soothes me and allows my brain to begin functioning normally again.  Two of the most relaxing hours I spent last summer were on a lawn mower, mowing the grass at my grandma's farm.  Yes, the noise of the mower overshadowed the quiet sounds of nature, but there was something beautiful about the consistent hum of the machine as its static growl allowed me two hours of uninterrupted time with my own thoughts.  

I cannot understand people who are uncomfortable with silence.  Perhaps they are better equipped to deal with the life's noise, but, for me, quiet time is essential to my well-being.  When I teach my students about Henry David Thoreau and his experiment with simplifying his life by retreating from society to live at Walden Pond, I feel a secret sort of kinship with him.  Henry went out alone so he could "reduce life to its lowest terms" and "live deliberately."  While I don't identify with Thoreau's need to abandon modern luxuries and commune with nature (ewwwww...nature), I do understand why he needed to simply retreat for a while in order to figure life out. 

Thoreau's two-year excursion to Walden Pond was pretty hardcore;  as a person whose wellspring of happiness is filled almost exclusively by home and family, I can't identify with a need for complete isolation.  I'd happily settle for a monthly excursion to Walden Pond for two hours of uninterrupted porch time, though.  That would be enough.  I'm sure there will come a time when I will miss the clamor that's created by working and family and the routine of everyday, but for now I'll steal and savor my moments of silence whenever I can because it is during those moments, when my thoughts slow down and my brain catches up, that I remember the importance of appreciating the noise. 

Moseyasaurus

There’s something about a kid in a Halloween costume that always makes me choke up a little, and since I’m not the weepy type, I’m not really sure why. Maybe it’s the costumed cuteness, or perhaps it’s the excitement that is reflected in the eyes of a child peering out from behind a little mask. But mostly I think it’s because Halloween is simply the best, most purely joyful holiday. Halloween lacks the schedule that is associated with most special occasions. There aren't multiple family gatherings to attend, no religious services or taking time out to focus on the real meaning; It’s fabulously fanfare-free, the ultimate goal to assume a fake identity and rake in truckloads of tasty treasure. And last year I saw it all through the eyes of a toddling green dinosaur.

Witches, Disney princesses, Transformers, and ghouls of all makes and models braved the crisp fall air and populated the sidewalks of downtown Canton on Halloween. As we made our way around the square to collect treats from the various merchants and vendors, I walked backwards through the throng of trick or treaters in an effort to capture video footage of my little dino’s first independent trick or treating experience. Dragging his dino tail behind him, he warily approached the first vendor, and after just a little coaxing, uttered his first official “trick or treat.”

His request was greeted with a shiny red lollipop, which he immediately tore open and deposited in his mouth. He enjoyed it so much, in fact, that he had little interest in acquiring more candy. While other children clamored to the next stop, my dino’s floppy dino-feet shuffled slowly along the concrete sidewalk, his blue pumpkin candy container swinging happily from one hand, red lollipop grasped firmly in the other.

He set his pace to mosey, stopping periodically to gaze at the streetlights that were beginning to flicker, or to carefully study the scraping sound that his blue plastic pumpkin made as it bounced and scratched against the surface of one of the tall brick buildings that line the downtown district. He quietly observed the other ghosts and goblins as they zoomed past him in their frenzied quest for more sugar, and the round face that shone out from behind his dino facade wore an expression of perfect, happy contentment.

He was warm inside his furry dino exterior; he had his favorite sticky snack and was still too young to understand that he had not yet reached an acceptable Halloween candy quota. Our little Moseyasaurus had no place to be, and no place he would rather be, besides on an evening walk with the two most important people in his two-year-old life. And it was a rare moment of simple perfection, and in our tiny Coulter circle on that busy city sidewalk, Halloween had never been sweeter.

The Ripple Effect: Part II

Last time I witnessed the ripple effect was during the strike at Illini Bluffs High School.  As a teacher on the line I felt like the rock that had disturbed the smooth surface of the water, and from my unique vantage point, I watched from the center as the ripples widened, floated away from me, and disrupted the placid indifference of my adopted community.  We continue to tread water at Illini Bluffs, but today I find myself in a new position.  Today I'm floating, unnerved and unbuoyed, in a new set of ripples. 

The past week has been a slow goodbye to one of our own.  For the second year in a row, I stood in front of my students and delivered the heart-breaking news that we'd lost another member of our family.  I have done my best to comfort students; I've cried with them, and I've sat in classrooms full of teenagers who have been shocked into silence as they learn how to navigate their grief.  As teachers, we watched as another piece of their childhood eroded away, and it has left us heartsick.  As a mother, I have wept for the lost child and for his shattered family who are left behind to find the strength to make all their pieces fit together again. 

In the ten years I've been involved in my school's community, I've found that there are two cliches about small town life that hold true:  Word travels quickly, and it seems that everyone is related by either blood or marriage to everyone else in town.  You would be hard-pressed to find a community member that isn't touched in some way by the death of Austin Nau, and in the immediate wake of the tragedy, I've watched ripples of comfort turn into waves of support.

Schools from around the area wore orange and black, observed moments of silence, and sent pictures to our school as evidence of their empathy and support.  Facebook became an open forum of grief and served as a make-shift support group, available 24/7 to those in need of a human connection.  Inside my school and out, I've witnessed students, past and present, protect, comfort, and sustain one another, and it is a remarkable sight that has left me overwhelmed by a mixture of emotions.  I am so proud of the people my students have become, and I am humbled by their strength.  In the past two years they've been forced to grow up too quickly, and my heart aches for them.  At our school, as we work to right our ship once again, we find ourselves in new roles.  There have been moments in the past week when being a teacher felt a whole lot like being a parent, and other times when students became unwitting teachers, their examples illustrating lessons about the fragility of our lives and the power of community.

As we prepare to say our final goodbyes to Austin Nau, I am acutely aware of the impact his death has had on our school and the members of this community, but I am also inspired by the legacy he leaves behind.  I have heard first-hand accounts from his friends about how Austin helped to positively change the direction of their lives.  Through organ donation, there are now multiple families whose children will have a more certain future, and while this can't bring Austin back, it certainly keeps him going.  The ripples of Austin's legacy have the potential to reach far beyond his tiny community, and they will be visible for generations to come.  It is my most sincere wish that his family and close friends, the ones at the center of this tragedy, will find peace and solace in that fact, and I hope that all of his loved ones will continue to be upheld, comforted and enveloped by the concentric circles of support that will continue to surround them here at home, Nau and forever.

 



The Stoplight Oracle

We slowed to a stop at the red light.  Jessica, my best friend of 16 years, sat in the passenger seat of my mom’s Chevy Lumina, and she was in the midst of revealing to me the identity of her latest crush.  Blues Traveler provided the soundtrack for the evening (and most of 1994 for that matter), and aside from an occasional stop to socialize in J.C. Penney’s parking lot, or a driving-too-fast-detour over the dip on 11th Ave., we stuck to the prescribed cruising route:  up Main Street, around McDonald’s, down First Avenue, and around the square in one continuous loop.

Jessica and I sat stranded at a red light in mid-loop when she completed her romantic revelation. “I’m going on a date with Neil Coulter next weekend,” she exclaimed excitedly.  I stared straight ahead at the red light, my hands tightening around the maroon leather of the steering wheel.  "Neil Coulter?" I thought. "My Neil Coutler?" 

Of course, he wasn't technically mine.  I mean, I was sort of dating someone else, and so was he. Sort of. Technically.  At that point in my life I'd had, maybe, a total of three minutes of conversation with Neil, and I'd certainly never told another living soul about my clandestine crush.  But I'd hung out in his area of the parking lot a little.  I'd laughed at all his jokes, and I think I leaned on his station wagon once while I was there. 

“Erin, the light is green,” said Jessica, and with those words I was startled back into reality. “Oh, sorry,” I replied as I stepped on the gas and shook my head in an effort to physically remove myself from the twenty second stupor I’d just experienced.

As we made our way around the loop again, Jessica continued to talk, but I didn’t really hear what she was saying. Hadn’t I told her I liked Neil? Or did I dream that?  Okay, maybe I'd never actually mentioned it out loud, but wasn't there a mind-reading clause in this best friendship?  Perhaps I'd thought about it so much in the privacy of my own brain that I simply felt transparent.  And asserting oneself isn't really part of the giggly, quiet side-kick code of conduct, I suppose. 

Her detailed description of the courtship rituals that led to the making of her date with Neil lasted an entire cruising loop, and so did the silent struggle in my head. Should I say something?  And, if so, what?  No, you can't date my secret, fake boyfriend?  That wouldn't work. My 16-year-old self did not possess the strength to risk looking like a crazy person in the eyes of both my best friend and a boy who was quite possibly unaware of my existence.  But had she noticed that funny way Neil sucked in his breath after he laughed really hard?  Or paid attention to that sweet way he naturally took care of all of his friends?   

As we finished the loop, we slowed to a stop at the same stoplight we'd sat at earlier in the night. It was red. Stop. Wait. Again. Perhaps it was a sign. “That sounds great,” I said. “Neil seems like a really nice guy. I’m happy for you.” The strain in my voice produced by the lie was barely detectable. As I sat at that stoplight for the second time that night, something inside me said stop. Wait. So I did.

The light turned green; the night continued, as did my friendship with Jessica. Nine years later I ran into Neil again. Two years after that I took his last name. The stoplight on Main Street, the one that decided my future, is visible from the bedroom window of the house that I now share with Neil. I came full circle thanks to one continuous loop.

Back and Blue

One of the first pieces we read in my American Literature class is The Crucible by Arthur Miller.  The Crucible is a work of historical fiction based on the tragedy of The Salem Witch Trials.  It's the story of a group of Puritan girls who accuse innocent members of their community of witchcraft.  The false accusations are fueled by both fear and personal vengeance.  The girls abuse their power to the detriment of their community, and the accused are brought before a court and given two options:  Admit to the crime of witchcraft or be executed.  Many of the accused compromise their own beliefs and lie to save their lives, but as the hysteria grows, a few refuse to abandon their moral code.  They are taken to the gallows for refusing to give in to the pressure caused by a gross abuse of power.

I read this play with my students every year, but this time the themes feel strangely familiar.  No, the struggle of a bunch of striking teachers from Central Illinois can't be literally compared to the tragic circumstances surrounding the Salem Witch Trials, but when the discussion in my classroom produces terms like witch hunt, punishment, unwarranted accusations, and abuse of power, it's hard not to make some connections.  The characters in the story are forced into a situation in which they are unjustly assumed guilty until proven innocent.  Yes, I've experienced that.  In the story, the people in charge claim their actions are for the good of the community.  Uh-huh.  I think I've heard that somewhere before.  And as the story comes to its conclusion, the accused characters are forced to choose the lesser of two evils.  Yep.  I can relate to that, too. 

The teachers at Illini Bluffs stood on the picket line for eight days to show that we are not willing to accept a claim by the school board and administration that states a random drug testing policy for teachers, the first of its kind in any Illinois public school, and intended to address a problem that the board itself admits does not exist, is in the best interest of the students and community.  I still believe it is a ridiculous claim, and still CAN'T believe how it all turned out. 

I sat on a sidewalk outside of our school for six hours during the last night of negotiations, waiting to hear if I would report to the classroom or the picket line the following morning.  When the news finally arrived that I would, in fact, be headed back to my classroom, I cried tears of happiness and relief.  I left that night not knowing the terms of the new contract, but full of hope that it was the beginning of a reconciliation between the teachers and the school board.  The next day, after hearing the newly proposed terms, I fought back tears of regret as I voted to accept terms that I do not agree with, and faced the fact that the small shred of human decency that I had hoped to be treated with may never come from my employers. 

The teachers accepted a contract that proposed a voluntary random drug testing policy for teachers already employed by the district.  As stated in our contract, the names of any teacher who "volunteers to be included in the random drug testing program will be made public."   Let me make this clear:  I am a good teacher.  I do not use drugs.  My name will NEVER appear on the aforementioned public list, and that has no bearing on my ability to teach your children.  But what does hinder my ability to teach your children is not being legally allowed in the school building, so in the spirit of compromise, I grudgingly voted to accept the terms as a means of getting your children back into school.  The entire policy of voluntary random drug testing is ludicrous, but as I've become very accustomed to the ridiculous over the past few weeks, I chose to vote for the option that would benefit the majority.  I can live with that. 

The part of the new agreement that keeps me up at night, though, is the section that states that any new employee to the district will NOT have the option to volunteer to be tested; random drug testing will be a condition of their employment.  I feel serious guilt about bargaining away the rights of Illini Bluffs' future teachers.  With all the bad press our district has endured for the past few years, getting quality teachers will be a challenge.  Now, with the terms of the new contract, I fear it will be nearly impossible.  I know there are amazing teachers in the district who are currently exploring other career options as a result of our district's actions, and if my roots weren't so firmly planted in this area, and if I didn't have so much already invested in our students, I would entertain the same notion because this victory sure feels a whole lot like defeat. 

If you've been following my blog through this journey, you're familiar with my tendency to see the glass as half-full.  I am still optimistic that change can happen in our district. As a result of the out-pouring of kindness and support I witnessed during the strike, my faith in the Illini Bluffs community is stronger than ever.  At this point, the power to change our school is largely in the hands of the parents, students, and taxpayers, and they must take action to help fix what is broken at Illini Bluffs.  The spotlight is still on our community and the fight is not over. 

After everything we've been through, to say that I have faith in the quality of education provided by the teachers at Illini Bluffs would be an unbelievable understatement. I am absolutely inspired by both their professional integrity and steadfast commitment to standing up for what is right.  Their example provides me with all the motivation and encouragement I need to continue moving in a positive direction.  In the past months there have been many lofty claims regarding who, exactly, is looking out for the best interest of our children. If you'd like to see actual living, breathing examples, you can find us standing in the front of our respective classrooms, teaching the students enrolled in the Illini Bluffs School District.  We are back where we belong, and in a position where we can do the most good.  And I can assure you that our commitment to fighting for what is best for our school is stronger than ever.