Memory

As you read, I have a request. Open this link. Play it in the background once or twice.

Try not to think of the play it comes from; that play is basically a furry's fever dream. I saw it earlier this year, and I remember nothing except for this song.

Maybe that's the point.

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"Memory, all alone in the moonlight"

I remember when I was kid and I walked into the classroom for the first time with my teddy bear stuffed into my backpack.

I remember playing dress up after finishing our math worksheet.

I remember telling my teacher that I was going to be gone for a little while when my uncle passed away when I was in 3rd grade.

I remember my very first favorite teacher writing in my yearbook that I was one of her favorites.

I remember that same teacher calling me Romeo when we were planning for our Georgetown field trip because all the girls wanted to be in my group.

I remember spelling "effect" as "f-f-e-c-t" when I was asked to spell in the school wide spelling bee. I remember spelling all the other contestants' words correctly watching from the audience.

I remember hiding behind my desk at Parent-Teacher Conferences listening to my 5th grade teacher tell my parent that she was "surprised [I] even made it past 3rd grade" because my cursive was horrible.

I remember my 6th grade Language Arts Teacher giving me an award out of all the other possible students she taught that year.

I remember my 7th grade math teacher asking, "Does anyone know the answer other than Josh."

I remember when I was called "J.K." by my science teacher.

I remember reading and making lots of jokes about No, David in 8th grade.

I remember when my teacher taught us about how to give engaging speeches by making sundaes for the class and squeezing whipped cream right into a student's mouth during her model speech.

I remember completely failing at charades in Spanish II.

I remember giving a speech to upcoming freshman in my Senior Year about the program I was in.

I remember when I won "Most likely to do the writing part of the project" award in a class.

I remember not understanding what Hills Like White Elephants was really about and feeling like an idiot.

I remember when I decided I wanted to be a writer.

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"I can dream of the old days"

And when I do, I don't dream of what I learned.

I dream of the moments that mattered to me.

Somewhere along the way, I learned, and I know that I learned. I know because I can read, I can write, I can do math, I understand the basics of science.

That didn't happen on accident.

It happened because of devoted teachers along the way throughout my education.

However, if someone asks me what I learned in 7th grade or 5th grade or kindergarten or 11th grade, my first thought wouldn't be about content or skills or curriculum.

I might be able to give a strong guess as to what learning in that context took place, but the learning I remember are the moments that I listed above.

Those memories encompass what I learned.

I dream of those memories.

What do you dream of?

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"I was beautiful then"

I wish I could realize within the moment that each of these moments was a beautiful little piece of my life and my experience.

Standing on a stage as a 4th grader and spelling a word wrong really traumatizes a person. And, in the moment, I didn't want to talk to anyone about it. Even though my teacher tried to make it better as I line-led the class back to the room: "Well, that's a hard word because there are two versions of it."

I'm a good speller now because I didn't want to be embarrassed again.

My 7th grade math knowledge led my teacher to moving into the Honors classes, and those honors classes led me to be ahead of the curve. And being ahead of the curve allowed me to enter college as a sophomore and gave me the confidence to enter the Honors program.

I will never do charades in my classroom because of Spanish II.

When my teacher noticed my inclination towards writing, it pushed me to be a better writer. And, I wouldn't be here without lots of those little pushes.

That's learning--the most important kind of learning.

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"I remember the time I knew what happiness was"

As a kid, happiness came from video games and laughing with my friends and running around in the open space across from my house until it got too dark to see in front of you and standing in the middle of the street with the neighborhood kids arguing about the rules and boundaries of hide and seek.

School was always second. I was a good kid, but I don't ever remember being excited about going to school.

Who is?

And herein lies our problem.

School doesn't supply happiness.

Most school memories can be summed up like this: teacher talks, passes out the thing, students do the thing, students take test, all the while sitting in rows being asked to be quiet.

That doesn't sound like happiness.

Sure, there are gems, and we all have gems: a good teacher, a cool moment with a friend, a super great project, a class you liked.

Yet, those moments--those experiences are often few and far between.

And those gems should be made more plentiful.

I've read a lot of books lately about school and curriculum and how to teach and learning and motivation and standards and skills and interventions and restorative practices.

Here's what I have learned: as teachers, we should be trying to create memories.

Memories are what creates those gems.

In order to create learning, we need to create learning experiences that matter to the student.

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"Let the memory live again"

What's the best thing you remember from a class when you were in school?

What was the teacher doing?

Why do you think you remember it?

And, better yet, how can you be that person and create that moment for your own students?

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"Look, a new day has begun"

If a student asks an off-topic question, embrace it.

If it's a teacher's birthday in the school, take your class down to celebrate.

When students are in the bathroom for a little too long, lock them out and write them fake detentions with the rest of the class on board.

Flip a desk.

Stand on the table.

Hit rubber ducks with a paper plate.

Take lots of pictures.

Tell them you love them.

Give them little gifts.

Give up on the boring reading.

Write them small notes.

Give them the chance to do the same.

Allow five minutes for story time.

Use vines as callbacks.

Share their work.

Allow them to advocate for themselves.

Disappoint them sometimes; say no.

Read in a different accent.

Let the student's write the notes on the board.

Take a walk outside.

You have permission to create experiences.

Because memories last longer than anything they will learn sitting down in a desk.

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"Has the moon lost her memory?"

I think I am predestined to get Alzheimer's Disease.

I know I said my biggest fear is gorillas earlier in a different post on a different inspirational rant.

You know what my real biggest fear is?

Forgetting.

Everyday I get to walk into a classroom and have the chance to make these lasting memories for students from any of the words or actions I take.

Every day matters.

For them, sure. But for us, too.

I laugh a lot at my job.

I worry a lot at my job.

I feel depths of emotion I never knew I could feel.

I stress more than I ever thought possible.

Lately, I've been trying my best to absorb all that. Because it's already been 4 years because it's already October because things move far too quickly...

When I am yelling at a student or group of students, when I am laughing at a silly joke, when I am overwhelmed with the students randomly coming into my classroom, when I am sitting in a conference with the student, when I have a one-on-one conversation that matters, when a kid comes in crying, I'm doing my best to absorb that moment.

Because, to me, this job is full of moments I would hate to forget--moments that matter. Everyday.

That's why I write, I think, so I don't forget. Forgetting these moments fills me with a rage and a terror far beyond that which I can rightly express.

Memories, you see, matter much more than just as a tool to learn.

Memories are the glimpses of life that make it worthwhile to move forward...

Looking for more.