Introduction
My back aches.
This morning I bend to grab a fluff of cat hair from the kitchen floor and very nearly fail to come back up. It's always this way - a small mundane task that becomes an agonizing reminder of my ageing body.
The thing is, I'm not in the mood today for the eighth grade boy who surges into my classroom to dog whistle at the top of his lungs. Nor do I care to deal with uncharged Chrome books, late homework, or the middle school girl who abruptly vomits on my shoes.
I'm old. I'm tired. And my back is killing me.
It's eons ago that I am in the second grade lugging a small footstool to my bedroom - pretending it's my classroom desk - to carefully arrange two pencils and a Big Chief tablet on its surface.
"Boys and Girls," I mimic my teacher Sister William Jane, "let's not have any funny business back there."
Even then, school is my first love. From beginning to end, the school day is an orderly progression of satisfying events: the close comfort of the cloak room with our steaming winter jackets still smelling of outdoors, the Pledge of Allegiance recited in precise unison, the nearness of the ancient hissing radiator as I read with enthralled interest the adventures of Dick and Jane.
It's hardly a surprise that I will plant myself for 40 years smack dab in the middle of the school from which I graduate. Not only is it filled with memories of my own youth and teachers and friends, but it's the place where I meet my husband John, teach our own children, and become hopelessly attached to thousands of others. Never am I tempted to leave for more money, more prestige, more challenges. Central Catholic is home, and John and I belong to a closely knit network of teachers, students, parents and grandparents. Johnny Goering is my surgeon, CJ Stec is my dentist, and Jimmy Golka has heard my confession. They are all former students, all much loved. How could I ever think of retiring from this beloved institution?
Yet some moments I feel every single day of my 62 years. I sometimes weary of arranging my time around bells every 46 minutes, bolting my lunch in 24 minutes, and wondering why kids can't make it to class in their allotted four minutes. If I can use the restroom, wash my hands, check my mail and grab a drink, by God so can they.
"This is why teachers retire at 55," my husband sighs as we collapse onto the living room couch after a particularly spirited week of homecoming festivities.
Just as I give myself up for dead, though, I am reminded why I love teaching. It's Ryan Pilsyl in my senior composition class who writes the story of his kindergarten trip to the zoo. As he tremulously feeds the giraffe from the feeding bucket clenched in his small hands, the giraffe grabs the bucket between his teeth and flails it, with Ryan still tightly attached, into a high arc through the air before finally depositing boy and bucket at the feet of the astonished teacher.
It's our Period 5B lunch crew laughing raucously at Mrs. O'Connor's irreverent humor in the faculty lounge.
It's hearing down the hall the booming voice of my husband, the best teacher I know, scream in mock rage at his American History kids. "DID I EVER TELL YOU I HATE CHILDREN?"
It's eighth grader Creighton Mehring, an ornery little boy, who earns a detention for sucking on pixie sticks in my English class.
"I don't know why I do these things," he sighs in remorse the second time I catch him. I can't help but laugh. He'll grow into a kind and impressive young man just like his father, who was also an ornery little devil in my classroom.
It's eighth grader Joey Koralewski spilling family secrets that would make his parents cringe - like the one about Bruce the Bulldog who swallows a rubber glove and flatlines before Joey's calm father revives the beast with vigorous chest compressions.
"It's not working! It's not working!" Joey's frantic mother screams and nearly attempts to perform mouth to mouth resuscitation just as Joey's father brings poor Bruce back to life.
It's my American Lit class who, during a discussion about a civil right's novel, wonders for what cause they'd be willing to die.
"DACA!" Beverly Yax, whose bright smile lights up my classroom every single day, says fervently and without hesitation.
Sweet Stephanie Huntwork says she'd die for her brother. Likewise, Reyna Ramirez would give up heart and soul for her little brothers and sisters, and Kathryn Rohweder would give her life for her family.
Then junior Hayley Larson stops me in mid beat. Instead of dying for a cause, she pauses to reflect, maybe I should ask my students for what cause they'd be willing to live. "It's easy to die," she ponders. "Maybe it's harder to have to live and fight for what you believe."
These are the moments of grace that remind me, in spite of a sore back, that I'm not at the end of my tether. Hayley Larson and all my students teach me so much more than I could ever teach them. It may take a while to absorb all that youthful wisdom.
I guess I'll have to hang around a while.
Next blog: Moments of Grace with GICC social studies teacher and coach, Mr. James Lowry
This morning I bend to grab a fluff of cat hair from the kitchen floor and very nearly fail to come back up. It's always this way - a small mundane task that becomes an agonizing reminder of my ageing body.
 |
| Third period 8th grade English. |
It's eons ago that I am in the second grade lugging a small footstool to my bedroom - pretending it's my classroom desk - to carefully arrange two pencils and a Big Chief tablet on its surface.
"Boys and Girls," I mimic my teacher Sister William Jane, "let's not have any funny business back there."
 |
| Fr. Jim Golka |
It's hardly a surprise that I will plant myself for 40 years smack dab in the middle of the school from which I graduate. Not only is it filled with memories of my own youth and teachers and friends, but it's the place where I meet my husband John, teach our own children, and become hopelessly attached to thousands of others. Never am I tempted to leave for more money, more prestige, more challenges. Central Catholic is home, and John and I belong to a closely knit network of teachers, students, parents and grandparents. Johnny Goering is my surgeon, CJ Stec is my dentist, and Jimmy Golka has heard my confession. They are all former students, all much loved. How could I ever think of retiring from this beloved institution?
 |
| Science teacher Kerry O'Connor |
 |
| Senior Ryan Pilsl |
"This is why teachers retire at 55," my husband sighs as we collapse onto the living room couch after a particularly spirited week of homecoming festivities.
Just as I give myself up for dead, though, I am reminded why I love teaching. It's Ryan Pilsyl in my senior composition class who writes the story of his kindergarten trip to the zoo. As he tremulously feeds the giraffe from the feeding bucket clenched in his small hands, the giraffe grabs the bucket between his teeth and flails it, with Ryan still tightly attached, into a high arc through the air before finally depositing boy and bucket at the feet of the astonished teacher.
 |
| Ornery little Creighton Mehring |
It's our Period 5B lunch crew laughing raucously at Mrs. O'Connor's irreverent humor in the faculty lounge.
It's eighth grader Creighton Mehring, an ornery little boy, who earns a detention for sucking on pixie sticks in my English class.
 |
| Kathryn Rohweder and Bev Yax |
It's eighth grader Joey Koralewski spilling family secrets that would make his parents cringe - like the one about Bruce the Bulldog who swallows a rubber glove and flatlines before Joey's calm father revives the beast with vigorous chest compressions.
"It's not working! It's not working!" Joey's frantic mother screams and nearly attempts to perform mouth to mouth resuscitation just as Joey's father brings poor Bruce back to life.
It's my American Lit class who, during a discussion about a civil right's novel, wonders for what cause they'd be willing to die.
"DACA!" Beverly Yax, whose bright smile lights up my classroom every single day, says fervently and without hesitation.
 |
| Cathy Howard |
Then junior Hayley Larson stops me in mid beat. Instead of dying for a cause, she pauses to reflect, maybe I should ask my students for what cause they'd be willing to live. "It's easy to die," she ponders. "Maybe it's harder to have to live and fight for what you believe."
These are the moments of grace that remind me, in spite of a sore back, that I'm not at the end of my tether. Hayley Larson and all my students teach me so much more than I could ever teach them. It may take a while to absorb all that youthful wisdom.
I guess I'll have to hang around a while.
Next blog: Moments of Grace with GICC social studies teacher and coach, Mr. James Lowry
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