"What I Want the Parents Of My Students To Know"

As we are officially one week away from the first day of school (whaaaat?!), I've been mentally preparing myself for another year with my rambunctious babies. While working hard in preparation for the year ahead (read: perusing Facebook), I came across this article written by another teacher who seems to know exactly how to speak to the hearts of teachers.


What I Want the Parents Of My Students To Know

My refrigerator holds a list. Summer to-dos. Almost 20 items needing attention before school begins. Important things. Things like: Sort through financial records. Write my AP syllabus and book proposal. Take down Christmas lights (wish I was kidding about that one.) Clean, really clean, my house.

This year my list has six red lines. Only six crossed-off tasks. Six out of 20. I go back to work in two days. When all I want is to sit in the middle of my living room and cry. I mean really sob over my list that won’t get done. But I can’t. I have to take my daughter school shopping.

Then the school year begins. And I won’t sit again until June 2014.

So before the madness of the coming weeks ensues, there are some things I want you to know about your child’s teacher. Things which may spur you to pray for me over the coming year, or which may cause you to shake your head—I’m glad it’s her and not me. Things which sometimes need to be said.

I’m already tired. I’ve worked all summer. I’ve sat through workshops and certification classes and read journal articles on the newest teaching strategies and creative ideas. If I’m not physically working toward the next year, I’m thinking about it. All the time. I will begin the school year exhausted, leaving behind an incomplete summer task list.

Right now—I’m broke. My pockets are empty. Every spare penny has been used to purchase bulletin board materials, novels, and extra bookcases. Anything that will bring warmth and brightness to my classroom. The state or school doesn’t fund these expenses. My purse foots the bill.

The bell never ends my day. School hours don’t provide enough time to finish the job I’ve been given. Like a briefcase full of papers, I carry the cries of hurting students home. And then? When I walk in my door? I still must help my own children with homework, fix dinner, carpool to dance, finish laundry, and straighten the house.

I spend more time with your sons and daughters during the week than my own. And while I love to teach, my heart breaks a little each time I hug my baby and say, “See ya later, alligator!”

I’ve trained hard for this role—going to college and then graduate school in preparation to teach your child. You may have said, “How hard can it be? You learn. You teach. It’s as simple as that.” I want you to know it’s so much more than ABC’s and 123’s.

Because teaching is hard. Very hard. For just one lesson I can spend hours thinking through Piaget’s cognitive theory, Gardner’s Multiple Intelligences, anticipatory activities, appropriate pedagogies, exit strategies, scaffolding techniques, and hierarchically-ordered questioning. Each of these theories is necessary for one effective lesson. Not so easy.

I will make mistakes. Numbers get crossed. Eyes do too. After hours of grading, sentences can begin to run together. Something right will be marked wrong. But something wrong may also be marked right. Approach me with kindness, and I will right my wrongs. Because, I promise, even if I have a typo, I know proper grammar and mechanics.

I am in desperate need of grace. If I don’t immediately respond to an email or a phone call, it may be because I want to have all the information I need to give you all the information you need. Give me time. I’m human.

I need a chance. Please. Please, please. Approach me with a problem before you approach my boss. Wouldn’t you want someone to do the same for you? It may be a simple miscommunication. A miscommunication that could wrongly put my job in jeopardy. Did I say please?

I hate standardized tests. Not in the we-should-never-measure-student-growth way. But in the there’s-so-much-more-to-life-than-choose-A-B-C-or-D way. The learning box we are stuffing children into tears at my heart a bit each day. It’s wrong. And my hands are tied.

It’s not always my fault. Even if I sang every lesson while doing cartwheels dressed like my favorite book character, some students still won’t pay attention. I can beg. I can bribe. I can cry. But some of my students are already too hardened by life—they just don’t care. Yet, society tells me I’m responsible for every student who fails. Every. Single. One. This is an anvil around my neck.

I want you to know every year is a make-or-break year for me. It could always be my last. Because this is not just a job. It’s a calling. And there are some days I wonder if I’m still called. Because some days rip me to shreds, leaving wounds that gape and scars that haunt.

I feel responsible for the next generation in mind-blowing ways. This is a heavy burden. I sense its weight each time I step into my classroom. I understand—really understand—how great the task is that lies before me. The question Am I making a difference? is a constant.

But I know my job is worth it. I know this in the way I know my students are worth every ounce of effort in my body. And when I see the light behind a teenager’s eyes? Every fiber, every muscle, every tendon tightens and then soars. The light of knowledge is mine to bestow. The role is serious. Success is always just a breath away. Sometimes I’m holding mine. When my students get it? I can smile. I can breathe.

Because really, I’m teaching them about life. Each day. A new lesson teaching rhetoric, similes, or Thoreau is really a lesson about life. How we’re connected. How we’re living. How we’re breathing.

And you must know, you absolutely must know—I pray for my students. Their hurts break my heart. Magic wands and pixie dust don’t work in this real world. I know there is only One who has the power to heal souls. So my knees are raw from the bending and stooping over the desk of your precious one.

I love your sons and daughters. And while a need for education may be the reason they walk through my door, my deepest desire is that my students know they are loved. This is my goal. My objective. My mission.

Because they will know my sweet Jesus by my love. And even though His name can’t even be a whisper on my lips within school walls, I will love your children. I will love them because He first loved me. I will be His light in their darkness. And because I love your sons and daughters, they will learn. They will learn all that matters in this life. They will learn because they are loved.

By this all people will know that you are My disciples,
if you have love for one another
John 13:35 (HCSB).

I love, love, love the last two paragraphs. Right now I have been given the opportunity to teach at a Christian school which encourages its teachers to share their faith with the students. This may not always be the case. Wherever this life finds me, whoever my students may be--I want them to know Jesus through my love. 

Missionary Problems: Part Two

Here at the Teacher's House, we frequently find ourselves talking about how we are missionaries. And how not one of us feels called, or qualified, to actually BE a missionary. We aren't living in stereotypical missionary housing, we have access to a lot of North American conveniences. Our day to day life doesn't make us feel like we are making these huge sacrifices in the name of Jesus Christ.

And truthfully, I don't actually know that we are. Nothing that is going to be visible to us anytime soon anyways. But then I read this article that I saw posted on Facebook and more than one point resonated with me.

So maybe, despite what I think I am capable of, I am being called to be a missionary to these wild, crazy, wonderful children. In my mind I'm "just their teacher", but maybe it's something more than that.

While I couldn't fully understand all of the points that were made in the article 8 Reasons You Should Never Become A Missionary, there were two that stood out to me.

Number One: Don’t Become a Missionary if You Think You Are Really Pretty Great, Spiritually-Speaking.
There’s nothing like moving to a foreign country to reveal all the crap that’s in your heart.  Seriously. I have cussed more, cried more, been more angry, had less faith, been more cynical and, generally speaking, have become in many ways a worser person during my last two years of serving in Asia. Call it culture-shock if you will, but I tend to think the stress of an overseas move thrusts the junk that was conveniently- covered before out into the blazing-hot-open.

Number Two: Don’t Become a Missionary to Find Cool Friends.
Now, I’m not saying you won’t find amazing friends– maybe the best in your life– but there is no denying that the mission field can draw some pretty odd ducks. {Of which, I, of course, am not one. See #7 regarding my natural humility.} Don’t be surprised, though, if you find yourself in a church service with ladies wearing clothes from the 80′s singing praise songs from your middle-school years like Awesome God, but without even the drums. Don’t be surprised, too, if your social interactions are awkward at best with many of your fellow mission-souls. Living out the in jungles for twenty years might do wonders for your character and strength and important things, like, oh, the translation of the Bible into another language, but it can sure do a number on a person’s ability to shoot the breeze in a church lobby somewhere.

I will whole-heartedly agree with both of these statements. My life is a living testament to both of these statements. My life has become messier and more socially awkward since my arrival to Honduras in August.

But at the same time it has been more abundantly blessed than at any point in my life.

It's Amazing What A Year Can Do.

Exactly 365 days ago I was embarking on my Honduras adventure for the first time. It has been 365 days filled with laughter, learning, heartache, homesickness, new friendships, new languages, tears, challenges, and love. While these past 365 days have been difficult while simultaneously being absolutely wonderful, I cannot help but to think back to this day one year ago.

I remember how I held it all together until I landed in Houston. Feeling the wheels touch the runway somehow solidified the whole adventure for me. I couldn't call anyone and tell them that I had landed in Houston because I knew that as soon as I heard a voice from home, from the life that I was leaving behind, the tears would begin to fall.

I remember walking to my gate in Houston (ironically, that's been the only time I've ever been able to leisurely walk to my connecting flight) so mad at myself for packing my sunglasses in my checked luggage. Because wearing sunglasses through the airport would have been less conspicuous than the tears rolling down my face.

I remember arriving at my gate and sitting between a Honduran man and an American woman. I was texting Lacy because I knew she was the only person who would understand my freaking out. The Honduran man was slowly inching away from me as a sobbed and the woman kept shooting me compassionate looks.

I remember looking forward to having a 3 hour flight spent looking out the window and crying to myself, but instead ended up sitting next to a boy who was about 6 or 7 years old. Hids dad took a nice three hour nap while the boy talked to me the entire way-- clearly unconcerned with my crying.

I remember telling myself to pull it together once I made it through security because I didn't want Dave and Lindsay to think that I was a big weirdo for sobbing as I got off the plane. And Lindsay asking if I wanted baleadas to eat, but not knowing what those were. (How times have changed, right?)

I remember the car ride back and Sigua and wanting nothing more than to close my eyes and sleep for days. And not panicking again until we pulled onto 21 when I realized that this was official official.

I remember having spaghetti dinner at Dave and Esther's house with all of the teachers. I really thought I had it pulled together and that I was being great and social. Until Cristian later told me that I was a total drag that night and all of the new teachers were so boring and unfriendly that he thought about going back to his old school.

So many things have happened in the last 365 days. I've cried, I've laughed, I've learned, I've taught a little (I hope). In 365, Siguatepeque has gone from an unknown place to my home. To a place that I have a hard time leaving.

Here's to the next 365 days.

I'm BAAAAACK!

After four long, wonderful weeks in the States I have returned to Siguatepeque for another year of adventures with my friends and with my students. Before the classroom gets set up and the students come, my sister and I spent one week raging around like fools and enjoying the Central American sun.

Flight from Atlanta to San Pedro.

Sarah's first baleadas.

Girl time with Miss Grace

My sister is my best friend.

Comayagua <3

Water Island. Whaaaat?

My sister is my best friend. Sigua is my favorite place in Honduras. Put them together and it was an unforgettable week with the two great loves of my life.

I Don't Ever Want To Leave This Town

Somewhere between sobbing at the airport in Houston and seriously regretting my decision to move to Honduras while driving past the lake in August and shooting off fireworks while saying our goodbyes in June, I have completely fallen in love with living in Siguatepeque.

It's a slow, slooooooow paced life. But it's MY life. A life that includes Spanish and catcalls and baleadas and a motorcycle. And 50 wild, spunky, energetic, children who wear me out while simultaneously bringing so much joy to my life.

My love for Siguatepeque and my love for my students is calling me back for another year. I'll be resuming my position as the Grade One and Two teacher, but hopefully I have things a little more figured out this time around. In our education classes at Ashland, our professors always told us that we shouldn't smile until October. At the time, I thought it was crazy. But now I see the truth behind it. Sorry guys, but there's going to be a new Miss Caitlin in town.

While I have only been home for four days, I am stuck in a weird place of missing one of my homes, trying to enjoy my original home, and anticipating my return trip home. It's difficult to explain to those who have not experienced it, as well as somewhat hurtful. I lived in Ohio for 21 year and all of a sudden I'm incredibly homesick for a country that I have only lived in for 10 months. There's an article What Happens When You Live Abroad which accurately portrays how I've been feeling these past couple of days.

At first, the article seemed really harsh. I may have cried upon reading and thinking that I would never fit in anywhere ever again. I was going to be some weird, wandering nomad for the rest of my life. And I had chosen that lifestyle for myself. After finishing a year in Honduras, though, I can better relate to the author and would agree 100%. Without tears.

My favorite part?

"So you look at your life, and the two countries that hold it, and realize that you are now two distinct people. As much as your countries represent and fulfill different parts of you and what you enjoy about life, as much as you have formed unbreakable bonds with people you love in both places, as much as you feel truly at home in either one, so you are divided in two. For the rest of your life, or at least it feels this way, you will spend your time in one naggingly longing for the other, and waiting until you can get back for at least a few weeks and dive back into the person you were back there. It takes so much to carve out a new life for yourself somewhere new, and it can’t die simply because you’ve moved over a few time zones. The people that took you into their country and became your new family, they aren’t going to mean any less to you when you’re far away.

When you live abroad, you realize that, no matter where you are, you will always be an ex-pat. There will always be a part of you that is far away from its home and is lying dormant until it can breathe and live in full color back in the country where it belongs. To live in a new place is a beautiful, thrilling thing, and it can show you that you can be whoever you want — on your own terms. It can give you the gift of freedom, of new beginnings, of curiosity and excitement. But to start over, to get on that plane, doesn’t come without a price. You cannot be in two places at once, and from now on, you will always lay awake on certain nights and think of all the things you’re missing out on back home."

Ohio and Honduras. Two very different places. Two places that will hold my heart forever.

The First Last.

I. Did. It.

We're sexy and we know it.,

Friday, May 31 marked my first last day of teaching. I still have a month of curriculum planning and recuperation exams, but as far as full class instruction goes, I'm all done.

We spent the day at Los Salmones, the local pool. And by we, I mean Grades 1 through 6. And it was insane. Awesome, but insane. Grades 1 and 2 arrived at the pool around 8:30am and the other grades trickled in soon after. By 9am we were all at the pool, dunking each other, throwing each other in the pool, and having a great time until we left around 12:30. A little fried chicken for lunch and the rest of the afternoon spent playing on the playground. Easily one of my top ten favorite days of the school year.

While the Spanish teachers spent a lot of time observing from the sidelines, the English teachers had no problem jumping in and getting their feet wet. Literally. Grades 1-4 were all hanging out in the little baby pool, so Cristian, Nelsy, and I spent a lot of our day acting as human jungle gyms. At one point in time we were making a whirlpool and I had upwards of five children hanging onto me. Photographic evidence above.

I couldn't have asked for a better first year of teaching. Don't get me wrong, it was HARD. Really, really hard. Not only did I have to tackle my first classroom on my own, but it was in a culture completely different from my own, thousands of miles away from my family and friends. But I learned so much throughout this first year. And not only about teaching, but things about myself that I didn't know before.


There have been so many ups and downs throughout the past ten months. But saying good-bye to my kiddos on Friday, despite the fact that I will see them at the clausura in two weeks, was way more difficult than I could have ever imagined.



L One. As in Last One. As in Last Day of School.

My kiddos are all so much more grown-up than when I met them in August. I cannot believe that my Grade Two babies are grown-up Grade Threes now. Where did time go? Is the last day of school always this difficult? Because I don't know if I can do this every year for the rest of my life.



A Bulletin Board For Every Season.

Or at least a bunch of bulletin boards for the end of the year.

I've been blessed with lots and lots of bulletins boards in my classroom, as well as a huge wall in the back that is perfect for displaying student work.

Sometimes I'm really slacking on my bulletin board and my room ends up looking like one giant corkboard. Other times, like now, it actually looks like a real classroom.

We're currently sporting two seasonal bulletins (both counting down the days until summer) as well as one that's been up for a little bit longer.

We've got a working bulletin board with a library pocket for each student. Inside each pocket is an index card. At various times throughout the school year, we write a journal on the index card as opposed to writing in our journals. I provide the prompt and when the students are finished writing, they put the card into the pocket with their picture. The students can then read other students responses during centers or when there is extra time. Our working bulletin board was a big hit when we were talking about Dr. Seuss and each student had to write about their favorite Dr. Seuss book. Ironically, book recommendations are way cooler when they come from your friend as opposed to your teacher.

Our countdowns to summer are probably my favorite parts of my classroom right now. And not because we're counting down the days, but because I actually like the way that they look.

"Don't be and Angry Bird! Only _____ days until summer!" And the student helper of the day gets to write how many days left on the little Angry Bird. The student helper of the day also gets to pop one of the Bad Piggies balloons each day to reveal an special activity. Things like "write in marker instead of pencil", etc.

Our second countdown to summer and seasonal bulletin board includes a paper chain, a balloon rainbow, and pictures of each student wearing sunglasses. The bulletin board says "Our future is so bright, we have to wear shades!" and each student got to wear Miss Caitlin's sunglasses for a picture. We're pretty big on displaying pictures of the students in the classroom, as well as their work. After all, it's their classroom too.

And lastly, we had a little Language activity at the culmination of our unit on verbs. The students colored a picture of an Angry Bird and then had to write a sentence including a verb on it. They LOVED it. LOVED. It. As long as I make anything related to Angry Birds, the students will pay attention. Definitely something to consider for next year.

Miss Caitlin learned a valuable lesson in bulletin board making this year-- a border can make or break the whole bulletin board. You would think it doesn't. But it does.