Teach Boldly

With the close of last school year, I completed my 30th campaign in education. Each of those years has been filled with joy and sorrow, challenges and successes, ups and downs and a ton of stories worth sharing. My (True) Life in Education Thus Far will detail 30 or so of those stories. I hope you enjoy them as much as I enjoyed living (most) of them!

To write that I loved the 20 years I worked at Regis Jesuit High School would be a significant understatement. 

I was 24 when I arrived, newly married and childless. I was 44 when I departed with 3 children and re-married. Those life changes, in-and-of-themselves, made those years perhaps the most influential of my entire life, certainly the 20 years of my life that were quantitatively filled with the most changes. 

I have had two other positions since I left Regis Jesuit which I will write about in future blogs and I have loved both of those as well, particularly my current position as principal of Mullen High School. Comparing all of these chapters in my professional life is somewhat silly. I cannot and will not say I loved any of my jobs more than any others.

I will say that, by the time I walked out of the doors as an employee of Regis Jesuit, I was very, very aware that I was working in my hometown. By that I mean my 20 years at the school and the actions I had taken, the roles I had played, the stories I had told and the myths that had grown were cemented parts of who I was perceived to be.

The interactions of 20 years were primarily positive. My efforts were primarily well intentioned. My philosophies of education and leadership were primarily fully baked. But I had conflicts, I made bad decisions, I upset people usually unintentionally but there were times I intentionally did so as well. My history was long and known and, in some cases, documented.

That I am proud of most of that history is true. That I am not as happy about other pieces of it is equally true.

I was very, very well known in my hometown. What I realized when I left is how others knew me was informed by their experience of me but also by their experience of what they thought about and heard about me. And I also realized that I cared very much about perceptions and narratives over which I had very little control.

As my departure date approached, I heard more-and-more about those perceptions. 

What I was forced to consider is how much I allowed my history to define me and how much that definition played into my departure from the school.

While I am thrilled that life took me in other fruitful directions, the reality is, I thought I would retire from Regis Jesuit.

How the end played out had much to do with being known in my hometown.

With the close of last school year, I completed my 30th campaign in education. Each of those years has been filled with joy and sorrow, challenges and successes, ups and downs and a ton of stories worth sharing. My (True) Life in Education Thus Far will detail 30 or so of those stories. I hope you enjoy them as much as I enjoyed living (most) of them!

I cannot remember once in my college studies as I prepared myself to be a high school teacher thinking “I am following in the family footsteps.” My parents were not teachers. My older sister was not considering becoming one. It did not feel to me like I was paying tribute to my family in my career choice.

This frame of mind did not consider my grandmother. 

Grandma was an elementary school teacher for years. She taught at Brown Elementary, one of the neighborhood elementary schools down the street from her home. I remember many summers when Grandma invited me and my older sister to decorate her classroom. I remember when she retired. I remember her talking about missing teaching. Why I did not recall any of this when I was choosing my career path is beyond me.

And it was not just Grandma. 

My mother’s brother, my uncle, was a math professor at Southern Illinois University for his entire professional career. He served as the Dean of the Math Department for many, many years. 

His daughter, my cousin, also became a university professor.

My aunt was a long-tenured English professor at a community college.

Her son, another cousin, became a social studies teacher for a second career.

Her daughter, still another cousin, is still a preschool teacher and administrator. 

My brother-in-law taught high school for years. 

Beyond all of these relatives, my son chose education as his first career path and is teaching at the school where I am principal. What a gift this is! He’s a really talented teacher, too.

And my wife has been a high school teacher for over 20 years and is one of the best educators with whom I have ever worked. That we got to team-teach a US history/US literature class together for years in our career is an absolute highlight of my life. She is teaching at my high school as well and I am so very happy to be working with her again.

Dear Lord, it’s a family business and I never realized it…

With the close of last school year, I completed my 30th campaign in education. Each of those years has been filled with joy and sorrow, challenges and successes, ups and downs and a ton of stories worth sharing. My (True) Life in Education Thus Far will detail 30 or so of those stories. I hope you enjoy them as much as I enjoyed living (most) of them!

I shared this very post in the last volume of Teach and Serve, but is Dad’s birthday today, and it bears repeating.

My father was a massive influence on my educational career. He still is, even a decade after his death.

At this point in my life, I have come to understand that we tend to idealize those people who have come and gone in our lives. By this I mean those we’ve lost to death or to movements and flows of life or to other circumstances both within and beyond our control. When those we love move out of our lives, we have a tendency to idealize them – who they were, what they stood for and what they said.

I guard against this temptation when I think of my father, though I am sure that a bit of idealization sneaks in. How could it not? I loved him.

Dad, if you asked, would have said terrible things about school. He may have even said terrible things about teachers. Strike “may have.” Dad did say terrible things about some teachers and those things may even have been true.

Dad attended the same Jesuit high school I did and he told great stories about it, including the undated, signed notes my grandmother would give him of the “Please excuse Mickey from class…” variety and the tale of a teacher picking up a talkative student’s desk and throwing that student, desk and all, through the door of the classroom without skipping a beat of his lesson.

Dad could tell stories.

Dad could also give advice, when asked, so, like a good son I never really asked him his advice about teaching. Terrible, isn’t it? Dad wasn’t a professional teacher, didn’t seem to have adored his educational life and I didn’t turn to him for advice when I chose the vocation.

Looking back on who he was and how he lived and, perhaps, idealizing him a bit, I think I can discern what he may have told me had I asked him.

Dad never took himself too seriously. Seriously. Though he was involved in a serious profession and found himself, in his work as a deacon, dealing with people in challenging times of life, he never let the moments get the best of him. He also never let himself think he was any better than anyone else. I remember him telling the story of when, during a baptism he was performing, he continually referred to the child – let’s call the baby “Chris” – as a boy when, in fact, she was a girl. “It’s a girl, dummy!” the baby’s grandmother finally corrected him during the ceremony. Dad loved to tell that story.

Teachers and administrators need a healthy dose of self-deprecation. If they take themselves too seriously, the work can become burdensome. They are public figures whose mistakes are going to be critiqued and scrutinized. If educators live and die with every challenging moment, the work can take a deeper emotional toll. Educators are well served by stepping back and smiling at themselves. Often.

Dad was very decisive. There may have been a lot of internal debate going on with my father and, surely, he and my mom talked about big decisions in their lives but, professionally and personally, Dad struck me as very decisive. Once he had made a decision, he didn’t spend too much time looking back.

Educators are called upon to make decisions minute-by-minute. While not all of these decisions are filled with import, many need to be made with confidence. This doesn’t necessarily imply that decisions must all be made quickly, but, once decisions are made, dwelling on and second guessing them as a matter of course can be very draining.

Dad had a great sense of humor. He could make fun of almost anything and could be highly irreverent.

Teachers and administrators who cannot laugh and who do not have a sense of humor can certainly do the job. They can do it at a high level, even. But I have found that those who don’t have a sense of humor simply don’t enjoy the work as much as those who do. If you’re not going to enjoy being in a school, the other rewards of the vocation may not be enough for you.

Dad connected with people. When Dad died, I spoke in the eulogy about his “guys.” Dad had many, many “guys,” people whose lives and his had intertwined over the course of his work with the Church and simply because of the man he was. There was a great number of people who called Dad “friend” and a lot more whose lives had been touched by him and, surely, who had touched his life in turn.

Much like not having a well-developed sense of humor, it is possible for educators – teachers and administrators – to do the work without connecting with kids and with parents and with their colleagues. It is possible. I am just not sure how well the work is done by people who don’t enjoy connecting with others. Actually, I am pretty sure that those people don’t do the work nearly as well. Teachers and administrators must connect. It’s part of the job description.

Dad had a terrific sense of justice. I suppose having a strong sense of justice was part of Dad’s job description as a deacon. He was very in tune with this, could sense an imbalance of power or a bad situation readily and reacted strongly to them. He was motivated by those who had been abused by any system, inspired by David vs. Goliath stories, championed those who had less. The homeless came to Dad. He worked hard for those with less. He never stopped fighting in this area. He also, from the pulpit, didn’t shy away from talking about issues of justice, even when such homilies made people uncomfortable.

Educators are called to not only be fair and just, they are called to highlight injustice around them. They are called to act in a just manner and to point out to developing young minds the injustice that exists in the world. Further, they are compelled to help students understand that they can be part of changing unjust systems. If we’re not about this as we teach, we’re simply doing a disservice to students.

Dad was a great storyteller and loved to listen to others’ stories. I miss a lot about being able to talk with and listen to my Dad. I try to emulate much of what he was in my own life. Yes, as I have written above, I know that I idealize my father in many ways, but not in this one. Dad was a terrific storyteller and could command “the room” so to speak. He told wonderfully engaging and funny stories. He also loved to listen to others telling stories and would often ask for the same story to be told over-and-over again. He would want to hear about the same moment, the same incident, the same funny instance. And, when he listened, his reactions and smile and attention validated the storyteller and made that person feel very special.

Shouldn’t educators tell great stories? Beyond delivering content and inspiring skills in our students, shouldn’t we also be able to tell them great stories about our subject matter and convey or love of it? Shouldn’t we also listen to those around us at least as much as we speak to them?

My father, who professed a dislike of school and who I never heard anyone call “teacher” was one of the greatest teachers I ever had. He should have written a book about education. If he had, it would been titled Lessons about Teaching from a Guy Who Didn’t Like School.

I would have bought that book.

With the close of last school year, I completed my 30th campaign in education. Each of those years has been filled with joy and sorrow, challenges and successes, ups and downs and a ton of stories worth sharing. My (True) Life in Education Thus Far will detail 30 or so of those stories. I hope you enjoy them as much as I enjoyed living (most) of them!

Serving as an administrator in the later part of my career has been a wonderful experience. I have suggested since I first received my initial administrative position as Dean of Students at Regis Jesuit HIgh School Girls Division that the role of an administrator is to support the adults so that the adults can support the students. 

I still believe that. Strongly.

Moreover, I hope that I do that – that I provide for the faculty and staff a foundation of support that enables them to do their work, to support our students, to feel safe and secure in their vocation. That is the first responsibility I currently hold as principal of Mullen High School.

Over the years in these administrative roles, I have interfaced with teachers and coaches and staff members in all kinds of different situations and scenarios, the overwhelming majority of which have been wonderful. There have been some, however, that have been more challenging. 

Here is the truth: sometimes adults do inexplicable things. I choose that word intentionally. There are times that adults with whom I have worked have done things that simply defy – in my mind – rational explanation. 

There was the time a teacher lost control of his class and he simply turned them loose into the hallways. There was the time a teacher who was on a remediation plan read her remediation plan to her class. There was the time a teacher took his class on a field trip without telling the administration he was going. There was the time… okay, you get the picture. Sometimes people do inexplicable things.

When that happens and when the stakes are not particularly high in that there does not need to be some corrective action taken or some significant personnel lesson imparted, I find myself doing something that, perhaps, I should not do.

I find myself making up stories.

It seems to me that, when a teacher or staff member feels embarrassed by a bad decision, a mistake or an inexplicable lack of judgment, I can turn down the temperature. I can help. I can do this by suggesting I have made the same or a similar mistake.

The first example of this which I can remember of doing this in my career is, perhaps, the best. A young teacher came to me and to my good friend who was also an administrator and confessed she had lost a complete set of final exams. Lost. Gone. A full set of finals. 

My friend and I looked at each other. We took deep breaths. We gave advice. 

At some point, one of us said: “when I lost a full set of exams…” and we were off and running.

She felt immeasurably better and we felt we had helped her. No lasting educational harm done.

When she left my friend’s office, we looked at each other and smiled.

Neither of us had ever lost a set of exams. 

Sometimes, stretching the truth is a good thing to do. It is supportive. It makes a situation better.