To list all the changes I’ve gone through in the last year and a half is more than this space could handle and more than I’m willing to write down at this time. Without going into much detail I can safely say that many of them are of the self-realization sort. With that said, I’ve actually wanted more changes. Rather, I’ve had this list, an intimidating list that I dare not write down nor tell too many people for fear that they’d hold me to it. It’s truly the wimpy way out but it’s important because I know it’s there. It lurks, prods at me, and begs me to acknowledge it while I freely admit to generally trying to ignore it.

This weekend I made, for me, a brave decision. I’m ridiculously proud of it. That’s because I thought I’d never cut my hair and I actually haven’t for nearly 20 years. I get it trimmed and I always preface a hair appointment with, “No, seriously. Just a little. A tiny bit.” While it may seem like an easy decision for some women I admit without restriction that hair is quite a political statement. If I straighten it, am I betraying the natural curl and bend and wave it’s supposed to have? If I let it go curly will I be taken seriously? (Not so long ago a co-worker told me that my straight hair was more “serious” and that it “looked better”. This makes me want to cry or vomit or both.) The politics of hair have left their mark on me. This is due to many reasons:

1. When I was young I had an afro that I really hated (and now I think it was cute, so, ok! Shut up, Mom!) while my sisters had longer, and in my own twisted opinion, better hair.

2. Every Sunday morning my parents would let me pick up the newspaper at the stand while they waited in the car. Every Sunday morning the guy at the stand said, “There ya go, sonny.”

3. I have had latent desires to go back and find that newspaper stand guy and kick him in the shins. Except, I’m taller now. I guess I’d punch him in the throat.

Here’s how it went down: I spent Saturday pampering myself and spending several hours in the salon as a reward for a couple of weeks that have left me listless and shamefully weary. There were magazines that I looked through and one of them had a picture of Beyonce with short hair. For some reason, I felt brave. My stylist had already cut it dry since I came into the salon with it straight and then she added some red tones to it and as she was blowdrying it I asked, “Do you have time to cut my hair shorter? If not, I won’t do it. I’m feeling brave now and right now only.”

She knows me well so she took it off slowly. Two inches. Then, another two. Then one more.

This right here is another change for me. One that I vowed to make come true before my next birthday. Which is this Friday.

No more changes until then. I might just scare the hell out of myself. I know that I will keep making changes. I’ll just make them one or two inches at a time.

Different professions probably have their own certain phrases that are used so much they become a part of the everyday speech. I imagine that every time the guys at the garage see me coming in to have something fixed or replaced on my car they all mumble, “Another one bites the dust, boys. Here comes the lady who just hands over her checkbook to us. New tires!” Or maybe they just jump up and down in excitement when they see me approach knowing that I will throw money at them to make my car stop making whirring noises.

In education, especially at the administrative level, we know that we are an island unto ourselves. Sometimes there is no one else to bounce things off of and other times you have to keep so much to yourself that when the hits start coming you have no choice but to take them. But the phrase we constantly use is “I’ve just been thrown under the bus.” (This is followed by a sigh, a pregnant pause, and then, “Again.”)

This week alone I have often said this to the other administrators in my building: Boy. I don’t think there’s a bus left in town that I haven’t been thrown under.

When you’re the “boss” or even have the perception of being one, people will disagree with you. As an assistant principal I know that I make decisions that people don’t like. I know that I make the hard decisions that others don’t have to and then I have to live with them and with the criticism that follows. I know that parents blame ills of the system as a whole on me as a person and I am of the school of thought that there’s no way in hell I will accept such accusations as true. People say things and want to place the blame, but it’s usually not warranted. As usual, discipline is at the crux of what teachers dislike and I’ve come to the conclusion that I WILL NOT MAKE EVERYONE HAPPY. Truly, I would be a millionaire if I had a dime for every time I heard, “You’re not a teacher anymore. You forgot what it’s like in the classroom.” There’s just no way to make everyone happy.

And I’m ok with that. On my little island I have realized that being ok is better than trying to please everyone. The other reminder to myself on a fairly regular basis: I’M HERE FOR THE STUDENTS.

That brings me to the student du jour and a little encounter I had with him today that ultimately gave me enormous pleasure. If I don’t laugh then I will have to tear out my hair. (Which? Ok. Sounds like a great idea! Think of all the shampoo and conditioner I will save on if I’m bald!)

Terrance drives me a little crazy. He is a student with more energy than one body ought to be allowed. He’s short and talks fast and trips over his words which is why he ends up repeating phrases in his speech when he’s talking to me. He’s pretty comical to me. My dealings with him are always with a grain of salt. One day last week he was “burning up” and kept saying, “Come on! I’m on fire! I can’t work in this heat!” This was, apparently, because it had finally reached a decent temperature and we hadn’t opened windows or turned on the air conditioning. Poor Terrance. He was groggy and sleepy and he wanted to argue with me about it much like a 5-year old would. But that’s about his speed so I just go with it.

“I do NOT control the weather, child. For real. Are you seriously complaining about that?”

I ended up giving him the small fan I had in my office and let him use it in his classroom (a small, self-contained classroom in a life skills type program that we offer). While I knew other students might be jealous of him it got him out of my face for a while. He seems to seek out my presence at school when he’s avoiding work. Terrance needs a bit of a different type of handling and, while he can be annoying, he is quite harmless in the grand scheme of things. And he likes me. Dear sweet Jeebus, that child likes me.

Today, as I was eating my lunch, I could hear the security guards mention that he’d escaped his P.E. class and went AWOL. In the span of five minutes I listened to the chatter on the radio I carry and quietly ate my lunch. The people eating lunch with me said things like, “That’s YOUR child” when they heard his name and I just rolled my eyes knowing that Terrance was working hard to interrupt my eating. Well, ok, maybe he wasn’t doing it on purpose, but I shoved the food in my mouth in preparation for having to leave the table all too soon.

“Terrance was spotted by the soda machine on the 1st floor.”

“Terrance has been seen walking around on the third floor.”

“Terrance is running from the security officers.”

Well, crap. Someone might have just said, “Terrance is going to ruin your lunch, Kelly, so give up the ghost and go chase after him!”

A few other things kept me from going to see him right away once he was caught and brought to the discipline office where my co-worker was waiting to hear from me about another issue. When I got to the office Terrance was sprawled across three chairs and trying to sleep.

Oh, no. No no no. This child will NOT be sleeping after this recent wild goose chase!

“Terrance!” I whisper-yelled. “Get up! Come with me.”

He whined for a full two minutes. Luckily, I seemed to have an extra dose of patience today. I continued to press him and tell him that he needed to get up. I waited for him and moved slowly to the door which I held open until he decided to rub his eyes and get up. I told him we were going for a walk because I needed some fresh air and was starting to go into my Afternoon Wind Down which is always coupled with a Do I Have Some Change For A Diet Pepsi To Wake Me Up?

We finally made our way to the front door and he pushed on my patience some more but I stuck with the same sentence, “Yes. We ARE going for a walk. Outside. Around the building. Let’s go.” He mumbled under his breath the whole time. We got to the door and he whined again. Again, I refused to give in to him and repeated what we were going to do.

About halfway around the school building I finally decided to ask him why he had left his class in the first place.

Mind you, we were outside. Walking. Around the building.

He stopped walking, copped a full on attitude pose, cocked his head to the side and said, “I left my P.E. class because I didn’t want to go OUTSIDE. I WANTED TO STAY INSIDE.”

There was so much effort on the part of my body to not give in to him that I burst out laughing because no energy was left to keep it in without falling over from exhaustion.

“Do you know what this is, Terrance? This is IRONY. It’s not a big word, but I’m going to explain it to you while we keep walking.”

By the end of the walk, he totally got “irony”.

Hell, yeah. I’m still a teacher.

It seems very strange for me to begin this post with, “Man! Y’all do some really stupid stuff!” but it’s true. I’m sorry. You do. But it’s ok! I do, too! All the time. I’m probably doing something stupid right now and won’t figure it out until next Thursday. This time, however, I asked you to share because I had a book and a surprise to giveaway. The comments made it difficult to choose but in the end I have come up with a winner.

I chose Heather from Unproductive Reproduction (or maybe it’s actually called Production Not Reproduction and you see? right there? Me=stupid.) because it was such a silly thing she did to set out for one destination and end up at another. Thus, not actually picking up her children. (Heather’s brand of “stupid” is something I would do. Maybe I have. I’m too stupid to remember.)

Send me an email, Heather! I promise to drive to the post office to mail this and possibly end up at the dry cleaners to pick up clothing I dropped off sometime last Fall. And then, I’ll turn around and actually get to the post office. Ok. So email me. I’ll get your book and surprise in the mail and won’t tell readers what it is until you get it.

Let’s move on to something cool because all this stupid going around the solar system of my brain is going to make me chicken out of sending in my application to Mensa.

Maddie came to visit us this entire past week for her Spring Break and it was pretty darn awesome. Even cooler, she set out to get a tattoo. In my handwriting.

Haven’t I told you this stuff before?

Anyway, she loves the poem by e e cummings entitled “i carry your heart”. One of the few letters she ever received during the open adoption we had gave her the idea for this. For years she had only seen my handwriting and never a picture of me. This, coupled with the fact that Mallory has a tattoo with my handwriting coupled with the fact that she does, indeed, carry my heart led her to this:

And now? I’ve written on my daughters and they will have it forever. The ink may fade, but my heart? All my children take that with them everywhere they go.

Puh-lease. I couldn’t go braless. It’s not fashionable anymore. That was so last year.

I’ve been doing this blog thing for a while. I’ve been in education longer.

I am always touched by the lovely comments people leave when I start talking about My Work and the students that come before me. Then I write something sort of stupid unbelievably blasphemous and totally crack myself up. Magically, no one tells me I’m going to hell when I write that. Then, my favorite topic to bring out the trolls, racism, always elicits thought-provoking responses. While I love to write I’m sadly busy this time of year and can’t produce something when every day pulls me in multiple directions. This week has been particularly horrid. We’ve lost a student to a horrible accident. Mostly, we are stunned. For the entirety of the last two days I’ve handed out tissues and allowed students almost as big as me to crawl into my lap when they just couldn’t take it any more. I could wax poetic about how emotionally exhausted I am but that would be uncalled for and I’d much rather talk about all the dumb ass things that I’ve come across this week. Dumb ass meaning so ridiculously funny that I’ve laughed right out loud when they happen.

In trying to remember to take my lunch to school I put my keys in the refrigerator like my mother suggested I do.

I tripped while trying to put on underwear. My big toe got caught and I fell right over.

While applying lip liner in the car (I tend to do that every day) I realized there was a cop next to me. I dropped it in my lap so he wouldn’t see me. I got lip liner all over my khaki pants.

My right contact doesn’t want to stay in my eye and it poops out on me (poops. as in “too tired to work anymore”) by 3 p.m. every day. I’ve taken to removing it and squinting until I get home. It makes me feel like a pirate.

During the lunch shift today one of the students asked why I was wearing green to which I replied, “To show that I’m not racist. I know Irish people!” Then she walked away from me while shaking her head.

I went by Mrs. O’Wickham all day long today. It’s how I answered my phone a few times.

A parent was saying goodbye to me on the phone and ended it with “HOLLA.” I said, “Really? Holla? Are you serious?”

I ate a lot of cream cheese dip brought in for an office birthday party today. I’m lactose intolerant. I had to tell my co-workers, “You REALLY want me to leave early today. Trust me.”

There are so many more dumb things that I have done that I’m a little embarrassed to list them here. With that? A contest!

YES. A CONTEST.

Why not? It’s St. Patrick’s day and my mother is part Irish. I mean, come on, her name is Patty. Pat. Patricia. Whatever. Where do you think Mason got all that red hair? The Black side of my family? (My leprechaun name, by the way, is Fluffernutter O’Donaghue. SEE ABOVE with the lactose intolerance.)

The contest: leave me a comment on the dumbest thing you’ve done lately.

Here’s what you can win on this auspicious day of listening to the Dropkick Murphy’s with no regret (The Pogues are always cool) and trying to find a really good corned beef sandwich with a cream soda: an Irish book Galway Bay by Mary Pat Kelly.

I am in possession of a lovely signed copy of Kelly’s book to give away. Feel free to hop over to the Daily Grommet to read more about her and her story.

Don’t forget to leave a comment. I could use it after this draining week. I’ll pick one sometime Thursday evening so you have until then! For fun, I’m going to throw in something extra just because I like being spontaneous. It’s the Irish in me.

Contest is now closed.

Frankly, I was surprised by the number of comments this post evoked. Many of you asked for a follow up. This is all I’ve got.

Anna came to see me today. She waltzed in the office but when she saw me looking at her she slunk her shoulders and looked sheepish.

She’d been gone ever since I had written that last post about her. She just disappeared.

No phone calls. No contact.

And then I went away to a conference for a week.

All the while wondering what Anna was doing. Hoping she was at school.

I logged into my school intranet system to check on her attendance while I was away.

She hadn’t been to school. “Perhaps she had left me another message?” I thought.

There was nothing from her on my voicemail when I returned.

Today she showed up at 9:00 a.m.

Her hair was different. It was red. Her eyes were misty. She looked tired. Or like she’d been crying. Or like she had gotten high recently.

I know that look. I’ve seen it often.

She asked me to please send her to an alternative school.

She wants her GED. She’s almost 17 so I couldn’t send her to that program. The best I could do was an alternative school in our district.

Her mother’s permission is needed for this. I called her and she complied. She’s at her wit’s end and doesn’t know what else to do with Anna.

It broke my heart to do it. She gave me no other choice.

She is so smart. Her intellect astounds me as does her fragility.

She blows me away and I can’t find a place for all the emotions she puts me through.

She doesn’t do it on purpose. I do not blame her.

This is just what we do in education. We can’t help ourselves.

I gave her my cell phone number. I gave her my home number, too.

“Call me. Whenever you want. If you need me to rescue you or if you’re in trouble. I don’t care if it’s 2 in the morning. I worry about you and I will always probably worry until I know you’re ok.”

She said she would.

She gave me a big hug. Then she stepped back from me and looked me squarely in the face without looking away.

I bit my tongue to keep from pleading with her.

Finally, I had to look away from her so that I would not cry right in front of her.

That, I saved for later.

I fear that I may never see her again.

Damnit all to hell. This is not what I thought education would be like.

It surprises me every single time.