"All this happened, more or less."

“Gotta make a move to a town that's right for me Town to keep me movin', keep me groovin' with some energy Well, I talk about it, talk about it Talk about it, talk about it Talk about, talk about Talk about movin'” I can feel the sweat pooling in the small of my back, but the breeze created by sheer speed blows my hair back from my face. A whistle sounds. “Slow down!” I keep skating, slowing my pace just slightly – enough to keep the skating rink monitor from making me sit in time-out again for moving dangerously fast through the other skaters. I won’t run into them though. This is what I’m good at. This is my domain. Here, I escape the outside world. Music and movement meld together to create a euphoric high. Rollerskates are natural extensions of my legs. They make me taller, faster, and more coordinated. No one can catch me when I’m on skates. I’m invincible. Incredible. So, so fast. I secretly enter races with the older girls because I know I...

Warning: plot spoilers ahead... It's funny. Sometimes, the films and books I enjoy the most are the ones that I initially approached with hesitancy or ambivalence. Having recently finished the second book in a row for our book club that I found merely mildly entertaining, I had no real hopes for Emily St. John Mandel's Station Eleven , which I had not even heard of prior to the suggestion by one of our club members. With no expectations in mind, I skimmed the comments on the back cover and inside flap, but they didn't give much away. Thus, I started reading with almost no information about the book, its author, or even its genre. I knew it was post-apocalyptic, but was it dystopian? Was it similar to Cormac McCarthy's The Road ? Would it feature a teen love story as depicted in both  The Hunger Games trilogy and the Divergent series? I had several post-apocalyptic stories in mind as I began to read; boy was I surprised to find one that was different! Typically, aut...

Six months have passed since I had the opportunity to participate in the North Star of Texas National Writing Project’s summer institute. Even while I was still working through that process – researching, practicing, and writing – I knew that it was a life-changing experience. I saw how the chance to write freely, in an atmosphere of mutual respect, resulted in beautiful, rich prose that we often didn't believe ourselves capable of writing. I vowed to incorporate true writing workshop strategies into my classroom so that my students could experience the same feelings of success and camaraderie. More than anything, I wanted them to understand that they are writers. Everyone who writes is a writer. With practice, writers become good or great . Yesterday, students wrote freely for about 10 minutes. During freewriting, students do not write to a prompt, and the only rule is to keep writing without stopping to edit. What if they can’t think of anything to write? They write so...

In the Dallas area, we spend a lot of time in traffic.  It’s a drivers’ city, where destinations are spread out. Thus, we can be found navigating high-fives, wondering if every new highway will be a tollway (and wondering what happened to freeways), and sitting at red lights. As curious as I am about people, I don’t often look at the people seated in the cars around me at stoplights. For some reason, it seems invasive. I don’t know why I feel that way; perhaps it’s because of all the leering men I noted staring back beginning at far too young an age. I simply don’t look, and I don’t like it when people look at me. What’s to see? I’m sitting there, waiting for the light to turn green. Just like everyone else. I do, however, note everything about the cars around me. I often pass my time taking in the subtle details that tell far more than many people realize. The location and size of dings, which door handles are worn the most, Louisiana plates dated prior to Hurricane Katrina,...

We’ve all heard that dreadfully incorrect phrase that exclaims “those who can’t do , teach.” I won’t elaborate on all the reasons why that condescending statement is woefully wrong here; talented professionals before me have tackled that notion. However, I will say that most teachers consider the profession a “calling.” That might sound clichéd, but only intrinsic rewards, true dedication, and a dash of idealism drive highly educated professionals to actively pursue a career with a relatively low income compared to educational level, time commitment, lack of adequate respect, and daily challenges and complexities. Clearly, teaching isn’t a soft option when it comes to career choice. Because I teach at the secondary level, almost all of the teachers are experts in their field. Our APUSH teacher has a master’s degree in history, for instance. Not only that, but he has rich life experiences including world travel that allow him to share real-world examples and his passion for the subje...

“Through the years we all will be together / if the fates allow / hang a shining star upon the highest bow.” These song lyrics are bittersweet to me. I hear them every year from late October through the New Year – in supermarkets, shopping malls, and on the car radio. In some renditions, singers focus on singing technically well. They sound bright. Hopeful. Festive. Ready to deck the halls with boughs of holly. In other recordings, you can hear the skillful and subtle touch of melancholy in these words – melancholy that echoes the pain, remembrance, and ultimately, healing that these lyrics represent in my life. I did not get to see my dad often when I was young. He lived in California while I lived in Texas, and my mom actively worked to keep us apart. As I entered 5 th grade, my parents reached a compromise. If we would move to California and grant my dad visitation, he would pay our rent and bills. It was an offer my mom couldn’t refuse. Not only did we have a quaint apar...

One of my favorite feelings in the world occurs when I learn something from my students. Not only do I enjoy learning, but it shows that they are thinking, making connections between my course and their lives, and that they feel comfortable sharing their knowledge. Recently, my students read “A Dog for Rock,” a short story by Mauro Senesi. As we discussed the story and its themes in class, one of my students mentioned that the story reminded her of a Simon and Garfunkel song titled “I am a Rock.” The word “rock” aside, I asked Katie how the story and song connected in her mind, and she proceeded to share her insight about the song’s meaning. It didn’t take long for her to inspire me to listen to the song as soon as possible. Though I had been a fan of the album that featured the song for decades, that particular song had escaped my attention until Katie brought it into my life. During my conference period, I pulled up the song on YouTube and listened to the singer-songwriters croo...