I Made The [Kickball] Newsletter!

One would think that after 4 seasons of kickball that I would have developed some pretty advanced athletic skills.  Turns out that's not the case.  In fact, I suck.  I'm horrible.  And everyone tries to be nice about it because I never miss a game and my hair always looks good, but honestly - I suck.  

So you can imagine my surprise when I didn't suck.  Last Thursday,  I suddenly found myself staring at a red plastic ball floating in the air right in front of my face.  And then, I was shocked to discover that I grabbed that floating ball - in what many have referred to as making an out.  It was a wondrous experience, and one that the referee deemed "an epic catch". 

I would like to thank my coach, Caroline Kickball Younts, the 6 members of my family who were at last Thursday's kickball game in the cheering section with their champagne (no joke), and my entire team who reacted as if I'd just won $1,000,000.  I might have made the weekly kickball newsletter, but it's your support that encourages me to kick another day. 

Candle Nose Sniffing Outing Competition, And Stuff

Because sometimes you start a very silly competition when you're a teenager.  Such as blowing out candles with your nose.  And sometimes everyone gets really into it.

And sometimes you revisit that silly competition again 13 years later.

Spring, Sambuca, Skiing and Skee Ball

Let's be honest, I have a pretty well developed imagination.  And I dabble in high expectations.  Months ago I decided that Spring Break 2014 was going to be the best I'd ever had.  So, you can imagine my relief to find out that I was correct.  It was the best I've ever had. 

Spring Break 2014 consisted of many spectacular elements.  It revolved around an international ski holiday with Miss Joanna Claire Noble Lucas, her hubby Tom and my new muffin Scott.  You may remember Tom and Jo from our Vegas vacay last summer - or from my ambitious 72 hour sojourn to Northern Ireland for their wedding.  Either way, they're pretty memorable people - trust me.

And while we didn't get to perform our synchronized swimming routine, we did some other things:

-Attend John Kinghorn's birthday party and witness the darling family dynamic of shouting over each other. All at once. For hours

-Get served a meal by a t-rex

-Introduce British people to the prestigious sport of skee ball

-Grill some real American burgers

-Pick sides in a week long competition between 70 degree weather and heavy snow

-Spread the gospel of the deliciousness of Chipotle

-Ski some black runs, which were pretty much terrifying

-Mix hard alcohol and Scrabble for a wild time

-Close down the ski resort patio bar, then serenade each other with Robbie Williams for the entire drive home

-Experiment in snow shoeing through awesome snow.  Also, through mud

-Experiment in techniques for removing mud from snow shoes

-Debate the values of the Naked and Afraid survival show

-Eat corn bread with every meal

-Try to steal dogs at the Bark Bar, the best dog park bar ever

-Ski on an empty mountain in gorgeous sunshine and pristine snow

There weren't any bad days - hell, there weren't even any so-so days.  Looking back, I'm not distraught after having packed them off to the airport and waved goodbye.  I think I'm starting to realize that we have our whole lives to make snow angels together.  

Vigil Letter

The day before my 28th birthday a few months ago, I received a very unexpected gift: a letter that I'd written to myself on August 23, 2005.  My vigil letter. 

The letter, which was meant to be delivered to me on my 25th birthday in 2010, was inexplicably rescheduled to arrive in 2007, and finally landed on my doorstep in November 2013.  Once I read the letter I knew that fate had thrown this letter into the twilight zone for so many years because this was the year that I would really understand it. 

Before I entertain you with the workings of my 19 year old brain, allow me to explain how I went about even writing a letter to myself.  

When I was 15 I was selected to attend Camp Rising Sun.  Camp Rising Sun is an 8-week full scholarship international leadership program in New York.  Thirty different countries send one girl and one boy to represent their country, and around twenty U.S. states are permitted to send one representative as well.  It was the honor of my life to be selected on behalf of the state of Colorado, and through this community I have come to love some of the brightest and most passionate minds in our world today. 

Camp Rising Sun has been an incredible support for me as I teased out my international curiosities.  It gave me a scholarship for college, and even helped fund my 2008 thesis work in South Sudan.  But most importantly, it has provided limitless opportunities for me to find the best version of myself. 

Hence, the vigil letter experience.  During the final week of the camp, everyone goes out into the woods alone, builds a fire, and stays awake all night writing a letter to themselves.  The program keeps it and mails it to them later when they've become adults.  I got to do this twice, once as a camper, and once as a counselor.  The second letter was my newest birthday gift. 

Writing a letter to your future self is strange, but it cannot compare to the head trip that is reading a letter from yourself of the past.  As I read through it, I was completely overwhelmed with emotion.  How difficult it was to hear the 19 year old version of myself pouring her deepest pains and fears onto the page, only to realize that after nine years I am still battling so many of those same demons.  Had I made any progress?  Had I matured into who I had hoped I'd be?  Would the 19 year old Emily be proud of me today?

As I moved through page after page of young Emily complaining about boys and friends and boys and friends (young Emily was terribly verbose), I kept thinking, god I wished I'd made a bucket list for myself, I hope there's some list here for me to check off.  And sure thing, the final page of the letter was a list.  That's the convenient thing about writing to yourself, you know exactly how to please your reader.

The list (verbatim) looks something like this:

Top 11 Things I Want To Have Done Or Be Doing By Age 25 In No Particular Order         (after all, that was when I thought I'd be receiving this letter)  

1. Be with the person I intend on marrying

2. Speak at least one other language fluently

3. Have traveled to Asia or Africa or both

4. Have a plan for how I am going to repay my parents for everything they fund for me (college)

5. Have finished or be finishing graduate school

6. Be closer to my sister

7. Not exceed 135 pounds

8. Live for an unrestricted period of time in Colorado again.  If my parents aren't there, then wherever my family is

9. Figure out how to be happy with being right here, right now

10. Have an English Sheepdog or that other big hairy black dog from the movie "Must Love Dogs".  Such a cute dog, horrible movie though. 

11. Be healthy, and have a lifestyle where I am always healthy

Like I said, reading a letter from yourself of the past is a head trip.  For me, the overwhelming reaction to this list was shock.  Without any memory of making it, I had successfully completed almost every goal that I set for myself as a 19 year old (not so sure about the marriage one yet, my parents don't really want to be repaid, and Bear definitely is not a big fluffy dog).  

This list gave me a deep sense of confidence and peace.  I've accomplished other huge goals - and on time too.  Jeez, I've even accomplished goals that seemed too big to list.

I know now that I'm living a life that Emily at any age can be proud of.  And that, my friends, is the beauty of the vigil letter. 

Tracy Murphy and Me

I can still remember where I was on April 20, 1999 - the day that Columbine High School became international news.  I remember the school bus ride home during which no one spoke.  I remember how my mother met me at my bus stop and hugged me with an urgency that I hadn't seen before.  I was 14 at the time.  It was the only day of my student career when I was deeply, profoundly terrified to go to school. 

I am scared all the time now.

On Friday there was another Colorado school shooting at Arapahoe High School.  That is my mother's high school.  I grew up practicing a cheer that my mother taught me from when she was a junior cheerleader there.  A-R-A-P-A-H-O-E, A-R-A-P-A-H-O-E.  I used to make up motions to go along with the cheer as cleaned my room.  Now Arapahoe High School is making international news. 

The shooter of the Arapahoe High School tragedy entered the high school and immediately asked for a specific teacher, Tracy Murphy.  Reports show that Mr. Murphy had recently cut this young man from the speech and debate team, and now he had come to murder Mr. Murphy out of revenge. 

On Friday, just before 1pm, my school was placed on an "orange plus" lock-down.  This is the highest level of lock-down that I've ever experienced as a teacher or student.  An orange lock-down means that there is a threat in the neighborhood, but a red level lock-down means that there is a threat loose inside the school.  You can imagine my confusion to hear about an "orange plus" lock-down.  What does that even mean?  That's not on the chart.  

So there I was, locked down in a tiny room with my 5th period class.  According to lock-down procedures, no one was allowed in or out of the room - period.  I looked at my kids, realizing that this was not a drill and I was responsible for these students.  And I got really, really protective.  For all I knew, the Arapahoe shooter could be heading over to Aurora next.  

Like I said, I am scared all the time now. 

You see, I have quite a bit in common with Tracy Murphy.  I interact daily with students who are angry, frustrated and desperate.  I teach primarily boys, and a few of them butt heads with my rules consistently.  They yell and throw things and shout profanities at myself and other students.  Not to mention that I just cut ten students from the Talent Show last week.  I could have been Tracy Murphy; this could have been my school.  

I'd like to say, no, never, not at Aurora West.  Our kids are different.  Our community is peaceful.  Our security is tighter.  But is it really? Can we ever truly know? 

As soon as the lock-down began on Friday, my class immediately reacted.  But the kids weren't scared or concerned.  They were annoyed.  "Miss, will this be over before my soccer game?" "Miss, I suddenly have to go to the bathroom RIGHT NOW!" It was such a strange reality to witness: lock-downs and nearby school shootings don't shock kids anymore.  This is completely common place to them.  At one point another teacher [broke protocol] to come into my room to get something.  When I heard a random key in the lock, I jumped out of my chair and my heart raced - until a student turned to me and said "Don't worry Miss.  If it's the shooter, he will use a gun to get in.  Shooters don't use keys."

I'm not sure what the main take-away from Friday's tragedy is.  I can write you an essay on the importance of mental health services.  I can write you a novel on the need for common sense gun control (because apparently, all you need to get a gun in Colorado is to be having a bad day).  But today what I really needed to write about is how scared I was on Friday.  A fear born at Columbine when I was a child, and that has grown through the Deer Creek Middle School tragedy in Littleton, CO.  That was magnified by the Aurora theater shootings, just a few blocks from my school.  That growing up and living in Colorado has made shootings part of my normal life.  

I don't know everything about school security or mental health or gun control.  I don't know everything about the loss of innocence: mine, and my students'. 

But I do know that I can fit two students in my main closet.  And another four under the large teacher desks.  That leaves eight kids that I need to find hiding places for.  Let's hope I have some time to look around before our next lock-down. 

Bad Boys

Someday girls will learn to love boys who read, call instead of text, and compliment you on your brain. 

But that day has not yet arrived.  

I can't tell you how pleased I am to see that the next generation of ladies has taken up the universal pursuit of the bad boy.   I confiscated this note today.  It is both a beautiful declaration of middle school love and a honest request for affections to be returned.

 

Here are a few highlights for those of you who don't read middle school:

"I love you sike haha you are funny and stupid even tho you say stupid shit I still listen and we say stupid shit to each other and we fight alot but yea"

"Ever sence you whent out with Ling but I didn't say nothing because IDK what you would say so I didn't say nothing so yea and I still have a crush on you you might not think the same but I'm just going to be honest with you you might not be honest with me but just to let you know when I see your smile it just so cute"

"I'm telling you now but would whant to go back out with you you are so amazing and cute that smile thoe   xD  haha but really that smile so I guss I told you how I fell about you see you leter"

And who does this little lady feel her blinding love for?  My resident bad, bad boy.  Which got me thinking, maybe I've got him all wrong. Yes, he threw a wad of paper at my head and got a referral...but he makes her laugh.  Yes, he whips his keys around on a string to see if he can hit other kids...but he tells her she is beautiful.  Yes, he stole my Scotch tape and taped his whole face into a giant freak show mask...but he really listens to her when she talks.  

At the end of the day, who am I to judge their love? 

Oh, right, I'm their teacher.  I kind of do get a say.  Young lady: don't do it, he's a mess, step away, run away, stay away, don't even try to save/change him, and hurry - go find yourself an English tutor. 

Freak.

Every person has quirks - things that they do or care about that others may find unusual.  A few weeks ago I decided to look at my life and decipher what my quirks are.  This was actually pretty challenging because, obviously, to me these things all seem normal.  However, what I found made me wonder if I am indeed "quirky", or in fact a verifiable Freak. 

1. I have to lotion my feet in bed, or else I can't fall asleep. 

2. I have to completely get off my bike every.single.time.I.stop.  I only know how to start my bike from a run; I can't do it stationary.  Panic ensues when I try.

3. I can only turn off my treadmill when the time, calorie count, and mileage are all simultaneously a divisible of 3.  

4. Whenever my eyes are idle, they pick up on a word that is visible at that moment (street signs, book titles, vocabulary words).  I then mentally rearrange the letters so that the word becomes a palindrome pattern of vowels and consonants.  Meaning that the word must have the same pattern of vowels and consonants forwards and backwards.  I do this so frequently that I can rearrange multi-syllabic words in my head in seconds. 

5. I hit myself every.single.time I see a Volkswagen Beetle.  (I also say "slug bug, no hit backs" - although no one is there to hear me, hit me back or, really, to compete with me to see them first).  There are 2 Beetles in my neighborhood, so I pretty much punch myself all the time.  However, I would never dare to slug bug another person - how childish!

6. I have a secret t-shirt obsession.  I get very, very stressed out when I attend an event that provides event t-shirts because I want one (in my size) so badly.  Sometimes I will call ahead and make up a lie to get my t-shirt in advance.  I will sneak out of the event and stand in the hallway to be the first in line for t-shirts.  The best part of this obsession is that I never, ever wear the t-shirts.  That t-shirt is a memento and wearing it will ruin it!

I've known for a while that the t-shirt obsession was starting to get out of control.  I have never-worn t-shirts crammed into every drawer and closet in my apartment.  So, today I decided to lay them all out and see what I've collected.  I expected to find maybe 30ish t-shirts.  I was wrong. 

There are 86 in total. 

I have my Africa t-shirts:

My college t-shirts:

My race t-shirts:

My high school t-shirts (go Patriots - crush the East Angels!):

My Teach For America t-shirts:

My Aurora West t-shirts:

Not to mention the randoms that don't even fit into a category!

Right now I feel like a super Freak.  Who keeps so many t-shirts and never wears them?  Do I need t-shirt therapy? 

Yet, there is something amazing happening here as well.  Here, on my bed and my floor is a memory of every single thing I've ever been proud of.  It's my whole life sized small in cotton and ink.

I know that I can't keep going like this, I need to make room for new memories and new events in my life.  I discussed this conundrum at my recent church happy hour, and a friend recommended that I turn all of these t-shirts into a quilt.  And while the idea of cutting these guys up is giving my a mild heart attack, I think that might just be the perfect solution.  All I need now is to learn how to quilt!

What I'm thinking is that life is not about hiding or changing your idiosyncrasies.  It's about accepting yourself for the Freak you are, and figuring out ways to not be held back by your idiosyncrasies.  I'm a OCD t-shirt collecting, vowel palindroming, divisible of 3-running, slug bug self-slugging Freak.  

But you better know that the t-shirts for my wedding and the births of all my children are going to be top notch!  Collectors' items, if you will.