Wild Geese? Not so much...

This morning for the National Writing Project ISI invitation to write, AP English teacher, Stacey, shared Mary Oliver's, Wild Geese.It surprisingly threw some people off. Invite to write can sometimes do that when you haven't learned to let your guard down and realize there are no outside expectations from the facilitators or participants, except to write. Something. Put pen (or pencil) to paper and write. For me, my journaling strayed quite a ways from Oliver's poem. Experience with NWP, meant I had no qualms with taking any nugget I could mine out of the presentation. No worries, no expectations. No concern that I might appear to be threatened by poetry, or that my peers would assume six years in elementary school meant I couldn't explicate a poem beyond Silverstein or Nesbitt. I just heard what I heard and was inspired the way I was inspired. I don't choose how it comes to me. I just choose to embrace it. I worked on it some more when I got home, I might revisit it again sometime. If you know Oliver's poem, you'll recognize the found nuggets, or borrowed phrases and ideas. Here it is...

I'm reminded of Yom Kippur, the Jewish Day of Atonement. The holiest day of the year for the Jewish people. The idea of repenting, of searching for something, of pledging internally, and before G-d, to do better next year, next month, next week, tomorrow, today.

In a life where few others around me share my beliefs, it feels like people are just going on with their everyday (because they are), as I sit in silent meditation, pondering over what can be better next year, how I can be better next year.

All of this while the wild geese are heading home again.

Perhaps we are the geese. Jewish people, heading home again to our house of worship, to our people, for the yearly renewal of our covenant with G-d.

Just imagine, as we wash ourselves in the saline of our tears, we cleanse ourselves of the past year's transgressions and humbly ask forgiveness, the world offers itself to our imagination. G-d calls to us to imagine how to do better, be better, live better.

We ask forgiveness of each other, we pray to The Heavens over and over, announcing to Adonai that we understand our place in the family of things.

Poem: "Wild Geese," by Mary Oliver from New & Selected Poems (Harcourt Brace).

Wild Geese

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body 

love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting-

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.

Inner Voice

I've been struggling to write lately. Mostly because I have been working on some professional projects that have taken up a great deal of my hours of mental acuity. But also because of some inner writing conflict I'm working through. A couple of months ago I started this new blog, and in the past few weeks I've tried to establish a daily routine of writing not for work, but for me. Until the last couple of days I've managed to maintain. The aforementioned projects are tightening up, so thankfully I'm back. Now that I am, it's time for me to face the conflict. Since I started interacting with my writing circle, I took the plunge and began developing a fictional character (see Tess). Little by little, she has been coming to me in bits and pieces. I enjoy visualizing her and trying to live inside her in order to describe her to readers, but I find myself void of her story. I can't figure out who she really is, what she does, or what should happen to her. In the meantime, I've been overflowing with ideas in response to books and articles I've been reading, observations I've been making, and experiences I've been having. I don't want Tess to be me. I know many fictional characters draw from the author's personal life, and I'm ok with that, I just don't want her to actually be me. I've been wondering how to spin all of this real stuff into the life of my fictional character, and right now I can't seem to do it. Knowing that I need to sit down and write everyday to be a writer, I've put this pressure on myself to bring Tess to life. I've read and re-read my description of her, but she's just not speaking to me. So, for three days I didn't write.

This afternoon I was tidying up a console table that my husband and I moved out of a dusty corner where books and things with no place had piled up. Last week, we put it in the main entry way of our home. It has two small cabinets that had also collected miscellaneous items that at one time had no place. Here's one of the things I found:

On many occasion throughout my life, I have started and stopped journaling. I have some finished cover to cover, and others were started and now cry from the corners of my shelves and drawers to be written in once more. During the busiest times in my life, when journaling seemed to take a back seat to everything else, I would sometimes purchase these themed journals to kickstart things again, and get inspired. I've started a gratitude journal, a dreams journal, among others. But this one I apparently purchased back in April of 2002. My Inner Voice spoke to the first page of this journal on April 17, 2002, less than a month after my 29th birthday. It either stopped talking or I stopped listening soon after because I only filled 8 pages before I put it on a shelf, and then maybe another shelf, and then in a cabinet. For 11 years!  I read the 8 pages, tore out the three inspirational bookmarks that were included, yet untouched until now, and decided it's time to start listening again!

I have been thinking. Maybe Tess is just a muse, a manifestation of my need to be creative. As I've mentioned in previous posts, my writing the past few years has been so entwined with my learning and career goals. But what I've come to realize is that I don't have to write fiction to be creative. I can write whatever I want. In time I think Tess will evolve further, and I may develop a nagging need to tell her story. But for now, I'm ok telling my own. My own experiences, my observations, and my own reactions to the world around me. It's likely that poetry will form, as I have found several poems throughout my journals, and I enjoy reading and writing sensory details. But the only 2 commitments I'm making are: 1. to write and 2. to listen to my inner voice.

Untitled Poem, no date

Written somewhere between April 17th and July 19th, 2002

My Inner Voice journal

A quiet spring day

The warmth of the sun comes over me

Like an old worn blanket

The breeze runs through my hair

And the curls dance around the frame of my face

Tickling my forehead and cheeks

In-tuned with nature around me.

NO-CD

Members of my family, especially my dad, like to razz me about some compulsions I have. They lightheartedly joke that I have OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder). They really don't mean anything by it, other than to tease me about the importance I put on little things that seem to them, inconsequential. I giggle, as I understand their need to tease. My ability to laugh with them, is the first sign that I really don't suffer from the disorder. In fact, maybe because I spent so much time as a special education teacher, I realized this is nothing to joke about. OCD can be quite debilitating to true sufferers. The more recent recognition of this disorder and others like it, popularizedthe term giving it a presence in everyday vernacular. Soon, everyone who likes a clean house, has their CD's arranged in alphabetical order (do people still collect CD's?), or arranges things in a certain way, has OCD.

The truth is most humans have some sort of compulsion. We accumulate collectibles, stand in line for the latest version in a book series or movie saga, we order the same exact thing when we visit our favorite restaurants. We're creatures of habit. What makes OCD a disorder is how harmful or disruptive the compulsions are to the everyday lives of the individuals suffering from the disorder. There is a plethora of resources available online and elsewhere if you want to educate yourself. My point here was to talk about my compulsions- habits which if broken make me uncomfortable, and if kept, make me strangely happy or excited.

I've never publicly shared any of this with anyone. In fact, I just shared some of it with my best friend for the first time last month. The biggest compulsion I have, the one that inspired this post, involves my kitchen. I'll save that one for the end. A few of them are more like rituals...

Every morning when I get out of the shower, I put the exact same number of deodorant strokes under each arm. Same on each side, the same everyday. Yes, I count.

I've been told by my dental hygienist that I'm an "aggressive brusher." This confirmation came after years of my husband telling me I take too long to brush my teeth. No, I don't count strokes, I have an electric toothbrush. But I know by the vibrating timer on it, exactly how long I've brushed each quadrant of my mouth before moving to the next.

Like many people, I have a routine in the morning. As soon as I get up, I pee, wash my hands, brush my teeth, in that order. Same when I get out of the shower. I tone and moisturize my face, brush and gel my hair, put on my deodorant, body splash, and perfume. Then I clean my ears. In that order every day. The thing that makes it ritualistic is if I'm distracted (by my husband, son, the phone, doorbell, etc.) my routine gets messed up and I feel completely off track for the morning.

I have certain items placed around my house in various places, candle holders, plants, and other decorative pieces. If one is facing the wrong direction, or is slightly out of place, I notice and fix it. If I can't get to it, I stare at it until I can.

The toilet paper roll must be rolled over. If it's rolling under, even if I'm in someone else's house, I take it out and fix it.

In my house, the edge of an area rug must always be parallel with the natural lines or grooves in the wood planks or tiles on the floor.

After cleaning the flat stovetop when I've been cooking, I can't see streaks in it. I'll "buff" them out repeatedly with a dish towel until it looks like a freshly waxed car.

Every time I go to a bathroom where there are paper towels, I pull exactly 3 to dry my hands. Yes, I count. Every time. Recently, I was in the bathroom at Kohl's and I told myself as soon as I walked in, I would try to take only 2 (conservation- conscious). I took two, dried my hands and then took another. I couldn't help it.

Now that you're starting to think I'm weird, let's talk about my kitchen. There are two places in the kitchen where my compulsions are really obvious. The refrigerator and the pantry. We'll begin with the fridge. Everything bis arranged in like rows. There are two shelves on the door. One holds salad dressings and condiments. Nothing else. The other holds all ethnic condiments and sauces: various Asian cooking sauces, different hot sauces and chili pepper sauce. Dare not place so dig on the wrong shelf. No, I wouldn't flip out, I'd just move it.

The shelves have equally strict guidelines. The top shelf houses pickled items to the right; my family eats a lot of pickles, olives, pickled tomatoes and peppers. Down the middle, you will find salsa, humus, and other prepared dips from the store. Right now you would see my son's new favorite, buffalo chicken dip. You might also find leftovers from dinner, or leftover ingredients such as chopped onions or chicken broth which are always down the middle, on either of the three shelves. The dairy products are housed to the left. Sour cream, butter, whipped cream. Straddling the left and middle this week is tzaziki sauce from the Greek chicken meal I made for dinner the other night. That can go dairy to the left, or dip down the middle.

The second shelf which includes the deli drawer on the left, always has the same thing. Up against the far right wall of he fridge, there is always a box of cookies. Whatever the current flavor profile, it usually has chocolate, thus a regular spot in the cold. Right now, I'm guessing the remainder of some sort of Girl Scout cookie. In the center column there will always be individual cups, yogurt, apple sauce, pudding, jello. This spot is always reserved for quick grab, lunch box type items. Guarding the left of the cups, up against the deli drawer (not so close that it won't open without disrupting fridge mojo), are canned beverages. Sometimes soda,other times sparkling water.

Finally, at the bottom, you will find the tallest and heaviest items. Bottles of orange juice, milk, iced tea, spaghetti sauce. They each have a column based on category and use. Sauces are toward the back because they aren't used everyday. Buttermilk, used only periodically for cooking is lined behind 2% milk, which gets used daily for coffee and often, cereal. Of course the produce drawer contains none other than fruits and vegetables.

But what inspired this post, is the current state of my fridge (and pantry). Yes, it's organized somewhat compulsively, but there's another layer to this whole thing. I love the way it looks as it empties out. I get a sense of satisfaction that we've "used up" the food in there. I like the way it feels as it empties out. You may not sense it from this photo, but there isn't much in there right now, comparatively speaking. Notice the produce drawers. At the start of the week, there is no white space in there. You can't see the back of the refrigerator, because it's filled with fresh vegetables. That bottom shelf is usually filled with bottles of Gatorade, stacks of protein to be cooked for dinner throughout the week, and fresh fruit. But I love when I can look in my fridge and see that we've used what we bought. I love the absence of take out containers, indicating that we've waited for the weekend to go out because we had a house full of food. I love that the Gatorade and water are gone because my son went to swim practice everyday and needed to stay hydrated. But mostly, I love that it's emptied out. Why? Because  today or tomorrow I'll go back to Publix. I'll come home, unload my groceries, and fill the fridge right back up in rows and columns of order goodness. Does that make me sick?

I have the same feeling as my pantry gets emptied out. Also arranged in organized rows, oils in one, various types of vinegars in another, canned ingredients such as diced tomatoes and beans in yet another, followed by canned soups, and a supply of salad dressings and marinades stocked up from a BOGO at Publix. Throughout the fall and winter, this pantry is stocked to the top of the shelf and all the way to the back for winter and holiday cooking. Today, much of it is flushed out and used, a sign that summer months are here and fresh ingredients are abound. Again, I love the feeling.

If you think I organized just for these photos, talk to my family members who look forward to my visits so I can organize their refrigerators. 

I'm not sure what all of this means. My armchair self- psychoanalysis tells me that it's a way of achieving order in my life. These are simple things I can control.  Not everything in my house is organized like this, but my kitchen, yes. It may have something to do with the food thing too. I've struggled with my weight my entire life, but that is another story altogether. But here I am. Another part of my life exposed, a very strange and fragile part of me. What makes my compulsions non-disorder-ly, is that I don't have a meltdown if something gets out of order, I don't flip out on my family if something is put away improperly. I simply get agitated, and then I fix it. When things are in order, I feel better. Shouldn't making yourself happy be a compulsion for everyone?

Tess evolves

She's coming to me slowly in bits...

Amber brown eyes, almost yellow at their core, and streaky blonde curls wildly reminiscent of Nicole Kidman or Beyonce before they discovered flat irons, made her uniquely attractive. Women were more appreciative of her beauty than men, as there was nothing exotic or striking about her at first glance. She was trying to learn to love her body but always wished her legs were a little longer, her tummy a little flatter, and her breasts a little perkier. Her daily glance in the mirror though, was accompanied by an internal dialogue reminding her to love and appreciate herself. It was working, because she was beginning to feel accepted by her inner voice. And when she looked deep into her own eyes, she could see the woman she wanted to be.

Fear

In my writing circle, we've been talking a lot about fear in our characters. One of our group members mentioned advice from an author, to draw your characters towards their fears. It's supposed to be a good way to move your story and drive your plot in an interesting direction. It sounds reasonable and one of the other writers had a eureka! when she immediately began applying it. I, on the other hand, can't take my only character toward her fears because I barely even know her yet. She was just recently born to my imagination (and my blog, see Tess), and her story is still percolating in the clouds above my head...

But I got to thinking. Perhaps all the struggles I'm having are because I am moving toward my fears. I never thought of myself as fearful of much; no phobias about flying, closed spaces, crowds, or even talking in front of groups. Spiders dont freak me out much, I ride roller coasters with my son, I have dreamed of skydiving, and heights generally don't bother me. Of course cockroaches gross me out, and I have some rational fears about losing my parents. But overall, I'm not a fearful or anxious person. Or maybe I am.

Identified as high IQ, or "gifted" in elementary school, I have always been a good student. I generally liked school, and with good attendance and class participation, most classes in grade school required little studying on my part. I came. I listened. I talked. I did homework every night. I came back. I got A's. Once I got into middle and high school, the A's required more effort, but I obliged. I took every chance there was to increase my grades in between test days, because I always preferred a written assignment over an objective test. I graduated with honors and went off to college where I struggled temporarily, but managed to find my way. So far, so good.

It became apparent to me in my senior year of college, that my bachelors degree in speech communication would only be a stepping stone to something else. Let me backstep. Like so many other high achieving kids, I entered college thinking I wanted to be a doctor. I was a pre-med psychobiology major. I still can't believe I let myself live that lie for so long, but that's another post. Realizing the doctor thing was all a facade, I found myself floundering a little at the start of my junior year. I knew I didn't want to be a doctor, but now what was I going to do? My mom always said I'd make a good lawyer. I was smart, had no trouble speaking to or in front of people, and of course, I was skilled in argument (don't all parents say that about their kids?). Without commitment to law school but considering it a possibility, I changed my major to speech communication. In the back of my mind I was also considering speech pathology as another option. Having already earned several credits in Spanish, I made that my double major. Senior year I decided against law school because I really wanted to work with children. I took the GRE and started exploring grad schools for speech pathology and special education. So far so good.

If you're wondering at this point how this all relates to fear, stick with me. I'm getting there.

I traveled around the southeast looking for graduate programs, couldn't decide on one I liked that also wanted me, and I decided to hold off. I got engaged to my high school sweetheart that April, graduated in May, and we moved in together in June. We married the following January. That year, I bounced around between different jobs, and ultimately spent about 18 months waiting tables at a local seafood restaurant. Halfway through, I applied to graduate school and I was accepted into a Masters program for special education. Waiting tables was humbling work. I was treated terribly and assumed to be an idiot, though I was more highly educated than most of my customers, and all of my coworkers. But, I made a lot of cash and had a lot of fun during the late night industry parties and hangouts. So far so good.

Restaurant work was grunt work. Many of the people I worked with were alcoholics and drug users. Not all of them, but truthfully many of them. Others were hardworking people with little or no education. One was a teacher by day, who needed the extra money. I know that's a shock, right? But it didn't take long for me to realize I wanted something better. With a semester of grad school under my belt I was ready for a more professional environment. So I hung up my apron and got a job at a domestic violence center. I was a victims advocate, taking crisis calls and helping work the shelter for women and children. Before long, my boss recognized I had some skills to offer and I became the education coordinator there; training volunteers and new employees, speaking about our cause in the community, and helping write grants for new and continuing funding sources. I was officially in the professional work world, feeling good about the cause, and finishing graduate school. So far so good.

I guess this is turning into more of a bio, but I promise I'm getting back to the fear. Humor me.

In my last year of grad school my husband and I got pregnant. I completed my final internship at a local  elementary school and worked part time at the shelter, all while my belly continued to round out and block my view to the sensible shoes I had to wear to survive the day on my feet. I gave birth and worked part time at the shelter for a few months and then took the year off to be with my baby. Best decision I ever made, but that next year I was ready to put my new degree to work. Through a friend, I got some part-time work tutoring students with learning disabilities as I applied and interviewed for jobs. Eventually, I was picked up by Broward County Public Schools, and I continued part-time at the school for kids with learning disabilities. My teaching career was off and running. So far so good.

The next few years were crazy! My career went fast track and I learned so much through so many experiences and opportunities. The details are too many, but following that first year, I left the public school for full time work at the school for kids with LD. I taught high school (still my favorite age to teach). I got involved in SAT coordination and prep. I worked on amping up the content area teaching and textbooks at the school. I became involved in program training for other teachers in this network of schools, and I began working on a large curriculum project for the parent company. I'm pretty sure my passion for curriculum and instruction was born from these experiences. By the time I was 30, the company hired me as a principal for a PK-8 school with a side by side general education and specialized program for students with language based learning disabilities. This was a great experience, but I soon realized I had a major conflict with the idea of for profit education and its effect on otherwise seemingly good people. So I left. People thought I was nuts. But I left. I was told I was committing career suicide. I still left.

I was hired by a nonprofit organization, Eckerd Youth Alternatives, to be the Education Coordinator (their name for principal) at a residential wilderness camp for juvenile offenders. An amazing experience that could yield a writing piece of its own one day, I learned boundless lessons about life, people, and myself. I helped with accreditation, educational program improvement, and teacher mentorship. I also taught almost daily. In hindsight, I think it was my best job experience to date. Unfortunately, the commute made it challenging to be an attentive mom to an 8-year-old, so I left after a year. Four months later, I was saddened to find it would close anyway. 

The principal of an elementary school in Lee County hired me for the following school year, and I was back in public school for the first time in almost 10 years. I was amazed at the difference. I felt like a cog in a giant machine. My experiences, my knowledge, they didn't mean much in this world. Just pick up where the person before you left off, and do it better. Don't ask too many questions, and don't tell us where you've been. Most people don't care. It didn't take long for me to realize something had to give. I chose this particular job so I could be on the same schedule as my son, and in a few more years that would no longer be an issue. So I was determined to be the best mom and teacher I could be, while devising an alternative path with an exit option. So I applied to school again. Maybe I'd be a doctor after all. I was accepted into the first ever doctoral class at the local university, at the time known to locals as FGCU. Now known across the land as Dunk City! So far so good.

The rest can be summed up like this. I lived and studied curriculum and instruction. I was steeped in educational theory and practice that truly inspired me (and still does) to the core. I read and wrote more in three years than I probably had in the 10 or 15 previous combined. I became involved with and impassioned by the National Writing Project. I learned the power of personal narrative, voice, and qualitative research. I learned why so many people remain ABD (all but dissertation) and became determined to be among the 10% who are not. I did it. I became a doctor. I did it on my own terms, as a writer, a voice among teachers. Today, I am Laurie J. Kemp, Ed.D., a published author.

So now you ask. What am I afraid of? I'll tell you. My fear is, that's it. My fear is that my dissertation might be the best piece of writing I've ever done or will ever do, that I might not have anything else to offer the writing community. I'm afraid that I'm a fraud, that I'm a person who can teach writing, study writing, and talk about writing, but can't write. Can it be? 

I hope with all my soul that this isn't the case. I hope that if I write my character toward her fear that there will be more to this plot. I hope that if I continue to face this fear everyday, that I will rise above it and make it not so. I have surrounded myself with people who will hold my hand on the journey. I just hope that I can go confidently and not kicking and screaming. I want this. More than anything I want this. I just need to keep writing her toward her fear. So far so good.

This Doctor Can't Cure Writer's Block

So here I am, a month after I sealed the deal and walked across the stage at graduation. I'm a doctor now. My dissertation is complete, school is out, and I have time to write. Only problem is, I can't. Ideas are floating around, I'm surrounded by inspiration, and I can't seem to get anything started. Am I all dried up? Did three years of doctoral work suck the creativity right out of my body? Have I imprisoned myself in a cell of academic writing? I have to admit, I'm afraid this may be the case.

After weeks of consideration and wishing the school year away, a writing friend of mine finally organized a group of us into a writing circle. No lesson plans, no papers to grade, just a bunch of aspiring writers and our summer break (we all happen to be teachers too). I'm excited, inspired... but intimidated. Now that I have the time and the place, and a group of supportive people to journey with, there are no more excuses. Every good writer says, if you're going to be a writer you have to write everyday. So I figured at least if I'm writing about writing, I'm still writing!

As the stress of graduate school melts away and becomes a shrinking image in the rear view mirror, I hope the road signs ahead point me in the right direction. I expects bumps in the road, and wrong turns, but I can tell you this: I'm getting in, buckling up, and mowing down the barricades... and I plan to enjoy the ride.

Interview or Quiz Show?

As I prepare myself to write this post, I must preface the entry with two comments:

The first is that I mean no insult or degradation of any of my teaching colleagues who may have had the same experience as me, and not felt as negative about it. There are people I know who may be well suited for the job I speak of below, and that does not mean I do not think highly of them. The second is that I fear I am reaching a Jerry Maguire moment in my career. It has been building for quite some time and though my sentiments are shared by many, I am beginning to feel it may be worth the risk of being ostracized to publicize my current state of opinion. So, here it goes...

A couple of weeks ago, after making it through a first-round screening of my résumé and a couple of reference letters, my school district invited me in for what they touted as a series of three 20- minute interviews for a professional development position. Already suspect of the data artifact portfolio I was asked to prepare (if the school district is involved, data must be the center of attention), and the 5 minute teaching video I had to send (who the hell can capture good teaching in 5 minutes of video?), I made the arrangements to spend Saturday morning at the dog and pony show.

Before I go on, I should probably mention, only because it's relevant, that I am currently scheduled to complete my doctorate in curriculum and instruction in May. My dissertation is a qualitative study about what works in professional development from the teacher's perspective. I have been a specialized ESE school director, a PK-8 principal, an education coordinator of a residential school for juvenile offenders, and of course a teacher and team leader (I've taught just about every grade from 3rd to 12th, and college). Needless to say my experiences have been diverse, and I have had no shortage of leadership positions in my career.

I'm sure if you spoke to any of the teachers who worked "for me" when I was an administrator, you would hear lots of comments about my work ethic, my beliefs about the importance of quality curriculum and instruction, and my propensity for leading by example. I have often said mentoring other teachers was my favorite part of being an administrator and educational institutions should have instructional supervisors apart from building managers. This love and drive for working with my colleagues and focusing on the teaching craft is what inspired me to begin my doctoral studies, and to focus on curriculum and instruction rather than educational leadership. The latter seemed more for those who aspired to be principals and assistant principals in public schools. I did not, and do not have such aspirations.

Naturally, when this leadership position was announced, and described as a teacher-leader to help with school embedded professional development, I was encouraged. I started to think there may be life in leadership for me after my doctorate. After months of struggling to formulate a response when family, friends, and colleagues asked me what I wanted to do next, I thought I had an answer. I would  apply for this position with my school district and work with other teachers to hone their craft. The added bonus of 40% of my time being slotted for direct contact with students made it seem like the perfect package.

So I reluctantly recorded my video and sent it off, gathered my "data artifacts" and created a mini portfolio, and I put on my costume (suit from my principal days) and headed out to my call backs. While sitting in the lobby waiting to be called for audition, I found myself feeling nervous for the first time ever at an interview. Never before had I doubted what I could bring professionally and personally to an organization with whom I was applying. I always thought of an interview as my evaluation of a possible workplace and colleagues, and my chance to ask them questions to help reveal tidbits about whether I would want to work there or not. But this was different..

Suddenly, I knew I wasn't right for the part, and as I started to seriously consider it, I didn't think I wanted the part. I've never been much of an actress; I don't know how to be anything but myself. The more I thought it over, the more I realized I would likely be asked to become someone I'm not. For fear of being rude, and knowing my principal recommended me, I decided to take the stage and give it a shot...

Soon, several other applicants and I were herded from the lobby to another waiting room where we sat and made small talk for about five minutes. We were then brought to another area where we were split up into groups of three to be rotated through the three interview sessions. I was escorted to my first room where I waited outside the door on a chair listening to the interviewers inside process their thoughts and score sheets (yes, there were score sheets) for the previous applicant (I'm sure they did not realize I could hear them). The door opened and a man in a tie leaned out waiting for the score sheet runner to take his papers. He invited me in.

Enter room one. It did not feel like a stage audition, or a job interview. It was like a quiz show. My hosts were a woman who commanded no respect (at least not from me), and a man who by condescending facial expression alone, made it clear he was about to judge me. Admittedly, I was intimidated for about 10 seconds, until I gave it some thought. I was likely more educated than him and more experienced than him, and quite frankly I had just about arrived at the conclusion that I was no longer interested in the job. The two of them explained their list of four questions and my approximate 3-4 minutes to answer each, though her iPhone timer would not sound. It was just for her to keep us on schedule. There would be a knock at the door when time was almost up so I would know I had to wrap up. Great.

The particulars of what we talked about in this room, which by the way was the instructional leadership portion of the interview, is not really important. The significance lies in the emphasis on data (though this was not the data portion of the interview), and my lack of opportunity to talk about any of my true instructional leadership experiences. Nothing about my education or dissertation. Nothing about any of my administrative experiences. Nothing about anything meaningful. All they wanted to hear about was the answer that fit in the box on their answer forms. The 20 point answer. I didn't have it. I said thank you. I walked out of the room, returned to the chair and considered leaving rather than waiting until round 2. Once again, out of respect for my principal I stayed, knowing deeper and deeper with every passing minute that I didn't need this job, I didn't want this job, and I would not be selected for this job.



Enter room two. This was the session actually labeled data. Here I was met by three women; two sitting to my right were a bit warmer than my previous hosts, and one to my left was almost as cold. I placed my binder, filled with every data "artifact" I could excavate from classroom, on the table in front of me. I had some ideas about which things I would pull out and what would best highlight my use of data to inform instruction. But I was waiting for a lead, a question, something to go on. There was none. I don't remember what they actually said, but it amounted to as much as, "Show us what you've got."

I was left with a split second decision: Do I pull out FCAT, FAIR, and STAR scores, none of which I find to be particularly meaningful for guiding day-to-day instruction? Or do I pull out math pretests that I give to help plan centers groups for the upcoming math unit, so I know which students would need more scaffolding and support? Maybe, I should show them the homework check sheet I have used all year, and how I noticed a correlation between low math report card grades and low homework completion (all kids who failed math had lower than 20% completion). It was this correlation that led me to start homework support after school, on my own time. If you know me, it's not hard to figure out which choice I made. Again, I don't know how to be anyone but me, so I pulled MY data.

Any guesses to the reactions I got?

Now I knew I didn't want the job. But I was two thirds through, and I'm glad I decided to stay. The last session was the one that restored my faith that though the system is completely screwed, there are some good people working within it. I guess that's the way I'd like to think of myself and quite a few of my colleagues. Anyway, I was greeted with two warm smiles by two women who seemed genuinely interested in what I had to say. They put the quiz questions in front of me in case I wanted to read any of them as they asked them.

Side note: This was the cherry on top of the "I'm no longer interested" sundae. I saw the  score card and how we were being rated. It was just the kind of script and formulaic nonsense we're being bombarded with to use with our kids. It was then my assumptions were confirmed. My answers needed to fit in their boxes, literally and figuratively. I was done.

The two cordial, yet professional women asked me about classroom instruction. I told them about some of the projects I do with my kids, we chuckled and talked about the challenges of working in a Title I school. I told them the same things I told the data people, but this time I had personal stories and student impact behind it. We talked beyond the knock at the door, and when they said, "Thank you for coming," it seemed genuine.

I walked passed the next herd of my colleagues waiting in the lobby, took off my suit jacket, and got in my car. I kicked off my shoes in exchange for flip-flops, pulled down my hair, opened the sun roof, and took off down the road. On the way home I decided that I'm bound for something bigger and better. I have no doubt that my future holds something much more meaningful and satisfying than becoming just another cog in the machine.