rage and resolve, part 1

In some disconnected, yet tangible way I still carry the memory and the function of memory of an existentially overanxious and somewhat angry 14-year-old boy, who despite his personal history, has finally learned the value of homework. Rage and Resolve define my practice. The rage as a child was rooted in my memory of being a student who remained invisible beneath the raw mess of teenage angst. As a teacher, the rage resurfaces when I see a system that perpetually ignores the very people we are to serve. My resolve was born in learning how to circumvent the system and listen to students even in their silence.

The terrible beauty of childhood is language. The ability (or inability) to reflect and articulate the chaos of real experience is a standard expectation unfairly held against all students. To confirm emotion, real feelings when language fails to, was a great discovery in my personal and professional life. The need to be heard and understood is the ache of existence. The great teacher and leader will seek and or create the paths toward this goal (to be heard and understood), even if it means becoming a mind reader. In schools, invisibility sits beneath both success and failure. Kids at the top are just as invisible as kids in the middle and kids at the bottom. My practice is driven by an attempt to balance understanding the value of students as they are and as they can become. I needed rage and resolve to see beyond, speak beyond, and most importantly to listen beyond the limits of language and experience. My rage was natural and easy, as it is for most 14-year-old boys, but only through 21 years of experience with students, did I discover my resolve.