I chopped my hair off!

I said "just above shoulder length," and this is what I got. Oh well. Someone recently asked me, "What's the difference between a good haircut and a bad haircut?" The correct answer was, "2 weeks." I think a better answer might be, "Someone else vs. me styling it every morning," which is my major fear right now.

My roommate very graciously took photos for me so I won't forget what it looks like when the stylist fixes it "correctly." Problem is, I'm not great at getting my picture taken. This is what the photoshoot dissolved into.

A Snow Story, in photos

My car, just as the snow began to fall


My car, an hour after the snow was falling.


My car the next morning, post-snow and post-snow plow


My car, after the neighbors noticed me struggling and helped me dig it out (Note: I'm from Massachusetts and they're from Haiti. Which one of us SHOULD be better at digging a car out of snow? I was humbled.)


My car, the next morning. Ahh, life in New England.

Well, it WAS pretty epic...

On their most recent writing assignment, my students had to write about how The Odyssey followed the typical epic storyline. One student wrote about how Odysseus's "call to adventure" occurred when "an angel visited him to give him news after his son was born." Seeing as there is NO angel in the Odyssey, I'm pretty sure this child was mixing up the Odyssey and the Christmas story. Maybe I'll just teach that one next year instead--at least I know how THAT epic starts...

The Little Victories

I'm celebrating a small victory tonight because I have to remember to be thankful for the small things. I want those big, publicly-celebrated victories, but those are few, far-between, and don't last. And the truth is I do not know the impact of any one of my moments with my students in 5 years; I'm sure that, if anything is memorable to them, it will not be what I expect. So I am trying not to play God and determine what moments are or are not significant, and really be thankful for even the smallest measure of joy or success he gives me.

That moment came today when my most difficult student (see below) got an 87% on his grammar test. This is the first test he has passed since the beginning of the year--and he almost got an A! Better, though, was the look on his face when I told him. He smiled. Not a grin; not a chuckle; not an awkward or ashamed smile that he was trying to hide; but a full-on, look me in the eyes, sustained smile. It was the first I've had from him, and because I just felt a little crazy, I decided to push my luck. I had made goofy crowns earlier in the week for kids who got an "A" on their homework assignment. They said things like "Compound Sentence Conqueror" or "Sentence Structure Super Star." My favorite, though, says, "Knows Clauses Better Than Santa" (get it? get it?!) So I gave him that crown--no, I take it back. I stuck it on his head and said, "You have to wear this for the rest of the day." I figured he would find a way to stick it in the recycling bin the second I wasn't looking, but then we got the end of homeroom: the crown was still on. He walked down the hallway to tutoring: kept the crown. He walked down after tutoring to homework club: still wearing the crown. This child, who almost never shows any emotion or connection with anyone, wore that yellow paper crown for the rest of the day. (His tutoring teacher told me that it kept falling off and he would just silently slip it back on and continue working.)

It has been a rough week, particularly with this student (for many reasons that I cannot go into in a blog post), but the thought of him smiling and so proud of himself that he would wear a yellow paper crown all around school makes my heart sing. Cheesy? Absolutely. Significant? I hope so.

Childish vs. Child-Like Prayers

Monday was a bad day. I knew it was going to start out badly when I woke up and the sun was hidden behind a bunch of dark rain clouds. I spilled my coffee all over the counter, causing me to leave later than I intended and to forget my morning Pop-Tart in the toaster. As I rushed out the door, I could feel the anxiety that I always feel on Monday mornings ("Do I remember how to teach?") rising up inside me, only it was intensified because I had just come out of a long, restful Thanksgiving break and was facing the prospect of three of the most packed weeks of the school year.

I have gotten in the habit of praying on my drive into work in the morning, usually for my students or fellow teachers, and for my own heart to be in the right place as I do my work. But as I tried to concentrate on my prayer over the loud thwacking of my windshield wipers (if you've ever been within a mile of my car when it rains, you know exactly what I mean), I found myself praying a prayer of desperation that went something like, "God, please just give me some kind of tangible encouragement to make it through the day." Immediately, I regretted my words because they sounded so "childish"; it seemed foolish to expect God to show up just because I had asked him, and I worried that I was praying the type of prayer that I feel like I've heard called a "vending machine" prayer -- you push the button, and expect God to deliver. So I "repented" by continuing with something like, "God, you don't need to do anything for me today. Sorry I asked. Have a good day."

I pulled my car into the parking lot, managed to make it all the way to the door without spilling my coffee all over myself (a rare feat) and walked into the teacher's office. Hanging down right in front of me was a banner made up of papers with quotes from students about why they are thankful for their teachers. It turned out that the principal had gathered these before Thanksgiving break and posted them all over the office as a surprise to motivate us upon our return. There were banners all over the office, but at first I only saw that one, and front and center, just as I walked in the door, was a quote signed by the child who I probably have struggled the most with this year:

"I want to thank Ms. Stuntz for the comments she makes on my PREP report every week [their weekly behavior report]. She tells me that she knows I can do better. And guess what? I know I can. I want to do better, so thank you Ms. Stuntz for your advice."

I'm quite certain the only way God could have given me a more direct answer to my prayer is if this quote had been written on a baseball bat that hit me in the head--but I'm thankful it wasn't. This child has never once acknowledged that he even hears anything I am saying to him, much less that he is thankful for it. He is in the midst of an incredibly difficult time right now, and many days I have wondered whether it is a worthwhile investment of my time to give him any of it. In other words, there is no other person in my life right now from whom that message would have meant more. (Being my cynical self, I still asked the principal if she dictated the quotation; she claims it's his original work.)

I thought back to my prayer from the morning, and how I had repented of its "childishness." But I think my repentance was much more childish. I believe it is right to be aware that God does not always answer our prayers in the ways we'd hoped or the time we'd expected, which is a mercy--He knows better than me what I need. But it is much more "childish" to go too far to the other extreme and believe that I do not need to ask for God's assistance at all, that I will be more righteous if I am more independent. It is much more "childish" to assume that every day, every moment, I do not need to pray those cries of desperation: "If you do not show up, I will not make it through the day." It is much more child-like to pray the best I know how, and to believe that He will answer, sometimes dramatically and directly, sometimes much more subtly, sometimes in a manner that shows me that what I thought I "needed" was not really my need at all. But He will always meet my ultimate need, which is to show me that I am needy and to give me of Himself.

Thanksgiving Hymn

My heart is filled with thankfulness
to him who bore my pain;
Who plumbed the depths of my disgrace
and gave me life again;
Who crushed my curse of sinfulness
and clothed me with his light
And wrote his law of righteousness
with pow'r upon my heart.

My heart is filled with thankfulness
to him who walks beside;
Who floods my weaknesses with strength
and causes fears to fly;
Whose ev'ry promise is enough
for ev'ry step I take,
Sustaining me with arms of love
and crowning me with grace.

My heart is filled with thankfulness
to him who reigns above;
Whose wisdom is my perfect peace,
whose ev'ry thought is love.
For ev'ry day I have on Earth
is given by the King,
So I will give my life, my all
to love and follow him.

Great Moments in the History of my First Year Teaching

This is one for the books, folks.

So today, I began my next literature unit on the Odyssey by Homer. I've been nervous about this unit for weeks, because the last time I'd read the Odyssey was in 9th grade, and I'm not really sure I understood it much better then than I do now recollecting it. Thankfully, my principal graciously allowed me a day off of my normal work to plan for my next unit. I spent about a full working day's worth of hours focused on preparing -- reading SparkNotes, reading commentaries online, emailing fellow teachers with ideas, and beginning to read the book. I figured I did not have time to completely read through the book all the way before I began teaching, but if I read the notes enough to be familiar with the plot line and if I closely read well ahead of where my students were, I should be fine.

The version of the text that my school owns is a "children's translation" titled, The Children's Homer: The Adventures of Odysseus and the Tale of Troy. Notice that it starts out with, "The Adventures of Odysseus." The opening lines of the book also read, "This is the story of Odysseus, the most renowned of all the heroes the Greek poets have told us of..." So, naturally, I figured, this is the Odyssey--it clearly says it's a story about Odysseus. I will admit I had a little pause about why the first 120 pages focused mostly on Telemachus (Odysseus's son), but I know enough to know that epics tend to include very long, divergent story lines, and I figured the focus on Telemachus was really to just highlight the story of Odysseus. I planned on and began teaching the unit today, explaining clearly to the children (so they would not be confused, as I first was) that we were reading the Odyssey, which is the tale of the quest of Odysseus but also (apparently) of his son Telemachus.

Then I had a brief meeting with our special education teacher, who was arranging accomodated materials for some students. She remarked, "Oh, you're reading the whole book? They only read half of it last year!" I was a little surprised, and a bit concerned that I would not be able to finish my unit in time if I was assigning twice the material that was covered last year. I reassured myself by saying this just meant my course was extremely rigorous, and in all my meetings with the principal she had never once suggested that I shorten the book. Besides, I am morally opposed to shortening books in general, so I decided to move forward and not worry too much about her comment. In class, however, a student raised his hand and asked, "Ms. Stuntz, this book seems to be broken up into two sections. Why is that?" Taking the tactic I have learned from previous teachers, I tried to speak as the confident authority even though I was also confused, responding, "The editor must have broken the Odyssey up into two chunks to make it more manageable for the reader." Child convinced. Problem solved.

Except these two suggestions in one day were just a little much, so I decided to seek a third opinion. I asked another teacher, "Do you happen to remember if and, if so, why they only read half of the Odyssey last year?" She paushed, and then said, "Oh, I remember! Because this is a really abridged version and the first half is actually the Iliad, so they just read the Odyssey." I paused, and began to giggle a little nervously. "Do you know the Iliad at all?" I asked. "Does it, by any chance, focus on Telemachus?" "Oh yes," she replies, "it's all about Telemachus's journey." "Oh no," I reply back, "I have just planned for and begun to teach the children the wrong book."

Now, this is not completely and utterly disastrous. There are many ways to solve this problem. The state of Massachusetts requires me to teach an epic; it does not have to be the Odyssey. This year, in spite of what I said on my course description, it may in fact be the Iliad. I also could have them read part of the Iliad as "background" (after all, it does come first) and then have them skip to the Odyssey and finish that. Or, we can read selections from both and search through them for epic conventions. These are all reasonable options for moving my course forward.

One very concerning questions remains, though. How am I going to explain to my children why Ms. Stuntz, who is a self-proclaimed expert on epics, was so confused that she could not tell the storyline of two entirely different epics apart? As my friend said, "Won't it be great to be a second year teacher?"