tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14297947044116341852024-03-14T03:00:27.457-05:00Taxis, Tots & Polka DotsBethany Harperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17750708513314558285noreply@blogger.comBlogger63125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1429794704411634185.post-42295948619797053242018-03-05T18:59:00.000-06:002018-06-22T16:44:21.244-05:00Today I Swore I Was A Time TravelerAbout a year ago, I passed through the Atlanta airport less than 24 hours after surgery. I was traveling to Nashville, Tennessee to see Dylan Roth about a week after we made the decision to get back together following five years apart. I had a semester of college left, and I would move to be with him immediately following graduation. Which I did. It was the best stupid decision I'd made in my life.<br />
<br />
In the meantime of our long distance, we had made plans to visit as often as possible. Which was why I had planned to drive to Nashville that weekend despite my post-surgery state. The problem was, I was still whacked out on anesthetic and wasn't <i>allowed </i>to drive. But, if you know me, I don't give up that easily. So alas, here I came - via plane - my body covered in bright orange high-power antiseptic, wrapped with a compression pack in a 10-foot ace bandage to keep my stitches clean and intact.<br />
<br />
I know what you're thinking. And you're right.<br />
<br />
I'm an absolute crackpot.<br />
<br />
But I was a crackpot in love. So I'm sure my doctor had wanted to prohibit me from traveling altogether, but I really appreciate him giving me the antiseptic bandage because I was going to do it anyway. That's just kind of who I am as a person.<br />
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Last weekend, I was passing through that same airport again. Not visiting Nashville like I was so many months ago, but returning <i>home. </i><br />
<br />
That's when I saw her. She was about 18. Maybe 19. Book shopping, with her dark brown hair in a long wavy ponytail and a Starbucks coffee practically sewn to her palm.<br />
<br />
"It's a good book," I told her peering over her shoulder, "You should get it."<br />
<br />
"Thanks!" she looked up and her blue eyes met mine, "I was deciding between these two." She pulled out another.<br />
<br />
I shrugged. "Get both."<br />
<br />
Her eyes widened. "You read my mind."<br />
<br />
I smiled.<br />
<br />
"Where are you headed?" she asked me.<br />
<br />
"Home," I was thankful I could finally say, "To Nashville. You?"<br />
<br />
"Chicago," she told me, "My boyfriend goes to school there."<br />
<br />
I giggled to myself. "Long distance sucks, huh."<br />
<br />
"Yeah," she said, "And it's expensive, too."<br />
<br />
<i>Darn right... </i>I thought to myself. "Is the end in sight?" I asked her.<br />
<br />
"Oh, yes. Thank goodness," she told me, "We're both freshmen. We dated in high school and broke up to go to different places. It wasn't worth it. I'm transferring there in the fall."<br />
<br />
I stood dumbfounded - noting the hair. The eyes. The book. The coffee. The <i>scenario. </i>This girl was a younger me. A me who had forgiven faster. Got over her pain quicker. Reconnected within months, rather than years. An alternate universe Bethany, who was making the <i>exact same future </i>in a totally different way.<br />
<br />
"I know it sounds stupid," she validated herself as I realized I hadn't responded yet, "I'm <i>so </i>not the girl who moves for a boy..."<br />
<br />
"No, no, I get it," I interrupted her, "I'm not that girl either."<br />
<br />
She waited for more.<br />
<br />
"But I did it."<br />
<br />
She breathed a sigh of relief.<br />
<br />
"Really?!"<br />
<br />
"Yep. Moved to Nashville less than a year ago for my high school sweetie. We didn't talk for five years. But we reconnected and felt it was worth another shot."<br />
<br />
"And was it?!"<br />
<br />
"Definitely."<br />
<br />
"Woah. How long have you guys been together?"<br />
<br />
"A little over a year now."<br />
<br />
"Ahh!" she squealed as if we were suddenly best friends at a teenage sleepover, "That's so great. Think there's a ring in your future?"<br />
<br />
I had to see that coming. That's always the next question in line.<br />
<br />
"Not anytime soon," I laughed, "It's just not the most important thing right now."<br />
<br />
"Is it not?"<br />
<br />
At first I thought she was joking, but I looked more closely to find that she was really asking. As if she was waiting to find out what <i>was </i>the most important thing right now. Waiting to find out if she was about to do it wrong.<br />
<br />
"I mean clearly you love him," she persisted.<br />
<br />
"Oh clearly!" I reassured her, "But I just think the most important thing is loving life. Loving what you're doing. Where you're doing it. And who you're doing it with."<br />
<br />
She nodded as if she understood.<br />
<br />
"Do you like Chicago?"<br />
<br />
"It's not my first choice," she shrugged, "But it's a good city. I like being there. There's lots to do."<br />
<br />
I smiled again.<br />
<br />
"I hope we end up like you guys," she told me.<br />
<br />
I glanced back to the book in her hand. <i>Milk & Honey</i> by Rupi Kaur. My copy sat on my nightstand at home. Dog eared and weathered, spine practically crumpled, the pages stained with ink and tears. It was the ultimate self love book for a 20-something woman - full of poems about beauty and love despite hardship and trial.<br />
<br />
"Something tells me you will," I told her.<br />
<br />
I turned to return to my gate. "Hey," I called to her just before leaving. She paused to look up. "What are you majoring in?"<br />
<br />
"Undecided!" she shouted to the door, "But I'm thinking about being a teacher."<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
I didn't ask for her name. I knew I'd be scared out of my wits if it turned out to be Bethany, and I also didn't want it to ruin the idea that I might be in a younger parallel universe if it was something else. So I left it there. No name, no number, no email - no way to ever get in touch again.<br />
<br />
But I wish you the best, little one. You <i>are </i>crazy for moving for a boy. But you're also very happy. I can tell.<br />
<br />
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P.S. - I'm sure you'll make an awesome teacher. Have you ever thought about starting a blog?Bethany Harperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17750708513314558285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1429794704411634185.post-78339927327042856902018-02-18T19:32:00.001-06:002018-06-22T16:44:29.937-05:00What Teachers Really Do During A Lockdown When A Gunman Is On The Loose<div style="text-align: center;">
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Whatever the hell they have to. </div>
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<br /></div>
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There. I said it. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Sorry for the frankness. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Pardon the language. </div>
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<br /></div>
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But not really. Cause that's the truth. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Whatever. The hell. We have to. </div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>*All student names have been changed for confidentiality.*</i></div>
<br />
I feed on compliments. It's just my nature. So when multiple people in the building had told me they had no idea I was a first year teacher, it fueled me. I was jumping, dancing, and throwing deuces while rapping our Count To 100 song with my kindergarteners when the announcement came on.<br />
<br />
<i>"Teachers we are on lockdown. Clear the hallways."</i><br />
<i><br /></i>This was a couple weeks prior to the Florida shooting, and I actually rolled my eyes. Took my sweet time. Turned off the smart board. Shut off the lights.<br />
<br />
We did these all the time. We'd only done one lockdown drill last semester and I was pretty sure we were supposed to have at least two, so we were probably just catching up this semester to meet district requirements. I scoffed. We must have been so desperate to get these drills done that they hadn't even bothered to <i>tell </i>the teachers about this one in advance. So I leisurely strolled to the door, reached for the window cover...<br />
<br />
And the principals, crisis team, and resource officers came running at full speed down the hallway.<br />
<br />
My breath caught in my throat. I fumbled clumsily for my keys but my words came out calm and crisp. "Line up. Now."<br />
<br />
My wide eyed five-year-old students sensed the urgency.<br />
<br />
"Miss Harper," a little boy whispered, "I don't think we're supposed to go outside."<br />
<br />
"We aren't," I reassured him, "and we won't. Michael, lead the line around to the back of the cubby wall."<br />
<br />
Scared little Michael straightened his posture and rolled his shoulders backwards. "Yes ma'am," he told me, and the entire line followed suit quietly.<br />
<br />
My Apple Watch buzzed. A message from my co-worker Kelly:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Lock your doors and close your windows. Police have been called. </i></div>
<br />
I grabbed our red emergency bag and ran behind the wall to seat them. "Sit down. Sit down. Sit down. Closer together. Criss cross. Sit down. Sit down. Be quiet. Be quiet. Sit down. You are silent."<br />
<br />
My watch buzzed. 2 minutes. An update from Kelly:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Shooting in the neighborhood.</i></div>
<br />
Once they had been huddled behind the wall criss cross, I returned into the classroom to turn off lamps, retrieve rosters, etc. I took roll on the clipboard and returned to my students to wait. But when I rounded the corner, the light touched more than half of my kinders.<br />
<br />
No word on whether the gunman had entered the building. But the shooting had happened in the <i>neighborhood, </i>meaning chances were high he was close to the school. Close enough to see in windows.<br />
<br />
My stomach dropped. That <i>stupid </i>window. How many times had I put a work order in to fix those blinds? No one had ever come to fix it. But if my students could see the windows...if the light from the window was touching them...then anyone on the other side of the windows could see my students.<br />
<br />
How fast could I fix this? What did I have that could cover a window? Some fabric... Dark bulletin board paper... But nothing big enough to cover an eight-foot window. How was I even supposed to reach the top of it without a ladder or causing a big ruckus by pushing tables over? Impossible.<br />
<br />
"Ryan. Nathan. Seth. Stand up."<br />
<br />
They did.<br />
<br />
"Come here," I whispered, and cut a piece of fabric to cover the (smaller) bathroom window. I unlocked the window and put a step stool underneath. "You guys are brave and strong. I need you to hide in here, and if anything happens outside, kneel down as far as you can directly underneath the window. No one will be able to see you. If you hear anything in the classroom, I want you all three to push open the window, and run. Okay?"<br />
<br />
They nodded. I was just about to close the door when Ryan whispered, "Miss Harper... What's going on?"<br />
<br />
My heart sank. All my fight or flight was wasted in that moment. I chose Ryan to go in because he was always the most lively. The most daring. The fastest on the playground. The strongest punch I had. I knew. I knew because he'd been known to punch people when he defended himself or another student.<br />
<br />
And yet, staring back at me were the eyes of a scared little Ryan, huddled in the corner of a 3'x3' bathroom, hugging his knees and blinking back tears from his eyes. And he wanted to know. <i>Miss Harper... What's going on? </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I knelt down quietly. How much was too much for a little one to understand? How much would be <i>necessary </i>for them to understand if someone was in the building?<br />
<br />
"Remember how you sometimes play on the playground at recess, Ryan?" I tried, "How there are bad guys and we're the good guys and we have to use our head to catch them because we can't use weapons at school?"<br />
<br />
Ryan nodded.<br />
<br />
"Well there can be real bad guys in the world. And they don't always just use their heads."<br />
<br />
"They have guns?!" little Jackie, a sweet girl from behind me whispered.<br />
<br />
"I hope not," I included the rest of the class in the conversation, "but we don't have any guns do we?"<br />
<br />
They all shook their heads silently.<br />
<br />
"We don't even know if anyone is in here," I whispered to them, "We don't know if they have a gun. We might be doing all of this for nothing. But if there is a bad guy, and he does have a gun... All we have is our head to make decisions, and our feet to run." I turned back to the boys in the bathroom. "So if you hear something inside, punch the window. Get out. And run."<br />
<br />
The boys nodded. I glanced at my watch. 8 minutes. No update.<br />
<br />
"Olivia. Melissa. Angel. Stand up."<br />
<br />
They did.<br />
<br />
"Come here."<br />
<br />
They did.<br />
<br />
"I want you to huddle very close together in this closet."<br />
<br />
These were my quietest, most competitive girls. "It is very important that you do not make a sound the entire time you are in here. Not if you hear something. Not if you hear nothing. I want to see which one of you can stay quietest the longest. Okay?"<br />
<br />
They nodded. "What happens if we're the quietest?" Olivia, the most competitive asked.<br />
<br />
"Shhh," I reminded her, "I'll come back to get you as soon as the lockdown is over, give the quietest a treat." I was pretty sure I had still had some cookie crisp in the back from our subtraction lesson.<br />
<br />
They nodded eagerly but fearfully and let me close the door. I locked them inside and hid the closet key in the curriculum case behind my desk. If anyone gunned me down and took my lanyard, they would be unable to get the closet open and the girls would be safe.<br />
<br />
"Miss Harper..." a quiet whisper came from Jamie, "I'm about to pee on myself."<br />
<br />
I glanced at my watch again. 13 minutes. "I know sweetie, but we can't leave. Can you wait?"<br />
<br />
"I think so."<br />
<br />
"Okay. Everyone scoot in closer."<br />
<br />
I leaned down close. "Sit tight. You're doing great. I'm going to go back out and make sure everything is alright." The children nodded.<br />
<br />
I walked back out, farthest away from the cubby wall where my students were hiding, but stayed glued to the wall with the windows in case I might be seen. "Text Dylan," I whispered to my watch. <i>What do you want to say? </i>it flashed back at me. "On lockdown," I whispered again, "Prayer please. Police have been called."<br />
<br />
<i>Anything else? </i>my watch asked silently.<br />
<br />
"I love you," I added.<br />
<br />
<i>Sending now. Can I do anything else? </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
"Text my emergency contacts." This would go to my parents, my honorary aunt, and Dylan.<br />
<br />
<i>What do you want to say?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
"Hey we're all okay," I typed to spare my children the truth, "but someone was shot in the school's neighborhood so we're on lockdown. Prayers would be awesome."<br />
<br />
<i>Anything else? </i>my watch asked.<br />
<br />
"No."<br />
<br />
I returned to my students and sat down on the floor with them, criss cross. 16 minutes. And about 15 of them were spent in silent prayer.<br />
<br />
"Miss Harper..." another whisper came from behind me. I glanced back to find a little boy trying his absolute best not to cry, "I want to go home."<br />
<br />
I refused to lie to these kids. "You know what David?" I whispered back, "Me too. But we are ten times safer here than if we were to get out now to go home. So we have to stay silent okay?"<br />
<br />
"But Miss Harper..." little Jamie protested to remind me, "I'm about to pee on myself!"<br />
<br />
I put a finger to my mouth. "And you'll be the first to go when this is over. But until then... Silent, okay?"<br />
<br />
My students nodded.<br />
<br />
23 minutes.<br />
<br />
I texted Kelly. "Any word?"<br />
<br />
My watch buzzed. "Helicopters are searching."<br />
<br />
And it was as if they'd been cued. Either that, or I just hadn't heard the sound before I knew what it was. And <i>thank god, </i>was all I could think, <i>that means the police don't think he's in the building. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
And then... <i>Don't be relieved yet, Bethany. If you can hear the helicopters, they think he's close. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I peeked around the corner from the cubby wall. One helicopter was circling outside. Two were floating stationary, almost directly above the school. <i>Deep breath. Deep breath. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"</i>Miss Harper," I heard Kristen, a quiet girl who'd come in late, "I'm getting really hungry..."<br />
<br />
<i>I bet. </i>I thought, <i>We've eaten up 12 minutes of our lunchtime. </i>And then it occurred to me that not only were we missing our chance to eat, but Julie had come in the classroom at 8:30, only twenty minutes after the rest of us had eaten breakfast. I teach in an at-risk school and she was on the top-priority list. The girl probably hadn't had anything to eat since lunch the day before.<br />
<br />
"I know, sweetie. Just hold on a little longer," I whispered.<br />
<br />
"Will we get to eat?!" Michael asked.<br />
<br />
"Shhh!" I reminded them, "Yes. Even if I have to go get a box of sack lunches and we eat in here, I'll make sure you get food."<br />
<br />
"And then bathroom?" Jamie, the girl in desperate need of a bathroom break asked, "I'm about to pee on myself."<br />
<br />
There was a noise in the hallway. My students gasped.<br />
<br />
"Shhh!" I said again, as if the reminder was any quieter than the gasping. My arms wrapped around the nearest four students and gripped tightly. No one made a sound. We didn't hear anything else.<br />
<br />
I was starting to get light headed. Good god, how long had I been holding my breath? I exhaled quietly.<br />
<br />
31 minutes.<br />
<br />
I peeked around the corner again. Now there were five helicopters floating and two circling. Sharp shooters hung out the doorways in the sky. I closed my eyes and laid my head back against the wall, out of the view of the window.<br />
<br />
"Miss Harper..." Jamie said, "What's going on? I'm about to pee on myself..."<br />
<br />
"I know, honey." I hadn't forgotten. She'd probably whispered it twelve times.<br />
<br />
"And I'm hungry," Kristen reminded me.<br />
<br />
"Me too." "Me too." "Me too." It was as if every kindergartener in that room had suddenly realized they were hungry.<br />
<br />
"Listen," I said a little too loudly, and arguably too harshly, "I'm just going to be honest with you guys. Can I talk to you like adults."<br />
<br />
They nodded excitedly. That was every kid's dream right? To be treated like an adult?<br />
<br />
"This is not a drill," I said frankly. Their smiles vanished. "Someone is out there that we need to hide from. I don't know who. And I don't know where. Usually, our job at this time of day is to go for a bathroom break. And then to lunch. But right now, our job is to stay safe. Do you understand?"<br />
<br />
"Yes ma'am..." a chorus of scared little whispers came from the darkness.<br />
<br />
"Miss Harper..." a quiet voice came from the back. My head snapped to find it. "I'm so sorry I'm still talking... But are we going to die...?"<br />
<br />
The question threw me. Suddenly, I wasn't a teacher in go-mode. I was a social worker. A policeman. And a feeling just shy of motherhood welled up inside me.<br />
<br />
I wasn't looking at students anymore. I was looking at quiet, five-year-old boys and girls with tears running down their cheeks, wondering if they woke up that morning for the last time. Five. Years. Old.<br />
<br />
I glanced back out to my classroom. Because you forget. The carpet is small. The chairs are small. The tables are small. So the kids themselves don't look that way.<br />
<br />
But they are. They are so small.<br />
<br />
Their feet still dangle at lunch because they share the same tables with fourth graders.<br />
<br />
Their fingers are so small I had to teach them to hold a pencil with fat expo markers on the first day of school.<br />
<br />
Their clothes are just now being bought out of the toddler section.<br />
<br />
Their shoes can't even fit on my hand.<br />
<br />
They are so young. They are so small. And they are so <i>innocent. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
53 minutes.<br />
<br />
Way too long for a five year old to sit. To be quiet. To listen up. Way longer than I've ever expected them to.<br />
<br />
And all to make sure they got on the bus still breathing that afternoon.<br />
<br />
My watched buzzed. A message from Kelly: <i>Gunman taken into custody. </i><br />
<br />
The intercom buzzed on. It was the loudest thing we'd heard in an hour. We all jumped.<br />
<br />
"Students and teachers, thank you for your cooperation. The lockdown has been lifted."<br />
<br />
My students jumped up. Chaos erupted. And still, I could not feel relief just yet. There was too much to do. I brought my boys out from the bathroom. I retrieved my key from the curriculum case and unlocked the girls to let them out of the closet. Each of them were given their cookie crisp, as promised. Jamie ran to the bathroom. Kristen became the line leader as we lined up for lunch.<br />
<br />
The lunch hour was completely over. We marched down to the cafeteria for a 15 minute lunch; half of what they normally get, but better than nothing. The cafeteria had to make sure everyone got to eat something before dismissal.<br />
<br />
The kids were quick to remind me they missed recess also. So we went outside to play for quite a while after that, while my coworkers and I sat on the playground bench filling out head counts, submitting emergency rosters, and returning phone calls to parents who had tried to contact us in the middle of the crisis to make sure their babies were okay.<br />
<br />
And after that, it was time for specials. You know, the time where students go to art, P.E., music, etc. for an hour and teachers get their planning time.<br />
<br />
I dropped them off at the regular time as if the whole day had been normal.<br />
<br />
Then I went back to my classroom and cried for the full 55 remaining minutes.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<i><br /></i></div>
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****************************************************************</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
This is not a post about mental health vs. guns. I'm not saying we need / don't need mental health support. I'm not saying we need / don't need gun control. I'm not saying teachers need guns. I'm not saying they don't. I'm not even saying I have an answer, a solution, or even an idea about how to fix all this madness.<br />
<br />
All I'm saying, is that for all of you out there who are leading this debate right now - those of you making laws and enforcing policies and slamming the gavel down to punish the shooters - you have never once sat behind the cubby wall. You have never hid your five year olds in closets. You have never texted your family and boyfriend that you love them, and then walked right back in case you had to lay down your life without saying goodbye to any of them.<br />
<br />
You've never done it.<br />
<br />
So I'm here to tell you, as someone who has <i>done it... </i><br />
<br />
If there was more mental health training in my professional development I would've used it.<br />
<br />
If there was more social-emotional education in my curriculum I would've taught it.<br />
<br />
If I'd had a gun, I would've used it.<br />
<br />
If I didn't, I would've used something else.<br />
<br />
A baseball bat. My teacher pointer. Maybe a P.E. parachute to strap all my kinders to my body and jump out the window.<br />
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I would've used whatever. The hell. I had to. We would not have gone down without a fight. Because if a dedicated lunatic wants to get a gun and shoot up school, they'll find a way to get a gun and shoot up a school - no matter what. So we have to find a way to stay safe and alive.<br />
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Fortunately, I didn't have to. It didn't come to that for me.<br />
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Unfortunately, for my fellow educators and their kiddos in Florida - they were not so lucky.<br />
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So all of you up there in government. In law enforcement. In policy making. All you "so much more important" than teachers. We are paying you to govern. To enforce the law. To make policies.<br />
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So please, I don't care what you do. Give me a gun. Don't give me a gun. Update my safety plan. Put more social emotional learning in my daily schedule. Cancel school for a day to give me mental health professional development. Whatever.<br />
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Just do <i>something. </i><br />
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It may not work. And I'm not asking for it to. But the sooner we find out some things that don't work, the sooner we'll find out what will.<br />
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We aren't paying you to fix this immediately. That demand is a little high for your salary. But we <i>are</i> paying you to try.<br />
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Cause guess what? I'm getting paid to teach. Not to lay down my life. Personally, I feel that demand would be a little high for <i>my</i> salary. Wouldn't you agree?<br />
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My family deserves to know that I'll be alive when I come home from school each day. My students' families deserve the same.<br />
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Wouldn't you want to be certain your baby's life wouldn't be taken while they were trying to learn and grow into a strong, beautiful person?<br />
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Then please. I don't care what. Just try <i>something. </i><br />
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Bethany Harperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17750708513314558285noreply@blogger.com73tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1429794704411634185.post-64726961427262813472017-12-28T06:30:00.000-06:002018-06-22T16:45:07.756-05:00A Year With The Music ManI suppose you could say the madness of it all started five and a half years ago, when his high school graduation cap flew in the air.<br />
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I did not partake in the graduation parties with all of our friends, because I was not graduating. I was a year younger than him...and a year younger than <i>everyone </i>we hung out with. They all ran off to one another's houses to enjoy cake and games and parties.<br />
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I, however, cried all the way home, listening to every CD I had of his music. It reminded me of our trip to my favorite city, New York, where he first played his music for me. It reminded me of Christmas, driving around and listening to him sing in the car. It reminded me of spring, laying on a blanket at the park with his guitar.<br />
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I was basking in a pool neck deep in nostalgia. It was clearly the beginning of the end.<br />
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He had announced that he would attend Belmont University in Nashville, TN, in pursuit of music business and audio engineering. His guitar echoed through my parked car. He was already so good at it. And I knew that however he wanted to pursue this, with or without me, I would absolutely have to support.<br />
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He had told me a few days prior that the decision had been hard to make because he loved me. I didn't believe a lot of things men said. But I believed <i>him. </i>And he assured me that while it would likely have to be over at the end of the summer because "long distance never worked," that we would soak up every last bit of our time together.<br />
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It wasn't three weeks later before he decided he should benefit from some time being single before moving to Nashville, and he took me on to a nice date at a Japanese Steakhouse. He spent the dinner re-capping everything I would want for my senior year of high school, and then telling me how he would be ruining that by sticking around. He told me that he didn't know if he'd be able to come back for homecomings and proms and graduations... As if I'd somehow rather go with some random guy I had no connection to than go in a group of friends knowing that I had a wonderful guy in another state who tried his absolute best but just couldn't make it. According to him, we still fit together, but the futures we both wanted did not.<br />
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He didn't present the chance for me to counter his argument, and I'd seen <i>Legally Blonde </i>enough times to know how this would end.<br />
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We broke up in the parking lot of that beautiful Japanese Steakhouse. It was "mutual." Not only did I almost have a wreck driving home in my emotionally compromised state like that female teenage all-state commercial, but I didn't step foot back in that restaurant for two years.<br />
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And I kept waiting. Waiting for him to call and say it was a mistake. Waiting for him to come back to our hometown and say that he wanted to try again. Try long distance. Or at least tell me that he missed me.<br />
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Every time he came back into town, I met with him. Lunches. Coffee. Frozen yogurt. Each time I had been decked out, dressed to the nines, ready for him to cave at any moment. And he never did such a thing. He never even told me that he missed me.<br />
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And so I decided that I couldn't keep doing it anymore. I was hurt. I was angry. And I was <i>tired. </i>He had made it very clear that he didn't want me to be a part of this next chapter of his life by my side, so why were we still meeting up when he came home like I had any real significance in this new life of his? He had never given it a chance. I never said we would've succeeded (in fact, I realized that we might have miserably failed), but I wanted the <i>chance. </i>I wanted to <i>know. </i>And he hadn't even wanted to give us that.<br />
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So I swore him off. Made up excuses when he called for coffee. Kept myself busy when he was in town so we wouldn't run into one another. And eventually, I stopped answering calls and texts altogether. The way I saw it... When he broke up with me, he got a whole new <i>life. </i>In a new town, at a new school, doing a totally new thing. Following his dream, really. And I had been <i>stuck, </i>in the same town, in the same school, doing the <i>same</i> <i>things</i>...without him. It was clear that I was still far more invested in him than I should've been, and it was holding me back.<br />
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I had no way of knowing that he would carry our prom photo in his wallet for three years after we last spoke.<br />
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A year went by. I started dating a guy from our hometown within my first semester of college. And while the relationship wasn't everything it should've been (heavily flawed on both sides), my vengeful self was extremely happy because I discovered for myself that long distance <i>did</i>, in fact, work...if both parties were willing to put forth the effort. I'd hoped my high school sweetheart had noticed that.<br />
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A few more years went by, and while I had broken up with my long distance guy, I had started talking to guys at college in Springfield. None of it worked. And so, my knees hit the floor.<br />
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"Hey God, it's me again down here... You're supposed to really find yourself in college, and they say a lot of people find their other half. Or they're at least supposed to successfully date a little... So if you could... Could you please send Dylan back into my life? Or at least a guy just like him?"<br />
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That was the night my roommate and I lay in bed flustered about boys after eating way too many donuts. "Sounds like you and your high school sweetheart had it the best I've ever heard of."<br />
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"Yeah..." I told her, "But that was years ago. He could be a completely different person now."<br />
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She sat up in the dark. "Only one way to find out."<br />
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The lights flicked back on and we huddled on the bed around a computer, ready to do what any millennial ex-girlfriend would do...full fledged social media stalking.<br />
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He had phases where he was active on twitter but his instagram was practically deserted. And while he wasn't half as active on facebook as he had been in high school, it was quickly becoming clear that the red-head frequenting his photos was a little more than a friend.<br />
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I shrugged. <i>Alright God, </i>I whispered, <i>I guess my answer's no this time. </i><br />
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I suppose I was disappointed in the way you get when your ex is happier and more involved in a relationship than you are, but the logical part of me was still somewhat indifferent. I hadn't talked to him in <i>years. </i>I definitely wasn't still waiting. And I was walking back to my side of the room, when the "oh no" escaped my roommate's mouth.<br />
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"What?"<br />
<br />
"Get over here."<br />
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She had ventured away from his facebook page and was now on the red-head girl's from his photos. <i>That's</i> when the anger and jealousy welled up inside of me.<br />
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This red-headed girl didn't just have <i>him</i>... She had <i>him </i>in a <i>long distance relationship</i> (which we all remember he said would never work) and she lived in <i>New York City!!! </i>This pixie cut musician girl I didn't even know had <i>everything </i>I'd ever dreamed of, and I was <i>not</i> okay with it.<br />
<br />
My roommate huffed. "Well," she said, "Promise me that if he ever comes back for you that you'll give it another go?"<br />
<br />
"No," I shook my head, tired of being held back and breaking every last possibility of rekindling a romance with Dylan Roth, "I'm moving to New York."<br />
<br />
Her eyes widened but she knew better than to try to stop me. And frankly, so did everyone else. I researched neighborhoods. Cost of living. Jobs. School districts. Transportation. Apartments. I contacted friends who had moved there. I contacted family who'd lived there previously. And I had a plan. I would spend my final year of college preparing for my move to New York City. And I fully believed that if I were to ever see Dylan Roth's face again, it would be on the streets of New York while he was with her.<br />
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So I didn't go completely solo that next year of college. I dabbled in the dating world and talked to a couple of guys. But my eyes were set on the city, so I never took anything too seriously.<br />
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And so it was late October of 2016 when I was sitting in class, half my laptop screen open to lesson plan notes and half open to a New York apartment finder when my phone buzzed and Snapchat lit up. Which was weird, because everyone I knew had stopped sending me Snapchats because I never answered them. I could text and instagram all day, but something about Snapchat was just not my forte.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Dylan Roth has added you as a friend!</i></div>
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I felt like I might throw up. </div>
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I clicked accept and slid open the chat window to take care of this quickly. "Hey good to hear from you!" I typed, "Just so you know, I'm really bad about responding to snapchats so I'll probably open them and not respond a lot." </div>
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"It's nothing personal," I decided to add. Because in the past I had meant for my silence to feel <i>extremely</i> personal. </div>
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But that vengeful side of me kicked in <i>fast</i>, and I suddenly had the urge to tell him how wonderful I was doing on my own. How I was in my last year of college and was graduating earlier than I thought I would and how my guard team had made finals and world championships nearly every year I'd been there and how I was moving to New York City. And so I just...did...and proceeded to respond to <i>every single one </i>of his snapchats until our messages got too long and we had to switch to text. </div>
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<i>Good job Bethany. </i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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A month went by of this constant texting and I was on my way home for Thanksgiving break when he said, "We should grab coffee while we're in town for the holiday!" And we set a date. </div>
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I met him for the most awkward initial reunion of my life in a local coffee shop downtown. But once the awkwardness was (mostly) out of the way, we proceeded to talk. And talk. And talk. And then go for a walk. And we walked. And walked. And walked. And we sat down on the ramp of the town's performing art's facility. And talked and talked and talked some more. The red-head was nowhere in sight, and he explained that she hadn't been a part of his life for awhile. </div>
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So I accidentally let six hours go by. </div>
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And finally he had to go because he was meeting his family for a football game, but he was acting as though he didn't really want to leave. We set a date to hang out again at Christmas before we'd even left. I glanced at my phone. I had three texts from my mom asking when on earth I would be done so we could go and get dinner. Yikes. I'd been so busy talking I hadn't even noticed I was hungry. </div>
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But it had been nice...to let him in again. And I had this awful feeling in the pit of my stomach...that my plans for New York had just gotten a lot more complicated. That God's answer to my prayer for Dylan so many years ago hadn't been a clear "no," but rather a quiet whisper, <i>"Not yet." </i></div>
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And so, I willed myself to realize that God's plan for me was not a move to New York City. And the time between that moment and that Christmas would be solely dedicated to me deciding whether or not I was going to listen. </div>
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When Christmas rolled around, I still hadn't decided. He hadn't come right out and said it, but a few talks until 2am led me to believe that we were becoming more than friends more than quickly. We met for another multi-hour coffee session around Christmas, where it was finally vocalized. That he had feelings for me again, and he didn't know what to do about it because I was moving to New York. And I realized we had gone five years without seeing one another, only to be right back where we started. Where I was now moving to pursue my dream, and didn't know if I wanted to chance being held back. </div>
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I kissed him anyway. That was a mistake. </div>
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I spent the entire next day looking at jobs and apartments in Nashville. Was it enough like New York for me to be happy? Would I still be able to work at the type of at-risk urban school I wanted to? Would I be able to afford a place to live? Yes, yes, yes, it seemed. Check, check, check. </div>
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We met up that night to see the movie <i>La La Land</i>, and I truly believe he expected it to be our last night together. Until the movie had a frighteningly paralleled ending to the conflict we were facing, and we kept putting off the conversation. We drove around. We went for drinks. We even drove back to the movie theatre parking lot and sat in silence for fifteen minutes before I looked up and saw that <i>same dreaded Japanese Steakhouse </i>that we had ended it at so many years ago.</div>
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I presented my case instantly. That I would move to Nashville for us to be together. And it scared the living daylights out of him. </div>
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"No. No, no, no, absolutely not," he told me, "You've wanted to live in New York since we dated the <i>first </i>time. I could never take that away from you. You'd always regret it. You'd never be as happy in Nashville as you would in New York, and..." </div>
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He was starting to make me mad, so I cut him off. "Will you quit telling me what I want for myself, as if you know?!" </div>
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He stared at me dumbfounded. I don't think he'd ever heard me raise my voice in his life. </div>
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"You laid down the law five years ago!" I spat, "You just told me the way it was gonna be because you'd made up your mind. Well now it's <i>my </i>turn. And you don't get to sit there and tell me that I would be happier in New York than I would be with you because <i>you don't know that. </i>You have <i>no idea </i>where my head has been all this time. And you have no idea how hurt, and how <i>angry, </i>I was at you for never giving us a chance. Well it's been five freaking years Dylan!! And we have <i>another </i>chance! And if you can honestly sit there and tell me that you don't want to try, then fine. We won't. But the way I see it? There's no harm in <i>trying. </i>You <i>know </i>me. If I move to Nasvhille, and we don't work out, then fine. I'll throw my middle finger up at you, pack my bags, and go right on to New York City. At least we'll <i>know. </i>Because for the past <i>five years, </i>I haven't known. In fact, I've wondered. Every. Single. Day." </div>
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He proceeded carefully. "And what if we <i>do </i>work out?" he whispered, "And you never get to live in New York?" </div>
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I had no hesitations. "Then you're just going to have to trust that I'll be happy enough to not care."</div>
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We sat in silence for a good while, and I honestly thought he was still going to say no. And I wasn't sure <i>what </i>I'd do then. Because if me screaming a monologue in his face didn't work, I didn't know what would. He was leaving tomorrow. I would have to think fast. I would have to do something quick. I would have to...</div>
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"Let's do it." </div>
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My mouth hung open. "...what?" </div>
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The corners of his mouth curled upwards. He threw his head back and let out a laugh. "Let's do it!" </div>
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He left town the next day and I booked a plane ticket to Nashville to see him again before my last semester of school started. Telling my parents was next, and my mom wasn't surprised in the slightest. She'd always loved Dylan, and I, after all, was just like her. I was repeating her love story with my father first hand. </div>
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My dad, on the other hand? Blind-sighted. The only way to possibly give him the news was to give it to him straight and blunt. </div>
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"How's Dylan doing?" he asked, "I'm so glad you have a friend to go do stuff with when you come back into town." </div>
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"Yeah dad, about that..." I took a breath, "He and I actually got back together so I'm moving to Nashville when I graduate. Also, I'm going to see him in a week." </div>
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He just stared at me. </div>
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"...what do you think about that...?" I asked him. </div>
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"I think I need a beer." </div>
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I feel the need to pause here and make something clear. He always loved Dylan, too. But far more than he loved Dylan...he loved <i>Nashville. </i>So he was fully in support of this decision. As was my mother, because Nashville was a heck of a lot closer to home than New York City. </div>
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Long distance did suck, but it <i>did </i>work. We made it through my last semester of college, FaceTiming every night and visiting one another every six weeks. Not even a full week after my college graduation cap went in the air, I loaded up my car and moved to Nashville. I had nothing but a duffel bag and excitement. I'd pick up the keys to my apartment in three days. The moving truck would come the following week. I'd have a job teaching kindergarten at an at-risk urban school within the month. I'd even be offered the position at the end of the first interview. </div>
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A year ago today, we met up one night to see the movie <i>La La Land</i>, and Dylan truly expected it to be our last night together. </div>
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It turned out to be the first of many. </div>
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Since then, we've spent an awful lot of nights dressed up at weddings and parties and music networking events. We've spent even more nights in our sweatpants eating pizza. But no matter what, we're making memories one day at a time. </div>
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People wait until I'm alone before they ask... "Do you ever regret it? Do you ever wish you'd moved to New York?" </div>
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I had no hesitations the night I yelled at Dylan to quit deciding what I wanted for me, and I have no hesitations answering these questions a year later. </div>
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Not in the slightest. I wouldn't trade this for anything. </div>
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My Dylan, we celebrate today. A year of adventure. A year of uncertainty. A year of new jobs, new beginnings, and crazy spontaneous decisions that led to one of the best years of my life. A year of midnight donut runs and a year of goodnight kisses. A year of "I still love you." </div>
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Thanks for giving me the best life I could've wished for, straight out of college. New York would've been pretty cool. It would've been loud and busy and adventurous and everything I'd ever wanted. But I can't help but think about what it would've been like <i>after</i> I was in for the night, in my sweatpants, eating pizza alone, looking out my apartment window and wondering what you were up to. </div>
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I'm so glad I don't have to wonder. Thanks for inspiring a home for me in Nashville, where it is still loud and busy and adventurous. Thanks for letting me back in and allowing me to be a part of your dream. Thanks for giving me a completely <i>new </i>dream. And thanks for taking a chance with me this time...</div>
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It was always you. </div>
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Bethany Harperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17750708513314558285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1429794704411634185.post-21270963101622279292017-12-16T21:06:00.001-06:002018-06-22T16:44:37.608-05:00Gifts Your Kiddo's Teacher Actually Wants This ChristmasAlright parents, it's that time of year again. As if you're not stressed enough with the Christmas Party dates, the holiday program reminders, and gift shopping for your actual family, you realize you have three days before school is out and you are expected to present your child's teacher with a Christmas gift.<br />
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Your kid probably wants to get her an Emoji water bottle or something equally as random. And all you can think of is a Christmas ornament or a mug that says <i>#1 Teacher. </i>You're pretty sure she already has a thousand of those. And let's be honest... Would she even <i>use </i>it?<br />
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I love my readers on this blog, so I'm just going to give it to you straight...<br />
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She <i>does </i>have a thousand of those and she <i>can't </i>possibly use them all.<br />
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You're <i>sure </i>that there's <i>something </i>out there she could use and actually enjoy, but you aren't a teacher. So how in the world are you supposed to know what that something is?<br />
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You <i>aren't.</i><br />
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Allow me to share with you where every teacher's mind is at this holiday season, so you can give something that will really count.<br />
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<i><span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: x-large;"><b>Something she can eat. </b></span></i><br />
I'll let you in on a little secret... Her family's favorite time of year is Christmas. Why? Because she brings home <i>all kinds </i>of stuff. They <i>never </i>have to bake any cookies or make any candy because they have <i>plenty. </i><br />
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I had a teacher one year who talked about my chocolate peanut clusters for <i>months </i>after I gifted them to her. I returned to give her a batch every year until she retired.<br />
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So help your teacher add to her stash with your special family recipe. It may even end up being the thing she looks forward to each season.<br />
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<i><span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: x-large;"><b>Something she can drink. </b></span></i><br />
She <i>will</i> carry her favorite drink to work daily. ...or she'll have it stocked in the workroom refrigerator so she never forgets.<br />
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So ask your kid. What does she <i>always </i>have with her? Get her what she feels she needs to get through the day. Soda? Coffee? Tea? Something a little stronger...? (Hey, you know your kid better than I do.) Use this knowledge to create a small little gift basket.<br />
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**<i>Legality Note: Your child WILL get in trouble if you send alcohol to campus. And so will you!!! A cute wine glass, bottle openers, reusable wine corks, or a gift card to your local alcohol store could serve as a thoroughly used alternative. </i><br />
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<i><span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: x-large;"><b><br /></b></span></i>
<i><span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: x-large;"><b>Something she can use to relax. </b></span></i><br />
She spends 8 hours a day with your children, a few more hours a day preparing for them, and the remainder of her time worrying about them. A bath bomb or two would be more than welcome, along with some lotion or candles to give some of that time back to her. Trust me. She doesn't give enough of it to herself.<br />
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<i><span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: x-large;"><b>Something to give her store credit. </b></span></i><br />
Ask your kid (because I can guarantee they'll know)... What does your teacher <i>always </i>have with her? And where does it come from? Gift cards are your friend here.<br />
<br />
Is she one of those teachers who frequents the vending machine for her diet coke on the reg? Sonic.<br />
Does she inhale coffee like it's oxygen? Starbucks.<br />
Are your kids always bringing home cute little educational crafts? Hobby Lobby.<br />
It might also be worth it to include some credited money to your local educational supply store, or to JoAnn's, or the Dollar Tree. (Yes they make gift cards to Dollar Tree, and yes, your teacher would <i>eat them up.</i>)<br />
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Your kid knows her better than anyone, so <i>ask them. </i>What does she like? Where does she spend her time? What does she do when she's <i>not </i>at school?<br />
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And if you're still stumped and all else fails... Amazon or Target. If she isn't at least mildly obsessed with these gems, then is she even a real teacher?<br />
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<span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: x-large;"><b><br /></b></span>
<i><span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: x-large;"><b>Something for her classroom. </b></span></i><br />
I know what you're probably thinking. "I'd kind of like to get her something to take her mind <i>off </i>work...not something to remind her of it over the holidays!" But look at it this way...<br />
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Providing her with classroom supplies, kleenexes, tissues, games, puzzles, or even organization pieces is less money out of her own pocket she'll spend next semester. It's something to make her long, stressful days a little bit easier. And she <i>will </i>remember you each time she uses it.<br />
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<i><span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: x-large;"><b>Something personal. </b></span></i><br />
Teachers get so caught up in the day-to-day stressors of our jobs that we forget why we're really there. For example, if your child is in kindergarten, there's a good chance they didn't even know all their letters when they walked into your teacher's room. By Christmas, they are beginning to read, write, and even complete some addition and subtraction without any assistance!<br />
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The sweetest "teacher gift" I've ever received was a framed piece of student work: on the left, an assisted writing assignment from the first week of school, and on the right, a writing piece constructed at home <i>without any help </i>about how much they loved school. Attached to the frame was a thank you note from the parent, showing that they had noticed the progress in their daughter and were expressing how appreciative they were of everything I had done.<br />
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I will keep it long after I retire.<br />
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<i><span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: large;"><b>Tips To Consider...</b></span></i><br />
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<ul>
<li>Teachers work <i>hard</i>. So anything to make our winter holiday seem longer and more relaxing will be received with great joy. </li>
<li>Teachers are cheap. We aren't paid much, so we don't expect a lavish gift. In fact, chances are high we enjoy the simple, useful ones more. </li>
<li>Teachers are unappreciated. The simple fact that you included us on your gift list at all lets us know that you are grateful for what we are doing. You really can't go wrong. </li>
</ul>
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So please don't let the stressors of the holiday season become an excuse to forget your child's teacher this Christmas. I promise you, she hasn't forgotten your child. </div>
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Bethany Harperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17750708513314558285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1429794704411634185.post-50199852928912448522017-11-19T19:23:00.000-06:002018-06-22T16:44:44.648-05:00I Am Thankful For...Around this time last year... I was working my tail off. I was a single lady living with three roommates in Springfield, Missouri, trying desperately to maintain my stamina in my last year of a competitive guard program while completing my final college coursework prior to my internship. I was preparing for student teaching, mentally, emotionally, and physically as I scrambled to plan how I was going to meet my requirements for teacher certification. I was also preparing for my last PRAXIS exams in Missouri, because you have to take five tests to finalize a teaching license.<br />
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I found myself in a car, on the way home, ready to help my mother fix Thanksgiving dinner for us, my dad, my grandparents, my aunt, and my uncle (which is actually quite a large gathering for my small family). I was also determined to take an actual break from schoolwork, and not complete any of the preparation work listed previously over the holiday week.<br />
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An awful lot can change in a year.<br />
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Not only do my aunt and uncle now live in Philadelphia, but I am no longer a single lady, I have no roommates, and I live in Nashville, Tennessee. I have completed student teaching, passed my exams, acquired a degree, and am now a kindergarten teacher who works with at-risk students while I blog my way through the weekends and work my way through graduate school. But I mean... Other than that, everything is pretty much the same.<br />
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Every year, I post what I am thankful for. And this year, it's an awful lot. Because I stumbled upon this quote from <i>Grey's Anatomy</i> a few days ago...<br />
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<i><span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: large;"><b>So do it. Decide. </b></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: large;"><b>Is this the life you want to live? </b></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: large;"><b>Is this the person you want to love?</b></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: large;"><b>Is this the best you can be?</b></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: large;"><b>Can you be stronger? </b></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: large;"><b>Kinder? More Compassionate?</b></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: large;"><b>Decide. </b></span></i></div>
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<span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: large;"><b><i>Breathe in. </i><i>Breathe out. </i></b></span></div>
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<i><span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: large;"><b>And decide. </b></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #674ea7;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"> </span>-Meredith Grey</b></span></i></div>
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...and for the first time in my life, I realized that all of my answers were a resounding <i>yes. </i><br />
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This <i>is </i>the life I want to live. </div>
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He <i>is </i>the person that I want to love. </div>
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I am working so hard to be the best I can be. </div>
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Can I always be stronger? Kinder? More compassionate?</div>
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Yes. Yes. And yes. </div>
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And I will continue to work on those things every day. But for now, I am thankful and content for so many things.<br />
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<span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: x-large;"><i><b>I am thankful for the people in my life. </b></i></span><br />
For my students, who give me a reason to get up each morning.<br />
For my school family, who never make me feel as though I'm going at such a thankless job alone.<br />
For my parents, who love and support me every day, in every way.<br />
For my honorary brother and sister, who always make me feel close to their heart even from miles away.<br />
For my best friends, who keep in touch and share their lives with me whether they live in Nashville or South Dakota.<br />
For my boyfriend, who gave me the best reason to start my life out of college the way that I did.<br />
And for my God, who made it all happen.<br />
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<span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: x-large;"><b><i>I am thankful for the place I get to call home. </i></b></span><br />
For Nashville, my baby New York City; an urban area with good art, good music, good coffee, and good theatre.<br />
For my apartment, which I organized, furnished, and decorated all by myself, to make it a place I could truly call my own.<br />
For Dylan's house, with his roommates, who always make me feel at home from the moment I walk through the door, and for letting me call it home when my apartment has mice, smells of paint, or was under final renovation.<br />
And for my classroom, where I can provide a better environment for my kinders every day than the environment they come from.<br />
<span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: x-large;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span>
<span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: x-large;"><b><i>I am thankful for my job. </i></b></span><br />
For its paycheck, no matter how big or small, which lets me provide for myself the things that I need, and enjoy some of the luxuries that I want.<br />
For its flexibility, because I can exercise my creativity in every lesson I plan for.<br />
For its schedule, so I can enjoy long breaks with my friends and family (and collect my overtime... *wink wink*).<br />
For its purpose, since all students need to learn to read and count, but my kiddos also need to learn to love, laugh, and celebrate life.<br />
For its influence, because I am truly making a difference during every second of every day.<br />
And for its fulfillment, because this is what I have wanted to do since I was a little girl.<br />
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<span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: x-large;"><b><i>I am thankful for the internet. </i></b></span><br />
For without it... I would not be able to go through graduate school on my own time, connect with blog readers all over the world, or experience basic life as a millennial woman.<br />
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<span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: x-large;"><b><i>I am thankful for my health. </i></b></span><br />
For having to go to the doctor so little.<br />
For having enough food to fuel my body...and a little extra to enjoy some snacks with.<br />
For having clean water to fill up a bottle, like, twelve times each school day.<br />
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<span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: x-large;"><i><b>I am thankful for my self care time.</b></i></span><br />
Which includes everything from my scalding hot showers, to reading books under a blanket, to crafting for the holidays.<br />
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<span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: x-large;"><b><i>I am thankful for you. </i></b></span><br />
For my blog, which gives me an outlet to write and a mission to build.<br />
For my platform, which allows me to say what I need to say.<br />
And for my readers, who give me a reason to keep this site going.<br />
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I'm signing off for the week to eat way too much turkey. I hope you're doing the same! And just a reminder to my mental health warriors this holiday season::<br />
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<b><i><span style="color: #674ea7;">To my anxiety warriors: </span></i></b>Don't let the gatherings and the parties and the family / friend endeavors ruin what could be such a magical time of year. Slow down. Take a breath. Take care of yourself.<br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i><b>To my depression warriors: </b></i></span>Don't feel guilty for where your head is at. Just do what you gotta do. Do your best, beautiful. That's all anyone could ever ask of you.<br />
<b><i><span style="color: #674ea7;">To my eating disorder warriors: </span></i></b>It doesn't matter how much you ate yesterday. You still need to eat today.<br />
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Enjoy your holiday. Be happy. Be joyful. Be thankful.<br />
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Bethany Harperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17750708513314558285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1429794704411634185.post-64768089228966194802017-10-29T17:23:00.001-05:002018-06-22T16:44:53.457-05:00#MeToo, But You Already Forgot<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><b><span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: x-large;">Why some women won't share, haven't shared, or think it's too late to share. </span></b></i><br />
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It's been a little over a week since the incredibly serious #MeToo movement mushroomed across social media. Rapidly. And naturally, much like the also-incredibly-serious #NeverForget movement of 9-11... after about five days, all of the posts regarding the awareness had subsided. We went back to videos of celebrity puppies and photos of drunken Halloween parties.<br />
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What started as a single response to actress Alyssa Milano's tweet, #MeToo blossomed into a ploy for awareness regarding sexual harassment and assault. Which -to clarify- spans everything from an objectifying cat-call out a sports car window to full fledged rape. #NoMeansNo. Most of us remember that one. It popped up a couple of years ago and lasted about a week.<br />
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The intentions of #MeToo were golden. The entire idea was that if everyone (men, women, children, etc.) who had ever been raped, sexually harassed, assaulted, etc., would post #MeToo on their status, then the public would gain a better understanding of how common this issue really is in today's society. And everyone was asking me, "Since you run an entire blog around this subject of confidence despite hardship, why aren't you saying anything?"<br />
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"Just wait," I responded, in order to better prove my point. "Just wait."<br />
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And I waited. Waited to see how long the movement would last. The verdict? About a week and a half. Which, I admit, was about five days longer than I thought it would.<br />
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It was the talk of the town for nearly two weeks. Women who have been sharing their experiences for years and women who took the opportunity to share for the first time were posting side by side. And it was beautiful. It was brave. It was powerful.<br />
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For a week and a half.<br />
<span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: x-large;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span>
<span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: x-large;"><b><i>The movement will fade. </i></b></span><br />
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The main reason I never posted #MeToo was exactly for that reason. The movement would last for a week. Maybe two. And you're like, "Duh Bethany. It's an awareness movement. It isn't supposed to last forever." I know this. You know this. Everyone knows this.<br />
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But it bothers me.<br />
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Because these women? Who have actually been sexually assaulted or raped? Their lives are changed <i>forever. </i>It would've seemed like a business strategy. A way to gain traction for my blog to post smack in the middle of the #MeToo movement. And that's not why we're here.<br />
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I'm posting now because, like these women, sexual assault has changed my life. Because, whether a sexual harassment victim has been raped in the dead of night and received therapy for seven years or has simply had their butt slapped in the middle of the high school hallway, we are all women who have learned to alter our way of living in order to protect ourselves from this problem. We have learned to cross the street when a man is walking along the same sidewalk. We have learned to park under streetlights, never get gas for the car after dark, and never go in public bathrooms by ourselves. We carry alarms in our purses. Pepper spray on our keychains is so common that they sell them at the grocery store. Some women even carry handbags big enough to hold tazers, guns, and the licenses that accompany these more intense weapons. Self-defense classes are selling out, as well as being offered for a discount at most college recreation centers. The list goes on and on.<br />
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It's become a money game! Businesses are thriving on the fact that women need to protect themselves. Pepper spray comes in all sorts of cute colors and shapes. They make cute little taser holsters and they give you a framed certificate when you graduate from a self-defense class. That's an award for the progress made in your 10 classes...and the 180 dollars you paid up front.<br />
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The truth is, the movements are important, but any actual progress towards the goal of elimination would "hurt the economy." Because if we didn't need to protect ourselves, these businesses would close, these products would be mostly discontinued, and the entire sex industry stemming from sex trafficking would cease to exist. And we can't have that because we might lose porn. Welcome to the logic of 2017.<br />
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<b><i><span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: x-large;">"It's too late."</span></i></b><br />
Some women have told me, "It's too late for me to share. The movement is already over."<br />
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My darling, if it is your time to be brave, it is your time to be brave. You do not have to share when everyone else tells you to. That literally defeats the purpose of the movement and if they're telling you that you're too late, then they need to remember what the movement is really about.<br />
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Some people can't understand that while movements fade, your experience has changed the way you live and breathe. It has changed the way you look at this world. And that does not fade. The crossing the sidewalk, the fear of being alone at night, the flashbacks or the nightmares or the guilt or whatever you experience does not go away. So you share your story when you're good and ready. Don't worry about the ones telling you that it's too late, because they don't get it anyway.<br />
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<b><i><span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: x-large;">"My story isn't as bad as theirs."</span></i></b><br />
Maybe not. But it's no less valid. Even if some people have it "so much worse than you," your pain is still pain. Your fears are still fears. And your story still has a right to be heard. Even if you just ran to the bathroom crying after someone slapped your butt. Even if it just made you angry that you were objectified out a car window.<br />
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You count. And you matter.<br />
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<b><i><span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: x-large;">"It feels like I'm begging for attention." </span></i></b><br />
This was reason #2 for me as well. So I totally get it, dear sister. "You're just whining," you will hear, and "You're just blowing this way out of proportion so that you can get someone to tell you you're brave." or "You're just doing this so someone will ask about it and give you an invitation to rant." or "You just want pity."<br />
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And while this is usually completely untrue, there are people who genuinely believe this. I won't tell you there aren't. In fact, I've met many of them, and this one came from my own personal facebook.<br />
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As if it was all about her. As if she had the right to judge people who felt they should share their story simply because she didn't feel like she needed to. This also happens vice versa, when a person can't understand why others won't share their stories simply because he/she felt called to share hers.<br />
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One of my friends countered the comment by saying that she understood where the woman was coming from, but she didn't agree. "Yes, every woman and lots of men have probably experienced it," my friend responded, "so I understand how you would think posting your story is a ploy for attention. But that's <i>the point.</i> To raise awareness. Someone always has it worse than you. And someone always has it easier. But the point of the movement is to show numbers. It's to show <i>how many </i>have been impacted my objectification, harassment, assault, rape, etc."<br />
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And, because the woman is an average person in the 21st century, she decided to start a comment fight because my friend didn't agree. "I'm not saying everyone does it for attention," you could practically hear her spat through the font, "but when I see people put it in their status and then someone else comments and then they respond with their story then I feel that is for attention."<br />
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Upon reading that, I began to get angry. Basically, she saw someone post "#MeToo" and felt that it was a ploy for attention because <i>someone else </i>asked for the poster's story.<br />
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What that sounds like to me... is that a woman posted "#MeToo" but <i>didn't </i>include her story because she wanted to raise awareness for what happened to her but <i>didn't</i> want it to seem like she wanted attention. And then someone <i>else</i> was interested in knowing her story, so she told them. I fail to see how that was a direct ploy for attention.<br />
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My friend failed to see it also. "Some people are just more open about their past," my friend responded calmly. "I suppose you'll never know anyone's actual heart behind it... But that's also not for anyone else to judge."<br />
<br />
So if you aren't posting for attention, post anyway. The point is to show numbers, not motives. People will always judge you if they think you want attention. But they shouldn't be judging people anyway.<br />
<br />
<b><i><span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: x-large;">"I'm just not ready to share." </span></i></b><br />
And that is totally okay.<br />
<br />
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People who can't understand will try to get you to talk. People who love you and believe that you can influence the world will also try to get you to talk. It doesn't make them bad people, but it's hard to say no when they say something like, "You could change so many lives and reach so many people if you would talk about your story."<br />
<br />
Listen closely, beautiful...<br />
<br />
It is not your job to heal other people. Especially not before you heal yourself. After all you've been through, you owe yourself a freedom before you set out to free others. It is much smarter to break someone else's handcuffs <i>after</i> you are out of your own cage.<br />
<br />
So if you shared a #MeToo statement, thank you. I do not think you were asking for attention. I think you are brave, and strong, and beautiful.<br />
<br />
And if you did not share a #MeToo statement, you have no reason to feel any guilt. Or shame. Or fear. No matter how big or small, your pain hurts. Your story is valid. Your life matters.<br />
<br />
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Bethany Harperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17750708513314558285noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1429794704411634185.post-5255212487247923512017-10-15T19:24:00.000-05:002018-06-22T16:45:01.139-05:00Tackling the Tennessee DMVAhhh, fall break. A week provided by the Metro Nashville Public School district to allow us time to rest, re-cooperate, and rejuvenate.<br />
<br />
In my case, however, (you had to see this coming) the only thing I managed to finish with was a valid Tennessee state license. And everyone's heard enough horror stories at the DMV to know they should be prepared. But I was <i>exceptionally </i>prepared. As a human with very little free time and very high anxiety...that's kind of my deal.<br />
<br />
I started bright and early on Monday morning with my manilla folder of required documents and applications in hand. But come Wednesday afternoon when I closed down the joint and <i>still </i>didn't have a license, I texted Dylan in absolute rage to which he replied, "Have you started live tweeting yet?" because that's how he got through his 5-day adventure at the DMV when he first moved to Tennessee.<br />
<br />
Now, as many of you already know, I completely suck at twitter. It's only 140 characters, and wordy people like myself just can't get everything in. I'm actually impressed by people who can tweet effectively. It's a skill set I clearly did not acquire in my millennial education. Anyway...back to the DMV... (see? wordy.) I couldn't complete my DMV experience in 140 characters. Thus, <i>the blog. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Let's start at the beginning, shall we?<br />
<br />
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So this all started nearly a month ago, when I came home from Target all happy go lucky and 200 less dollars in the bank from when I <i>left </i>my apartment to go to Target. I was on my way to Dylan's for a movie night. But if you know anything about me, "I'm on my way," doesn't mean I'm in my car and driving his direction. It means I've just finished showering, I'm putting on sweatpants, I'm running a clorox wipe over my counters, I'm loading extra dishes into the dishwasher, I'm turning off lights, oh I need a pillow and a blanket for movie night, now I'm putting on shoes, I'm grabbing my purse, and - oh yeah! - I can take my trash out to the dumpster on the way to my car. <i>Then, </i>I'll be on my way. Efficiency, ya know?<br />
<br />
Sometimes my head gets in a little more hurry than my body and it doesn't remind me to go slow and be careful. So when I chucked my trash bag over the top of the dumpster, my wallet went in with it. And by the time Dylan (bless his soul) and I could get back there to dumpster dive, it had already been emptied (which, of course, didn't stop us from trying anyway). So after Dylan had suited up in lavender kitchen gloves, wrapped an old t-shirt around his face like a bandit, and explored the depths of the dumpster with no wallet in hand, it was time to start cancelling credit cards and ordering new insurance cards. ATM cards. AAA cards... Cards, cards, cards.<br />
<br />
And so let's just recap for a moment:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>I have tossed my wallet into a dumpster like an idiot. </li>
<li>I have called my boyfriend to dumpster dive like a <i>desperate</i> idiot. </li>
<li>I have lost my rose gold, champagne <i>Kate Spade</i> wristlet. </li>
<li>I have lost my drivers license, which, by the way, is still an <i>Arkansas </i>issued license so my plans to easily get a Tennessee license over fall break have just been ruined. </li>
<li>I have lost all my access to health insurance. </li>
<li>I have lost all access to any money from any bank or any credit card ever. </li>
<li>I have lost <i>TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS </i>in Starbucks rewards. <i>TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS. </i></li>
</ul>
<br />
To which Dylan says, "Oh hun... You need a drink."<br />
<br />
Why yes I do. Let's go get one. Oh wait... <i>I don't have a freaking ID. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
So that was my life for two weeks. Carrying one of Dylan's credit cards and transferring money to it from my bank account until I could regain access to my debit cards. Trying desperately to avoid all possible scenarios where I would need a drivers license or ID while also trying not to get sick or injured because I have no health insurance so my treatment would be at least twice as much and I don't have any money at the present time anyway.<br />
<br />
<i>Sub-moral of the story... Don't throw your wallet in a dumpster. It will ruin your life. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
So on week three, it was fall break. I was off work, and I was on a mission. I even had a clearance letter in hand from the Arkansas DMV stating that my license was active and in good standing. I had three forms of identification, legal documents, proof of residency, a <i>newly issued </i>debit card, and I could've sworn I'd be good to go. Of course, we all know where this is going. I wasn't good to go.<br />
<br />
So if you ever find yourself in this intensely desperate situation, I've been there, girl. And I'm here to help ya out.<br />
<br />
<i><span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: x-large;"><b>Bethany's Quick-Tips for Tackling the Tennessee DMV</b></span></i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><span style="color: #674ea7;"><b>Start early. </b></span></i>Be there when they open and allow five business days. You'll probably need them.<br />
<br />
<i><b><span style="color: #674ea7;">Be overly prepared. </span></b></i>You will need:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>a photo ID</li>
<li>your original birth certificate</li>
<li>your original Social Security card</li>
<li>two proofs of identify</li>
<li>a proof of residency. (Take mail that is <i>still in the envelope. </i>They don't accept it if there's no envelope.) </li>
<li>an active drivers license in hand (or for those pathetic enough to throw theirs in the dumpster, you need a clearance letter from your original state. But it has to be faxed to them from the original state's DMV. You can't bring one in. You also can't email it to them. You can't even fax it yourself. They think you forged it if you do these things and it wastes two days of your time.) </li>
</ul>
<br />
<i><b><span style="color: #674ea7;">Don't go during fall break. </span></b></i>The good news is: The DMV is open the same hours as every other working human at a normal business is at work, so if you're a teacher or in some other seasonal occupation, you get awesome time off like fall break to handle these things. The bad news is: every teenager and their dog is there to take their driver's test and it takes for-ever.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<b><span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>Look out for crazies.</i> </span></b>So this woman comes in and walks up to the check in machine. It asks if she has a Tennessee license, and she clicks no. Then, it asks her to enter her Tennessee license number (which, I agree, is a little messed up considering she just told it she didn't have a Tennessee license, but whatever.). Any normal person would've clicked the <i>I-don't-have-a-Tennessee-license-number </i>in the corner of the screen, but oh no. She walks over the counter, cuts in front of a family of four, and says, "That machine over there needs me to enter my Tennessee license number but I have a license from West Virginia."<br />
"Oh," the DMV woman replies nicely, a rare occurrence at the DMV, "then you can just enter your West Virginia license number."<br />
"But that's not what this says," the woman persists, "It asks for a Tennessee license number."<br />
"Yes ma'am, but if you don't have one, then you need to enter a valid license number from whatever state your license is in."<br />
"But that's not what it says! You need to change the machine!"<br />
"Ma'am, we can't change the machine."<br />
"But you're asking me to lie. I would be putting in a West Virginia license number for a question that asked for a Tennessee number. That's lying. Because I don't have a Tennessee license."<br />
This went on for about twenty minutes before she sat down without a wait ticket number (so who knows if she ever got service or not), and began speaking in tongues. I thought for sure I'd found the perfect significant other for Sheldon Cooper.<br />
<br />
<i><b><span style="color: #674ea7;">Find the eternal optimist.</span></b></i> There's always one. In my case, it was a sassy 16 year old who'd just received her first drivers license. "Congratulations!" her grandmother clapped from her seat in the waiting area, "You got your license!"<br />
"Forget that, girl," the girl replied, "it's time to eat!"<br />
They'd obviously been there for awhile.<br />
The girl breezed right past her grandmother and headed for the door, and the grandmother stopped and looked at me just before following the girl.<br />
"Apparently," she said, " you don't have to be a heavy set, 80 year old woman like your grandmother to get excited about food. Learn somethin' new every day!"<br />
<b><span style="color: #674ea7;"><br /></span></b>
<i><b><span style="color: #674ea7;">Familiarize yourself with the actual process of driver's services. </span></b></i>Turns out, the DMV only gives you your license. In Tennessee, there's an entirely separate office in the courthouse that will issue you your car registration and tags, and yes, it is on the other side of town and closes 30 minutes earlier than the DMV. But you can't go there first because you need an active Tennessee license. So don't waste a day trying to do it the other way around like I did. Refer to guideline #1.<br />
<br />
<i><b><span style="color: #674ea7;">If you ever buy a car for your daughter, put her name on the title. </span></b></i>I remember looking at my title when my parents first bought me the car at age 16. "I'm a little worried because the car isn't in my name," I told mom. Even at age 16, I was fairly anxiety driven so I worried about things five years in the future like that. "Oh that won't be a problem," she reassured me. Guess what. It was a problem. And we had to email her an entirely separate application that she had to complete before I could finalize my application for Tennessee registration.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><b><i>Get your car emissions tested, like, yesterday.</i> </b></span>I'd never even heard of such a thing as required emissions testing but they don't give you any sympathy due to your ignorance. You will need the confirmation page to acquire your car tags <i>after </i>you finish your registration application.<br />
<br />
<i><b><span style="color: #674ea7;">Believe it or not, it could always be worse.</span></b> </i>"I hate this place," the woman sitting next to me on day five told me.<br />
"Same," I said indifferently at that point in the game, "I've been here five days cause I lost my wallet." (That sounded at least a little better than I-threw-my-wallet-in-the-dumpster.)<br />
"Yeah," she told me, "I've been here for three because my car got hot wired and stolen for a series of bank robberies and my purse was in it."<br />
<br />
Just when you think your dramatic tale is the worst...there's always someone who can one-up you. Who knows... Maybe you can search for her blog post on the internet, too.<br />
<br />
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Bethany Harperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17750708513314558285noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1429794704411634185.post-55738787714684779802017-10-09T16:58:00.000-05:002018-06-22T16:45:14.806-05:00"You're Too Pretty To Cry," & Other Lies We Learn YoungI was speeding down the kindergarten lunch line, handing out student ID cards. It doesn't matter how much I organize that stack in the morning... They're never in the correct order by lunchtime. And since I was trying not to drop my lunch, spill my water, tip our class ticket cup, and scatter the cards all over the floor, I hardly looked at my students at all.<br />
<br />
"Sweetie, what's wrong?" I heard the lunch lady ask at the other end of the line. And I must say... Even though I hadn't seen the little girl silently crying, I couldn't say I was really surprised. We have a meltdown at least twice a day, so it's best to take care of the problem quickly and move on. And because of this knowledge I gained on the third day of school, my teacher brain tuned in to the little girl's voice as she said, "My momma couldn't send me a dollar for lunch today."<br />
<br />
Poor thing. I recognized the underlying problem immediately, for I work at a crisis school, where it is not uncommon for students to show up without a trace of lunch money. And somewhere along the line, someone told my kindergarteners that if they didn't have their dollar, they couldn't eat that day. Which, by the way, might have reminded two of them to bring their money, but told the other fifteen of them that if they didn't have money that day, they better steal someone else's or they won't get to eat.<br />
<br />
Because the underlying problem is never really about the dollar. It's that my kids come from high poverty families and they are starving, because school is the only time of day they get to eat, and without their dollar, there is no food until they return the next day.<br />
<br />
And so, I expected the lunch lady to say something like, <i>That's alright, baby, you can still eat today!</i> Or <i>Don't worry sweetie, we'll get you something anyway. </i>Perhaps even, <i>You can eat today, just make sure you remember your dollar tomorrow. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
But no. Instead she said, "Oh sweetheart, wipe up those tears. <i>You're too pretty to cry</i>."<br />
<br />
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I was pretty sure the steam was about to explode from my ears. <i>That didn't take care of the problem at all! </i>I wanted to scream, <i>In fact... You created ANOTHER ONE because you didn't want to deal with it!!! </i><br />
<br />
I dropped everything in my hands. I don't think I've ever crusaded down my line faster. I reached the little girl just as she was attempting to dry her cheeks. Her eyes were still watering, still full of tears that would have been shed. Her lip continued to quiver, and she could not breathe steadily. She still had a few scattered huffs. But she was fighting it. She was fighting hard.<br />
<br />
I wrapped her in a hug and said, "Listen, honey. Just remember your dollar tomorrow okay? You have to pay for food at cafeterias, just like if you were at the grocery store, but they'll let you eat today. I promise."<br />
<br />
She stood taller, rolled her shoulders back, and raised her head up. Had her lip not been quivering, and her eyes not been watering, her posture might have fooled you into thinking she was okay. But she wasn't.<br />
<br />
"Do you need to take a break for a second?" I asked her softly. She nodded.<br />
<br />
"Okay, just come right over here and take a minute for yourself," I told her, placing some tissues on the table in front of her, "You can get back in line when you're ready to eat."<br />
<br />
She maintained her posture until she reached the table I had designated for her. She folded her arms out, lay her head down, and let it all loose. She cried / heaved / sobbed for a good ten minutes.<br />
<br />
And then, it was the strangest thing. She sat up, dried her tears, blew her nose, <i>smiled, </i>and got right back in line. Not another sign of those tears all day.<br />
<br />
"What on Earth!" the lunch lady exclaimed, "That little one of yours cries almost every day in here!"<br />
<br />
"Because she <i>needs to cry," </i>I snapped a little too quickly, "And she's not <i>too pretty </i>to take care of herself."<br />
<br />
She was lucky I stopped there and didn't launch into my soap box. That, however, is what my blog is for.<br />
<br />
So here I am, friends! Hello, and welcome! To my readers, parents, teachers, coaches, and friends: It doesn't matter if you have a kid, are expecting one, or never want one in your life. It doesn't matter if you work with kindergarteners or work with teenagers. It doesn't even matter if you work in a cubicle and haven't encountered a child since your third cousin twice removed brought her baby to Christmas dinner five years ago.<br />
<br />
We all have emotions. Adults, teens, and kids. I think that much is self-explanatory. I don't think anyone would dare to argue that statement. But adults and (for the most part) teenagers have learned ways to handle these emotions. Sometimes, our coping mechanisms are healthy, and sometimes they are not. That much is usually up for debate. But nonetheless, we have ways of handling these emotions we experience on a regular basis.<br />
<br />
And some of us are more emotional than others. Some people can blow things off instantly. Others need a five minute "vent time" and then they're good to go. And then there's the friends (and we all have at least one) who will dwell on one scenario and emotion for several days straight.<br />
<br />
Children don't know any of this. Not only do they not have a single clue on how to handle their emotions, they don't even know what emotions <i>are! </i>Feelings and emotions are very complex topics for a group of kindergarteners. They usually know whether or not they are sad, mad, or happy. But that's about it. They can rarely even tell you why they feel a certain way, unless they're angry. "I hit him because he called me names!" you might hear. But if you ask them why they are happy, they say, "I don't know. I just am." And if you ask them why they're sad? Yep. "I don't know. I just am."<br />
<br />
What about emotions like excited? Nervous? Anxious? Stressed? Or what about i'm-too-poor-for-food-but-it's-a-monday-and-i-haven't-eaten-in-three-days?<br />
<br />
They have <i>no idea </i>what these emotions are; what they feel like, or how to handle them. My little sweetheart in the front of my lunch line was nervous. Anxious. And <i>scared out of her mind. </i>Would she get to eat lunch that day? Would the lunch lady be mad at her for not having her dollar? Would anyone help her to make sure this never happened again? She didn't know. And she didn't know how to ask.<br />
<br />
All she knew was that she needed to cry. Which is a <i>perfectly healthy and recommended </i>coping mechanism, by the way. Contrary to <i>suppression</i> as she was told she should do in order to "preserve her beauty." Forget that.<br />
<br />
My little sweetheart knew her self-care coping mechanism (it was intrinsic and obvious to her), and she was beginning to use it. And then she was told that she was <i>too pretty to cry, </i>implying that she would not remain pretty if she let those tears slip. That she would no longer be pretty if she took care of herself. She knew how to meet her own needs, and she even knew how to meet them <i>without the help of someone else, </i>a feat not often conquered by a kindergartener. She knew that she needed to cry; and yet, she felt that she could not both take care of her needs and also remain a beautiful little girl.<br />
<br />
This is not an uncommon statement for girls to hear. Boys, too. Boys, <i>especially</i>. Tears are weak. Tears are ugly. And you're either supposed to be a tough man or a strong, independent woman. This leaves no room for tears.<br />
<br />
I feel that this is a good time to let you know that I probably cry at least once every other day. Sometimes daily. Because I have to admit, I cry as a coping mechanism for <i>everything. </i><br />
<br />
Sad? I cry.<br />
<br />
Happy? I cry.<br />
<br />
Mad? I yell while I'm crying.<br />
<br />
Stressed? You bet I'm cryin'!<br />
<br />
Anxious? Hyperventilating and crying.<br />
<br />
Scared? Overheating and crying.<br />
<br />
When I was heartbroken from the worse breakup I ever had? Crying.<br />
<br />
When I accidentally floored it backwards into a concrete pillar in a parking garage? Crying.<br />
<br />
Crying, crying, crying. But it never lasts very long. <i>Unless I'm trying to suppress it. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
As a little girl, I'm not sure where I got the notion that crying was bad. No lunch lady ever told me I was too pretty to cry (thank god, or I likely wouldn't have ever learned differently). Perhaps it was because my mom was a crier, too, but I rarely saw it. (I, too, now tend to hide my tears if I am in public or in the presence of people who do not know about my need for tears.) Or maybe it was because my dad was a real fix-it kind of guy, and he couldn't fix tears so I tried not to cry so he wouldn't feel bad. (He has since learned to leave the room until I'm finished and then crack a joke upon return.)<br />
<br />
But recently, I began expressing this need vocally. <i>"Seriously, guys, sometimes I just cry. It's my way of dealing with basically everything. If you can handle it, great. If not, just leave me alone for like five minutes and I'll come back out after and everything will be normal again."</i> And though there was some skepticism at first, it didn't take people long to figure this out.<br />
<br />
Now, after a long day, I can expect Dylan to ask how I am feeling. And if it was anything other than "fine," he usually sits with me for five minutes while I cry and vent about it and then we fix dinner. Or go to the park. Or go right on about our evening. He doesn't think a single thing of those self-care tears, anymore. And neither do I.<br />
<br />
You are not too pretty to cry. You're not too strong to cry. You aren't too tough, or too independent, or too manly to cry. Whatever lie you've been told about tears is not true. In fact, if you let those tears go when you need them to, you are strong enough to take care of your hurting mind when the rest of the world seems to think less of you for doing so. And that is something to be admired.<br />
<br />
And if you made it all the way to this point in the post and you're thinking to yourself, "Okay... I feel like I should feel more empowered by this, but I'm just not really a crier..." then good for you! Perhaps you know someone who is and you can encourage them. But even if that's not the case...<br />
<br />
The point is, we are taught in some form or fashion that allowing ourselves to care for our mind is something we are to be ashamed of doing. Or we should at least be ashamed to do it in public. Because god forbid we offend anyone (because <i>that </i>never happens...) or make anyone uncomfortable. After all, to cry in front of others and make them slightly more uncomfortable might imply that we are inconsiderate; that it is our job to make sure others are more secure in this world than we are. That their comfort should be preserved at our expense. That because a lunch lady might not want to deal with us when we are hurting, it is somehow our duty to make sure our pain is sacrificed for their convenience.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: x-large;"><b><i>You are not required to set yourself on fire in order to keep others warm. </i></b></span><br />
<br />
And we are not too pretty, too independent, too <i>anything </i>to lose composure for thirty seconds in order to let off a bit of whatever burden we are shouldering. But we are taught the opposite of this from such an early age.<br />
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And that's just one of the reasons we're so screwed up by the time we turn twenty. Because we learn the opposite of self care before we even complete our first semester of kindergarten.<br />
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Bethany Harperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17750708513314558285noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1429794704411634185.post-87902106158690285572017-09-24T16:23:00.000-05:002018-06-22T16:45:23.963-05:00How I Keep A Growth Mindset As An EducatorIt's the final week of September, which means we're wrapping up Growth Mindset Month here on <i>Crayons to Confidence. </i>We've already covered what Growth Mindset is, why it's important, and how I teach it to <a href="http://www.taxistotsandpolkadots.com/2017/09/how-i-teach-growth-mindset-to-young.html" target="_blank">young children</a> and <a href="http://www.taxistotsandpolkadots.com/2017/09/how-i-teach-growth-mindset-to-young_17.html" target="_blank">young women.</a><br />
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Unfortunately, I haven't had enough experience teaching it to young men to write a post about it (thankfully, all the men in my life have an even better growth mindset than I do), but I can think of a particular group of people I haven't touched on, yet. One I have a <i>lot </i>of experience with. One that spends all day talking about the importance of growth mindset while rarely ever using it themselves. Perhaps, you could say, it is a group of people who need it most.<br />
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Teachers.<br />
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I will never forget the night I came home crying while student teaching. I felt like so much of a failure that, for the first time <i>ever, </i>I was questioning if teaching was really what God had made me to do. And Dylan comforted me to the best of his ability via FaceTime (we were long distance back then, and yes, it totally sucked) until he finally asked, "Bethany... Picture yourself 20 years from now. In a time where you've been teaching so long it's second nature. And if you could go back and talk to yourself in this moment, what do you think you would tell yourself?"<br />
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I considered this for a moment. "I'd probably tell myself that it was okay to be a beginner."<br />
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Even he sounded surprised that he didn't have to prompt me any more to get me to that conclusion. "I think that's very good advice."<br />
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And it was. ...for a moment. Until I realized that teachers don't get that luxury. Musicians and artists can be beginners. They will excel with practice and rehearsal. Fashion designers and book publishers can be beginners. They will gain success as they climb in their company. Salesmen and beauty consultants can be beginners. They will make more money as their product begins to sell. But teachers, social workers, and healthcare professionals don't get to be beginners. Why?<br />
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Because our product is <i>people. </i>Someone's daughter. Someone's brother. Someone's niece, or nephew, or twin, or wife, or father. We do not get the chance to screw up and try again next time, because we won't just mess up a sale. Our mistakes have the potential to mess up another life.<br />
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<span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: x-large;"><i><b>The Art Is Never Truly Mastered </b></i></span><br />
It took me a long time to realize this, so let's just get this out of the way. Standardized exams are not effective, and education is not equal. Why? Because people are not standardized. And people are not equal. And if our product is people, and people are not standardized or equal, then standard and equal education does not work.<br />
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People change. People grow. People live in new worlds with every generation that comes to pass. So education is ever changing. Teachers never really get it down. Sometimes we make big improvements. Sometimes, we try things and they don't work. Sometimes, we try things and they do. Sometimes, we even try things we know won't work just to prove to someone in the district that we were right.<br />
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So when times are tough and I'm feeling blue, or I feel overwhelmed and completely ineffective at what I do, I have to remind myself... Your job changes every second, of every day, of every week, of every day. Yes, the teachers celebrating their 25th work anniversary have a lot of skill on a first year teacher. But if you are a brand new teacher, you have brand new ideas and an updated education for an updated generation. Your fire has not burnt out yet. You are passionate, and you are young. You are closer to the generation you are teaching. You relate better to them. So while you may not feel as good or effective as the old woman across the hall who's in her 50th year teaching kindergarten (true story... I know one of those), you have an advantage that they do not. you <i>get</i> this generation of kid. And that gift alone can make you just as effective.<br />
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And remember: people are not standardized, which means that teachers are not either. There is no <i>one</i> successful model. You each have a different teaching style and philosophy and daily routine, and they're all exactly what some kid needs. So you do you, and keep on keepin' on, because you have one of the most important jobs in the world, and if you get discouraged, the job won't get done.<br />
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<span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: x-large;"><b><i>You Can Be A Teacher And A Student</i></b></span><br />
In fact, the best teachers still <i>are </i>students. The best teachers are the ones who are constantly seeking help. They're always attending collaborative meetings, searching Pinterest for the hottest new phonics games, and are working overtime so they can remain as a top performer in their craft. They might be required by the district to attend professional development trainings, but the best teachers are <i>voluntarily </i>offering more to their job.<br />
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So when it's 8:30 p.m. and you're still at school even though you were supposed to be home to join your boyfriend for dinner at 6:30 (it's like I'm speaking from experience or something...), remind yourself that it's because you are dedicated to what you do. If you keep learning new ways to become a great teacher, you <i>will </i>become a great teacher. In fact, that already <i>makes </i>you a great teacher. So looking for extra resources and asking for help is <i>never </i>a bad thing. It just means you are still learning. And by personal opinion, if you're doing this teaching thing right... you are <i>always </i>still learning.<br />
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<span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: x-large;"><b><i>Broken Crayons Still Color</i></b></span><br />
"Miss Harper!" the distraught wail came from the back table, "She broke my crayon!!!"<br />
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<i>Oh lord, </i>the mutter escaped my mouth. It was Friday. Come on, people. Get through it with me... We're almost there. But no. Instead, we're going to break other people's crayons and fight about it.<br />
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And then, like an angel, the quiet voice from a sweet little kinder boy said, "Don't worry, Miss Harper, I've got it."<br />
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The boy proceeded to stand up, retrieve the tape dispenser from the class supply area, and carry it over to the girl with the severed crayon. He took it from her hands, lined it up carefully, and taped it back together. It was as if he'd been a crayon doctor all his life. He was so prepared in that moment, you'd think that's what God had made him for: to fix that poor girl's crayon.<br />
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He handed it back to her gently. "I know it's not as pretty anymore," he told her, "but that's okay. Broken crayons still color."<br />
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I was sure I'd felt my jaw hit the floor. Tears were in my eyes instantly. How many times have we felt like that? "I'm ugly, I'm broken, I'm <i>useless." </i>But that couldn't be further from the truth.<br />
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The reality is, we're all crayons, and we've all been broken. We've had our wrappers ripped off, our ends dented up, and some of us have literally been snapped in half. But it doesn't really matter whether you're all worn down or fresh out of the box...<br />
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All that matters is that you still color.<br />
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Bethany Harperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17750708513314558285noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1429794704411634185.post-73764613916146816122017-09-17T20:30:00.000-05:002018-06-22T16:45:36.915-05:00How I Teach Growth Mindset to Young Women September is <i>Growth Mindset Month </i>here on <i>Crayons to Confidence. </i>And we have already established <a href="http://www.taxistotsandpolkadots.com/2017/09/happy-growth-mindset-month.html" target="_blank">what growth mindset is</a>, and<a href="http://www.taxistotsandpolkadots.com/2017/09/how-i-teach-growth-mindset-to-young.html" target="_blank"> how I teach it to young children</a>. So now it's time to tackle another aspect for our readers more directly: how to teach it to young women.<br />
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Before I began teaching kindergarten, I worked as a high school colorguard coach in small town Missouri. By day two of our camp together, I easily recognized it as the most difficult job I'd ever had. They were unmotivated. They were rude. They talked back to me all the time, huffed at my instruction, and acted as though the very sport <i>they </i>auditioned for was the absolute biggest pain in their butt.<br />
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But I refused to quit. Not because I'm an insanely dedicated or thought I had exactly what these girls needed, but because I soon viewed it as a challenge to conquer, showing those girls they had no reason to be that way. That's basically the kind of the person I am.<br />
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By day four I was so frustrated that I sat them down in a circle before we began. "Do you want to be good?" I asked them.<br />
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They all just stared at me.<br />
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"I'll ask again," I said after several moments of silence, "Do you all <i>want </i>to be good?"<br />
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"Well, yeah..." they said.<br />
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"Great! That's wonderful to hear!" I told them. A few of them broke a smile. "But you could've fooled me."<br />
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Their faces fell.<br />
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And I shrugged. "You could've fooled me. Every time I give you anything to get better, you talk back to me, you huff at me, and you tell me you can't do it. You give up before you even try, and you get mad at me for believing in you. Why should I keep trying for you if you aren't even trying for yourself?"<br />
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One girl wasn't quite impacted enough by my tough love. "Because this is your job," she told me indifferently.<br />
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I couldn't help but laugh. "Please. I don't get paid enough to stay up past midnight writing choreography, driving two hours to get to and from your school for practices, and have you treat me like I don't know what I'm doing."<br />
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"Then why are you here?" the girl with too much nerve dared to ask.<br />
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"Because you're better than what you're giving me. But. I know it's easier to not practice and not try, so if you don't care and you're ready to give up, it'll be easier on me to not come anymore. If that's what you want."<br />
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No one said anything, so I just kept talking.<br />
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"I don't know what else to do. I don't know what else to try. So if you <i>want </i>to be good, and there's something you need that I'm not giving you, you just need to tell me. And I'll get it for you, I promise."<br />
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"It's harder than we thought," came a soft, sweet voice from the back, "It looked easy when you did it. But it's not."<br />
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It actually made me sick that I hadn't seen it before. "Well do you want to learn? How to make it easy?"<br />
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"Well, yeah," became the general consensus.<br />
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"Well it took me ten years to get to where I am with guard. You can get there, too. But not in four days. And not with that attitude."<br />
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Growth mindset. They needed it. Bad. But unfortunately, it's much <i>harder </i>to teach growth mindset to young women, because they are no longer young children. They aren't as moldable. They aren't as much of a sponge. They already have thoughts and ideas and opinions on how the world works, and they already have thoughts and ideas and opinions on how much they're worth. And about 99% of the time, they don't have it right.<br />
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<b><i><span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: x-large;">It starts with a love of self. </span></i></b><br />
Can you teach this? Some say yes, some say no. And personally, I fall somewhere in the middle. There's certainly no set lesson plan. There's no formula or method. But I've found that believing in them is a good place to start. Most of the time, even if they believe in themselves, they're looking for someone who believes in them <i>more. </i>Who pushes them further because you know they can handle it, but who encourages and compliments them on what they already do well. Let them know they have your support, your encouragement, and your leadership. That's all a young woman really wants; from her educators, her parents, her man, her friends, etc. And the more she has that behind her, the more she will fuel and encourage and believe in herself.<br />
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<b><i><span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: x-large;">Eliminate "I Can't" from their vocabulary.</span></i></b><br />
You might have previously read how I don't allow my kindergarteners to use "I can't." I don't allow high schoolers to use it around me either. I don't believe in the phrase, quite frankly. Hepburn said it best... "Nothing is impossible. The word itself says I'm Possible." The more you speak those words, the more your brain believes them by default. But if you start reminding yourself that you <i>can, </i>with time, or effort, or practice, or whatever... your brain believes those by default also.<br />
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<span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: x-large;"><b><i>Place them where they can flourish. </i></b></span><br />
Too many times people believe that growth mindset functions best when a person is placed in a situation where they are heavily challenged. And that is true, sometimes. But in the beginning, it's completely natural for people to need to learn what it's like to <i>succeed </i>before they learn what it's like to <i>grow. </i>Success pushes anyone to want more success. That personal joy is contagious, and addicting. If a person has learned what it's like to shine, they will be more motivated to feel that way again. By placing them in situations they like so they can achieve success they truly enjoy, you are teaching them to work without them feeling as though they are working.<br />
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<i><b><span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: x-large;">Push them, ever so slightly. </span></b></i><br />
Lots of things are too easy. Lots of things are too hard. Very few things are "just right." Finding that sweet spot is quite an art, but it's very important that you do. Find where they are comfortable and happy and just take one half step further. This teaches them to set goals but work slowly towards the success. Showing them how to trust the process forces them to find sweet successes when they reach the goal, <i>and </i>while they're still along the way.<br />
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<b><i><span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: x-large;">Celebrate successes with them. </span></i></b><br />
This goes for any age. Any gender. Any person, really. It's just a wonderful thing to do! Successes are sweeter when shared with someone else. If you have been a complimenter, a supporter, and an encourager through the entire process, they will be so thankful when you are a celebrator as well.<br />
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Growth mindset is just as crucial in life as it is in the classroom. It's just as useful when you're an adult as it is when you're in a kindergarten classroom. It's pretty common for early childhood teachers to work toward it and teach it. But it tends to get lost somewhere along the way for young women. Once they start to question their beauty, their confidence, and their power (and they <i>all </i>do at some point), their growth mindset is shot to the wind. It takes constant reinforcement to ensure it stays a part of them, and it is no longer something they can learn and maintain on their own. They need the help of their educators, their parents, and one another. It's a trickier battle than it is with young students, but it's still a very important one.<br />
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Bethany Harperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17750708513314558285noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1429794704411634185.post-20365083643120284482017-09-10T22:17:00.000-05:002018-06-22T21:00:04.205-05:00How I Teach Growth Mindset To Young ChildrenIf you're new around here, September is when we celebrate <a href="http://www.taxistotsandpolkadots.com/2017/09/happy-growth-mindset-month.html" target="_blank">Growth Mindset Month</a> here on<i> Crayons to Confidence! </i>And since I'm such a firm believer in the concept, I dedicate a whole week to it in my classroom at the beginning of the year. All of our books, lessons, and centers focus on learning about and developing a growth mindset, and I'm here to share it all with you!<br />
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My school implements what we call the "First Fifteen," where the first fifteen school days are curriculum free. You can teach some of that if you want, but you don't have to. You have the freedom to focus on routines, procedures, class norms, and relationship building, so I toss in a full five days of growth mindset in there, too. In my humble opinion, the more a child can develop a growth mindset early on, the more they will love learning because they will not fear failure.<br />
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<b><i><span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: x-large;">The Power of "YET." </span></i></b></div>
I always begin with the power of yet. I introduce several fixed-mindset phrases, and then add the word, "yet."<br />
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"I can't do this!" ...yet.<br />
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"I don't get it." ...yet.<br />
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"This doesn't work." ...yet.<br />
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"I don't know." ...yet.<br />
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"It doesn't make sense." ...yet.<br />
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"I'm not good at this." ...yet.<br />
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For kindergarteners, five minutes is forever. So if a lesson or a task makes them feel stupid, they feel as though they will never be able to get it. They feel as if their stupidity will last forever, when the truth is, no one learns anything wholly the first time around. It takes time, and effort, and then some more time. Reminding them to put "yet" at the end of their fixed-minded sentences helps them refocus their brain and stop telling themselves "I'm not good enough." You even see them begin telling themselves "In time, I'll be even better."<br />
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<span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: x-large;"><b><i>The Books I Read</i></b></span> </div>
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<span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: x-large;"><i><b>The Lessons I Use</b></i></span> </div>
<b><i><span style="color: #674ea7;">Little Engine</span></i></b><i> </i><br />
<b>Shared Reading ::</b> We talk about things the students have done that they didn't think they'd ever be able to do.<br />
<b>Writing ::</b> Students draw / write things they worked hard at and accomplished.<br />
<b>Math :: </b>I show them a problem they will be able to do at the <i>end </i>of kindergarten. We set goals for our year, and talk about how we need to learn a bunch of little things before we can know one big thing.<br />
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<i><b><span style="color: #674ea7;">The Girl Who Never Made Mistakes</span></b></i><br />
<b>Shared Reading ::</b> I introduce my students to "Miss Take" with an anchor chart. She's a good friend of mine...and she messes up ALL THE TIME! We talk about some of the crazy things she does, and students think of what she can learn from her mistakes.<br />
<b>Writing ::</b> Students draw / write "letters" to Miss Take showing what she can learn from one of her mistakes.<br />
<b>Math ::</b> We count Miss Take's mistakes, and we count how many things she learned from her mistakes. (**Teacher hint...she ALWAYS learns a lot more than the number of mistakes she made!)<br />
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<span style="color: #674ea7;"><b><i>The Dot</i></b></span><br />
<b>Shared Reading ::</b> We read <i>The Dot, </i>and each make a "boring," little dot on anchor chart paper with paint on our fingertips! We use our little fingerprint dots to make one, big, beautiful, multi-colored class dot. And just like the book, we all sign it.<br />
<b>Writing ::</b> Students begin by drawing a dot! Then, elaborate your drawing. Use pictures and words to make your own story. Be ready to share with a buddy!<br />
<b>Math ::</b> Each student gets a set of popsicle sticks with numbers 1-10, and a small container of "dot" beads. They line up the number of beads on the correlating popsicle stick.<br />
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<i><span style="color: #674ea7;"><b>What Do You Do With A Problem </b></span></i><br />
<b>Shared Reading ::</b> I introduce turn and talk on this day. During the story, students share problems they've had, and ways they solved that problem. They also brainstorm what the little boy might do with his problem in the story! We take this time to really dive in to some mental health education. We talk about worrying, anxiety, conflict resolution, and problem solving.<br />
<b>Writing ::</b> Students use words and pictures to share a problem they had, and how they fixed it / how they could have fixed it. They <i>love </i>sharing how much of an "anxiety warrior" they were when they fixed their problem!<br />
<b>Math ::</b> We play a math version of <i>Headbands! </i>I have a set of cards; half contains a number (i.e. 4) and half contains a visual representation drawing (i.e. 4 hearts). Each child gets one card taped to their head! They have to walk around to solve their problem and find their other half before the timer runs out! (Prompt them to use counting, number lines, hundreds charts, etc. for strategies.)<br />
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<span style="color: #674ea7;"><b><i>What Do You Do With An Idea</i></b></span><br />
<b>Shared Reading ::</b> I begin by telling them about an idea I have. I really like oatmeal. But I never seem to have time to fix oatmeal for breakfast! So I was thinking... What if I made little crunchy oat circles that I can eat with milk really fast so I still get to eat oatmeal each morning? They all laugh and say <i>ewwww! </i>because crunchy oatmeal sounds disgusting! But then we eat some Cheerios together, and they say <i>I love Cheerios! </i>and I say <i>Me too! Guess what Cheerios are? </i>Yep. Crunchy little oat circles. Sometimes ideas seem a silly, but they really turn in to something big!<br />
<b>Writing :: </b>Yamada concludes the story with the realization of what you do with an idea...you change the world! Students use pictures and words to share an idea they have / had that can help them change the world.<br />
<b>Math ::</b> I have 20-piece puzzles of different ideas that people had and brought to life. Stop lights, pencils, cell phones...you name it! On the back of these puzzle-pieces I have numbered them, in order, 1-20. Students put the puzzles together in order of the number, and flip the puzzle to see what idea they made!<br />
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<b><i><span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: x-large;">Eliminating "I Can't" From Their Vocabulary</span></i></b></div>
As a kindergarten teacher, I can deal with a lot of things. Bathroom accidents, glue spills, tear-induced melt-downs...but there are two things I do not tolerate. I do not let my students treat others disrespectfully, and I do not let them tell me they can't do something.<br />
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I start by showing my students several scenarios of when they would use "I can't." They usually agree that it's not a very good growth mindset to use "I can't," in this moment, so I make them sign a contract! Then, as the year goes on and they begin to get frustrated or lose confidence in their work, "I can't," starts popping up again. If they say it and break their contract, they get five tickets to keep at their desk. They have five days (one ticket per day) to prove themselves wrong...to show themselves that they <i>can </i>in fact do what they said they couldn't do. When they prove themselves wrong, they get to put their tickets into our class cup, and the class is one step closer to their reward party!<br />
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If you're a teacher, feel free to email me with any questions you have, and let me know how I can help you bring growth mindset to your classroom! If you're a parent, babysitter, or someone else involved heavily with children, stick around in the next few weeks for how you can help your child establish a growth mindset, even out of the classroom.<br />
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Bethany Harperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17750708513314558285noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1429794704411634185.post-91891663200554528912017-09-03T16:30:00.000-05:002018-06-22T16:45:50.082-05:00Happy Growth Mindset Month! It's officially September, and you know what that means! Boots, sweatshirts, and coffee for sure...but also, it's Growth Mindset Month here on <i>Taxis, Tots and Polka Dots! </i>And now that I have a classroom all to myself, I intend on taking full advantage of it.<br />
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See, I'm a firm believer in the concept, and I use it in just about every aspect of my job (and I <i>try </i>to use it in just about every aspect of my life). Unfortunately, though, very few other people reciprocate the same stress and importance on the concept in their own life. Not because they don't want to or don't see the value in it, but often because they haven't the slightest idea what it even is.<br />
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So what is growth mindset anyway?<br />
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Growth mindset is exactly what it sounds like: it's a shift in thinking (or a change in literal mindset) that affects the way your brain interprets negative stimuli. And negative stimuli comes from everywhere. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure that out. The trick begins with focusing more on the process (of learning and discovering) rather than the product (of looking smart and showing off).<br />
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You probably know a few people who already embody this mentality. They're the friends who are looking at the bright side when you just want to vent. They're the ones encouraging you when you'd rather have someone to complain to. They're a refreshing batch to be around if you also have a growth mindset. They're an annoying batch to be around if you don't.<br />
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They're the ones always believing that their intelligence and talent can be taken to the next level. It's more than just motivation and positivity; they genuinely believe that hard work, constructive criticism, and careful strategies can empower them into innovation. And because of this, they are ultimately more successful.<br />
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The opposite of this forward-thinking group is the clan of fixed-minded individuals. They are focused on what they can do and what they can't do, but never on what could change what they can't do or what would make what they can do even better. This leads them to become deceptive cheaters in school and in the workplace because they are more focused on having the advantage and title than they are on improving themselves. They'd rather be seen as the most successful than the most improved, when the truth is that the most improved <i>are </i>the most successful.<br />
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No one possesses a growth mindset by nature, nor do they acquire it without actively working towards it individually and surrounding themselves with growth-minded people. It's not a character trait like flexibility or open mindedness or positivity. If you have a growth mindset now, you have not always had one, and it is wrong to assume you always <i>will </i>have one if you don't make an active effort to keep it.<br />
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And for my teachers out there, it's actually <i>not</i> all about behavior. It's hardly about behavior at all. Possessing a growth mindset does not mean someone is a kiss-up or a teacher's pet. In fact, it's quite the opposite. If you have a growth mindset, you are not working for the approval and validation of other people. Instead, you are working for the improvement and fulfillment from within yourself.<br />
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Growth mindset doesn't make you perfect. It doesn't make you smarter, or more talented, or more successful. But what it <i>does</i> do is give you a solid foundation of intrinsic motivation and confidence in yourself, and those two things (paired with hard work and persistence) make you smarter, and more talented, and more successful.<br />
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It seems impossible to fully attain. And to be fair, it is. A purely perfect growth mindset doesn't exist. We are all some combination of growth and fixed mindset (because we are only human), though most of us lean more of one way than the other. And most educators who harp on growth mindset in their classrooms (like me) are dedicated to ensuring that the majority of our next generation grows up leaning more towards the growth mindset.<br />
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So stay tuned during September because we'll be touching on a new aspect of this important month each week. Introducing your students / young children to growth mindset may be the absolute best thing you can do for them, because if you can make them love the learning and improvement process, it's hard to stand in their way when they do much of anything else. And if we can equip a stronger, more confident, more dedicated next generation, then we have done our job.<br />
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Bethany Harperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17750708513314558285noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1429794704411634185.post-38958029383260133182017-08-13T20:59:00.000-05:002018-06-22T16:45:58.984-05:00My Second First Day of KindergartenI still remember my first day of kindergarten. I was four years old; soon to be five, only a few days later, but still the youngest student in the class.<br />
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I remember being ushered into the room by my kindergarten teacher. I went straight to play with blocks while she dashed around madly organizing kleenex boxes and clorox wipes. I remember watching her console parents and kneel to redirect crying children. I remember noting how much patience that woman had.<br />
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I remember walking in to a room I'd never seen before, knowing no one in the school, having no prior knowledge to apply to my new situation, and not having a single clue what was going on. I was flying by the absolute seat of my pants, just waiting on the teacher to tell me what to do.<br />
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And somehow, sixteen years later, all my days of kindergarten, and elementary, and middle school, and high school, and college had brought me right back around full circle.<br />
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I was twenty-one years old; soon to be twenty-two, only a few days later, but still the youngest teacher in the building.<br />
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I set up my room and put tubs of blocks on each table. I dashed around madly organizing kleenex boxes and clorox wipes. I consoled parents and knelt to redirect crying children. And I noted how much patience I never knew I had until that moment. They always said that kindergarten teachers were gifted with a certain type of patience that no one else had. I get it now.<br />
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I walked in to a room I'd never seen before only a week prior. And once again, I knew no one in the school. I had no prior teaching experience to apply to my first year teaching. And I still didn't have a single clue what was going on. I was still flying by the absolute seat of my pants. Except now <i>I</i> was the teacher who was supposed to tell 20 four and five years olds what to do.<br />
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I didn't eat lunch my entire first week. I worked 14 hour days the week before school started, and 12 hours days the first week of school. My classroom is already a mess, like I promised myself it never would be. My desk is already piled high and disorganized, like I promised myself I'd never let it get. And I've never needed more sleep than I did this past weekend; not in all my years of band concerts and guard competitions and theatre productions. Five year olds take a special kind of energy.<br />
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But my heart is so full...and so is my wallet! That's right ya'll, pay day was on Friday, which is the <i>best </i>possible Friday you can have.<br />
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So thus far... Teaching is pretty much the weirdest thing I've ever done. I get to wake up every morning in a metropolitan area, and drive to work doing what I love most with the age group I love most, and then return home to have dinner and hang out with my love and best friend. And then, every two weeks, there's more money than I've ever seen collectively on one check being deposited into my bank account. I pay rent. I pay bills. I pay credit cards. And I get to pay for awesome stuff too, like clothes I like, and furniture I've wanted forever, and the best pasta at my favorite italian restaurant every once in awhile.<br />
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And it all occurred to me as I was driving home tonight, away from the skyline, getting ready to lay everything out for work tomorrow morning. I used to dread waking up to go to class. To go to rehearsal. To go to work. And somehow, I don't seem to mind to anymore. And I think that's the absolute best thing a girl could possibly ask for.<br />
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Will the year get harder? Absolutely, in some ways. The thing is: I don't know what I don't know. So I'm not sure how far behind I am, or what I'm forgetting, or what I should've done on the first day of school that I didn't do. But it'll also get easier in other ways. I'll get used to lesson planning quickly. I'll get used to stealing the copier at the busiest time of day. I'll get used to teaching and my kinders will get used to learning and in the end, we'll both have accomplished something amazing. We'll both have had our first year of school, <i>together. </i>And we couldn't have done it without each other.<br />
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There are times during the day I wish I was more experienced, and could make faster decisions, and could recycle some old lesson plans when I wanted to leave school early. But I also recognize that I will never get this experience again. The ability to figure life out with five year olds, who are also trying to figure <i>their </i>life out, is undoubtedly a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. And I plan to savor every second of it.<br />
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I love my job. I love my apartment. I love Nashville, and the people I've met here. I love my home. I love my life. And I've never been more thankful of anything.<br />
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Bethany Harperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17750708513314558285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1429794704411634185.post-20102633971846433902017-08-06T20:34:00.000-05:002018-06-22T16:46:08.637-05:00Bethany's First Classroom Reveal! T'was the night before kindergarten, when all the through the house, a teacher was stirring, and so were the mice in her house. (Check out <i><a href="http://www.taxistotsandpolkadots.com/2017/07/i-dont-think-i-was-meant-to-grow-up.html" target="_blank">I Don't Think I Was Meant To Grow Up</a> </i>for <i>that </i>lovely story...)<br />
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We're cutting it a little close here at Bellshire Elementary. Our school had some beautiful and much-needed renovations completed over the summer, but that left us teachers with only one week to prep in our rooms, and the custodians were left to work around us while waxing the floors.<br />
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I walked in to chaos.<br />
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It was the first time I'd ever seen my room, and random furniture was thrown into each of them. I had no guided reading tables, one teacher desk that was falling apart, two sets of classroom chairs (neither the correct size for kindergarteners) and about forty-five more tables than I needed. There was some second grade curriculum in there, too: globes, workbooks much too hard for my kinders, etc...<br />
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But the whole team pulled together. We swapped until we all ended up with the correct curriculum. We stole furniture from everyone else's surplus pile. Teachers would roam the hallways yelling, "File cabinet?!" until someone would poke their head out and say "Come on in! I have four!"<br />
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Until finally, somehow, we were ready. (Or as ready as we'll ever be.)<br />
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So without further adieu... Welcome to Harper Headquarters! This is where Nashville's kindergarten detectives will become confident, creative, and curious...ready to make observations, search for clues and strategies, and ultimately learn new things until their case is cracked...and they are ready for first grade!<br />
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Special thanks to my kinder team for guiding me and swapping materials / furniture with me when everything was randomly piled in our room! Thanks to the janitors who helped us with our setups prior to waxing our floors, thanks to the tech team for installing everything in a matter of three days, and thanks to everyone who sent graduation money or school supplies / classroom essentials directly. And huge thanks to Dylan Roth for coming up basically every day to move and assemble furniture, hang everything out of my reach (i.e. ... nearly half my classroom), and for keeping me mentally sane through this crazy week! </div>
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The first day of school is tomorrow... Kinder teachers, it's time to get our cray on!</div>
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Bethany Harperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17750708513314558285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1429794704411634185.post-36382877284102141512017-07-23T23:25:00.000-05:002018-06-22T16:46:18.368-05:00I Don't Think I Was Meant To Grow UpI'm two months in to this adulting thing, and I have to say... It's not goin' so hot.<br />
<br />
It was a week before I had a bed in my apartment, a month before I even had something to sit on to watch TV, and the rug I ordered six weeks ago still isn't here. (Don't worry, it's only been sent back to the company twice, but the address confusion has been addressed and it's on its way. Third time's the charm I hear. We'll see.)<br />
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When I first moved in to my apartment in Nashville, my locks didn't work. And I refused to sleep on the floor behind a door that didn't lock, so there I was, staying at Dylan's. Two weeks later, my air conditioner broke. I'm extremely hot natured but sightly more stubborn, so I tried to tough it out. Dylan walked in once and said, "Your thermostat says it's 80 degrees in here! It's cooler outside!" So I was back at Dylan's for a few nights, at least until the poor maintenance man that already knew me by name had completed the work order. And don't even get me started on the smoke detectors. Those things go off every time I take something out of the oven without remembering to turn the stovetop vent fans on.<br />
<br />
Well about a week ago, I started waking up to falling objects. Every time I would emerge from my bedroom the next morning, something new would be on the kitchen floor. A chip bag. A cereal box. A few tea bags scattered from their can on the shelf. I glanced up at the air vent directly above the pantry shelf; the same one that's been testy since the cooling system was fixed. It's been known to blow my papers around every time the air kicks on, so I didn't really think much of it. I just sat things back where they belonged and went on about my day.<br />
<br />
The longer time went on, things weren't just falling. They were moving. I'd come out into the kitchen to see cereal on the floor, a jar of peanut butter tipped over, and a box of rice moved to a new place on the shelf. That's when I first started fretting.<br />
<br />
Two nights ago, I awoke to a crash. I live by myself, and dared not open the door. The way I saw it... something had been moving my food around without attacking me thus far, so it was likely safer to stay put and pray for protection than it would've been to emerge in the dark with nothing to defend myself. I stayed awake for a good while, until several minutes of silence had passed. <i>Go back to sleep, </i>I told myself, <i>Deal with it in the morning. When your head is on tighter, and it's light outside. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
The next morning, the sun was shining and I was showered, my hair was straightened, and my face was makeuped before I dared to take on the kitchen. And when I first emerged, nothing seemed out of the ordinary compared to the past few nights. One chip bag was on the floor and a cereal box was tilted over. I couldn't find the source of anything warranting a large crash, until I leaned down to pick up the chip bag.<br />
<br />
The picture frames atop the pantry shelf had fallen, and half of my loaf of bread was gone. The same loaf I'd only bought the day before and eaten two pieces out of for a sandwich. The bag was torn open and my bread hadn't fallen. It wasn't thrown away. It was <i>eaten. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I'd had enough. I grabbed my phone; no wallet, no keys; and walked right out of my apartment. I dailed in a frenzy. "Dylan?! Dylan, please. Come over here. <i>Now." </i>My anxious mind and untrusting soul went <i>everywhere </i>except to any logical conclusions.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>What if the previous resident is a prankster who still has a key to my door?! </i><br />
or<br />
<i>What if there's a homeless man who lives in the tall bushes behind my apartment complex and he comes in every night for food?! </i><br />
or<br />
<i>Good god, I just got my air conditioner fixed and now there's a demon in my ventilation system... </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
And sweet Dylan, being the logical fixer-upper that he is, arrives within minutes, waltzes right up to the door and says, "Ready to take a look?" like it's totally no big deal.<br />
<br />
He picked up the chip bag. He poked around the bread bag. He got out his phone flashlight and looked on the floor under the pantry shelving. "Well," he sighed, "You've got mice."<br />
<br />
"...WHAT?!"<br />
<br />
I'm sure it left my mouth like I was an absolute madwoman. My primary thought: <i>Tiny little rodents ate half my loaf of bread?! It would take me two weeks to do that! There's just no way... </i>Secondary thought (and Dylan's primary thought): <i>It's rodents. Nothing human. Nothing paranormal. Just rodents. And we can fix rodents. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
He explained it all. And suddenly it made a whole lot of sense. The crumbs, the fallen food, the holes in the bread bag, and the mysterious brown specs that kept appearing on my floor. You guessed it. "Mice poops," as quoted by Dylan. Wonderful.<br />
<br />
He watched as the fear vanished from my eyes and my breathing returned to normal. And with his smirky little grin, he stifled a laugh and said, "You were thinking ghosts. Weren't you."<br />
<br />
<i>"No," </i>I defended and neglected to mention the demon thought, "I thought someone got <i>in</i> here. I thought someone was breaking in in the middle of the night for bread."<br />
<br />
He gave me that <i>really?! </i>look. You know, the one people give you when they know what you've just said is ridiculous, but they want to make sure you know it, too.<br />
<br />
"Besides," I countered, "I'm no expert, but I was pretty sure ghosts wouldn't eat bread."<br />
<br />
He busted out laughing. I didn't understand why he thought it was so funny. It was probably the most logical thought I'd had all morning. <i>Duh Bethany, it's can't be a demon. Demons eat souls. Not bread. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
And so, after a hug and a trip to the apartment office, pest control was called. The appointment is scheduled for Wednesday. And where am I in the meantime?<br />
<br />
You guessed it. Dylan's. Again. Suggested by him, out of the kindness of his heart. Or out of the likelihood that his girlfriend, who thought a homeless man was breaking into her house for bread, would be calling in the middle of the night asking him to come over when she heard rodent feet scurrying around her kitchen.<br />
<br />
So, yeah. That happened.<br />
<br />
And adulthood is going about like I expected it to. I start my job in a week. I have trainings to attend and a classroom to plan and a few seconds left of summer to enjoy, and what am I doing? Fending myself from <i>mice. </i><br />
<br />
My mother always told me that once I graduated college, I would be a real adult. I'd have a real job and a real home and real life, and I'd spend the rest of my days trying to get it all together.<br />
<br />
If that ain't the truth.<br />
<br />
I miss the lunch box days and the nights when my parents would lay in my room until I fell asleep. I miss having help for school and love and life (and don't get me wrong, I still call my mom for all of those things), but I miss being taken care of. I miss having someone else pay to fix the locks, or contact the air conditioner repair man, or get rid of the mice. And I can't believe I spent all of those moments wishing I was the one who could take care of it all myself.<br />
<br />
Because now I've become the one who's writing those words, even though I swore I'd never say them. I swore I'd never tell a child, <i>enjoy it while you're young, </i>because they don't believe you and they won't take your word for it. Because they don't <i>know </i>everything that goes into being an adult. They just know that daddy gets to drive a car, and mommy gets an expensive purse, and adults get to touch the stove and plug in lamps and do <i>everything </i>that you aren't allowed to as a kid.<br />
<br />
And I suppose I am thankful for that, now. I get to drive a car (which is cool until you get a $200 speeding ticket in a small town that floods two weeks later and won't tell you whether or not they got your check). And I get to touch the stove (cooking, ugh...) and I get to plug in lamps (cause <i>that's </i>as exciting as it was cracked up to be). And...I'm still waiting on my expensive grown-up purse... Why? Because I'm paying for mice repellant so I don't have to buy a new loaf of bread every day.<br />
<br />
No wonder I like hanging out with kids so much. They keep me hoping and dreaming and imagining when I'm bogged down by rent and finances and the rat-like intruders that are in my home. Children are such a gift in this way, and I'm so lucky that I get to spend so much time with them.<br />
<br />
So I suppose I'm truly in the best position for an adult to be in. I'm in the constant companionship of kiddos. And I suppose if you look at it that way, I wouldn't have that blessing without my real job in my real life.<br />
<br />
Even though (yes, mom...) I'm spending every moment trying to keep it all together.<br />
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Bethany Harperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17750708513314558285noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1429794704411634185.post-60411631862761764652017-07-16T22:59:00.000-05:002018-06-22T16:39:45.080-05:0013 Reasons Why "13 Reasons Why" Needs To Be Addressed<span style="font-family: inherit;">Three weeks into me living in Nashville, my boyfriend embarked on a week-and-a-half long family vacation to Hawaii. And me, knowing no one aside from him in my new city and wishing that I too was roughing it in paradise...well, I was just searching for things to do. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I completed half the work for my summer graduate courses. I wrote three research papers, read two books, assembled new furniture, took my car to get an oil change, shopped for my new classroom, and <i>voluntarily </i>attended multiple professional development trainings. (Yes, teachers, I was <i>that </i>bored.) </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">And boredom was new to me. Mostly because procrastination is a foreign concept. Operating daily on a full dose of high anxiety, I don't really know the meaning of the word "relax." I looked at the calendar. It was only day three of Dylan's vacation. What on earth would I do for the other nine?! </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Racking my brain for what normal people do when they get bored, I plopped down on the couch and turned on Netflix. Then came the next question...<i>what would I watch? </i>And because I usually hate beginning new shows and movies I haven't seen before without recommendations, I looked for shows Netflix recommended for me. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Based on your interest in Gossip Girl... </i>13 Reasons Why. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I had seen a few episodes with a friend back in Springfield. Wasn't it a show about teenage suicide? Heavens. Keep scrolling. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Based on your interest in Gilmore Girls... </i>13 Reasons Why. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I was certain of it. It was that controversial mystery show where a girl killed herself and left cassette tapes for the people in her life to understand why. Yikes. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Based on your interest in Remember Me... </i>13 Reasons Why. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Welp. I'm pretty sure I read the book in like, 7th grade. So it <i>does </i>abide by my no-watching-till-I-read-the-book rule...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Based on your interest in Safe Haven... </i>FINE, NETFLIX. I'LL WATCH 13 REASONS WHY. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Which, if you are unfamiliar, is a one-season Netflix original TV-show, telling the story of a high schooler named Hannah who experiences exactly what every teenage girl deals with in high school, but Hannah just can't take it anymore. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Not even a full episode in, I understood the recent controversy. It was graphic; so graphic it made me uncomfortable. It was undoubtedly a trigger to anyone who would understand what she had been through, and it gave you the false impression that someone who had committed suicide could still have control over the lives of the living after death. Which, aside from pain and grief, is essentially untrue. But people <i>do </i>leave notes. And while Hannah left cassette tapes instead of pen and paper...she did leave her thirteen reasons why. And it did affect those who received the tapes. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">And maybe that was a good thing, too. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">While I could see this show serving as a trigger to anyone who struggles with what Hannah went through, I could also see how it would bring understanding to those who do not. It was uncomfortable. It was graphic. It was ugly, and tragic, and honest, and <i>real. </i></span><br />
<i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></i>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Narrated from a completely passive teenage boy, <i>13 Reasons Why </i>explores a multitude of topics such as: </span><br />
<br />
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">the domino effect</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">rumors / reputation</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">bullying / cyberbullying</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">objectification</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">slut-shaming</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">popularity </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">perfection</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">sexual abuse</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">trauma / PTSD</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">the bystander effect</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">alcoholism</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">substance abuse</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">possible predators</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">victim blaming</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">fear of sharing experiences</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">peer / social pressure</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">neglect / passivity</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">depression</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">worthlessness</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">warning signs</span></li>
<li>suicide</li>
</ul>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And I'm sure I missed a few. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The show's ultimate message is that there is <i>nothing </i>in <i>any way </i>glorifying about suicide. And while we all want to believe everyone knows this to be true...they don't. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The bottom line is (without including any spoilers), both Hannah and those she encountered missed the crucial opportunities. Hannah missed every opportunity to share what she had been feeling and experiencing (as most teenagers are terrified to do, whether they are contemplating suicide or debating a breakup with their boyfriend), and everyone else missed the opportunity to question. No, not interrogate her situation...just ask. <i>"Hey Hannah, how are you doing today?" </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>13 Reasons Why </i>shies away from no ugliness. To spare the audience of the graphic detail would be to diminish the very real situations the characters dealt with regularly. It makes the audience feel things they never wished to feel, but it certainly makes them understand what needs to be understood. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I was three episodes in when I had the alarming thought... </span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">This was a <u>young adult</u> novel. I read this in 7th grade! It is so graphic! So intense! So uncomfortable! I was much too young back then! Gracious, I even feel too young, <u>now</u>! </span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It wasn't thirty minutes longer before another thought nauseated me... </span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Bethany, this is a young adult novel because this is young adult life. You read this in 7th grade because 7th graders are killing themselves. It's about a high schooler because high schoolers are <u>killing themselves.</u></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">That's when it hit me. <i>13 Reasons Why </i>wasn't about teenage suicide. And it wasn't written for the mentally ill. It was about teenage life. And it was written for people who don't see it. </span><br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jLxiBy6SDm4/Wy1ru7V5_7I/AAAAAAAADwI/STcL71JS0vccsiv7G77Op7dac6A1Ep15ACEwYBhgL/s1600/13%2BReasons%2BWhy%2B_13%2BReasons%2BWhy_%2BNeeds%2BTo%2BBe%2BAddressed.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="810" height="354" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jLxiBy6SDm4/Wy1ru7V5_7I/AAAAAAAADwI/STcL71JS0vccsiv7G77Op7dac6A1Ep15ACEwYBhgL/s640/13%2BReasons%2BWhy%2B_13%2BReasons%2BWhy_%2BNeeds%2BTo%2BBe%2BAddressed.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And after I finished the series (after only a day and a half because I had nothing else to do...), I sat there with the weight of my new knowledge on my shoulders, and I mapped myself a diagram. And in (ironically) thirteen steps, I mapped the vicious cycle of why <i>13 Reasons Why </i>needed to be addressed. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #674ea7; font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><b><i>The Vicious Cycle of <u>13 Reasons Why</u></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #674ea7; font-family: inherit;"><b><i>1. The scenarios and illnesses bulleted above are real issues. </i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">They happen. Every single day. Yes, even to those who are too young to ever experience them. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #674ea7; font-family: inherit;"><b><i>2. The scenarios and illnesses bulleted above are universal issues. </i></b></span></div>
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They happen to every race, gender, ethnicity, and socio-economic status. They happen to every age where bullying and peer pressure exist. It doesn't matter what car they drive, what job they have, or how much money mommy and daddy give them. Everyone's ego is fragile in their heart, and everyone's insecurities are loud in their head. </div>
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<span style="color: #674ea7; font-family: inherit;"><b><i>3. Few people are talking about these real and universal issues. </i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">My generation is pretty good about it. The ones above me? Not so much. It's not for lack of trying. Nor is it for lack of passion or lack of love. It's about lack of education, and an extreme lack of experience. </span>There is an element that did not exist in their generation, because bullying and peer influence could not exist in the context of social media and technological devices. For teenagers today, their entire world is school and their social devices. Not only did former generations not experience this, but t<span style="font-family: inherit;">hey did not talk about it among themselves like my generation does today. Because of this, they are so often uneducated and simply at a loss for words when the topic arises. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #674ea7; font-family: inherit;"><b><i>4. Those who are talking aren't doing much about it. </i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">My generation? This one's for you. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Knowing about it isn't enough. Talking and writing about it isn't either. Even if we think we know a lot about it, we probably still don't know enough. </span>We need to recognize that every struggle and illness manifests and affects a person in a different way. There is no standard person, so there is no standard mental state. From there, w<span style="font-family: inherit;">e need to constantly recognize our own skill sets, and what we have to offer in these situations that can help. If there is no standard problem, there is no standard solution, so we need <i>everyone's </i>skills and support to make any real waves in this toxic battle. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #674ea7; font-family: inherit;"><b><i>5. Those who try to do something are often bound by confidentiality. </i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">These are your teachers. Your principals. Your counselors. Your educators. We have to have reasonable cause before we can report any bullying or abuse to authorities, and are then asked for evidence to back it up before anything can be done. And because of the importance of maintaining the victim's privacy, it is illegal for us to tell anyone who can have immediate and direct impact on the situation. By the time evidence is collected and we are ready to intervene, the victim has likely lost faith in us, and we will be too late. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #674ea7; font-family: inherit;"><b><i>6. Those not bound by confidentiality are crippled by reputation. </i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">These are the other students surrounding the victim. They almost never come forward, and it is even rarer to see them directly defend or step in for the person during the bullying or traumatic situation. This is not because they are terrible people, or because they are victims themselves. This is because of the bystander-effect. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">For those who are unfamiliar... The bystander effect is a subconscious act. The more people that are witnessing a situation, the less likely anyone is to step in because they recognize it is statistically more probable that someone else will help due to the sheer amount of people present. It's not that they don't want the responsibility on their shoulders; it's that they assume someone else will take the responsibility first. And that's the biggest problem with high school bullies. They always strike physically or verbally either in private where <i>no one</i> can witness, or in a hallway full of people where <i>everyone </i>can witness. </span></div>
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<b><span style="color: #674ea7;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">7. Those not bound by confidentiality and reputation often fail to see the </span>severity<span style="font-family: inherit;"> of these issues. </span></i></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I know, parents. I know. No one knows your kid better than you. Do you know how many times us teachers hear that every day? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Time to pop your bubble... There are two groups of people who spend more time with your child every day than you do: their teachers, and their peers. The truth is... If parents were half as educated on these issues and involved in their kids lives as they think they are, then they wouldn't be so alarmed when they find out their child needs help, because they would've known the behaviors and prepared for action before hand. They wouldn't be so ashamed or so worried when they seek help and counseling for their child, and they wouldn't hesitate to learn everything there is to know about their child's situation. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">So just to clarify... Anxiety is not nervousness. Depression is not sadness. Eating disorders are not chosen behavior changes when a girl wakes up one day and decides she's too fat. These illness are chemical imbalances that affect the body's ability to literally function as a body. A student who struggles with anxiety doesn't just get nervous; they cannot breathe. A boy who struggles with depression does not just cry; he has to fight to even get himself out of bed in the morning. A girl who struggles with an eating disorder does not just diet; she physically cannot make herself eat because the person in the mirror is fatter than the person who exists in real life. This is Mental Illness 101. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Likewise, bullying is not just mean kids. It's far more than sticks and stones. Objectification is not "boys being boys," sexual </span>harassment<span style="font-family: inherit;"> is not flattering, and predators are not always </span>villains<span style="font-family: inherit;">. They are friends. They are boyfriends. They "swear they love you." These things are not clear cut, even though it is easy to say they are from the outside. The truth is, high school is brutal. Middle school is brutal. Even elementary is becoming increasingly unwelcoming. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Each of the things Hannah dealt with in <i>13 Reasons Why </i>are things that every high schooler has either dealt with and/or been exposed to. She experienced a thousand little things, as we all do. Each of the things she experienced was seemingly harmless. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Until they built up and made her think that living that way was worse than not living at all. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Bullying, harassment, objectification, and alcohol do not cause suicide. Anxiety, depression, and eating disorders don't either. But a combination of things, even the smallest of things, definitely can. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #674ea7; font-family: inherit;"><b><i>8. Those who fail to see the severity do not recognize the importance of these issues. </i></b></span></div>
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<i>"Listen earnestly to anything your children want to tell you. No matter what. If you do not listen eagerly to the little things when they are little, they won't tell you the big stuff when they are big. Because to them, it has always been big stuff." </i></div>
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<i>-Catherine M. Wallace</i></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Every teenager can weather a little hate-fire. If they couldn't, no one would be in school. But my dad always told me, "There's nothing more stupid than a 16-year-old boy," because boys are stupid. And </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">girls are mean. We all know this to be true at every age, so what's the harm? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The harm is in the non-chalance of these statements. We state them as fact. So when a girl comes to the school counselor crying, or a guy is beaten up in the hallway, we state the facts we know. "Boys will be boys," and "All girls gossip; just ignore them." And we do this instead of taking care of the real problem. </span></div>
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Ignoring the severity of what we perceive to be the "little things" greatly diminishes their impact when a thousand little things are combined into one big thing. To us, since these little things "harmless," we cannot fathom them being important enough to fight against...</div>
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<span style="color: #674ea7; font-family: inherit;"><b><i>9. Those who can't recognize the importance of these issues don't look for the signs. </i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">...and if we can't fathom these things being important enough to fight against, we roll our eyes when victims come to us for help. We think they're being dramatic. We think they need attention. So we don't notice when they quit activities they once enjoyed. We don't notice when they withdraw from friends. We don't notice when they play hookie from school because they don't want to go, or when they can't get out of bed on a Saturday because they don't see the point anymore. We think they're needy. They just want attention. And because we think this, we ignore the signs that are so clearly in front of us. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #674ea7; font-family: inherit;"><b><i>10. Those who don't look for the signs are blind-sighted by the effects. </i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It's pretty common really. Have you ever re-read a mystery novel after you know the ending? All the signs are there, but you totally missed them the first time around. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #674ea7; font-family: inherit;"><b><i>11. Those who are blind-sighted by the effects are left searching for answers. </i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Loved ones are always left asking "why." When, if they were able to re-watch their story, I bet they would know. Because context is key. And we can't ignore the implications because "that would never happen to <i>my </i>kid." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It happens to <i>someone's </i>kid every day. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #674ea7; font-family: inherit;"><b><i>12. Those searching for answers attempt to find them in blame (often in blaming themselves). </i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">"We were her <i>parents!" </i>Hannah's mom exclaimed in the show, "How did we <i>not know?!" </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">They had no way of knowing. They didn't know a single thing about teenage suicide, nor did they really know what was going on in their daughter's life at school. They missed the signs, they never thought to ask, and they paid a price they <i>never </i>thought they'd have to pay. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #674ea7; font-family: inherit;"><b><i>13. Those who end up blaming themselves fail to see the real problem...</i></b></span></div>
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These issues are real, universal issues. </div>
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Something that teens endure every single day. These issues are not due to a lack of judgement or a lack of parenting. They are due to a lack of awareness.<br />
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And thus... The cycle begins again. </div>
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<span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: x-large;"><b><i>So what can we do? </i></b></span></div>
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I'm glad you asked. </div>
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We talked earlier about how there was no standard person, nor a standard mental state. Likewise, there is no standard solution. </div>
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The good news, however, is that there is no standard person; meaning that each of us is placed in a different position with a different set of skills to fight against it. In other words, the more educated and aware of this issue we are, the more we can combine our efforts to be the non-standard solution to the non-standard problem. </div>
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<i style="color: #674ea7; font-weight: bold;">Educators: </i>It is your job to be teaching emotional education, but every early childhood educator knows it to be true: these opportunities for social and emotional learning are <i>gone. </i>There is no room for social interactions when students are young, and even less when they grow older. Our playtime has decreased immensely so they don't get chances to talk, we removed nap time so their brains do not recharge, and we took away all their emotional support when we introduced behavior systems to get our 25 kindergarteners to <i>sit down </i>and <i>be quiet. </i>So what can you do about emotional education if all your opportunities were taken away? TEACH! Good gracious, that's what you were hired to do. Find some way to teach it anyway. I remember being alarmed when I found out one of my college friends was changing majors out of education entirely. "I signed up to teach kids to read and write," she told me, "I didn't sign up for assessment and professional development and behavioral management!" My dear educators, you signed up for all of it. You signed up to be teacher and assessor and mommy and daddy and counselor and judge and referee and social worker and advocate. You do all of these all in one day. Teaching is what you do best. So educate yourself on all of this first, and then educate others. Educate your students so they know how they should be treated and how they should treat others, so they know what is right and what is wrong. And educate their parents, so they know what the potential of these situations are and can prepare themselves to handle them when the time comes. Let parents know they can ask questions. Let students know there will be consequences. And above all, let victims know that <i>you are there for them. </i>And tell someone who can get them help. There <i>are </i>loopholes in your confidentiality agreement (trust me, I'm on contract, too), and there <i>are </i>ways to get these children the help they need. </div>
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<i style="color: #674ea7; font-weight: bold;">Families: </i>Love. That's your child. Your niece, your nephew, your granddaughter, or your great-grandson. Family involvement is so, so important in a child's life; <i>especially </i>when it involves school and their mental health. If you don't get it, learn about it. If you don't understand, question it. Analyze what is truly the best thing for your child, and don't stop searching until you find the best way to get it. Your resources include, but are not limited to, your child's teachers, school counselors, principals, district administrators, family care physicians, therapists, and of course (when all else fails), the internet. And if your child comes forward or shows any signs, let them know that <i>you are there for them. </i>And tell someone who can get them help. </div>
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<i style="color: #674ea7; font-weight: bold;">Friends: </i>Be nice. It sounds so stupid, but it is so true. A common misconception is that teenagers commit suicide when they feel like there is no good left in the world. However, sometimes all it takes is for someone to feel as though the bad heavily outweighs the good. If there is anything, and I mean anything at all, that you can do to ensure that the good always has the most weight, it is worth a shot. Tell someone who can get them help. </div>
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<i>"Whatever you do in life may seem insignificant. But it's very important that you do it." </i></div>
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<i>-Ghandi</i></div>
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<i style="color: #674ea7; font-weight: bold;">Victims: </i>Hang in there, beautiful. It's not over yet, and it doesn't have to be because you are so much stronger than you believe yourself to be. You deserve to have the moon and stars bottled just for you. Ending it now will not stop the pain; it will only pass the pain on to those who love you most. So please. If not for you, and if not for anyone else in your life, then do it for me: the blogger who spent two weeks constructing this post in her head just for you. Muster up even the smallest fraction of courage, and tell someone. </div>
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<i>Hear more about 13 Reasons Why from the actors, directors, writers, and counselors who brought it to life.</i></div>
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<i>**MAY CONTAIN SPOILERS OR SERVE AS A TRIGGER FOR MENTAL ILLNESS WARRIORS**</i></div>
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<i>If you or anyone you know is struggling with mental illness or self-depreciation, you owe it to yourself to learn and reach out. </i><i>Visit <a href="http://www.13reasonswhy.info/">www.13reasonswhy.info</a> to gain more information or locate crisis / help centers in your area. </i><br />
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Bethany Harperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17750708513314558285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1429794704411634185.post-54827472305502289842017-07-09T16:05:00.000-05:002018-06-22T16:40:11.250-05:00My Guy Friends Can't Use The F-WordWith my blog's second birthday in the books, all the talk in my apartment has been mostly centered around self love.<br />
<br />
It is also important to note that 98% of my new friends in Nashville are male; and while they are surprisingly well informed and extremely supportive of the self love battle, they are not always certain where they stand on it. And after writing and answering questions about this stuff for two years now, I'm not entirely sure my readers know where <i>they </i>stand on it, either.<br />
<br />
"I really want to jump on board the body positive bandwagon," the men in my life reached a general consensus, "I want people to be happy and <i>healthy</i>. So I'm never quite sure how to be supportive of body positivity around women who are...you know..."<br />
<br />
I let the hesitation hang in the air so long it made them uncomfortable.<br />
<br />
"Fat?"<br />
<br />
Everyone in the room breathed a sigh of relief; that someone, particularly the <i>girl </i>of the group, had finally dropped the ever-feared F-bomb.<br />
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"See," the boys continued, "It's okay for <i>you </i>to say it, because you're a <i>girl." </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I didn't see what my gender affiliation really had to do with it, but they seemed to think it made all the difference.<br />
<br />
"If <i>you </i>say that word around <i>us, </i>it's okay," they explained, "But if <i>we </i>had said it around <i>you, </i>you would've been offended!"<br />
<br />
I wasn't quite sure what that meant either, and I had a feeling we weren't talking about self love anymore. Was I supposed to be offended because I was fat, or because I was a girl? This was about to turn into a debate on body fat and double standards. And I was determined to keep them intrigued enough to prove my point.<br />
<br />
"Girls don't get offended when you call us fat," I opened my grand monologue, knowing I would be interrupted.<br />
<br />
"Bull <i>crap!" </i>and similar comments escaped immediately, "Have you <i>met </i>women?"<br />
<br />
Why, funny you should mention that, boys. It's almost like I <i>am </i>one. And here's the deal:<br />
<br />
Fat is not offensive. Fat is a three letter word. It is something that is contained in food, something that is printed on nutrition labels; something that our bodies (yes, <i>all </i>bodies) need. And some of us happen to have more of it than others.<br />
<br />
And yes, some of us have too much of it. Some of us are riding that unhealthy line, and some of us are well beyond it. But I've found that these people <i>usually</i> already know this about themselves. Most body positive writers and warriors are medically identified as fat. They are also often found confidently calling <i>themselves </i>fat, but not because they are making an open point to self depreciate. (So there's no reason to counter them and say, "Oh stop it, you are not fat!"). Because they understand what this post is about.<br />
<br />
The <i>problem </i>with the word "fat" is not the word, or even the meaning itself. The problem with the dreaded F-word is the connotation that our society has created for it. Because in our world, you have to be 5'7" and 90 pounds to be considered beautiful, and everything else is labeled "fat," (i.e., UGLY).<br />
<br />
Women do not become hurt and offended because you called us fat. Women become hurt and offended because it feels as though you called us ugly. Because the word "fat" no longer means "you've gained a little weight and I'm worried for your health." Today, it means, "you've gained a little weight so you are no longer pretty."<br />
<br />
In our minds, you have not called us fat. You have called us ugly. Even if that was not what you intended to say.<br />
<br />
Every woman has a different body type. A different body shape. And a different healthy fat content. This means that there is no standard definition of what our weight should be. Even the most amazing men with the best intentions (and most women on their good days) realize this. However, there <i>is </i>a standard definition in our society of how <i>pretty </i>we should be, and unfortunately, in our media, advertisements, and health care magazines...pretty only looks one way:<br />
<br />
Pretty = Skinny<br />
<br />
Google will tell you anorexia warriors and eating disorder survivors have an overwhelming fear of being fat. That that's why they starve themselves. Or purge after eating. And advertisements are right there behind the "mentally sound" group of women to encourage <i>them</i> to lose weight. We think this is because they are feeding on our insecurity of becoming fat.<br />
<br />
We. Do. Not. Fear. Being. Fat.<br />
<br />
Eating disorder warriors do not have an overwhelming desire to be skinny. Weight loss programs are not full of women who want to be thin. The truth is...<br />
<br />
The world is full of women who want to be <i>beautiful</i>. Stunning. Captivating. And our society has tricked us into believing that we are unable to achieve this intrinsic desire of our hearts if we have more fat than the average supermodel (who is, by the way 5'9" and 98 pounds...an insanely unrealistic standard).<br />
<br />
So instead of just being kind and funny, we starve ourselves. Instead of channeling our motivation toward our passions, we hit the gym...often more than once a day. Instead of loving people and treating people as we wish to be loved and treated, we form a social group to go on diets with in order to achieve our bikini bodies. We channel absolutely all of our creative energy into making ourselves <i>smaller. </i><br />
<br />
Because once we are skinny, we will be pretty. And once we are pretty, we will be happy.<br />
<br />
No. No, no, no, no, no. Ladies, you do not have to be a certain weight, or have a certain body shape, or wear a certain size of clothing to be pretty. And you <i>certainly </i>do not have to do these things to be happy.<br />
<br />
So if you <i>like </i>going to the gym, then go. <i>If, </i>and only if, you are going to improve your health and not simply to diminish a number on the scale.<br />
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If you <i>like </i>dietetics, then keep blending your meal-substitute smoothies. <i>If, </i>and only if, you are still getting your correct calories, vitamins, and nutrients for your body.<br />
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And gentlemen? It <i>is </i>about health. And it <i>is </i>about beauty. And it <i>is </i>about happiness! And I am so sorry that the F-bomb busted out of it's home on the nutrition label, came into our society, and screwed everything up. I'm sorry that it has made women <i>even more </i>confusing to you.<br />
<br />
This is not your free pass to go around calling anyone fat. This is your education on <i>why </i>you aren't allowed to do so, and how you should respond if anyone calls <i>themselves </i>fat.<br />
<br />
Because people should be healthy. And people should feel beautiful, whether they are a size 2 or a size 22.<br />
<br />
Rephrase:<br />
<br />
People <i>are </i>beautiful, whether they are a size 2 or a size 22. Whether they are fat or not.<br />
<br />
So instead of being worried about whether or not people are fat, we should be worried about where their health is at. This includes their weight, their muscle mass, their fat content, their vitals, their cholesterol, (the list goes on and on)...and their mental health, too. Like seriously. Do you even know anything about it? Do you know how hard they're trying to lose weight? Do you know if they have a medical condition prohibiting them from doing so? Do you know how hard they're working to love themselves as they gain weight back to a healthy range after recovering from an eating disorder?<br />
<br />
Do you celebrate their workouts because they are improving themselves? Or do you celebrate their workouts because they are losing weight?<br />
<br />
Think hard, because we're all guilty of it. Be honest with yourself.<br />
<br />
Is their weight really any of your business? Is the number on their scale the first thing you should be estimating about them? Are the clothes they wear for you to decide? Answer honestly. Does their physical appearance have <i>anything </i>to do with you?<br />
<br />
If you are not their parent, their doctor, or their personal trainer, the answer is no. If you are a workout partner, be supportive. If you are a co-worker, be encouraging. If you are a friend or boyfriend, be complimentary on their strengths. Trust me; they already know plenty about their weaknesses.<br />
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As for what you can do? Become more aware of the thoughts running rampant in their head. And in <i>your</i> head. Are you a victim of the F-bomb? Or do you utilize it often to put people down? This includes the judgements made inside your head. (Yikes.)<br />
<br />
The answer is probably both. Someone has probably called you fat, or has looked at you and thought, <i>she needs to lose weight. </i>But if you've ever looked at someone and thought "Wow, she looks horrible. She needs to lose weight," you are guilty of doing the same thing. You are not in the proper mindset. You are linking fat to ugly. And these two things are not direct correlations of one other, though society has taught us that they should be.<br />
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If you have ever looked at someone and thought, "Oh dear, she needs to lose weight. I'm worried because she is not healthy, and if she is not healthy, her life might be in jeopardy. And that would suck because I love her so, so much! I wonder what I can do to help her be healthy again..." then congratulations! You are in the correct mindset. But most of us have that thought <i>after </i>we subconsciously notice how terrible they look, if we even take the time to have that selfless thought at all.<br />
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It is also important to note that we are in the 21st century. Health no longer means physical health alone. It also means <i>mental </i>health. So if you are noticing that someone is gaining or losing weight, it <i>is </i>your job to scan their motives. Do not compliment someone on their weight loss if you do not know whether they are eating healthier or not eating at all. Do not compliment their physique unless you know they are not addicted to watching the number on the scale go down after spending four hours each day at the gym. Because if you are unknowingly encouraging unhealthy, disordered eating habits, your compliments can be just as devastating as calling them fat. If not more.<br />
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And this goes for girls <i>and </i>guys. Let's just get that double standard debate out of the way. Girls are more likely to experience these cases, and I am a girl, which is why my posts so often come from the female perspective. But men are victims to this as well. So once again, the point of this post matches the point of all my other posts on the blog...<br />
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Pay attention to others. Be kind to others. Encourage others, support others, love others. Take <i>care </i>of others. And do the same for yourself when no one is there to reciprocate. That's what self love is. That's what love <i>in general </i>is, and so many of us have lost sight of how important it all is.<br />
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Fat does not equal ugly. Skinny does not equal pretty. And I'm sorry the world has taught us otherwise.<br />
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Be hungry. Be happy. Be healthy.<br />
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Bethany Harperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17750708513314558285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1429794704411634185.post-82298517844881082072017-06-11T18:00:00.000-05:002018-06-22T16:41:19.439-05:00Today Is The Day!It was a Monday afternoon when I sat with my head buried in my hands.<br />
<br />
<i>Lord, you made it so clear that I was supposed to move to Nashville. </i>It was a prayer I'd prayed a million times. <i>You brought Dylan back into my life with perfect timing. You brought my attention to the perfect apartment so suddenly. You made it so clear that I was supposed to move to Nashville, and continued to prove this was the right choice as things just kept working out... </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I'm sure even God could sense the "but" approaching. After all, we can't just be grateful for all that we have. We always need something else.<br />
<br />
<i>But couldn't you maybe help me out with a job to pay for that apartment? Couldn't you give me a purpose in Nashville, aside from simply being here with Dylan? </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I was so frustrated. God knew what I wanted; everyone did. I wanted to teach kindergarten. I wanted to be in Nashville with Dylan, living in my first apartment all to myself, surrounded by a city that appreciated performance art the way I did. God knew all of that, and He had managed to give me everything except the thing I needed most.<br />
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A job.<br />
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"Maybe I should start applying to Williamson County schools," I told Dylan when he rounded the corner. He didn't even try to hide his skeptical eyes.<br />
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"I thought you wanted something in Nashville."<br />
<br />
"I <i>want </i>a job in Nashville, but I <i>need </i>a job."<br />
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"Okay," he shrugged, knowing that once I have decided something, there's really nothing he can say to change my mind.<br />
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I was shocked. Not even a minor protest! "...okay?"<br />
<br />
He shrugged again. "I just think it's a little early in the game to be giving up on what you really want."<br />
<br />
True. Patience is a virtue; one that even Dylan knows I don't have.<br />
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<i>Never settle, </i>my mom's voice rang out in my head. <i>You should never have to settle. </i>And while I'm pretty sure she meant that regarding the men in my life, I was so prepared so settle for a job. I <i>wanted </i>kindergarten, but I'd teach anything I could. My license is Pre-K through 3rd. I could do it. So maybe I'd teach another grade, or drive a little longer to teach outside the city.<br />
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My anxiety was kicking in, and I was giving up on God when <i>He had time. </i>He never promised I would have everything I ever wanted, but he <i>certainly </i>hadn't promised anything based on <i>my </i>schedule. He had instructed me to obey Him. To listen. To trust Him.<br />
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And I'm not very good at that either. So it took a lot of will-power to close my laptop.<br />
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"Okay," I told Dylan, "but if I haven't been called for an interview by July, I'm applying outside of Nashville."<br />
<br />
He shrugged again. "Deal."<br />
<br />
I woke up the next day and noticed a sign beside Dylan's door. <i>Today is all that matters. </i>That sign had been there for months, but today, I needed it. It mattered. And in a strange bout of positivity, I went on about my day fairly relaxed. ...Until one of Dylan's friends came over and the anxiety started right up again.<br />
<br />
"So Bethany, I hear you live in Nashville now!"<br />
<br />
"Yep! Been here three days."<br />
<br />
"Wow, what are you doing here?"<br />
<br />
"Hopefully teaching kindergarten."<br />
<br />
She didn't say anything.<br />
<br />
"I'm still looking for jobs. It's still early."<br />
<br />
It was much more of a reassurance for me than it was for her. But by the time she waved goodbye and went home, there was an email in my inbox.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Hi Bethany, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I was wondering if you were still looking for a teaching position. Bellshire is looking for a dynamic Kindergarten teacher. Let me know. </span><br />
<i><br /></i>
I had sent out emails to 76 different elementary schools in Nashville the second I noticed a vacancy. And out of 76 emails over the span of three months, one had responded. <i>One. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>You know you really shouldn't be so picky, </i>a voice in my head rang out.<br />
<br />
Hey, God. I know. But I sent over 70 emails and it's ONE<i> </i>response.<br />
<br />
<i>Well you only need ONE job. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>...</i>Touché.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Yes I am! </span>I emailed back. <span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Kindergarten is my ultimate passion. I would love to meet you and look at your school. When would work best for you? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I'm actually in Florida right now. Can you do a Skype interview? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Sure that sounds great! What time? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">How about tomorrow at 8am? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Sounds perfect. See you then! </span><br />
<br />
The next morning, I talked to the principal for an hour and was offered the position on the spot.<br />
<br />
All that worrying. All that anxiety. All of those plans, and for what? For nothing! Because God <i>had </i>it. He'd always had it. And sometimes all you need is to realize that you <i>don't </i>have it on your own, and all He needs is for you to ask for His help. Trust Him. Believe Him. Obey Him. And He will take care of you.<br />
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So after two weeks of waiting for contracts to be signed and authorization by the Metropolitan Nashville Public School System, I am so excited to OFFICIALLY announce that I will be teaching Kindergarten in Nashville next year at the Bellshire Design Center. They believe in reading every day (like me); not because the teacher told you to, but because reading is something to be enjoyed. They believe that the best gift you can give a child is an intrinsic value of self worth, and the curiosity to foster creativity. (And in case you're new around here...that's kind of my deal.)<br />
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It is the absolute perfect fit, and it had very little to do with me.<br />
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All this to say... This "happy ever after" did not come without anxiety, fear, and a whole lot a tear-shed prayer. If you are struggling with something today... Or waiting on something... Or praying for something... Don't give up. It's too early to give up, because God does things on <i>His </i>time, not on yours.<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>This is part 3 of the <b>Suitcase College Grad </b>series.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>For part 1 of the trilogy, visit <a href="http://www.taxistotsandpolkadots.com/2017/05/the-suitcase-college-grad.html" style="color: #56b6c7; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">The Suitcase College Grad</a>. </i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>For part 2 of the trilogy, visit <a href="http://www.taxistotsandpolkadots.com/2017/06/madly-in-love-and-broke-as-hell.html" target="_blank">Madly In Love and Broke As Hell</a>.</i></span></div>
Bethany Harperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17750708513314558285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1429794704411634185.post-54361583007914704442017-06-04T13:45:00.000-05:002018-06-22T16:43:04.019-05:00Madly In Love and Broke As Hell I remember the first time my Aunt Beth ever spoke of her glory days.<br />
<br />
<i>I had no job, </i>she told me, <i>I sold jewelry to get my first apartment, and I had rent-to-own furniture. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I did not know what rent-to-own furniture even was.<br />
<br />
<i>I'd go in once a month to see my furniture, </i>she told me, <i>I'd wave at it and tell it how pretty it was. Then I'd turn in my payment once a month until it was paid off and I could take the pieces home. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
As a product of my fortunate upbringing, I could not understand such a thing. I mean, what did she sit on for all those months?<br />
<br />
<i>Lawn chairs. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
It puzzled my anxious heart even then, as I have always been a planner in desperate need of as much control as possible. How did my Aunt Beth even get by?<br />
<br />
<i>Well darlin', </i>she shrugged, <i>You just do what you gotta do. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I've probably lived my entire life by that statement since that moment. <i>You do what you gotta do. </i>Never a word so true. And we revisited the story of her furniture the night before I left for Tennessee; the night before I was to embark on my "glory day" part of my story.<br />
<br />
"I'm a little anxious," I admitted, "Excited. But anxious."<br />
<br />
"Oh darlin'," she smiled again, "I think you're about to experience the best part of your life."<br />
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It's strange to think of what my life was like only a month ago. I had a routine. And I was comfortable. I was celebrating the end of student teaching with my cooperating teacher's baby shower and 21 incredibly enthusiastic five-year-olds, all wound up and ready for summer. I was tossing my hat in the air, receiving a diploma from Missouri State University and praying that I had passed my teacher certification exam. I was looking forward, never backwards; excited to move to my first metropolitan area, excited to have my first apartment completely to myself, and excited to be able to go out with my Nashville music man whenever I wanted.<br />
<br />
I was applying to jobs every day, updating my resume at every turn and anxiously awaiting phone calls for interviews. Any time anyone called from a 615 area code, I would mentally prep myself for the tone I was to answer the phone and the things I wanted to make sure I said before meeting the principal in person.<br />
<br />
The 615 calls always ended up being a telemarketer, or my apartment calling to say they'd fixed the locks on my door, or the pharmacy up the street telling me my prescription was ready. I always ended up more stressed than I was before. Go figure.<br />
<br />
But nearly a week ago, I was cooking out of an electric skilled plugged into my living room outlets via extension chord (since my kitchen outlets didn't work), when my boyfriend walked in with a surprise. I froze when I saw the little round Kate Spade box in the corner, attached to a small envelope with my name on the front in Dylan's handwriting. A designer gift from my music man who was, while more established than I at that present moment, was by no means in the most comfortable position to afford such a thing.<br />
<br />
The envelope contained a letter explaining that I was worth a little extra money, a little extra time apart, and a little extra struggle from a long distance relationship. It was a letter to remind me that we had made it five months through the most transitional part of our lives, and that there was certainly no intention of giving up this time around since we had already lost each other once. It was a letter to remind me that if we had reconnected after five years and done all this in only five months, there was no way to to fathom all that could happen for me, and for us, in the next few months. Or the next year. Or the next five years.<br />
<br />
And so I found myself sitting on a blanket atop a cold apartment floor, adorned in golden spade earrings, eating chicken and rice with the love of my life. One small lamp was on because my electric bill came with a start up charge, and a bottle of champagne was poured into coffee mugs to splurge and celebrate my move since we saved money by eating last week's dinners together. I made no money that week, and I didn't know where rent would come from if I didn't get hired soon.<br />
<br />
But I was hopeful.<br />
<br />
And years from now, when my music man has won a Grammy for his productions... or when I am recognized as an educator who established schools in third world countries... or when sparkling wine can be more of a regular occurrence because finances are comfortable... I will still remember this night over all.<br />
<br />
No fancy Italian restaurant can beat this. No five-star vacation can beat this. You do not make these memories employed. Or on a comfortable budget. Or in a furnished apartment with your electricity on.<br />
<br />
Apparently you have to be madly in love, and broke as hell.<br />
<br />
So here's to my new adventure: to everything it does and doesn't entail. Here's to my romance: full of spontaneity and more joy than I thought could ever come from another person in my life. Here's to my past identity as a failure: the suitcase college grad with a Bachelor's degree and a teaching license going unused; and here's to my identity as a present victor: the girl who will never stop fighting to care, to love, and to teach. (And to pay her rent.)<br />
<br />
Would I have a job earlier if I had stayed in Springfield, Missouri? Maybe. There's no way now to know. But one thing is for certain...that particular life was not meant for me. Oh yes, it has been made very clear that I am exactly where I am supposed to be.<br />
<br />
Madly in love.<br />
<br />
...and broke as hell.<br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iPanstFyz2s/WS8Cd0jtoeI/AAAAAAAADXs/_K86wM7f4TcEJJzS4BWOzZ0hh15-ZdP-ACLcB/s1600/signature.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="150" data-original-width="400" height="120" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iPanstFyz2s/WS8Cd0jtoeI/AAAAAAAADXs/_K86wM7f4TcEJJzS4BWOzZ0hh15-ZdP-ACLcB/s320/signature.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i>This is part 2 of the <b>Suitcase College Grad </b>series.</i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i>For part 1 of the trilogy, visit <a href="http://www.taxistotsandpolkadots.com/2017/05/the-suitcase-college-grad.html" target="_blank">The Suitcase College Grad</a>. </i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i>For part 3 of the trilogy, visit <a href="http://www.taxistotsandpolkadots.com/2017/06/today-is-day.html" target="_blank">Today Is The Day!</a></i></div>
Bethany Harperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17750708513314558285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1429794704411634185.post-17333525668971621022017-05-28T11:33:00.000-05:002018-06-22T16:44:11.539-05:00The Suitcase College GradI'd been on the road all day when I stopped at a little town just outside of Conway, Arkansas. You know how it is. Or if you don't, you've seen enough movies to guess. You know, when the sweet, young, twenty-something waltzes in to small town America.<br />
<br />
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No one dares to speak to her directly, but she is clearly the topic of many other discussions, from everyone between the elderly couple at their regular diner table to the high school boys who work as car mechanics up the street after school. If the town was any more picturesque, I would've expected to see Ren McCormick fighting the dance ban at the courthouse down the road.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Who is she?</i> the whispering voices escape from those leaning in toward the other members of their party, <i>We've never seen her before. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
That's the small town way to say, <i>I wonder what her story is, </i>or to put it more bluntly, <i>What on earth is she doing here? </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
To this town, I was exotic. Either decently established or carefree enough to live off her limited wad of cash. Fiercely independent, and presumably quite lonely. A vagabond, perhaps, passing through on the way to her next lot in life. Or someone who reported to a job every morning and was taking some much needed vacation time.<br />
<br />
When in fact, quite the opposite was true...<br />
<br />
I haven't had a residential address for the past two weeks. I've been living out of a suitcase in my hot-pink childhood bedroom, already moved out of Springfield, Missouri but not yet moved in to Nashville, Tennessee. I was making this trek to Nashville alone, my family and movers and semi truck full of furniture to come later. But these small town folk would never know, because no one bothered to ask.<br />
<br />
Except the little girl with ringlet pigtails.<br />
<br />
You see, kids are a little like dogs. Dogs can sense dog people. And kids can sense kid people. So when I sit alone at a diner in a southern small town, the first one to speak to me other than my waitress is a child.<br />
<br />
"I like your shoes," she told me, pointing to my polka dot sneakers.<br />
<br />
"Thanks," I smiled, "Yours are pretty cool, too."<br />
<br />
She twirled around in her pink strappy sandals.<br />
<br />
<i>"Lexi, don't bother her!" </i>a woman (I assumed it to be her mother) called toward us.<br />
<br />
"She's fine," I reassured her. The woman stayed seated. She looked exhausted.<br />
<br />
"You're here by yourself?" the little girl named Lexi asked.<br />
<br />
"Yes, ma'am," I told her.<br />
<br />
"No parents?"<br />
<br />
"Not with me."<br />
<br />
"Husband?"<br />
<br />
"Nope."<br />
<br />
"Cool," she said. And I laughed.<br />
<br />
"Yeah," I realized in that moment, "It is pretty cool."<br />
<br />
I paid my bill and tipped high because I was fortunate enough to never have to work food service or retail (I chose the daycare route instead), and waved the girl goodbye. I had to laugh when I saw my little blue car, stuffed to the brim with boxes and trash bags full of clothes. A lone traveler with her necessities (or items such as denim wedges she at least deemed to be necessities) leaving no room for a single other person in her car.<br />
<br />
Well little Lexi... I've got a pretty awesome life awaiting me in Nashville. I've got a good apartment to live in and a man who loves me. I have no job, and no more than a couple hundred dollars in my bank account, but it's a good life. I have what's important, and I'll figure out the rest.<br />
<br />
Sometimes you have to let go and let God, little Lexi. If you learn this now, maybe you'll be a less anxious lone traveler in polka dot sneakers one day. Maybe you'll be living out of a suitcase and passing through another small town on your way to another state. Maybe you'll be ready to start a life with your high school sweetheart after five years of waiting, and maybe you'll start searching for a job doing what you love most.<br />
<br />
I hope you do. Because you said it best, kiddo.<br />
<br />
It's pretty darn cool.<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-R3wLYmuKdR0/WSpgTW2KUDI/AAAAAAAADXI/kEu_A6nbpasWRby9wVSRAMq_XpM0-F7JgCLcB/s1600/signature.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="150" data-original-width="400" height="120" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-R3wLYmuKdR0/WSpgTW2KUDI/AAAAAAAADXI/kEu_A6nbpasWRby9wVSRAMq_XpM0-F7JgCLcB/s320/signature.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i>This is part 1 of the <b>Suitcase College Grad </b>series.</i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i>For part 2 of the trilogy, visit <a href="http://www.taxistotsandpolkadots.com/2017/06/madly-in-love-and-broke-as-hell.html" target="_blank">Madly In Love and Broke As Hell</a>. </i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i>For part 3 of the trilogy, visit <a href="http://www.taxistotsandpolkadots.com/2017/06/today-is-day.html" target="_blank">Today Is The Day!</a></i></div>
Bethany Harperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17750708513314558285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1429794704411634185.post-44040923643705679172017-04-30T21:25:00.000-05:002018-06-22T16:47:16.206-05:00In Constant Bloom"What does your boyfriend do?"<br />
<br />
That's the question of the hour here in Springfield, Missouri...as every other graduate is sharing their most recent job offers and the only thing for certain in my life is that I am moving to Nashville.<br />
<br />
"He's a music producer," I will answer, and their eyes light up. I usually kiss goodbye every opportunity to discuss my education career after that. After all, no one wants to hear about how you <i>might </i>be a teacher come August when you can instead tell them about the movie premier you attended last week at the Country Music Hall of Fame for Brad Paisley's visual album.<br />
<br />
Thus begins my life as the Plus-One; the sweet, perky, well-mannered girlfriend at her musician's side. Not a single person in Springfield could see how my life could get any better. I have no job and I have no apartment, but dang, she gets to go to the <i>coolest stuff! </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
It's amazing how different the two worlds really are, seeing as I spent the past week in a city where you are ten times more interesting if you <i>aren't </i>in the entertainment industry. My boyfriend lives in a house with a musician and a film editor. Every friend of his I meet is an artist or editor or writer or entreprenuer. It would be far more welcomed to introduce myself as a freelance blogger than it would be to introduce myself as a teacher. That's the kind of thing his friends expect.<br />
<br />
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"I'm a kindergarten teacher," usually warrants one of two reactions:<br />
<br />
<i>"Why?!" </i>is one of them, to which I will smile and explain that just as music is their gift and purpose, kiddos are mine. This reaction I understand. But the other makes my blood boil.<br />
<br />
<i>"Awww!" </i>people will gush, "<i>That's just so cute!" </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Yeah, it is cute, I suppose. We sing. We laugh. We get a lot of hugs. Our day ends at 3:30 and we get summers off. We may not get paid very much, and we aren't always very respected by the doctors and business owners and successful musicians of the world. But when these doctors and owners and musicians suddenly have a 5-year-old of their own... It becomes a lot more than <i>cute. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Suddenly, they're concerned with academics. How will their kids learn their letters? Numbers? Colors? Will they be able to read? Write? Count? Will they be able to use the technology tools of their generation? Will they appreciate the arts and the world around them? Will they take part in discussions and form thoughts for debate?<br />
<br />
And what about their behavior? Where do they actually learn respect? How can you be sure they will gain responsibility? Will they be able to listen? To focus? Will they develop the positive mannerisms needed to lead, to follow, and to know when to do what in a team? Will they be kind? Helpful? Encouraging and humble?<br />
<br />
And as if that's not enough for a new parent to worry about... When these kiddos graduate, they'll be expected to be confident. Curious. Passionate. They will need strong character and a good sense of humor. A positive mindset is key, social tact is required, and multiple interests are preferred.<br />
<br />
I'm not in a cute profession. I'm in a beautiful profession. I don't make products to sell or medicine to distribute. My product is people. I do not do the same things doctors and business owners and musicians do, but I am the reason these professions exist, because I trained them. Could you imagine a doctor who didn't know how to read the patient chart, or couldn't locate their patient's arm to give them a shot? Could you imagine a business owner who couldn't keep up with the budget, or a musician who didn't understand counting or syllabic rhythms?<br />
<br />
Of course not. That's what I do. That's what I teach.<br />
<br />
And the best part is that I'm never bored. I'm never a perfect teacher. I'm always learning and changing and growing, right along with my kids. We are all flowers in the process of blooming; all learning to love ourselves despite where we are in the process of "success," as if success can truly be measured by reaching a certain point.<br />
<br />
So no. I don't get many free passes to the Country Music Hall of Fame. But I do get to love my life every single day, because I love kids and I love learning. I love waking up and planning my own work for the day. I love never doing the same thing twice. I love getting paid to do what I've always wanted to spend my time doing. I love being in constant bloom.<br />
<br />
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Bethany Harperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17750708513314558285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1429794704411634185.post-82733656837397791032017-04-23T08:00:00.000-05:002018-06-22T16:47:37.021-05:00It's Not The Altitude; It's The Attitude<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: x-large;"><b><i>by Guest Writer: Darsha Dodge</i></b></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“You’re…what?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“I’m going to Everest.”</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“When?”</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Next month.”</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“I know you’re serious, but…you’re
serious?”</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Yes.”</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“With who?”</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Alone.”</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Well…uh…okay then.”</span></div>
<o:p> </o:p></span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I had this conversation at least 7
times in mid-January of this year when I announced that I’d be taking a month
off of work to make the trek to Everest Base Camp in Nepal. At first, it was a
pipe-dream, a delusion, and then, as if God was clearing the path for me,
everything fell into place. I had the money – just enough to cover my expenses
for the trip and keep my bills afloat while abroad – and our Gift Shop was
undergoing a remodel, meaning we were encouraged to take vacation time in order
to keep our sanity. The only thing left was organizing my academics for those
few weeks, and in an unlikely twist of events, the only professor whose
classwork I’d be missing <i>just so happened</i>
to have traveled to Nepal previously, fallen in love with it, and agreed to allow
me to make up nearly a months’ worth of work so that I could go. That was the
last piece to fall into place. I had the tickets booked – with time in New York
City and Dubai along the way – the guide reserved, and my duffle bag packed
(and let me tell you, that was an adventure in and of itself!).</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />On February 17<sup>th</sup>, I
stopped by work to hug everyone goodbye – including the person who unwittingly
pushed me into taking time off – got in my car, and drove 6 hours to Denver to
catch my midnight flight to New York. I spent my 12-hour layover riding the
metro, searching for a mysterious Staten Island pizza joint, and walking around
in the cold but sunny Central Park. Late that evening, I boarded a flying city
(seriously, Emirates A380 Airbuses are m-a-s-s-i-v-e) bound for the United Arab
Emirates, turned my music up, and spent 13 hours in the most luxurious
economy-class flight cabin known to man. We landed in Dubai around 2 the next
afternoon, where I promptly transited through UAE Customs (a terrifying experience),
and spent the next several hours wandering around this east-meets-west,
old-meets-modern city, where the worlds’ tallest building dominates the skyline
just miles from crowded and dusty streets packed with vendors trying to make
enough to survive. I also got a first hand look at Jumeirah Beach (pictured below). </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">As a white woman who speaks only a few sentences of basic
Arabic, I have never felt safer in a foreign city. I took a taxi to the beach,
where the sun was starting to set the sky ablaze behind the worlds’ only 7-star
hotel (the Burj al Arab), and walked in the cool sand while the azure water
lapped at the bottom of my jeans. I walked down the pathway of Dubai’s marina,
a towering metropolis dotted with elegant restaurants and expensive high-rise
housing, and stopped to eat a fancy waffle (didn’t know there was such a thing)
while listening to the call of prayer coming from a decadent mosque just across
the canal from me. Here I was, almost 22, standing alone in a foreign city, in
a part of the world where “white women just don’t go,” and I was comfortable. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">There
is a certain magic, I’ve found, in being completely alone in a foreign country. There'</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">s a certain sense of responsibility that comes with the freedom of being
who and whatever you want. But the adventure hadn’t even really begun yet,
and I boarded an early morning flight to the bustling Nepali capital of
Kathmandu, where my trek was to begin.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">In the west, we have rules. Traffic
laws. Social norms. Things like, “don’t pass people on the wrong side of the
road while driving well-over the speed limit,” and “personal space is an
important thing.” Nepali’s don’t follow this way of thinking. After 45 minutes
of arguing my way through customs (“You here for trekking, go this line.” “You
need this paper, go find.” “Where you from? Ah, American…woman…alone…interesting.”),
I was thrust violently into a throng of people struggling to find their rides.
After spotting an adorably short Nepali man holding a sign with my name and
waving excitedly, I put on my sunglasses in the coolest way possible (I decided
to channel my inner Indiana Jones for this adventure) and made my way over to
him. This was Min, my guide, who would become a close friend and father-like
figure over the coming weeks. We made our way to an old Suzuki taxi, where the
driver slammed on the gas and began weaving erratically through Kathmandu
traffic (which includes cars, pedestrians, motorcycles, dogs, and the
occasional cow), dropping us off at our hotel and proving that I’ve never been
happier to see solid ground. A few quick introductions, safety briefings, and
gear runs, and I collapsed into bed with the windows open and the unrelenting
noise of the backpackers’ district of Thamel singing me to sleep.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />6 am we were up, dressed, packed,
and headed off to the airport to catch a mountain flight to Lukla (9,318 ft.),
the worlds’ most dangerous airport, where the long trek to EBC begins. After a
lax security check and some hardboiled eggs for breakfast, Min and I pushed our
way into the waiting area, where I met Blaine, a friendly and talkative forty-something
man from Alaska, who had only intended on trekking to Namche Bazaar with us and
ended up staying the entire trek. We boarded a cramped prop plane (where I
elbowed my way past some Swedes for a left-side seat – where the Himalayan
views are!) and took off on the bumpiest 45-minute flight that exists in the
world today…a flight that ends with 1000 feet of landing strip that slopes
upward drastically. This is where our adventure was to begin.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UXW6IYLNmQ8/WO157TIGcbI/AAAAAAAADMw/quuOTNVw7xQV_umSGSkpymjohE68kW5mwCLcB/s1600/16864960_1755546191137556_4011948424252027121_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UXW6IYLNmQ8/WO157TIGcbI/AAAAAAAADMw/quuOTNVw7xQV_umSGSkpymjohE68kW5mwCLcB/s400/16864960_1755546191137556_4011948424252027121_n.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: inherit;">Trains of yaks wearing bells passed
us on the narrow and steep cobbled path, and we faced our fears crossing
suspension bridges swinging over deep drops in the Dudh Koshi (Milk River). We
overnighted in Phakding (8,690 ft.), where we made friends with a British
couple, Paul and Faye, who schooled us in pool, and met a Scottish fellow named
Christopher who would become near and dear to me by the end of the trip. The
next day brought a grueling uphill climb to Namche Bazaar (11,287 ft.), the
Sherpa capital, where we had stunning views of Thamserku and the Kongde
Range…views we paid for with a steep climb to our acclimatization point…or
really anywhere we wanted to go in the village! Our second day in Namche meant
we got our first view of Everest, Ama Dablam, and Nuptse – after an “easy
uphill walk” to the Everest View Hotel. We met up with many of the other teams
who were on their way to various destinations in the Himalayas, enjoyed some
coffee, and spent the evening watching my favorite climbing movie (“Everest,”
released in 2005) and eating popcorn. From Namche, we pushed onward to
Tengboche (12,684 ft.), site of the famous Tengboche Monastery, where we were
fortunate enough to witness the prayer chants for Tibetan New Year. I also, in
traditional Darsha-fashion, made friends with the local street dogs. </span></div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It was a
cold night, but being able to see the summit of Mount Everest from my window
made it all worth it. We climbed on to Dingboche (14,271 ft.), passing our
Scottish friend along the way, and spent that evening chatting with Nicole, a
fun and adventurous Aussie who was going guide-less to Base Camp. Skipping our
second acclimatization day in favor of using it as a rest day on the descent,
we continued on to Lobuche (16,177 feet), where I fell seriously ill almost
immediately. I spent several hours lying face down in my bed, every movement a
pain, stomach doing backflips, head pounding, ears ringing, and unable to even
walk straight. Blaine, Min, and Nicole sat me in front of the wood stove,
wrapped me in blankets, brought me hot tea, and sent for a doctor from the
Pyramid Research Center just outside of Lobuche. It was the only time in my
life that a group of men were making decisions about my health that I was not
involved in – and the only word I understood of the entire hushed conversation
was “helicopter.” The doctor stayed the night with us, insisting I be on oxygen
(which I refused, as it would be impossible to acclimatize higher if I took
it), and by the next morning, I was almost completely back to normal. To Min’s
surprise, we pushed higher to Gorak Shep (16,962 ft.) and then made the summit
of Kala Patthar (18,193 ft.) – the highest altitude we would reach during our
ascent! I won’t say that I didn’t cry on the ascent and descent – I was
unbelievably exhausted and mildly afraid my brain would swell up from cerebral
edema – but the view was undoubtedly worth it, even though my nice porter kid
kept looking at me like I was a sad puppy. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">We spent the night on the glacier in
Gorak Shep, where other teams were also at the same level of “done” that we
were; no one could eat solid food, hold their head up for long, or carry on a
conversation for more than a few seconds. Early the next morning, after a night
spent shivering in 4 layers of clothing, three pairs of socks, a sleeping bag,
and two yak wool blankets, we headed out for the pinnacle of our adventure –
the reason we were all here – Everest Base Camp. My knees were swollen up like
cantaloupes, my feet were covered thickly in rough callouses, and it was the
single most exciting morning of my life! We walked, climbed, and trudged on for
a couple of hours before descending sharply out onto a rocky moraine perched in
front of a wide field of blue glacial ice – the Khumbu Ice Fall – undoubtedly
the most dangerous part of climbing Mount Everest, and the most recognizable
feature of Everest Base Camp. Millions of tons of sparkling glacial ice
cracking and yawning behind us, Blaine and I skipped excitedly out to the piles
of rocks wrapped in prayer flags, surrounded by mementos, urns, and rocks with
messages to deceased loved ones written on them. There were only a few bright
orange tents – belonging to the Spanish climbing expedition – as the day we
reached Base Camp was the first official day of climbing season, and most teams
would be arriving soon. We took turns photographing each other, leaving
mementos we brought, listening to Min whistle and sing in Nepali, and staring
in awe at the feat we’d just completed. Everest Base Camp, at 17,594 feet, was
our final destination. This was what we’d slogged on for, what we hadn’t
showered in days for, what we’d been eating rice and soup for.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />As we stood in the shadow of these
giants, I couldn’t help but think of the immensity of what I’d just done. 8
years prior, I’d been given a set of Tibetan prayer flags, which I’d kept in
every room I’d lived in since…and now here I was, standing at the base of
Chomolungma – the Tibetan name for Mount Everest (meaning “Mother of the
Earth”) surrounded by them. I thought about my favorite climber – Scott Fischer
– who died in the 1996 disaster, and who stood in much the same spot I was at
some point. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Here I was, an androgynous blob of polar fleece, khaki, and
exhaustion, and I’d never felt like such a strong woman. I was 21, standing at
the base of the world’s tallest mountain after spending nearly two weeks
trekking through the remote Solukhumbu region of Nepal, having not showered in
days, and having nearly been forced to descend due to altitude sickness. I felt
strong. I felt invincible. I felt the prayers and well-wishes of the amazing
people who supported me during my journey. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Something about me in that moment -
standing in the vicious Himalayan sun, staring up through the ice fall –
something changed. I was at the bottom of the top of the world, and everything
negative that I’d ever thought about myself – about being too much or not being
enough, about my abilities or lack thereof – I left it there at the
base of that mountain. We strolled back into Lukla a few days later, caught our
plane back to Kathmandu, and spend our final night with the great people that
we’d met during our travels. Min hugged us both, put on his sunglasses, shouldered his massive pack, and strolled
off casually into the chaos of Kathmandu. Blaine left that evening, and after a
fun night with Christopher and our new Austrian friend (Anita) involving delicious Nepali rum and an interesting rice-based alcohol (which was probably paint
thinner passed off as consumable) I boarded my flight back towards reality.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />It
seems like a lifetime ago that I was standing there on that glacier in the
middle-of-nowhere Nepal, staring up at the jagged peaks ringing us, watching
Blaine leave a collection of rocks for his aging mother, listening to the
thunderous crack of avalanches raining down around us. Sometimes, when I’m
lying in my warm bed at night, I can still smell the wood-burning stoves that
definitely saved our toes from certain frostbite, I can still hear the chime of
the bells from the yak trains carrying supplies up and down the mountain, and I
can still feel the unrelenting wind that chapped and cracked our sensitive
skin. My map of the region that I haggled for in Namche hangs on the wall,
along with my trekking permit, a certificate of completion for my adventure,
and two photos of me from Base Camp and Kala Patthar. The ceiling of my room is
decorated with the large prayer flags I packed back from Nepal. These are
tangible things, things I bought and carried home. The real treasure of the
trip was finding out that sometimes you find yourself in the middle-of-nowhere,
and sometimes, in the middle-of-nowhere, you find yourself.</span></div>
Bethany Harperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17750708513314558285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1429794704411634185.post-25462490454291726782017-01-12T15:56:00.000-06:002018-06-22T16:48:03.675-05:00Pretend PerfectionIt is frighteningly awakening; to suddenly be aware of how your life can change in a matter of moments. Seconds, really. One moment, you are healthy, and the next, you are on your way to have surgery on a tumor you didn't even know you had. One second, it's a normal Christmas morning, and the next, you're scrambling around the kitchen because your Grandmother was always the entertainer during the holidays but this year, she isn't well.<br />
<br />
One evening, you waltz out the door for a movie with a guy you recently reconnected with after five years and return home a girlfriend. His girlfriend.<br />
<br />
It's a long story really. Those who remember our history completely understand, and those who don't probably never will. Honestly, the two of us can't really believe it either.<br />
<br />
Suddenly I found myself post-surgery, cleared for a trip to Nashville on the condition that I wouldn't partake in any strenuous activity for about 10 days. Nashville; a far cry from my original plans but not at all disappointing, complete with the city atmosphere I required and an artistic community that I preferred. A baby New York City in its simplest form, and I had found my future home; one I never would have considered a week prior to my visit.<br />
<br />
Sounds romantic, to say the least, so it was time to think logically. But jobs were wide open, salaries were appealing, and living situations had ten times the amount of options I had been previously considering. All roads essentially led to Nashville. God truly works in mysterious ways, and I am so thankful I was listening.<br />
<br />
So there I was, in route of boarding a flight to Nashville, when I noticed her: a little four-year-old girl in a costume dress made like <i>Princess Sofia, </i>complete with a plastic tiara and purple dress-up shoes; likely the only way the poor mother could get the girl out of the house that morning.<br />
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"These kids better not make noise on this flight," I overheard the male voice from the row behind the little girl. I'm certain the mother heard it, too. I turned to face the overwhelmed momma who was balancing a baby on her hip while she instructed her pre-school daughter on proper flight etiquette. The baby wailed. The mother sighed. The men in front of me groaned. Loudly. The mother looked frustrated. The little girl looked <i>sorry. </i><br />
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A girl never has to be very mature to learn when she is being an inconvenience.<br />
<br />
The little girl stood up, attempting to get out of a man's way (as many girls quickly learn to do), and her little bag spilled out all over the aisle. Picture books, colored pencils, and the girl's Barbie doll scattered across the row. Everyone in the immediate area moaned with annoyance.<br />
<br />
The little girl looked up slowly, her lip quivering ever-so-slightly. <i>Oh no, </i>I told myself, <i>I've seen that look before. </i>And I had, though more often than not, I was the one living it rather than interpreting it. The growing burn in her throat coupled with damp, stinging eyes was all too familiar to me; a sign of weakness triggered by the rotten emptiness of inadequacy. After all, her mother was clearly counting on her to be a grown up today, and she was miserably failing.<br />
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It wasn't a moment later that another male thirty-something came crusading down the aisle, knocking the poor girl off her feet as she tried to gather the lost materials. As if watching the man's accidental push wasn't enough, the little girl's crown clattered on the floor of the aisle and the first tear was shed; a hopeful princess losing her crown due to her own disappointing failure.<br />
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No one even looked up to help. In fact, everyone seemed to turn away, as if ignoring it was the answer and oblivion would make it go away.<br />
<br />
I couldn't take it anymore. Two steps behind the little girl, I dropped to my knees.<br />
<br />
"Your Highness!" I exclaimed, "Be careful! You almost lost your crown."<br />
<br />
The little girl was surprised. Her mother was touched. Those selfish men behind them were stunned.<br />
<br />
"Thank you," the little girl practically whispered as she had likely been taught to do. I placed the little tiara back on her head.<br />
<br />
"Of course," I told her, "Being a princess is hard sometimes!"<br />
<br />
I kept walking, but I was likely impacted more than the little girl or her mother. There is a theme to every fairytale story; a dreaded point in the plot line where the Princess genuinely wishes she wasn't royalty. When she doubts that she's doing a good job, making a difference, or will ever be loved the way all the stories tell her she should be.<br />
<br />
Being a girl in today's society is truly no different.<br />
<br />
I would've been honored to be a member of that little girl's kingdom. Despite her youth, her innocence, and her incapabilities, she was doing exactly as she had been told. She was following directions; being quiet. Being polite. Being good. Trying her best to stay out of the way. It was not her fault that the odds were against her, as they are against all of us sometimes.<br />
<br />
I can't help but notice that we should have more realistic expectations of people. The way people are asked to look, the way they are required to act, and the things they are expected to accomplish are not always possible, and may not be done <i>exactly </i>the same way you would do them. And that's okay. For whatever reason, it is generally acceptable for us to tear each other apart with the idea that we have to fit a standard model; that our thoughts and actions and opinions are to be executed and received in one way; specifically <i>our </i>way.<br />
<br />
How selfish. Why are earth are we more concerned with pointing out everyone's struggles than we are recognizing things we do well? When I compliment a perfect stranger, they are stunned. Nine times out of ten, they look at me like I'm absolutely crazy, and I am no exception when I'm on the other end. I find myself fighting before receiving a compliment, rather than recognizing my worth and humbling myself to just say "thank you."<br />
<br />
People often roll their eyes after they hear me say that we have just as much, if not more, to learn from children, but I see it every day. Our younger generations are losing confidence in themselves before they even have the capacity to gain it, and it is <i>our </i>fault. If we spent half as much time encouraging others as we do pretending to be perfect, we might <i>all </i>be a little stronger, and if our imperfections were recognized and accepted, would we still feel the need to pretend?<br />
<br />
It isn't likely. Adults who doubt their own significance in the world are inevitably raising children who are unable to recognize their own. We cannot expect future generations to become more accepting if they are not shown how to do so, and it is our job: as parents, as educators, and as general role models, to be that confident example.<br />
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There is always a younger pair of feet dreaming of following in your footsteps. Make sure the life you are living is worth following.<br />
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Bethany Harperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17750708513314558285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1429794704411634185.post-29635066722465348942016-11-09T14:37:00.000-06:002018-06-22T16:48:15.606-05:00History Has Its Eyes On You<i>This is not a political post. I don't write political posts. I write vulnerable posts, and this will be no different. Will you know who I voted for by the end of this article? No, I will not tell you. Will you be able to figure it out? Probably; if you're a regular reader with a firm grip on the things I believe. Will I delete your comments if you disagree with me? No. But will I debate with you about it? No. I will stand for what is important to me, but I will not fight with others because they disagree. I am putting a few thoughts out there because I am not a coward, but I will not flounder back and forth with you because I am not tacky. There has been one thought my blog had ridden on since the beginning: <u>If you do not like what I have to say, you do not have to read it. </u>If we do not agree now, we probably never will. That's okay. I will love you anyway. I will support you anyway. All I am asking is the same in return. </i><br />
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<b>November 7, 2016 11:30 pm</b></div>
<div>
Tomorrow is the day we all never actually thought would happen. For over a year now, we have watched this election unfold. Even though I support one candidate more than the other, I could not fully support either one. I knew I would have to vote for someone I thought would make a bad President for the sole reason that I thought the other candidate would make an even <i>worse </i>President. And yet, I think I was waiting for some miraculous intervention that would take care of this mess for us. But here we are. We were not lucky enough for a miraculous intervention. Polls open in a few hours. May the odds be ever in our favor. </div>
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<b>November 8, 2016 7:20 am</b></div>
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People are flocking to the polls. I don't have practicum teaching today because my school is a poll site. I considered going in anyway to get a few hours and do some lesson planning, but I don't want anywhere near that madness. I can't even think about the future of the nation and the future of my students at the same time. Too much anxiety ensues when you put those precious futures together. </div>
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<b>November 8, 2016 5:30 pm</b></div>
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I just got back from class and the drama has already started. I'm signing off facebook until next week. I think it's interesting how so many friends preached the importance of remaining classy and loving through this madness. Those same friends are now carrying out heated debates through facebook comments and spewing hatred toward their loved ones who think differently. Everyone has always had a different opinion on <i>everything. </i>I often wonder why people think a presidential election with such drastic opinions and childish candidates will unite the nation. How can people not see that this is actually dividing us even more? </div>
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<b>November 8, 2016 7:20 pm</b></div>
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Thank goodness it is my friend and roommate's birthday. I get to go have some steak and good company amid the madness. I'm turning off the TV to indulge myself in some Texas Roadhouse rolls. I'm sure the election will still be on TV when I arrive back home. </div>
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<b>November 8, 2016 10:30 pm</b></div>
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Her birthday was filled with some good ol' country line dancing, good food, and good friends who couldn't shut up about the election, and I am not innocent of it myself. It's an addicting conversation. It was on almost every TV in the restaurant. No one was talking about their life. Everyone was talking about who they voted for and why and what their exit plan was to leave the country when their candidate didn't win. I wanted to participate in the conversation because I wanted to have a good time. But I knew the second I opened my mouth with my own opinion, I would be stuck yelling with those who agreed and debating with those who did not. I just took a deep breath and ate my bread. </div>
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<b>November 8, 2016 11:22 pm</b></div>
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My roommates and I are gathered on the couch. We are trying to find the good and the bad, but somehow we keep coming back to a whole lot of bad. We are fortunate enough to not be scared like so many of our other friends, but we are just human enough to be disappointed. Not necessarily in the candidate who is taking the lead, but in this entire election itself. The sentence most used in our apartment tonight: <i>"This is just not how this election was supposed to go." </i></div>
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<b>November 9, 2016 12:30 am</b></div>
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My roommates are asleep so I am alone watching now. I need to go to bed. I can't believe I'm sitting here as if this is going to get any better. </div>
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<b>November 9, 2016 3:46 am</b></div>
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I woke up for medicine and water because my throat hurts. I am tempted to check in on the results. I turn my phone off instead. </div>
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<b>November 9, 2016 6:30 am</b></div>
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I logged onto facebook. That was a mistake. I'm going back to sleep. </div>
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<b>November 9, 2016 1:33 pm</b></div>
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Have any of you seen <i>Hamilton: The Musical?</i> There's a lyric regarding the election of 1800 that I can't shake from my head. <i>Jefferson or Burr; we know it's lose/lose... Jefferson or Burr; but if you had to choose...</i></div>
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That's where we are. A lose/lose election, and yet, we're forced to choose. </div>
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Am I happy with the way this turned out? Not really. Would I have been happy if the other candidate won? Not really. I haven't been on my personal facebook page at all since this morning, and won't (at least until the end of the week). I was naïve to think that this would all die down after the election. We aren't going to stop thrusting opinions on others and we aren't going to stop spewing hatred simply because one has been elected. Oh no, this will carry on for the next four years. Lucky us, huh? </div>
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However, the goal of my blog was to remain a positive environment. So here are two of my favorite quotes from <i>both </i>of our candidates. </div>
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<i>Without passion you don't have energy, and without energy you have nothing. Nothing in this world has been accomplished without passion.</i></div>
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<i> -Donald Trump</i></div>
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<i>To all the little girls watching... Never doubt that you are valuable and powerful, and deserving of every chance and opportunity in the world. </i></div>
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<i> -Hillary Clinton</i></div>
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I have said before that there is one thing I will never share about myself: the person I voted for in a presidential election. Why? Because I believe in fighting for the stances and issues and beliefs I find most important. I believe in standing for what is right. I will tell you what I think about every topic on the political agenda. From there, you could probably guess which candidate will be filled in on my ballot if it is that important to you, but I will never specifically say their name. Why? Because if you disagree with me, you will try to change my mind (even though I am just as stubborn, if not more stubborn, than you are). And if you agree with me, you will act as though you've found your soul mate; the one kindred spirit on this earth that you can share everything with. </div>
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I don't believe in taking sides. I believe in love. I believe in kindness, and positivity, and hope. </div>
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So here's what we're gonna do. The results are in. Congratulations America, it's a boy. There is nothing we can do to change it if we wanted a girl, and no reason to flaunt it if we've prayed years for a boy. Some of us are happy, some of us a terrified, and some of us just want to forget the whole thing ever happened. Let's go back to the primaries. No, let's go back before that. Let's just start over, okay? </div>
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We can't do that. So we're going to wake up each morning, make our coffee strong, and love like we've never loved before. The world is going to need a light, and it's going to have to come from us. </div>
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<i><span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: x-large;"><b>Joy can be found in the darkest of times, if only we remember to turn on the light. </b></span></i></div>
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This little light of mine? I'm gonna let it shine. I'm gonna take this light around the world and I'm gonna let it shine. I won't let anyone blow it out; I'm gonna let it shine. Every day, every night; I'm gonna let it shine. </div>
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The future of this country (and this world), is not solely dependent on who we elect as President. Is our leadership important? Of course. But it depends on us, too. So keep on pressing on, my confident, beautiful love warriors. The world will need us now more than ever. </div>
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Bethany Harperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17750708513314558285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1429794704411634185.post-77893367426489565362016-10-17T08:00:00.000-05:002018-06-22T16:48:22.373-05:00PerspectiveRunning around in a frantic frenzy as a poor attempt at preparing for my #1 choice of a Graduate School program, I texted at least ten people. When I write a letter of intent for something this important, I seek the help of at least five proofreaders. Usually a few English majors (for the grammatical proof), a few Education majors (for the content proof), and a few other friends and family who know me, my goals, my aspirations, and my passions best. My letters of recommendation had already been designated, my application form was complete, my test scores had been submitted, and all that was left was my letter of intent.<br />
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I never had a problem with writing. I write every day, and I've been known to crank out extensive essays in less than an hour. If there was ever one subject in school I was good at, it was English. If there was one assignment I always vouched for over a project or final exam, it was an essay. This letter should not have been this hard. But with everything else going on, I was really beginning to stress. I'd filled out a strong header and written <i>To Whom It May Concern; </i>then stared at the page for an hour.<br />
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Okay, maybe it was four hours. With a journal entry, two homework assignments, and a nap in between. At least my procrastination was paired with more productive things... Right...?<br />
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It was just one more thing that made me feel like my life was far out of my control. Sure, I have dreams and plans for my life after graduate, but that plan can only be achieved after being accepted into a certain graduate program, securing an apartment, and landing a job in another state. All of which require administrators, landlords, and bosses to all want me. Yikes.<br />
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I needed one more proofreader, so I texted a friend and fellow early childhood major. <i>Would you proofread a letter of intent for me sometime soon? </i><br />
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<i>Sure! </i>she responded, <i>What's it for? </i><br />
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<i>For the Master's program application. Let's all have a mini anxiety attack together... LOL! </i><br />
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Expecting to receive a <i>haha </i>or an <i>I'll take a look right after I finish this lesson plan, </i>I tossed my phone to the side and went to write another lesson plan myself. But when the phone buzzed again, I literally laughed out loud.<br />
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<i>I'm so envious of how much you have your life together. </i><br />
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How "much" I have my life together? To me, it felt like I had about 15% of it together. But to her, I had it all.<br />
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Perspective is important. And I've mentioned this before... Why else would other girls want the same parts of your body that you hate? Why else would you want the same aspects of their personality that they hate? We all see things a little differently, and we all want what we can't have. We all want that one thing that's seemingly holding us back from being just like (or preferably, a little better) than the girl sitting to our side.<br />
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My aunt called me a few weeks ago in the middle of the night. <i>I saw a painting today, </i>she told me, <i>and it reminded me of you. Of your blog. It was of several large women, but they were dancing and smiling and holding hands with one another. </i><br />
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I glanced down at the picture she had texted to me a few seconds prior to the phone call.<br />
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<i>As a large woman myself, </i>she continued, <i>it just made me so happy. You know, acceptance of different body types and sizes is very important. But until a woman accepts herself, no real change is made in her heart. </i><br />
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The more I stared at the picture, the more I realized I couldn't have said it any better.<br />
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I'm constantly crusading for beauty in our society, specifically targeting the kiddos I see losing confidence in themselves every day, and the people who question their ability to teach, lead, and raise these kiddos to the best of their ability. Statistics. Personal testimonies. Videos of photoshop programs being utilized to the fullest potential... I share it all, with the hope that my stunning readers will realize how normal imperfection actually is. How distorted our society has become. How beautiful they really are.<br />
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But until they accept their beauty themselves, no real change is made.<br />
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Have you ever met a woman completely secure in her beauty? I've seen it once, on a woman who was 85 years old. Every time she laughed, she threw back her head and let her stomach bounce. When someone was in need, her hand was the first to be extended. And when someone needed to be scolded, I have never seen anyone more gently stern in all my life. Wrinkles creased at her eyes from years of laughter. Her lips were stretched thin from smiling. Her hands were calloused from all her labor, and her heart shone from within. She embodied pure, undistorted beauty because she was completely and unapologetically herself.<br />
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My aunt was not captivated by that painting merely because she related to it. She was captivated by the painting because every woman should understand what it feels like to be like that woman. To truly love herself. To be happy with herself. To be confident in herself. The women in the painting weren't laughing and dancing because someone told them to. They were laughing and dancing because they wanted to. Because they felt compelled to. They were inspired to.<br />
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How you see yourself is important. It's even more important than how others see you. Because while other bloggers and I are trying our hardest to get society on our side, we all realize it probably won't happen. Sometimes, you're all you have. And even if everyone loved you and told you that you were smart and talented and beautiful every single day, it wouldn't have any real impact at all if you did not believe it all yourself.<br />
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Can you imagine how much greater life would be if you could look in the mirror and recognize all the ways you're great? Emily Freeman from the <i>She Is Project </i>said it best...<br />
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<span style="color: #674ea7; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: x-large;"><b>"I can't imagine anything more dangerous to the enemy of our hearts than women who know who they are." -Emily P. Freeman</b></span><br />
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Isn't that the truth... I don't want to be the kind of woman that haters and bullies wait to attack. I want to be the kind of woman that when my feet hit the ground each morning, the devil panics and says <i>Well crap! She's awake. </i><br />
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Perspective is everything. Not just because someone else wants what you have, but because you should want what you have, too.<br />
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Bethany Harperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17750708513314558285noreply@blogger.com0