The Pioneer Woman of Springdale, Arkansas

'Twas the night before Christmas when all through the house, 
not a creature was stirring... 

Except my Grandmother.

Prepping potatoes, baking cakes, 

wrapping presents, and refusing a break. 

When what to my wondering eye should appear,

but an 87-year-old woman with unyielding cheer. 

She still retrieves local pies before every Thanksgiving. She insists on cooking an enormous meal for every Christmas dinner. And for every birthday, you get her famous chocolate sheet cake: from scratch. She is, in a sense, your basic southern housewife. She cooks, she cleans, and she keeps up with everyone in town. Quite the little socialite of her time, she still embarks on monthly lunches with her girlfriends to catch up on the gossip and celebrations that each woman's family has shared since the last time they visited. She's right in the middle of everyone's lives, and she wouldn't have it any other way.

I was raised at my grandparents' house when I was a little girl. Not that my parents weren't present or loving because they were, but they both worked full time. My mom prepared instant mashed potatoes for dinner every night because she didn't have time for the real deal. After all, boxed dinners were a staple because they freed the modern woman from the kitchen. My family also hired a service to clean the house and mow the lawn because no one had the time, nor the energy, to do so. My grandmother was in her late 70's before she ever considered such a ridiculous suggestion, and she still follows the poor maid around to make sure she's cleaning to her standards. Oh, and she certainly doesn't believe in boxed dinners. She was probably 65 before she even knew what take-out was.

But as funny as her stubborn soul is, if I'm being completely honest: she's the sole reason I know how to do much of anything. I was three when I learned the correct way to dust a wooden coffee table. I stood on a chair over a pot of boiling water at age five, learning how to fix oatmeal. Real oatmeal; none of that microwave stuff. I was frying bacon in a scorching skillet at my grandmother's before my mother even let me touch an electrical socket. My granddad might have taught me how to add and spell, but my grandmother taught me how to function. She taught me how to live. She taught me how to be a woman.

And let's be clear: she was anything but a simple, submissive southern lady.

My grandmother was the original pioneer woman. While she didn't grow up on the streets, she certainly wasn't wealthy. She received no college education, and worked for minimal salary to support herself before marrying a 22-year-old WWII veteran. After becoming a family woman, she fixed their dinners from scratch and cleaned their house by herself, also working full time at the local bank. She created a suitable and comfortable life for her family as only a young woman, and raised two headstrong daughters in a polite, educated manner so they wouldn't have to endure the same hardships she had come to know. She saved every penny, relished in little, and splurged on nothing for herself. When my mother graduated pharmacy school, Grandmother took a deep breath and said, "Thank goodness. Now I can finally go buy a new pair of underwear."

Growing up, my mom had little to no suspicion that her family wasn't rich, and most of that vision was due to my grandmother's ultimate positivity and determination. "We drove everywhere!" my mom recalled her childhood travels, "We hit the road at the crack of dawn every summer." She visited more places and explored more things than most kids her age. The Day Sisters always had enough food on the table, quality education, and rarely sacrificed anything at the mall. The two fashion-forward young women were always dressed to the nines in name-brand skirts and slingback shoes, just like their mother. Every Easter Sunday, her daughters were dressed in slips, dresses, gloves, hats, shiny shoes, and lace socks for every sunrise service. She led her little ducklings to the sunrise service only to lead them home and have them strip down for breakfast (because no young lady in training can eat in her finest linens) before redressing to return to the regular church service. "My God, we visited every amusement park in the world," my mom told me once, "and Mother always wore a dress and pantyhose." If that doesn't sum it up, I don't know what else could. That's probably why I have more taste than by budget cares to afford. I suppose the admiration for Tiffany jewels and Chanel fragrance runs in the family.

Nothing about her seemed to change once I was born, either. She rocked me to sleep in her lap as a baby, read with me as a toddler, and bought me enough clothes and toys to send me well into high school. She inspired my imagination to run rampant by engaging in more symbolic play with me than my parents did at home, and nourished quite a food critic as I sampled everything that came out of her metal stovetop pot. I was never bored at Grandmother's house.

I was never hungry either. Upon entering her house, you will be offered a coke six times (she has everything, we just call it all "coke" down south), a total of three or more cookies, and the option to turn on various lights and fans around the house to fit your comfort level. If I had a dollar for every hot dog, strip of bacon, chicken nugget, or bowl of mac and cheese I ate as a child, I could own a penthouse in New York City. Thank goodness my metabolism was high. I bet she worried every day I was going to be fat.

But as I look back on my childhood at my grandmother's house, it isn't the books, nor the toys, or even the food that define the memory. It's her heart. It's what makes her a woman.

The current generation has intensely reshaped our definition of beauty. Victoria's Secret models are the angels of our time rather than daughters of Christ. Starving, waxed, air-brushed models are seen as the most beautiful women, while models who look like real women are labeled "plus sized" models. In our society, beauty is slim. Beauty is athletic. Beauty is makeup and clothes and hairstyles. Beauty is pain, we tell our daughters, It pays to be beautiful. Beauty is only skin deep. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. 

No. Beauty is not pain, nor a price to be paid. It is much deeper than our skin (or our makeup), and is certainly not determined by someone else.

beauty: beau•ty 
/'byōōdē/ 
(n) the quality present in a thing or person that gives intense pleasure or deep satisfaction to the mind and pleases the intellect or moral sense

That's a far cry from what we believe beauty is today. My grandmother knows makeup, hair, and clothes, but I always found her more beautiful when she was her basic self. When she was happily hosting, entertaining, and socializing. When she was cooking fried green tomatoes and sitting on her back porch to feel the breeze. My grandmother is undoubtedly outwardly beautiful, but more than that, she is an effortlessly captivating soul. She is not striving to be thin or rich or famous. She is not striving to be anything. She is naturally delightful and aesthetically selfless, which translates to her alluring charm.

My grandmother is unquestionably the most benevolent woman I have ever met. She will put you before herself whether she's known you for fifty years or five seconds. In her house, you always have a place to sleep, a table to eat at, and a conversation to establish new camaraderie. She can tell stories like no other: from when she was first married to the time she was robbed at gunpoint at the bank. Her wit is undeniable, her heart is unparalleled, and her soul is anything but tired. She has been a spark of altruistic love and joy throughout my life, reminding me what it really is to be a woman: a pure heart, a spirited soul, with a fiery passion. She is strong when others are weak. She remains determined when others have given up. And she is kind when others are not so generous. My grandmother didn't just teach me how to work, cook, and clean; she taught me how to love. She taught me how to laugh. She taught me how to live. Without her, I could not be half of who I am today. It is because of her example that I have even the slightest idea of the woman I could be. I aspire to be more and more like her with every day that passes, because in my eyes, she has always been the real Princess. She's always been the true Queen. She has fought for those she loved and the things she believed in while exuding an unyielding elegance of sophistication and grace.

She might be 87, but she is not old. Her heart and soul are actually quite young. I can only hope I will grow to have the same wrinkles from laughter, scars from determination, and adventure-filled memories to look back on for the rest of my life. I cannot express how thankful I am for my grandmother, and all the poise and persistence she has instilled within me. She is more than a grandmother. She is more than a mother, a teacher, or even a friend. She is an effortlessly beautiful pioneer woman, and she is an exquisite gift from God.

So What's the Big Deal About Winterguard Anyway?

It's hard to imagine how one sport, particularly a sport no one seems to know anything about, could change a person's life. But it can. And don't try to tell me it's not a sport. 

Winterguard is known as the Sport of the Arts, and we know you probably haven't heard of it. Even Blake Lively, whose face was photoshopped onto a performer of the Pride of Cinncinati, called it a "dance troupe." Guard is not a dance troupe. It is a sport where thousands of scholastic and collegiate performers audition every year to spend an absorbent amount of money to acquire bruises, blood blisters, and one-shot performances. It is a season of endlessly long rehearsals, frustrated sectionals, early morning uniform checks, and cramped bus rides.

So we know what you're probably thinking. Why do people do it? 

We do it to be a part of something bigger. If we wanted a regular workout we'd hit the treadmill. If we wanted a regular sport we'd play basketball. If we wanted a regular performance, we would learn to play an instrument, act, or dance. Guard is something completely different. It is a team that devotes itself solely to the final product as a whole. Performers practice to better themselves individually so that they do not hold the group behind. Staff members dish out every bit of instruction they know with the hope of creating a production better than any judge or crowd has seen before. But guard is not just about rehearsing and performing. It's about memories. It's about inside jokes, nicknames, and traveling to new places. It's about decorating charter bus windows, big/little gift exchanges, team member performance bracelets, and so much more. It's about friendship. It's about tradition. It's about loyalty. It's about being a part of something that changes the lives of everyone in it.

We do it because it improves our resume. We are tough, determined, fiercely motivated powerballs who refuse to quit. The word "can't" is not in our vocabulary; if you tell us we can't, we turn around and say "watch me." We don't waste any time because we're used to not having any. We plan down to last detail because it's all we've ever known. We are not afraid to ask for help. We take instruction and criticism with ultimate grace. We are always working to be stronger. We set aside our personal drama for the benefit of the team. We know how important our job is, whether it's in the workforce or on the guard floor. If we give up, we don't just let ourselves down, we let others down, and we are simply unwilling to let that happen. Wouldn't you want a guard girl working for you?

We do it to know what it feels like to shine. Everyone knows what it's like to miserably fail, and hopefully everyone knows what it's like to feel happy. Hopefully everyone knows what it's like to be proud. But a strong performance with the people who helped you pour out your blood, sweat, and tears (literally!) can make you feel invincible. We all know what means to be confident, but a guard girl knows what it's like to shine. We have a drive within us that is unparalleled.

We do it because it makes us better people. On my first day of guard camp in high school, we were told by our technician, "Not everyone is capable of doing guard. It is a special activity designed for special people like you," and he couldn't be more right. Guard is a genuinely impressive, unique, and special activity designed for creative minds and talented athletes. There is a common saying describing guard that couldn't be more accurate: For those who understand, no explanation is needed. For those who don't, no explanation is possible. When you join, guard requires that you give up your individuality for the sake of the team, but when you leave, you emerge knowing more about yourself than you ever did before. It forces us to be organized and work harder than we did previously. It forces us to be mature. It forces us to be selfless. And we become better people because of it.

Missouri State University is home to three independent winterguard programs: 901 Performance Ensemble, National Avenue, and The Pride of Missouri State. "[Guard is important because it] is an opportunity for students to explore and develop skills in a performing art that requires physical strength and mental focus," John Sullivan, head director of the Missouri State winterguard programs says, "Through the activity, you learn life lessons like commitment, dedication, respect, camaraderie, and appreciation while learning technique of rifle, flag, sabre, and dance. Guard can be a means for performers to 'step out of their comfort zone' as they are suddenly meeting new people and trying new things. I have seen shy people suddenly blossom into outgoing individuals, and I have seen performers become more confident as a direct result of their achievements they experienced in guard."

I, personally, was one of those wallflower performers before my time here at Missouri State. The 2015 winterguard season really changed things for me, boosting my confidence as I and 20 other performers "stood in the rain" and gained the confidence to walk out of "foolish games."

Members of these groups compete in numerous competitions throughout the season. Their work and sacrifice is often overlooked by their university and their peers, but they refuse to quit. "Collegiate performers have to make sacrifices to be in guard, especially as they reach the latter years of their degree program," Sullivan says, "As classes advance in their degree program, the demands become more urgent and difficult. I am always thankful for those who make guard work with their academics."

Obviously, academics are the reason these performers are at Missouri State University in the first place. Every member on a Missouri State winterguard is a college student in pursuit of a degree and a career. We aren't just here to spin, though that might be what we often say. But academics aren't the only sacrifices we make to continue in the sport we love.

Like any performing art, winterguard is not cheap. Some performers work up to three jobs to fund the sport they love. Others skip collegiate events and spring break vacations to ensure they have enough money to spin their next season. But unfortunately, this is not always enough.

We are regular college kids in need of financial assistance. Our fees go toward flags, poles, tape, equipment, floor paint, costumes, makeup, hairpieces, etc. Guard is a very expensive activity, and every year we have talented individuals take seasons off because they do not have the money to compete. We don't want to deny any of our members a chance to compete, perform, and make memories with the rest of their team, but sometimes we don't have a choice. That's why we need your help.

We aren't asking for a miracle donation of thousands of dollars. We understand your budget is tight. Believe me, so is ours. All we ask is that you take a moment to consider donating what you can to give us what we want more than anything this season: security in knowing we will be able to afford our favorite activity. We are extremely thankful for any assistance you can give, whether it's $5 or $500, or simple moral support as an audience member. We would love to see you at our next competition.

Find us at various shows on the MCCGA and WGI circuits. Email taxistotsandpolkadots@gmail.com for more information. 

To help out members of the Pride of Missouri State Winterguard, National Avenue Winterguard, and 901 performance ensemble for their 2017 season, please donate on the Missouri State Crowdfunding Webpage. The staff and performers greatly appreciate any of your help and/or support you can provide. 

A Teacher's Motivation

For my graduating class, it's nearing the end of our undergraduate education. We're more than halfway done, almost through the first five semesters, and it's nearing the point where people are getting bored with their major. Some are failing out. And we ask these people, "So what do you plan on doing now?" to which we receive the disturbing response, "Oh I don't know. Probably just teach."

As an Early Childhood Education major, I don't meet many guys. If I'm being completely honest, I often only meet one type of girl: an overly-hairsprayed, heavily makeup-ed, yoga-panted sorority girl who "just loves kids!" Not that there's anything wrong with sorority girls; I know plenty whom I love and adore. But when asked why we want to be a teacher, "I was failing organic chemistry," and "I love kids!" is not good enough. Personally, I love to dance, but that certainly doesn't qualify me to be a professional choreographer. I love clothes and fashion, but I am not called to be a fashion designer. Instead, I sit back and appreciate the work done by choreographers by learning their dances, and enjoy the work of fashion designers by wearing their clothes. The same is true with teaching. Just because you have a passion for children, or even for education, does not mean you must (or even should) be a teacher.

I am greatly troubled by the comments most of these ladies dish out.

"I can't wait to have every summer off for the rest of my life!"

"Oh, this job will give me great benefits. I wouldn't have these benefits in other professions!"

"I love teaching because I get to hang out with kids all day!" 

As the daughter of a teacher, I have a newsflash for these women. Our summers will be filled with lesson planning, classroom organization, faculty meetings, professional development opportunities, and preparation for the upcoming school-year. We will get the same benefits as every other state employee, and would receive better benefits if we obtained a career on the federal level. And we do not, in fact, get to "hang out" with kids all day. We have a very important job to educate them. It is our job to ensure that they learn what is expected of them in a timely and effective manner. Their progress is on our shoulders, so God forbid you decide to teach because you got a degree in something else and your career never quite took off. "Oh well, if it doesn't work out I can always teach," is not (and never should be) an acceptable reason to become a teacher. Educators arguably have the most important job in the world. We train the future doctors, engineers, and business owners. Our career is no back-up plan.

When asked the ever-present question "Why do you want to be a teacher?" I am prepared with an answer. To make a difference and to leave my mark on the world are too cliché, too common, and far too vague. The truth about me is that I struggled quite a lot in school. But let's be clear on one thing: in early elementary, I loved it. I looked forward to going to school every day; talking with teachers, doing projects with friends, and of course, playing outside for recess. I was a great student, and helped out the teacher when and where I could. I was the name left for substitutes; the name that was never written on the board for misconduct. Once, I even tutored my classmates while my teacher led a reading lesson because my scantron was graded wrong on the Benchmark test. I didn't need remedial math, and ended up teaching it to my own peers!

I wish I could say that spark of learning would last forever, but, like all children, I grew up. Very few students maintain their eagerness and enthusiasm to learn as they move into higher grades. There are fewer activities, too many lectures, harder content, and far too many ridiculous rules. I even had a teacher that wouldn't let us turn in a research paper we'd worked a month on if we hadn't stapled it by the time we walked through the door!

By the time I reached sixth grade, I had my first true struggle in school: timed multiplication tests. We had a sheet full of multiplication tables with only a minute to fill it out. My teacher had a rule she considered to be motivational. "We will do these every Friday. But... Once you pass it, you don't have to take it anymore!"

Easy enough, right? Wrong. From the moment the timer clicked on, I was in panic. My face would grow hot and I would begin to sweat. My lungs did not function normally, and I had to remind myself to breathe. My hands would shake and I would always be at least two rows from the bottom by the time the alarm went off. "Time!" my teacher would call, and I would sit back in my chair defeated. It wasn't that I didn't know my multiplication tables. I'd known them for years and tutored my own classmates on them! But I could not, for the life of me, write them all down on a timed test.

As promised, we did those tests every Friday, and once people passed, they didn't have to take them anymore. About two months into the semester, everyone had passed...except, of course, me and about three other people. The four of us took those tests for several weeks with everyone watching. We never passed, and eventually, my teacher made us stop doing them. I guess she just gave up.

Little did I know, the physical and emotional swing I had when a timer was set is recognized in the psychological world as test anxiety, and it would not end with multiplication tables. Any time I was presented with a test that we were only given a certain amount of time on, my flushed face and hyperventilation would strike again. This follows me even today.

Suddenly, it was time for high school, and "a talented mind like mine should be in the AP program!" Or so they said. I even knew a school counselor who told his students that they could take regular classes if they wanted to "flip burgers for the rest of their life," but "anybody who wanted to be somebody would enroll in the AP program." I was never really one to believe that, but I had a different motivation. My strong suit was English, and I wanted to take an AP English class. However, the AP English class was linked with an AP History class, which I wanted nothing to do with. I'd never been fond of history because it had never been presented as anything overly enjoyable, so I really didn't want to torture myself with that. But everyone said, "You're smart! You'll be fine!" So I took that blocked class of AP English and AP U.S. History, and to this day, I consider it one of the worst decisions of my life.

As expected, the AP English portion was fine. I wrote good essays and participated in class discussions over books, poems, and short stories. But when presented with the history information, I seemed to be a lost cause.

My teacher was pretty much a witch (for a censored title), claiming that she would be willing to help anyone with questions, but she never seemed to have all that much help to give. She would grade our notes and get angry if they weren't the way she wanted. My mind clearly worked differently than hers from the very beginning and my notes were never the way she wanted them to be, so she gave me an F on all my pages. So naturally, I began attempting the notes like she wanted them. No surprise, I got an A on the notes and failed the quizzes because I couldn't follow my notes. She would put you on the spot to answer questions, and if you gave an answer that stimulated discussion but wasn't the answer she wanted, you wouldn't get credit for the discussion. She would go around the room and quiz us orally in front of the rest of the class, which gave everyone anxiety, not just me.

The biggest problem I had, however, was (as established previously...) testing. I told her at the beginning of the year that timed tests scared me, and if she would just allow me to stay after the bell for a few minutes, that I would be fine. I told her I would probably always finish before the bell if I didn't feel I was under any pressure, but she would not have it.

"The AP test at the end of the year is timed Bethany," she told me, "I do what I do for a reason."

Then I asked the unthinkable. "Well, do I have to take that test?"

She stared at me with a cold expression for a long time before taking a breath, and laughed, "Well it would be stupid not to. The school pays for it and it will give you college credit for the class."

So I busted my butt. I studied hours each day for every test and always scored about two points under her passing mark. I was in there for weeks taking makeup tests until I passed one. I never passed any of them.

So one day at lunch, out of complete desperation and stupidity, I approached her for help. She had the audacity to ask me, "Are you really studying?" and I wanted to punch her in the face, but I swallowed my pride and said, "Yes." I continued to tell her all the ways I'd studied: re-reading each chapter, reviewing my notes, taking practice tests, writing songs, creating alliterations, and even acting out scenarios with stuffed animals in my room to remember the order of events in wars and scandals. By the time I got all this out, she was clearly stunned with my creativity and work ethic, but certainly would not show any sign of being impressed with a girl who could not even pass her class. Instead, she said, "Oh. Well. You're still young and your brain isn't fully developed at age sixteen. Maybe you just aren't to a point where you can answer this level of a question."

I was stunned. Now I had test anxiety and an underdeveloped brain? I just snatched my test back and said, "Yeah, maybe that's it," and walked out.

Looking back, I remember paying a fee for that AP test at the end of the year, so the school did not, in fact, pay for it. And you only got credit for the class if you passed the test, which, to no surprise, I did not. It was all for nothing. To this day, my teacher still smiles and speaks to one member of my class (a National Merit scholar who scored a 5 on the AP test) and doesn't give me a second glance. As if I ever got a first one.

I often wondered why she decided to become a teacher. I couldn't possibly think of a worse career for her to choose. Then, I discovered an article about her in the school newspaper. When asked, "Before you decided to become a teacher, what did you want to be?" she answered, "A child psychologist." It was that day I learned that things could always be worse. At least when she wounded me I was a teenager with a decently strong sense of self confidence. I hesitate to consider what she might have done to a poor child.

I vowed to never take another AP history class again. I finished the next year with an A+ in both AP English and regular World History. My world history teacher is one of my favorite teachers to this day, and I have no regrets at all about that class. Senior year, however, I found myself in both AP Literature and AP Government. I'm still not sure how I was convinced, but the AP Gov teacher was supposed to be very good, so I never argued.

The teacher was a fat, old, retired lawyer. He signed every letter the "Old Bald Fat Guy." I loved that class. It was engaging and I actually participated in discussions even though I was often clueless. Even when I said something completely wrong, he would take the time to ask questions that steered me the right direction until I got it right. He was shocked when I failed the first test. I, at this point, was not.

I had given up on myself. I was prepared to cry through my studying and fail all my tests, as I had done in AP U.S. History. But he was genuinely concerned. He called me in for a meeting one day during lunch and said, "Bethany... I was very shocked to see this."

He handed me my first graded test with a big fat F on the top. I just looked up at him. Why? I thought to myself, I'm stupid. Don't you know that? 

"You're a very hard worker and a good student," he said instead. I was shocked. "What can I do to help you?"

I started crying on the spot. To know that an AP teacher (that wasn't my English teacher) believed in me and had faith in me was more than I could handle. I hadn't expected it at all. The rough old lawyer brought me some tissues and waited. I never had to tell my story. He knew there was one there. People like me don't just wake up one day and decide they're stupid. Something had to have convinced me otherwise.

I got to stay after the bell on test days if I wasn't finished, but I always was. The pressure of the time limit was lifted, so I was able to organize my thoughts in a timely manner without panic. Still, government was not a high subject for me, so he tutored me once a week during lunch. He even gave me a blank notecard to use on tests to cover up parts of the question (to identify what it was really asking) and to cover the answers until I'd formed my own in my head.

I didn't get any A+'s or anything; he's a teacher, not Jesus. But I did pass every test. Even the AP test at the end of the year, and didn't have to take Government in college. It, in contrast to my decision to take AP U.S. History, was one of the smartest decisions I've ever made. I use his test taking strategies even now, and credit him with my success. That Old Bald Fat Guy turned out to be one of my biggest heroes.

So what was the difference between these two teachers? Their motivation. Their attitude towards their job was different. The first teacher thought she ruled the world. The second teacher recognized that he was teaching the generation who would one day rule the world, and thought they should be educated accordingly. The first teacher had incredibly selfish motivation (I later learned that the school gets paid more for every passing score on the AP exam, which was the reason she pushed her students so hard to obtain one), but the second teacher was genuinely concerned for his students. As far as he was concerned, they deserved the credit.

Both educators are my motivation to become a teacher. I strive to be a teacher just like the Old Bald Fat Guy, and strive to show students that teachers do not have to be like my AP U.S. History teacher.

Kids have to go to school. They are forced to attend. But teachers are responsible for their attitude towards learning. Teachers have control over whether they love or hate coming to class. I sincerely hope no one else has ever had a teacher suggest their brain was underdeveloped, but everyone has had at least one experience to prove that the teacher is what makes the difference between a wonderful and miserable school year.

It is naïve of us to state that education is 100% about the kids. Teachers also work to make a living and support their own families, not to mention the laws and limitations that prevent them from meeting individual students' needs. But a teacher's motivation should not be themselves. Our salary is not big enough, our benefits are not good enough, and we work more for free than any other occupation with our lesson plans, grading papers, testing, and professional development. We are paid as teachers, not as mothers, advisors, therapists, or referees, when the truth is: we do it all.

We've heard it before: We are not in this for the income, we're in it for the outcome.

Because the kids deserve it. They are worthy of a good, intriguing education. They should be excited to learn. They deserve to have a chance at enjoyable learning and we owe it to them.

If your heart is not in education, you should choose something else. I promise, no one will be offended. Students, teachers, parents, and administrators are all counting on you to be the absolute best you can be for your students, and you can't afford to let them down. You don't get the choice to fail. It's not an option. After all, this never really should've been about you anyway.