It's Me, the Best Life Lady Again

For at least a decade, my students have entered an annual oratorical contest sponsored by the Optimist Club. I'm too old to compete, but never too old to write. Here's my response to this year's prompt:

How optimism has guided me through trying times. If you’re in my class, it’s not so difficult to see that I’m an optimist. On the first day of school, I had you craft inventions to help you thrive in the year ahead. Our study of Persepolis shined a spotlight on Marji’s resilient expressions of freedom despite widespread oppression across Iran. For dystopian lit–a famously negative genre–I challenged you to disrupt modern-day dysfunction like the protagonists you are. We’ve embarked on a quest for positive thinking in this annual speech contest for which there is a winner in every one of us. Even for our Macbeth unit, a tragic play about corruption, greed, and guilt, you’ll unearth possibilities for healing when most people have already lost all hope in humanity. Finally, at the end of the year, you’ll host our annual Best Life Fair together. It’s an epic event where you’ll all teach visitors how they can achieve wellness in all dimensions. Beautiful. Until I consider that I’m trying to sell sunshine to around 100 sophomores during the most pessimistic stage in human development. Trying times, indeed.

Trust me–I can relate. Want to take a minute to scroll through the news feed on our phones? No, don’t. Not only is it against the rules, but you’ve heard the statistics on the addictive devices that may as well be implanted in our brains. And who needs reminders at school that the world is at war, AI is taking over, trolls perpetuate hate, and the ones at the top are the most divided of all? This is all in addition to the fact that life is, and will continue to be, uniquely challenging for every one of you.

When I was your age, I was not impressed. It was the 90s, and I was grossed out by politics and popularity. If people weren’t stuck up, they were probably stuck in the past. Powerful men were getting away with doing bad things. My all-girls high school was swallowed up by an all-boys one where Colonel Lefavre’s demerit pass was thicker than a copy of War and Peace. No one asked me if I was an optimist when I was sixteen, but I’m sure I would have said no. I was sprinting to keep up with an older brother five years and a GPA point ahead of me. Sprinting is hard, though, when you’re carrying a combination of worry, anger, and disappointment in people like a lead blanket.

Thirty-six years later, however, I stand before you as an optimist–the Best Life lady. What gives me so much hope? All of you sitting here. For an age so commonly associated with angst, your energy is impressive. Sure, you’ve all stepped up to write essays and analyze stories, but you also step up for much more. You’ve said “yes” to challenges–sometimes in this room and sometimes out. I hear about robotics competitions, Archers’ TV episodes, Scholastic Arts awards, and weekend tournaments. You’re running restaurant service for culinary, repairing cars in automotive, memorizing medical terminology. You’re coding, solving crimes, and exploring the human psyche. You’re disrupting dystopia on issues that need serious disruption. If you’re not orating on optimism, you’re opening our eyes to the meaning of freedom. And between these moments, you’re turning to each other to either laugh or roll your eyes. But then you stand back up again to breathe, plant your feet, and proclaim “red leather, yellow leather” while you “put it on the shelf."

Genuine optimism was far from my sophomore outlook on life, but I found my way. Some days I hid, wishing life would pass me by. But most days, I said “yes” to play practice and to art where I eventually found my people. I stopped running the never-ending race with my brother, but I didn’t take off my sneakers. With each small success, I focused less on what I couldn’t control and more on what I could. With each song, brush stroke, and lap around the track, I was less disappointed in everyone around me, and happier with myself. 

Now, here we are, about one month from launching the Best Life Project. You’ll think back on sophomore year–its winding and twisting road–and you’ll decide what the world can learn from you. You know and can do so much. From one corner of ACC to the next, you are already building a more hopeful world. Among you, there are already engineers, artists, and activists, builders and innovators, teachers, leaders. But you’ll accomplish so much more between now and then. In the meantime, I don’t wish your cynicism and criticism away because, without it, I’d lose hope in the change we need. 

In late May, when I look around on fair day at your vision for our best lives, I’ll know: This is what optimism looks like.

Well, well, well

Every year, I lead sophomores on a yearlong, interdisciplinary quest to connect their learning to living their best lives. From September to May, my colleagues and I invite students to view units through a wellness lens: physical, social, mental, intellectual, financial, spiritual, vocational, and environmental. The culminating event is a community fair, a showcase of interactive exhibits designed to teach visitors about their vision for a better world:

Exhibit slogans draw visitors in: “A Good Night’s Sleep: Why Rest is Best,” “Diversity Chats: Embracing Differences to Foster Unity,” and “Cheap Chic: Trash or Fashion?” Touring the fair, one might put on headphones to experience the effects of nature sounds, participate in a robot demonstration with Girls in STEM, engage in a personal finance counseling session, or taste-test dishes that empower young people to prepare healthy food. On their own, each exhibit represents the students’ values and talents. Together, the fair represents our shared commitment to building a world that sustains our individual and collective well-being.

As I mentioned in my last post, I recently wrote a chapter to describe the pedagogical journey that brought this project to fruition. I'm proud of the 3,000 words I submitted to describe it. However, all of you here in Teacher Town know that our vocational wellness edges out the other dimensions far too often. Teaching and writing can be all-consuming, despite any red-hot reminders to slow down and savor the present moment. 

This weekend, I took care of other important parts of myself by petting my dog (mental), watching The Good Place (spiritual), dead-heading flowers in my garden (environmental), categorizing items on my budget spreadsheet (financial), reading Erasure (intellectual), running, hydrating, sleeping in (physical) and going bowling for my birthday (social). 

I hope you all took care of yourselves, too.

I See Fire

On the first Sunday of March, I was finishing up a day of writing. It was a sweatshirt-on-my-couch-with-my-laptop-and-multiple-cups-of-coffee kind of day. With thirteen days to a deadline, I teetered between stress and self-care, apropos for telling the story of my “Best Life Fair” for a chapter in a book titled, Addressing the Climate Crisis For Transforming Schools and Communities. 

“Working on the premise that when we are well, we are better able to protect our environment, students embark on a quest to answer the driving question: What skills and knowledge do we need to create a healthier, happier, more sustainable world?”

The clock had not yet sprung forward and my writing corner was dark. My laptop cast a lonely light on my last, precious weekend hours. Bulleted notes morphed into paragraphs, and my word count crept closer, closer to the maximum, and then passed it without an end in sight. In other words, I wasn't feeling especially well.

Thanks to Rob, chili was on the menu, but I arrived at the table with my brain still wading through words. Squinting at the week’s horizon ahead, I couldn’t make out the shapes or colors before me; my to-do list was as much a blur as the bottle of hot sauce in front of my plate.

The bottle had a swing top––its metal lever and a rubber gasket kept the stopper nice and snug. Pretty nice engineering for a condiment container, but that was beside the point.

As I maneuvered the latch up and over, I perceived a gurgling in my palm. Looking down to investigate, the bottle hissed and––pop! Red hot sauce exploded and washed over my eyes with the force of a fire hose, peeling back my eyelids to reach the furthest crevices of the sockets. Doubled over, I was blinded.

“I can’t see!” I cried, my eyes squeezed shut. Rob reached out; I slapped back. This acidic affliction would not be calmed by a gentle hand. With one arm over my face and the other swinging before me, I stumbled to the sink, nearly toppling glass bottles and bowls atop the counter in my path.

Cold water did nothing to quell the heat at first. Bragan passed me a dishcloth to soak and press, soak and press, but no relief.

“Get me some milk!” I demanded. When my home remedy idea was met with skepticism, I screamed, “Just Google it!”

Finally, I opened my eyes wide under running water for several minutes, a blessed baptism to exorcise viscous demons in my head. At last, I dared to twist the faucet off and blink away any remaining peppery oil, newly anointed by the experience.

Rob and Bragan reached out again, and I accepted their hugs.

For years, March has been the time for slicing—whimsical moments, momentous reflections, bursts of momentum. Since my gaze was temporarily shifted toward a different genre, I had to set this jarring event aside for later. 

Now here I am. I met my deadline, I feel better, and I can see.

Whether we’re looking for it or not, the world sizzles with the heat of a habanero. I’m back for the rest of March to write about it.