My Daddy Can't Whip Your Daddy

I wrote a post for the Teacher-Dad blog.  It's about fear, fathering, and sports.

You can read it by following the link:
My Daddy Can't Whip Your Daddy

A Cheap, Plasticky Walmart Affair

I slammed the phone down. Hard. Not an angry kind of slam, but a scared "I don't want this thing in my hands" kind of slam.

I can still feel the smoothness of that dark green phone- one of those cheap, plasticky Walmart affairs. The coiled cord was the length of an orange industrial extension cable I'd see in my dad's garage.  It was permanently knotted in spots.  The buttons lit up a putrid yellow when you pressed them, and the whole thing felt like it would crumble if you squeezed it too hard.  Cruddy for sure, but, always remembered. It was on this phone that I finally got the courage to call Nell for the first time.

I'd had her number ingrained in my subconscious for a while now. 275–2288. My quivering 16-year-old hand attempted another dial. I made it to the first 8 this time before I flung the phone back down. Bah. Why was this so hard?

I knew she had watched the movie. Forrest Gump had just finished on TNT. I knew she had watched it. I knew.  I'd overheard her say something about that movie at school before. That was going to be my in for the call.  I'd thought up a hundred excuses to call her before, but I always psyched myself out of it.  But tonight was going to be different.  I'd made a deal with myself.  I had to call.  I just had to.

A big chug of Dr. Pepper.  Cheek slaps.  I'm doing it.  This was not going to be like all those other nights.  I am doing it.  Tonight.  Do or die.

Hand shaking, I eased up the clunky green phone.  Dial tone.  Deep breath.  2.  This is so stupid.  Why am I so nervous?  I see her at school every day.  I have classes with her.  I know her.  It's fine.  7.  What if her mom or dad picks up first?  Do I say who's calling or just ask for Nell?  5.  What if nobody answers?  What if they're not home?  2.  What if she doesn't know who I am?  What if I have to explain who I am?  2.  What if she didn't watch the movie after all?  8.  What if I just totally freeze?  She is so breathtakingly beautiful.  What if I can't remember what to say?  The last digit.  Uncharted waters.  What if...  8.

Ringing.
Ringing.
"Hello?" 
"Uh.  Hi.  Is, is this Nell?"
"Yes."
"Oh, hey.  It's, uh, Justin- from school.  So, did you watch Forrest Gump tonight..."

[Photo courtesy of Oldphoneworks.com]

Mag Wheels and Jordache Cool

I can't believe I still remember my ck6000.  What kind of pretentious name for a bike is that?  It was a previously owned (we just said "used" back then) gift from my dad he picked up from who knows where.

It was a BMX beast.  I can still see the rust on the welds between the crossbeam and the handlebars.  It had these awful faded yellow mag wheels.  MAG wheels.  That was cool back then.  Jordache cool.
 
Those mag wheels were heavy too.  That whole bike was ridiculously heavy.  Mine had a black replacement vinyl seat with the diamond etched cross pattern that would always get all sweaty.  

It was the first bike I learned to do tricks on.  I'd go all the way out to the beginning of our farm's gravel drive way.  My chubby fourth -grade legs would pump as hard as I could go.  When I was just past my dad's workshop, I would slam my right foot down to brake and let my left leg slide out on the ground while that big ol' ck6000 would come whipping out from under me in the most bad boy powerslide I could do.  I probably practiced that move for two hours straight when I first learned how.

That was when a bike meant something.  Not only was it freedom and travel, it was status.  Curb jumps were requisite.  Not a bike.  My bike.  It was hideous.  I loved it.

Somebody stole that bike right out of my front yard a few years later.  I was crushed.  That bike was a boyhood love.  It took me to many a sleepover and countless trips to the video store to re-rent Final Fantasy for the seventh time in a row.  I hope it's still out there... somewhere.

[Photo courtesy of BMXmuseum]

The Thing With Feathers

Criminal Minds is a seriously good show.  I got into it last summer and have been watching reruns every time they are on.  And boy are they on.  A lot.  I think it's the new Law & Order, which I'm convinced is on every hour without fail on some channel.

Tonight I watched a new (to me) episode called Mosley Lane.  It was one of those gut -wrenching episodes that makes you want to go lock your doors, hug your kids, and then go check the locks on the doors.

This episode made me think about Zeke.  One of the abducted children dies protecting a little girl who had also been kidnapped.  Zeke is such a special little guy.  He is so strong and brave- so much more than I was at his age.  He is not afraid to get out there and try something.  I think he would be the kind of kid who would have died to protect an innocent girl.

My special little guy is definitely not that little anymore.  But, he'll always be special.  I'm so thankful for the person is becoming.  

The show ended with a great quote by Emily Dickinson.  Here is the poem it comes from:

Hope is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -
And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -
I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.

Don't You Love It When They Come Back?

One of my favorite things is when former students come back to see me.  I love when they come and find me during their inside recess, or come to ask me questions when they are working on a project.  I even like it when they stop me for a 30 second conversation in the hall.  

Most of the students I've taught are still at the same school with me, so I get the luxury of seeing some of them frequently.  A girl I taught last year, whom I absolutely adore, stopped by during my planning period.  She needed some help making a video for her math class.  I took 20 minutes out of my day and had a blast filming a fraction commercial with her.  It was an unexpected surprise that totally made my day.

In my short time as a teacher, I seldom find that students come back to me because they are excited about the things I taught them.  In fact, I've never had a student come back and tell me "Hey Mr. Stortz, thanks for showing me how adverbial phrases relate to dependent clauses!"  Most are rarely impressed at my knowledge of books, or my abilities with a computer.  Many do not remember the famous quotes I recite or the lessons I lay out.  They don't remember my disheveled desk, or that my lesson plans are not impeccable.

What they do remember is the way that I treated them.  The more I teach, the more I am convinced that the most valuable gift I can give to my students is not an education.  It is not motivation, success, or even inspiration.  The most valuable gift I can give to them is love and acceptance as a human being.

I like to think that my students come back because they know that I love and accept them as people. Learning flourishes in the context of love and acceptance. As soon as I stop loving, I stop teaching.

I hope they never stop coming back.

I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.
-Maya Angelou