DIY Literacy #inspired #cyberPD

Being in education, summer comes roaring in like waves, some are intense and action packed, others are quiet times where a book is your best friend.  This beautiful summer swept in softly, starting with a sweet winding down with half a week in Kuala Lumpur celebrating birthdays, getting massages and lunching amongst friends.  The other half of the week was spent diving in aquamarine waters with my soon to be married, often traveling partner in crime, Heather Rich.    The first week of summer was the perfect introduction to a summer about tuning into things I want and exploring at a leisurely pace.  After the islands, I feel to Barcelona for a whirlwind week of friends, wine, and walking.  It was so nice to be in the coastal climate and soaking in one of my favorite cities in the world.  From Barcelona, I zoomed off to DC, diving into a week of professional development, doing more work unpacking standards and revamping our literacy units.   Whereas, these last two weeks have returned to a little bit of quiet and time to do some work on aligning report card indicators and reading PD books such as Jennifer Serravallo's  Reading Strategies and Kate and Maggie Roberts', DIY Literacy. 

Due to my wonderfully tech literate and super ambitious colleague and friend, Erika Victor, I stumbled upon this group and since, I have drunkenly loved DIY Literacy,(meaning that I keep on getting amazing ideas from this book that I want to share and start asap) I thought I would participate in a few of the discussions. 

Reflection on Chapters 1 & 2 and bonus: The first chapter really reinforced the importance of tools. Tools that help scaffold but aid in independent thinking can help make our teaching better and improve student learning.  Students who use tools should be able to self-assess, goal-set, and adjust their tools to best approach their learning.    As I read through Chapter 2, the book gave me a smile because it was easy for me to make repertoire and process charts on post-it notes the way it was set up, which I may be able to break down simply for my teachers who don't want to read the whole book.   Every teacher knows that students learn through modelling and Kate and Maggie have done a good job modelling their tools in "how to" friendly ways, particularly for teachers who are accustomed to a workshop model.   Finally, in the third "bonus" chapter,  I was really struck by how all of these tools and strategies really go back to us being good teachers, which translates to: being lifelong learners, knowing our kids their academic and learning strengths, weaknesses and how-tos, and finally, being risk-takers and not being afraid to hold our students' hands as they take their own risks. 

The Tools: Loved the review and clear examples and how to structure of the tools.  Repertoire/ process charts are a familiar friend to me, as well as student generated bookmarks.  This past year, I worked with some teachers to also work on unpacking Lucy Calkins' reading progressions. After having read a lot about micro-progressions, I am ambitious to first try to familiarize kids and teachers more with the language of her reading progressions.  Once, we have achieved more familiarity with these progressions, I think teachers will be able to pull apart her progressions and write them with a more individualized tone to meet their students specific needs.  In the past, I have used conferring binders to help which have been helpful in writing more than in reading and I am anxious to play around with demonstration notebooks this year, particularly in some of the units I have taught a few times. 

My Big A-Ha: These days, I feel more confident conferring particularly in writing, than I have ever in my life.  As a literacy coach, I have to do it across 6 grade levels but am flexible and fluid in my choices.  Still the same, one thing that I have to watch myself on is the potential to cram too much into a conference.  I think that the micro-progressions could be a great tool with this issue as you would have your layers of complexity on the specific targeted skill but you could not detour from what was already there.  These tools are really differentiated for teachers and students.  It is natural for teachers to work with process/ repertoire charts and have kids devise their own relevant learning bookmarks, however, micro-progressions and demonstration notebooks start to hold students a lot more accountable for their learning in a great way. 

In closing... this book is leaving me inspired, there are post-its overflowing aside it, I am forming little repertoire/ process charts from the step by step processes Kate and Maggie have laid out. Additionally, I cannot wait to share this book with my curriculum coordinator and discuss the power of micro-progressions because I feel like they could be used authentically in a multi-disciplinary way and hope to do a back to school interactive presentation with the teachers on using them.  I would appreciate any ideas on what this might look like?  

When Earth Comes...in appreciation of Menorca

When Earth Comes....

How the earth penetrates my epidermis and 

Shoots lighting 

Through my body

Electrifying my veins

Seeping into my bloodstream

Funneling a melodious steam in my corps which

Evaporates off my pores and 

Circulates back into the ecosystem

How the water laps over my skin

Saturates my mind which

Manufactures thoughts and

Aches to be turned off painlessly.

How the heart twitches with the touch

of  heavenly form that

Exists only in your eyes

Possibly

How the moon illuminates your innocence

Shines the spotlight on your vulnerability

Lifts your soul into nirvana

This is how we remember how alive we really are. 

Reading, Raki and Randomness: Balkans 2014

So I found myself in a taxi with a man named Reef who was in his late 30s/ early 40s out of the Skopje airport at 12:30 in the morning.  He asked what an American was doing in Skopje, I replied with my story about a fascination with the Balkans as we turned down a dark highway.  The highway was vacant and looked like a potential kidnapping situation until the sign 20 km to Skopje was illuminated and I breathed a quick sigh of relief.

The next day I woke up and walked in circles until I found the lion bridge to cross into the Old town area,  a little mix of Turkish markets, Dubrovnik beige stoned streets and many men in colorful clothing lined the streets.  Later on, I approached the newer side of town and decided upon a trip to the Museum of the Macedonian Struggle.  Naturally, being the only visitor to the museum, I entered and paid my 5 euros and quickly was told, "You may not enter without a guide." To which I replied desperately, "But, it´s just me." And was rapidly reminded, "It´s the rules." So my tour guide put on his suit jacket and cleaned his glasses and we made our way into the hidden tours.  As he continued to tell me the marvelous and extensive story of the Macedonian struggle, I worked on making eye contact and nodding, thinking to myself, how the hell am I going to pay attention to this guy for the next two hours and get to understand what´s happening here?  Luckily, we were rescued by the desperation of the museum director for the solo English speaking guide to lead a tour of 50 random English speakers, and so they accompanied me as I learned about the many assassinations, territory claims and independence movement of Macedonians.  Later on, while being the only solo visitor at the City museum, the guide recommended a snack of Ayjur and Bosa and so went to the supermarket and indulged in some Macedonian splendor.

The next day, I woke up at 6 am and headed to Prishtina, Kosovo.  Kosovo is a place that less than 20 years ago was a center of struggle for between Albania and Serbia.  It wasn´t until recently, 2008 that it gained independence and not until 2013 that it was given complete authority to rule itself in Prishtina.  As I strolled down Bill Clinton Avenue, I was impressed with the life that was present in the streets.  Left, right and center, people were dining, taking coffees, artistic exhibitions, music festivals. I thought of the wealth of a country like Venezuela and the lack of life on the streets and how funny it is that Kosovo, a country with one of the highest unemployment rates in Europe seemed so alive and resilient.  The museum was an odd experience, sponsored by NATO, but lacking the signs of any of NATO´s money.  One had to wonder what´s the point.

Museum of History Kosovo

The next morning, I made myself to the capital of Albania, Tirana, a colorful city with the very odd Mumja discotheque, now art exposition, which used to actually host the Enver Hoxha museum.  Enver Hoxha was one of Albania´s fierce leaders from the mid 1940s to 1985.  He led the country through periods of resistance against Yugoslavia, unified with Communist Russia during the 1950s and even went so far to join the Maoists for a large part of the 1960s.  Tirana was a vibrant city, complete with many bunkers, rumored to be used for teenagers looking for a place to lose their virginity.  One would find the bridges lined with books and a well-planned city with greenery all around.   The history museum there was not such an adventure and without the help of the Lonely Planet, I wouldn´t have survived.  All in Albanian, I was not able to patch the pieces of the puzzle together as much as I would have liked.  I enjoyed an evening meal with a French friend, Silva, and we exchanged ideas about the lack of women in the city and the overall friendliness of Albanians but lack of willingness to discuss the past.

Kumja Discotheque, Tirana

Graffiti Art, Tirana

The bus to Berat the next morning was an interesting adventure.  A ride that normally takes 2.5 set us back 4 hours down dusty, gravel one way roads.  It appeared that I was appearing to enter the more "Wild West" of Albania.  Berat, a historical city that in the past was known as one of the major capitals of the Ottoman Empire, was a picturesque town built into the city.  Although, I am not really sure what else was happening there.  I walked around for about 2 hours through the downtown and saw a handful of people.  "All the people are at the beaches," said the hotel manager and so, that´s where I headed.

Berat, Albania

Berat, Albania

 The next morning on a bus ride to Saranda, Albania, I finished my fourth book over the last 5 days.  When traveling alone, you have a lot of time for contemplation, reading and relaxation and so I indulged while the summer was still going strong.  In the bus, I sat next to some 17 year old Albanian boys who were off to the beaches for a boys trip, something that according to them, doesn´t happen for young Albanian women.  "And why weren´t there so many Albanian women on the streets at night in Tirana?"  I asked curiously.  "It´s just not a thing in our culture." The boy with the best English said.  Whatever that means.

When I reached Saranda, my heart leapt, finally the beach.  The winds of the coastal city and salty air, I realized how much I missed Barcelona, longing for this sunny seaside.  My quick flutter of fun was curtly interrupted by an injection of frustration unable to find the hostel.  As my blood sugar dropped rapidly and face flushed, I took refuge and dove into a pizza before attempting to find my hostal.  When I finally arrived at the top of the 8th floor, last door on the left, instructions that seemed like an email from a CIA agent, I was pleasantly welcomed with a shot of Raki and an amazing view of a beach just walking distance from the hostal.  Do check out the Hairy Lemon hostel if you are in Saranda, Annette is a doll and it is a place that attracts all kinds of types, young, old, families, couples, singles, etc.  After a long day in the bus, I headed to the beach, and was so happy I could leave whatever I wanted on the shore while I took a swim.

The next day, I spent wandering amidst old Grecian/ Albanian ruins in the city of Butrint and napping in one of the infamous Southern Albanian beaches in the town of Ksamil.   A little bit of old amongst a lot of new with the development of high rises and other apartments in Saranda attracting Scandinavians to the beaches and coastline predicted to be Europe´s next Croatia.

Ksamil, Albania

                                                     
All in all, a route that was somewhat educational but very interesting.  After living in Thailand and traveling in Vietnam, it seems to me that some countries are so good at being hospitable (Thailand) and others want you to completely understand what has happened and what might happen because of the past (Vietnam). This is just a fraction of my adventures and there is more to come. To me and clearly, to other adventurous backpackers I met along the way, the Balkans are something that you can enjoy on so many levels; historically, physically and emotionally and I love the energy produced by the locals and travelers one meets along the way in this new and still rather untouched part of Europe.

A Year of Plenty: Reflecting on 2013

If you are lucky in life, you have people surrounding you that are incredible writers, artists, sportsmen, lovers, wisdom-holders, tear-wipers, travel buddies, team-players; or in other words, you are lucky, to be blessed.

The last year of my life included many compelling milestones, voyages, reconnections and plain happiness.  I do say, I am a little nervous about maintaining the wonder and amazement of it all, it´s a challenging task to renew beauty.

On one hand I don´t want to sound as if I am bragging; on the other hand, I do want to remember these wonderful opportunities and in the digital age and time we live in, my thought is that one day, someone will look back at this document and think ´this was what the average person was doing in 2013..´

So without further adieu, in no particular order except the way that my memory processes, here are some of the tremendous opportunities I luckily had in 2013.

Born to Run: I ran my first marathon in 4 hours 6 min in Amsterdam, in the Netherlands.  It was a sunny day, there were over 45,000 participants and the city of Amsterdam took me under their wing as if I was one of their own.  (I suppose it doesn´t hurt that my blond hair and blue eyes gave the overall appearance I was Dutch).  2 of my favorite people in the world were there: Lisa Rivera, one of my best friends and traveling running partners extraordinare, came in around 3 hour 45 minutes, bless her ironman heart and steel legs; Andrés Manso, my partner followed me around Amsterdam using planes, trams and cabs to make sure he could give me a clap and a thumbs up sign while I struggled through all 42 km, particularly the last 4 km.   Overall, I am not sure how I feel about more marathons.  I do know I prefer trail running in the end but we´ll see.  Sometimes it´s hard to resist the idea of a trip to a new place all in the name of running a marathon.

Oh the places that you´ll go: I reached 50 countries, it´s only a little less than 1/3 of the countries in the world but I am well on my way.  This year, I travelled to Ireland, Belgium, Senegal, Japan, England, The Netherlands, Croatia, Bosnia-Herzegovenia, The Philippines, Greece, Czech Republic, France and to Menorca and Santiago de Compostela within Spain.   Being in Barcelona makes it easier to conquer Europe and more difficult to get to more exotic destinations such as Africa and Asia, but it is in my blood to be in these less frequented places of the world.  In El Nido, Palawan, I was touched by the sense of community set to a backdrop of the Jungle Book meets The Beach.  In Cap Skerring, Senegal, I got my groove back in a hip hop club surrounded by gorgeous chocolate men and women.  And in Mostar, Bosnia, I had the privilege of listening to Ahmed, our Croatian-Bosnian tour guide, who had lived for ten years in the US, who shared multi-level perspectives on the past, present and potential future of his country and the extensive Baltic peninsula.   In the themes of books, I take this quote from Augustine of Hippo to remind us "The World is a Book, those who do not travel read only one page."

On the Road:  Finishing the Camino de Santiago has been a 2 year process.  In the end, it turned out to be one of the most spectacular experiences of my life.  This year, I had the pleasure and challenge of finishing the last 200 km with my mother.  My mom was a trooper the whole time, trying to force a smile on her face and ignore her blistering soles.  In the end, I was blessed to have an assortment of friends and family around us.  Andrés made the journey from Barcelona and our two friends, Albert and Aleix, arrived in Santiago the same day as my Mom and I.  My Dad also arrived to Santiago and before I knew it, I was surrounded by love and accomplishment on the road.  I cannot recommend this journey enough to people who like to walk, meet people and be at one with nature.  The Camino will always be a part of me, in my buckling knees and warming my heart with one fond memory after the next.

Of course there was much more, just like more is yet to come.  But no one has time to read through all of my ups throughout the year, and everyone should know that there were also many dark and twisty moments throughout the year.  It´s why roller coasters are fun and often compared to life.  They wouldn´t be fun without all the ups and downs.  You often have to look back at the ride and remember the, whoa and wow, all at the same time to really feel the pleasure of the journey.  I hope to read more people´s reflections and thank especially my Barcelona community for being expressive and ready to inspire by regularly blogging.   One of my many goals this year is to do just that, blog and write more,  there´s a lot floating around up there that might provide a little wisdom or at the very least some humor and empathy.  And to finish in some more famous words provided by William W. Purkey, an old favorite and something wonderful to live by in the year to come and hopefully many more.

“You've gotta dance like there's nobody watching,
Love like you'll never be hurt,
Sing like there's nobody listening,
And live like it's heaven on earth.” 

Finding the Way at the Very End- Camino de Santiago Part 2

This is the personal narrative I wrote in 6th grade this year and it largely represents my Camino experience this year while walking with my mom from Ponferrada to Santiago. I hugely learned that what is one woman´s pleasure is often another one´s pain, but it brought my Mom and I closer and I finished something I committed too. 

Finding the Way at the Very End.

I looked before me, with my legs wobbling back and forth, weary and tired from the 205 km we had walked in a week. The stairs, all 20 of them, appeared monstrous, like a mini- Everest lying in front of me and I hadn´t even hit base camp. In a way, they were laughing at me, grey faced and strong.  I knelt down feeling the cold stone on my knees, it felt like dry ice puncturing my knee caps and pain instantly hit my heart. This was going to be much more difficult than I thought, just like the Camino had been for my Mom.

I looked deep into my Mom´s eyes. She stood, at the top of the steps, staring down at me, with tiredness drawn all over her body and eyes aching for sleep.   As she was waiting for me at the top of the stairs as I lined up behind many pilgrims to enter the grandiose cathedral in Santiago for the daily mass.  I needed to know and understand her tiredness.  I needed to feel all the soreness she had spoke of every time she showed up at the albergue with buckling knees and fatigued eyes.   I wanted to understand how someone can´t have a smile after walking 30 km, because it felt that good for me.  I looked at the stairs and watched the church group bow down to their knees.  They quietly took off their shoes and placed them on their hands and began to climb the 20 or so stairs that laid before them.  I looked at my Mom again.  She saw the glimmer in my eye, the determination that I was going to follow the pilgrims and follow the way.  I knew what I had to do.

        I slowly untied my shoelaces, happy to have my sore feet escape from the trap of sweaty hiking boots.  I knelt down on the first grey, stoney step.  I felt the cold rock cool my body which momentarily gave me relief in the heat of the scorching sun.  2 seconds later, my mom and I met eyes.  She looked at me and realized what I was doing.  I could feel her glance burning a hole in my heart.  I could feel my knees resisting the rock underneath them, beginning to ache from the seconds without moving.  I looked down and began.

        With my shoes in my hands, I made it up the first step.  ´Not that bad,´I thought, my heart fluttering and my eyes glancing upwards, noticing the 19 or so more steps that lay before me.  The man on my left who was two steps above me, quivered with pain.  The woman on my right, had tears forming in her eyes and a face that screamed pain.  She used her coat sleeves to lay down padding every time she went up another step.

        As the seconds past, I began to realize how easy it would have been to climb those stairs normally and how easy it was for me to walk the Camino.  But that was just it, the Camino wasn´t supposed to be easy.  In fact, it was supposed to be something that challenged you every day, every hour, every minute.  With my next step, my body pinched itself, I gasped, feeling the guilt run through my body into my knees and slamming against the cold stone.

Once more, I gazed at my mom and tears began to form in her eyes.  When I saw the tears flowing freely out of her eyes, I felt sadness boiling up inside of me  and the tears rushed out of my eyes.  With each step, I breathed in deeper breaths, because each step didn´t get easier.  It was completely the opposite, each step came upon me like a fire breathing dragon that got it´s defense by roaring on your knees. With the excruciating pain, I felt lifting my sweaty legs off the lower step, I raised my knees to the next step and to the next step, sucking in air, each time I reached the step and could breath for 5 seconds before moving onto the pain of standing in one place for too long.

        My mom took a long glance at me.  Her tears gave me strength.  Her tears made me know that she knew. I wanted to understand what she had gone through.  I wanted to let her know that this was her Camino and I was there for her.

        I made it through the middle stairs rapidly with her weak smiles and the powerful raindrops falling gently off her face.  Reaching the platform, I let out a “aghhhw!” piggish noise.  My knees now layered with pebbles dug deeply into my epidermis, pressing against the stone simultaneously, feeling a frog in my throat as I tried to swallow.

        The woman next to me with tiredness singing from her eyes, said “No puedo.”

        I got next to her and said “Te ayudo?” and she shooed me away like a fly.

        I remembered the journey is only your journey and you must get there independently.

        I looked at the last 8 steps.  My mom, in her florescent yellow jacket, blue shorts and pink sweater was waiting for me, silently cheering me on.  “Oh Boo.” she mouthed the words to me, my nickname, and I think she got it. I slowly climbed up, checking on the troubled lady behind me, but simultaneously, looking forward towards my mom and the liberty of standing.  And finally, there it was the last step, looking at me in the face, smiling at me at eye level, laughing at my knees 4 steps below.  ´No sweat´ I thought my hands swimming in my sweaty shoes and my knees wobbly moving from left to right to minimize the pain.

I reached the final step and pushed myself up, as my knees flexed back and forth, side to side.  My mom rushed up to me between where she watched and the last step.  Tears streamed down her face and contagiously, formed in my own eyes. ´I know it was hard´I said silently, wearing my apology in my face, my eyes glistening with salty tears.  She squeezed my hand and leaned forward to hug me.  To me, those were her unspoken words, ´Now, I know you understand.´

Remembering What We Must Not Forget

        I remember seeing photos across newspapers and seeing the covered grandmothers.  Their cheeks were hollowed out and they wore scarves around their heads and their hearts under layers of clothes.  I remember noticing lines of people lining up for food and making a connection to the great depression.         And there were nightly newscasts with sirens, and bomb blasts and cloudy skies, and yet, I had no idea what was happening in Bosnia Herzegovina in 1992 and why.  I was 12 years old and well, I would like to say I was sensitive and alert to what was happening in the world and astute for a pre-teen, I was only so much, in my own little self-absorbed world.  And yet, as an adolescent, it´s not an excuse but it does provide some background justice to my ignorance.  Meanwhile,  I don´t know what the adult (10 years my senior) world´s response would be to that statement, but I am not sure how anyone who actually knew what was happening and wasn´t directly involved could justify their turning of a cheek, as the world did, more or less, during the 90s war of the Balkans.

       I have been lucky enough in my life to be able to dive into some history, that was taught to me, through landmarks and living histories of people who experienced war, injustice, poverty and the woes of the world.  Across South Africa, Laos, Vietnam, Korea, Cambodia; Salvador, Brazil;  Singapore and India, I was able to learn more from my visits to castles, forts, food tours, cooking classes, tunnel tours, theatre presentations, dance troupes, long chats and much more, I learned more about the history and cultures of these place then I ever did in history class or in a museum.   And yet, in Bosnia Herzegovina, a museum was really all I had, because 20 years later, there are very few people who want to talk about it.  Furthermore, a museum gives you half of what you should know or want to know, but it also melts your heart because you are formulating an idea about a history that is not yours without any true personal understanding or monumental understanding to help expand your knowledge. 

      As I travelled from Dubrovnik to Mostar, up the tree-lined coasts with turquoise waters, with light creating sparkling diamonds, into the rolling hills with water clear as glass and green lush, I was drawn to the simple, untouched landscape with a mere windy road and a few cities sporadically laid throughout the Bosnian countryside.  

     In Mostar, even though it took us two hours to find our charming guesthouse, everyone in the city was at our service with little or no English.  When there was a will, there was a way.  As we walked around Mostar, lined with old buildings labeled "Dangerous ruins" do not enter and cemeteries the size of small lakes, one couldn´t immediately fight the wave of sadness flooding your core.  A city not rebuilt, bursting 100s of tourists during the day and turning into a ghost town at night, the whole idea of hope comes in like the wave and and lulls and rises of a tide. 

    "These cities have been killed by indifference, by our conviction that somebody else- the government,  the party, those "above" are -- in charge of it. Not us.. How can we be in charge of it, if we are not in charge of our own lives?" Slavenka Drakulic 

     How right Slavenka was, our tour guide Admir, explained to us.  "The Bosnian government has received billions of dollars of aide to rebuild this country and yet, there´s a 50% unemployment rate, little industry and no physical sign of where the money has gone.  Corruption is rampant and no one knows what is next."   

      I did some research. Admir was right. 5.3 billion Euros have been invested into the country and yet, in Sarajevo, building corners lay shackled with bullet holes; new architecture is only represented in the reconstructions of old architecture or in the art deco buildings that barely survived the war.  Where has the money gone and what can we do to make sure history doesn´t repeat itself as people want to eat, live, work, worship and more independently?  Rights, most of us, rarely consider desires but fundamentals to our everyday existence. 

   I just finished a book, written by Croatian author, Slavenka Drakulic.  It was titled, How We Survived Communism and Even Laughed.  She, herself, said, in an epilogue that the title was not appropriate, given that her country and many other former Yugolsavian states entered a whole other war, shortly after it was finished. A war that was not worth laughing about.  A war, that I know, as a 30 something, I need to understand better to understand the world better.  It was a war that is being mirrored in Syria right now, and a war in which the world let hundreds of thousands people die.  

    After my trip to Bosnia, I am not laughing.  I yearn to learn more and I want to better understand how the world continues to let these wars, civil or what have you, continue where people are continuously killing each other or fearing for their lives.  I´ll end on a quote that inspired me to speak up and out and if nothing, try to encourage a re-education of the events of Bosnia.  

"The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing." Edmund Burke

Here´s to the crazy ones.

Here's to the crazy ones, the misfits, the rebels, the troublemakers, the round pegs in the square holes... the ones who see things differently -- they're not fond of rules... You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify or vilify them, but the only thing you can't do is ignore them because they change things... they push the human race forward, and while some may see them as the crazy ones, we see genius, because the ones who are crazy enough to think that they can change the world, are the ones who do. Steve Jobs

  Yesterday, I watched a TED talk that inspired me to be each one of my students´

champion. Every kid needs a champion! 

   Contemplating this, it´s quite a big task, but somebody´s gotta do it, right.  I challenged myself the the last 30 days of teaching to be extraordinary.  To be a teacher that shared new things on a daily basis that weren´t necessarily relevant to the coursework or units, but relevant to life on a whole new level. And maybe, I am a rebel for it, and maybe I just see things differently and meaning differently like Steve Jobs suggested.  However, for now, this is a mission and an important one, because inspiration is integral to our lives as human beings.  We dance around happiness, looking for love, looking for light but really, we just need something to believe in and something to move us forward into action. 

   When I think back of all my professors, the ones that truly inspired.  I think of Lavada Nicholls, my photography teacher, from High school, who stood by my side as I fumbled towards photographic ecstasy over 4 years and came out with a small but developing eye for beautiful things, but probably more, particularly, the need for human beings to interact with each other and art.  

  I think of Mr. Kennedy, who asked me to stay after class in Expressive writing class.  Everyone knows that terror of having to stay after class and I immediately though I had done something wrong, when in fact, he wanted to praise me and encourage me to publish my work in a mainstream magazine.  My kwirky writing had hit the right note and sent me soaring into believing I was finally, a capable writer.

  When I think of the crazy ones, I think of Chandra Mohanty, who told me, "maybe Hamilton isn´t right for you, maybe you need something way out of your comfort zone."  Looking back, I know she knew me way before I knew myself.  

  You need to know that Bob Palusky, my pottery teacher, who watched me meticulously try to master the art of throwing pots and centering clay, stood by me, knowing that all that ridiculous pneumonia filled passion that I spent in the studio, would one day lead to some powerful hand sculptures.  Our professors that make us good don´t only push us to be funnier and smarter, they push us to go way outside of where we knew existed.  They push us to work harder even when we aren´t good at things.  They push us to want to be successful in things that are initially impossible.  What a big job they had.  What a bigger one I have nowadays with social media, globalism and increasing economic gaps in every small crack surrounding us.  

  Facebook rumor has it, it´s National teachers week and I have to say that being a teacher for the last 11 years hasn´t been a ride in the park.  It´s been a turbulent filled ride around the world, filled with tears, romance, depression, captivation, awe, beauty and sadness, but writing about it, makes me realize, how much I myself embody all those feelings on a daily or weekly basis.  Being surrounded by these emotions only really makes me feel more human. So, in honor of National teachers week, I fully support Steve Jobs´wise words because I would be aimlessly feeling for the light in the dark without those teachers that made me "think different." Without good teachers,making me smile until my face hurt, or smiling and nodding and knowing I would find my path, I would be still wandering through the fields looking for my part to share.  Because of good teachers, I have been blessed to share the love and adventures I find around the world with each one of my students in a hope to inspire equally, magic.