Kids

I’m sorry I’m leaving you. But you have to know a few things before I go. Maybe I’ve watched too many inspirational movies and read too many books to think you might come across this one day. Or maybe I’m being selfish and thinking of two teachers who continue to change my life, simply by staying in it. I didn’t expect to like teaching kids your age. I thought you were too young. The most fun moments were when I watched you truly be young.  You might forget every fact about the Revolutionary War, that’s fine. Look it up. But know a few things as you start 6th grade.

I’m not leaving you. I don’t have the skills to teach math. I just don’t. I’m working on that, and I beg you to speak up if you’re lost in any class, especially that one. I won’t just follow a teacher’s manual and then leave you to your own devices if you’re confused. I can’t.  Math is cool. Reading is cool. Me pretending to know something I don’t is not.

You are at a good school, and you can make it better. People will tell you who you are, and it’s polite to listen and decide who to trust. Show everyone who you are. Just as I had days when I wasn’t the best version of myself, you will too. But I saw the best of each of you at some point. El Chapo and Steph Curry and Rihanna and even Lionel Messi are no one to try to be. You’re already here. Do something with it.

Choose your people and keep them. If they turn out to be wrong for you, to be less than kind, loyal, and respectful, waste no time in moving on. Life is not meant to do alone—not in 5th grade or 6th or high school or for grown-ups.  There are more good people waiting to walk beside you as you figure things out. Walk away from the ones who don’t fit or can’t love you hard enough.

You taught me how to ask for help as much as anyone else ever did. I needed to be necessary. No amount of compliments and love from my huge support system could fix what was broken in me. You, with your backpacks and writing notebooks and even your fighting tears gave me direction. Our soccer field may have not had nets or lines, but you brought me out of a darker world into a new one out there. You gave me light no one else could.

For being distractions, investigators, listeners, learners, supporters, and protectors, I will always remember how it felt to be called Ms. Jensen the first year. Please try not to worry too much about the presidential election. You’re 11, and you understand the Bill of Rights. There is no wall unless you let there be.  Kanye ‘s right about one thing-- no one man has all that power. We’re all going to be okay.

Peace,

Ms. Jense

I Cry A Lot

I cry a lot.

As in, pretty much daily.

I’ve not been that girl up to this point in my life. I can schedule it fairly well and I’m a quiet crier, so that works well for everyone. I have people in my life who continually remind me that crying is not a sign of weakness, and that I am still the badass I hope to be.

But that’s how I feel about teaching. I cry about it.

Not once has a student hurt my feelings or made me so angry that the tears showed up. It’s been concern for whether I’m good enough, if they have food or power, or my replaying of yet another conversation about immigration and did-I-handle-it-well-enough-because-my-GOD-it-has-to-stop. I cry picturing them watch dads pack to leave for Guatemala and then bravely come to school the next day only to be yelled at for not having a pencil and HOW COULD THEY BE SO IRRESPONSIBLE? WELL?! I have more questions than answers, and, while I don’t feel like a fraud I don’t want to ever feel like I’m finished becoming a teacher.

Because If I do, then I think I’ve failed them. I’m already terrible at grading. I let it pile up and stress out about it. I hate tests, although I get the value in assessments. I forget to double-check their uniforms sometimes. But if I stop being their teacher, then I’ve given up on them and I didn’t sign up to bail. There are enough other adults who will do that, or who already have.

I don’t teach for the summers off. First of all, I teach at a year-round school, but we do still have a long summer. I also work in the summer and barely started teaching. I’m brand new. I don’t do it for the hours. I’m not a morning person and there is no office door to close and shut down—that’s new to me. And loud to me. So loud. They don’t stop talking. It’s fascinating, really. I haven’t ever chosen a job for the money.

I teach both because of a couple of terrible teachers I had and wonderful ones. Both had a massive impact on who I am. The wonderful ones have actually become friends of mine as adults, a fact I am incredibly grateful for. It’s a damn good feeling to be able to tell someone you’re doing something because they mattered to you as a teenager, and still do. They still make a difference, because I got to keep them and they overshadowed any negative experience. Both are coaches, and I believe that has something to do with their approach, at least to me.

The terrible ones told me I was a bad writer. They said I didn’t understand poetry. I was allowed to think for myself at home and was [allegedly] a respectful kid, so it was very confusing to me that English would be the subject that I would struggle most years. That I wouldn’t be allowed to take Creative Writing because I wasn’t creative enough or a writer made me angry, and it hurt. I wanted to be a writer for a living until a high school teacher said to pick a new career. I should’ve told my parents, but I let a teacher tell me who I was. I thought she knew.

I want to know them, as much as they’ll let me. And if they won’t or can’t, they can come back as long as I’m here. There were teachers who saw and knew me, but I listened to the wrong one.  

Now, a list of the most frequently said phrases that I say.  Some are not surprising; all are true [in no particular order]:

·        Pull yourselves together!

·        Hallway procedures—you guys know this.

·        It’s—insert date—you know the rule.

·        Take your hood off.

·        Do not play fight.

·        We don’t run indoors.

·        I hope you do become a rapper; you better learn how to write.

·        I trust you.

·        I’ll help you, but you have to help yourself FIRST.

You are not dumb, this is hard. 

-Stephanie Jensen

6th Grade

I don’t remember much about my time there. It all kind of runs together, doesn’t it? It seems like every day—every single moment—is the most important thing that could ever happen. Until it just isn’t. I remember one of my teachers, because he remains one of my favorites, and I suppose he’s one of the reasons I’m now standing here teaching you. I definitely remember many of my friends, because I’ve kept them. So many grown-ups will tell you that you won’t keep the friends you have now into adulthood, but they don’t know what the hell they’re talking about. I’m here to tell you there is an unexplainable reassurance that only those who have stayed with you through decades can provide. They’re part of the solid foundation that’s kept me safe in the kind of storms I wish I could protect you all from.

Find your crew now and keep them. Treat them right and expect the same.

I think I was a Sunset Eagle cheerleader for about two weeks. That’s how long it took me to figure out it wasn’t who I wanted or needed to be. Perhaps in part due to that experience, I’ve known for years that we all should have a “thing”. My thing is water, specifically swimming. It’s smiling and laughing and making other people laugh. It’s writing, although I rarely do it anymore. [I’m working on that, and my sixth grade self would be very disappointed to hear I stopped writing with regularity. Disappointing the child I once was is my least favorite person to disappoint.] Maybe I have some more “things”, but it’s definitely not being a cheerleader. Sometimes finding out what you’re not is just as helpful.

So find your thing, and don’t let anyone tell you your thing is lame or dumb or somehow less than theirs. You can have more than one thing. Don’t give your thing up because you have a crush on someone and you think it’ll impress them. Don’t stop your thing because a teacher or even a parent doesn’t value it or it isn’t quantifiable on a test. You are an artist, a mathematician, a poet, a scientist, an athlete, a mechanic, a whatever-you’ve-decided-you-are. Because you can’t actually be anything in the world, kid. But you can be just exactly who you are. If you don’t know who you are in sixth grade though? Trust me, you’ll figure it out.  

You are allowed to change your mind.

We’re now a little over a month into the school year so this morning as I watched you all settle in more, I tried to think harder about my own sixth grade year. I wanted to think about how it was for me, so I could relate to you. But can I relate better to you than I already do? I don’t know. My entire teaching philosophy is focused on the sentence “Be who you needed when you were younger.” Yes, we have English curriculum. Yes, I teach it. I know grammar, although I certainly don’t always use it perfectly myself. [My Twitter timeline is a testament to run-on sentences simply because I want to use them.] Sometimes I have no idea where you’re coming from. Other times I understand so much I have to take a deep breath before answering your shattering questions. As I tried to think about my own experience I was overcome with other emotions that had nothing to do with me and my history and everything to do with you and your present.

Today’s quote was “Treat everybody like they’re somebody.” One of you was convinced I was the author of that quote, even though I cited it properly [Chelsea Leifken]. Still, you said it just sounds like something I would say. I hope you’re right, and I’m flattered. Someone else jumped in and said “But Ms. Jensen doesn’t lie to us, so it wasn’t her. It was that Chelsea lady!” And now I’m honored; you’re truly getting to know me, and that’s what this life is meant for.

Last week when I quoted one of my own best friends—the first time I quoted someone I know in real life, you all lost your minds: Is he famous? Where does he live? Does he fix scary things for you? He protects you from stuff? Can he be our new Science teacher you think? Call him and ask! PLEASE?!? So boys and girls can be best friends even when they’re grown-ups? Are you gonna-marry-him-I-mean-we-know-he’s-just-your-best-friend-but-stilllll? Will he come visit us one day? Does he like soccer? OH MY GOD WILL HE COME PLAY SOCCER WITH US?

You guys are ridiculous. Please don’t stop being that way. Just don’t talk over each other [or me], and stay in your seats during class.

I know as a child I worried a lot. Excessively. I still do, but not to the degree I did then. My greatest fear then was something bad happening to someone in my family. Based on the autobiography poems my students wrote on the first day of school this year, it’s most of their greatest fear as well. This past weekend it came true for one. I have no delusions about my abilities to help him or the rest of my class through this. But I have no confusion about the importance of my role either. To lose a mother at any age can’t be easy. To have it happen in a high-profile situation when you’re 12?

He’s gonna need his crew.

We got this. We can do difficult things. I’ve learned a thing or two since finishing sixth grade, the rest of school, then coming back to teach, and maybe that’s one of the most important. We can do anything together.

Tomorrow we write.

Peace,

Ms. Jense