A 20-Year Journey

O the Raggedy Man! He works fer Pa;
An' he's the goodest man ever you saw!
He comes to our house every day,
An' waters the horses, an' feeds 'em hay;
An' he opens the shed -- an' we all ist laugh
When he drives out our little old wobble-ly calf;
An' nen -- ef our hired girl says he can --
He milks the cow fer 'Lizabuth Ann. --
Ain't he a' awful good Raggedy Man?
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!
--James Whitcomb Riley, “The Raggedy Man”

“It’s about diversity,” my dad would say as he closed the giant book of Children’s Literature. Reading this poem often was one of my father’s several attempts to keep my brother and I thinking about a world bigger than the one children create in their heads. Though my parents taught us life’s lessons through conversation, television, and the computer, the avenue used most often for dialogue was my father reading aloud from a book nearly every night of my childhood.

The giant book of Children’s Literature had stories and poems that had deeper meaning than the R.L. Stine books I checked out from the library. When my father read, he had the full attention of the whole family, that is, until my mother ultimately fell asleep, a tradition she carries on to this day. I realized later that my father came from a family of readers, of educators. I knew that the Highfills were first and foremost teachers, but their profession extended into the home. My granddaddy read from the gospel every Christmas, perhaps the only time I ever heard the bible read. When I was in grade school, I lived too far away to visit my grandparents, so my grandmother recorded herself reading stories so that I’d have something to listen to at bedtime.

As my brother and I grew older, my parents’ reading choices matured with us. “Watership Down” was the first true chapter book I remember. On my own, I would have thought that the entertaining novel was just a cute story about a bunch of rabbits. My father explained the social and economic implications behind the exciting humor and eloquence of the story.

We went on to read Twain’s “Tom Sawyer” and Hemingway’s “The Old Man and the Sea.” Books such as “Sounder” and a couple of John Steinbeck’s shorter stories were added to our repertoire. One time, we read “Midsummer Night’s Dream” and each family member read a character or two. And then came Harry Potter.

I was worried I wouldn’t like Harry Potter. I didn’t get into the craze at first, being rebellious and “different”. I was very skeptical to add that book to the ranks, when so far we had read Shakespeare and Mark Twain…could some woman from England really meet my family’s standards? I don’t even like fantasy or science fiction. Surely this idea was way off the mark.

I was wrong from the very beginning; from the first chapter I knew I was so wrong. Though we started reading Potter when I was in high school, I felt like a young child again. I had never felt so enthralled, so mesmerized by a book, though our previous reading experiences always left me wanting more. We read the first two books in the series consecutively, before the third was released. I gladly joined Pottermania. The rest of my family fell just as hard as I did.

When the third book was released, I was in 10th grade. By this point the entire muggle world was taken over by a new obsession—reading. When I went to the midnight release party at Barnes & Noble, I realized the impact that these books had on children and adults everywhere. People were reading, and for once, children put aside video games and cartoons to pick up a book. My father read aloud as my brother and I were on the edge of our seats, along with my mother before she fell asleep.

We went to the midnight releases for books four and five, and every time my father had to read longer and faster as our interest grew more intense. There were nights we stayed up until the early morning, listening to the very end of each book. Crying and laughing, and of course discussing. By the time book six rolled around, I’m sure my father welcomed a break. Though we were disappointed, my brother was away in California and I was back at college in the fall. My brother suggested we read it over the phone, but in the end, I bought two copies and my brother bought his own and for the first time in Potter history, we read to ourselves.

With every book came more media attention and spoilers were beginning to be published on CNN the day after the release. I was worried about book seven. Could we really take the time to listen to the book and finish before we accidentally heard the end? What horror if after so many years of dedication we caught the final pages in a careless comment on the Today Show. At this point, my brother and I were both in our 20s, and my whole family was working. Did we have enough time to sit down like we had for the past 20 years and read a book?

Many of you have heard about our Harry Potter/Bill Clinton vacation. It was my mom’s idea to vacation with the specific goal of reading Harry Potter. We knew that if we stayed at home, even if we took off work, there would be too many distractions for us to really concentrate. If we were going to succeed, and finish the series the same way we started it, we needed to think out a plan, a book seven-intense plan.

We were able to read over half of the book in our few days in Little Rock, mostly in the car to and from. We blocked out all news and conversation for several days after our vacation and ended up finishing almost a week, to the minute, after the book was purchased. My dad read for six hours that Friday night.

I have never been prouder of my family than in the moment that my father closed the last book. Though it was never mentioned, we all knew that this was likely our last book together. It was hard to say goodbye to the Harry Potter series, but what was even more difficult, was saying goodbye to the endless hours I spent listening to my father’s amazing voice. When I review the list of things we have read over the years, dating from Shakespeare’s England to Rowling’s England, I know that a huge part of who I have become is etched in memories on the pages of those books. I am so blessed to have been born into a family that valued literature, but I am more blessed to have a family that values being a family. I hope that I can carry on this tradition with my own children, not only reading aloud, but creating an environment full of imagination and diversity.

Harry Potter+Bill Clinton=awesomeness

I know I haven’t updated in a while and I think it is because I depend on these simplistic yet deep experiences to inspire my writing. I can’t just write about the amazing Mission Trip I took this summer, or my summer job, or the nervousness/excitement for my new teaching job…I have to find something deeper, something interesting, something…story-like and maybe even preachy.

With friends abroad and in seminary, I often feel like I have to be amazingly thoughtful or witty in order to hold some interest. Well, working at a theater and building a deck isn’t that thoughtful or interesting. But I’m going to talk about it anyway. Welcome to a blog entry I like to call “The First Summer Megan Is Not Anticipating Returning to Oberlin.”

I would have to say that my summer started back in April. Though I was far from finishing my semester of hell in the Kansas City Missouri School District, I had orientation for my summer job working at a theater. I work in ticket-sales with many other teachers, school nurses, and other seasonal employees. It’s a very positive environment and I have had very few “bad” days. It’s also very flexible which has been good for all of my summer activities.

In early May, I was hired for an opera pit orchestra. Gilbert & Sullivan’s production of “The Mikado” was sung by opera singers but acted with life-size puppets. It was an amazingly fun experience and really put my playing to the test. Though the music wasn’t too difficult, I had never been hired to play in an orchestra and I felt the pressure of needing to play to perfection to really “earn” my money. The best result of this experience is that I am now a part of that orchestra and should get hired several times a year to play.

June 12, I served my last day as Music Teacher of K-8 at Trailwoods Elementary. I know I will miss the children, but I left on good terms and I am really glad that I did. I appreciate my cooperating teacher’s advice when I was student teaching in Ohio: Never stay where you are unhappy. Get out as soon as you can, because otherwise it’s not fair to the children.

After June 12 I went back to having one job. I realized that since I started college, I’ve always had more than one thing going at once…school + job, school + job + job, job + job…never had I really spent time just doing one thing. And I entered into a state of mind that was foreign to me: boredom. Not that I didn’t still have tons to do to prepare for the Mission Trip and help with my family, but I wasn’t running from place to place nor was I anticipating returning to Oberlin to be a busy college student. I don’t know if this is how summer is supposed to feel, but I feel healthier and more frustrated. I’m well-rested, well-fed, and there are days, horribly dull days, when I don’t even have a set schedule. I watch Primetime in the Daytime on TNT and ::gasp:: read for fun.

On June 30 I left with 11 other members of my church to do a Mission Trip in Cosby, Tennessee. It’s a Presbyterian run mission really addressing issues of economic justice and poverty. The project we chose was the help a woman with a degenerative disease build a wheelchair ramp on her deck and paint her house. When we arrived, the project became bigger as we chose to build her a brand new deck and bleach her house because it wasn’t of a material that could be painted. It was some of the hardest work I’ve ever done in most uncomfortable circumstances. I am not used to being in 100 degree heat around bugs and trees…heck, I’m not used to being outside much at all. However, it ended up being an incredible experience, both difficult and enjoyable. The finished product is something I am very proud of…not really because I helped build the deck, but more because I’ve been planning this trip since last June and considered this a big accomplishment. This was the first Mission Trip my church had taken in several years and now we are on a quest to make it an annual event.

I wasn’t home for long before I was immersed into the fabulous world of Harry Potter. My parents, brother, two church friends and I saw the movie in 3D at the IMAX theater which was so worth the extra money and the two-hour wait in line. The book came out so soon afterwards that I barely had time to process the movie. My father has read books aloud to us since I was a young child and Harry Potter is no exception. He read the first through fifth books out loud, but my brother was in California for the sixth, so we read that one on our own. We were determined to read the last of the series of a family but were worried that we wouldn’t be able to afford enough time to read a good amount and beat the media hype that was likely to come after people started reaching the end. Thus came the Harry Potter/Bill Clinton Vacation.

I got the book at midnight on Friday and we got up early the next morning to drive seven hours towards Little Rock, Arkansas. My dad read aloud in the car, at the hotel, at restaurants downtown, and in between beer-tastings. My favorite reading spot was right outside the Clinton Presidential Library where I admired both Harry Potter and President Clinton at the same time. My dad had to leave on a business trip for the Monday of our vacation and it was all my mother, brother and I could do to avoid reading ahead in the book. We resisted the urge and during the entire vacation, my father read over half of the 700+ page book. He is continuing to read at least two chapters every evening and we hope to finish this weekend. No spoilers on this blog, please.

I start at my new job on August 8. I really feel like this is my dream job (for now) but am trying not to expect too much. It’s one of the best districts in the region and still amazingly diverse. I will still be at a school with a high Spanish-speaking population only this time, I won’t have to speak Spanish in secret. The district encourages the children to speak their native tongue while also learning English. I will be back teaching K-6 and I’m sad to say I don’t think I’ll miss teaching middle school that much. One of my mother’s best friends works in the building and I know several other teachers in the district. I’m trying to force myself to take the GRE so I can apply to an Educational Administration graduate program next summer, but I keep thinking of better things to do with my time.

No matter who you are, or where you are on life’s journey, I miss you (yes, I stole that from the UCC). Please feel free to email me at megan.highfill@gmail.com to stay in touch. I’ll post some pictures from my Mission Trip soon and I hope everyone is well.

--Megan

In Five Years

Five years ago today. June 7, 2002:
I just graduated high school and I don’t quite know what to do with myself. I still have a job teaching, 22 students, a full studio for a high schooler…or, I guess, a former high-schooler. I’m looking forward to a trip to Spain with 9 seniors, the popular kind. I’ve never hung around with them but I know it’s going to be a great trip.

And then, I’ll have brain surgery. A thing that both scares and bewilders me. Something has been going wrong with my brain for a long time and finally this should fix it. I’m just not sure what to do with myself in the meantime.

But there is Oberlin waiting for me at the end of this summer. A school that, in my father’s mind, has awaited a Highfill presence for years. I know, though, that I have waited for Oberlin more than Oberlin has waited for me.

Last year has been powerful for me. In my senior year, I finally found a group of friends on newspaper staff. I worked my butt off in AP classes, newspaper and auditioning for Oberlin. I didn’t make it into the conservatory, by the way, but I am going to try again once I get there. I also started going to church again. I never thought this would happen, but my whole family is going to church again. I know everyone thinks his or her church is one of a kind. This church IS one of a kind and it changed my life and has brought my family very close. I can’t imagine my life without it.

June 7, 2007:

This is my last official day of teaching at my first teaching job. After five years in school and one semester teaching experience under my belt, I thought I was ready for anything. I wasn’t ready for this, though. I wasn’t ready for the violence, the language, the blatant horror and lack of support. I’m not sure what to do with myself.

I still have to go to work for three more days to sit around and wait for all the other teachers to pack up their rooms. We aren’t allowed to leave until the 12th. I’m thinking of leaving sooner. I’m so unhappy all the time and I’ve fulfilled my obligation to the students. Now, I just have to figure out what I owe to myself.

This last year was a powerful one for me. I learned to survive without my best friends, a task that I will work on for years and that I know I will never conquer. I graduated college. I got a teaching license in Ohio. And then one in Missouri. And then one in Kansas. I moved home. I came back to my wonderful church.

It’s all leaving me frustrated now. I work two jobs, I have a busy summer, and yet I still feel like my eyes are glazed over with boredom. Or maybe it’s some sort of mild depression. Regardless, church politics and district policy have overshadowed two things I love in my life: teaching and God.

The difference is, now I’m feeling lonely in a way I can handle. When I cry, I know I’ll get over it. I can see an end and sometimes, I can even see a solution. But the lack of drama in my emotion is almost more depressing. Before, I let myself be immersed in emotion…I would say things like, “I don’t know what I’m going to do.” Now, I do know what I’m going to do. I am in no way lost or so lonely I can’t handle it. I’m just in this odd state of mediocrity and there is a severe lack of direction. The things I know I love are jaded or missing from my life. I know exactly where they are but I don’t quite know how to get there.

Trust in God/Lock Your Doors

I received my first death threat on Thursday. I say that like it's some sort of right of passage or a common occurrence, but it's not, and I hope it never is. A 14-year-old 7th grader said he was bringing a gun to school Friday just for me. I was so shocked that I blocked it out of my mind, went through my routine (which included kicking him out of my classroom) and tried to blow it off.

Blowing it off wasn't easy when his classroom teacher warned me of his fascination with guns. "He goes to shooting ranges," she said. "He knows more about guns than any student I've ever had. He explained how to shoot an automatic weapon." The scariest statement she made: "He has access. And he's very, very dangerous." The teachers encouraged me to call the police, to cover my bases, to make an official report. I knew the administration would prefer me to go through the traditional line of authority: office referral, follow-up with the principal, etc. But I just kept blowing it off, for the last 15 minutes of the day, as I drove home, as I ate dinner. It wasn't until I sat in opera pit orchestra rehearsal that it hit me. I could imagine him walking into school, following me home, and worst of all, I could imagine him with a gun. Then, I started to realize the seriousness of the situation, and I completely lost it.

The administration responded with a careless, "We'll probably suspend him if he's finished with state testing. If not, he needs to come in and finish it and then we'll suspend him." They did not call the parents, nor did they voluntarily follow-up with me. My co-teachers responded that I need to take my own action. I need to protect myself. State testing is more important to these administrators than the safety of their school. Because, of course, we can't leave any child behind.

The boy didn't come to school on Friday, which was an initial relief. Around noon, the para in his classroom gave me some less relieving news--the boy's mother had called...and she didn't know where he was. "Is he at school?" She asked. "Because I have no idea where he is." This is when I called the police.

I can't say reporting a 14-year-old for threatening me was my finest moment. It made me feel weak and it made me feel like I'd failed him somehow. I felt like I was overreacting and under reacting at the same time. I spoke to the para about my fear as she sat with a sixth grade teacher eating lunch. "I am too afraid," I told her. "We should never assume this much fear of our children." The art teacher supported my statement, "It is fear that protects us sometimes. It makes us lock our doors." Then, the sixth grade teacher said something that both amazed and angered me, "I don't know what you're talking about," she said. "But all I can say is 'Trust in God.'" The art teacher, a devout Christian, chuckled, "But God isn't going to lock your doors for you."

As I thought more about the sixth grade teacher's simple comment, I became more angry and confused. God ISN'T going to lock my doors...I need to feel like I have MORE control, not LESS control. Trust in God...how diminishing is that...tell that to the people at Virginia Tech or the soldiers and citizens in Iraq. Is she saying that if I trust in God I will be safe? Is she saying that if they would have trusted in God than they would have been safe? I dare to use a term spouted off at Oberlin so often that I became tired of it...but I just feel like "Trust in God" sounds so privileged.

I've never been one who is able to give it all up to God. I have trouble believing in God's will and God's plan. If I don't feel some control, some responsibility, then I end up feeling like God has failed me. So I take the failure aspect of things and lock my own doors. I trust the people and the resources God has given me. I try to trust God's creation.

The fact that I cannot stop thinking about the "Trust in God" statement makes me think that I'm missing something. I know that these words were supposed to help me, touch me in some way and last night, I started to figure out what I need them to signify. I need to trust that people are praying for me and for the boy. I need to trust that God created a child and that child is still somewhere inside this boy. I need to trust myself and my faith, and the things that bring me closer to God. The things that bring me closer to God are the things that make me feel safe. Things that I have lost site of because of work and stress and lack of time.

So last night I sat comfortably in opera rehearsal and enjoyed playing my violin. In church yesterday I lost myself in the service. I hugged my friends and thought about my college-friends. I pulled my crochet bag out of the closet and watched "Grey's Anatomy" while I started my first crochet project in 6 months. And when I was ready to sleep, I packed my crochet materials to bring them to school this morning. If I can't be safe at work, then I will bring some sort of safety with me. I have started trusting in the things that kept me going during some of my most difficult struggles. Though they are not God, they are God-related, and maybe that's what that teacher meant...or at least what I need her to mean.

But I still have to lock my doors and live in a little bit of fear. God will not do that for me, but I know that it is what God wants me to do. God wants us to do everything possible to save God's children. The boy and I both fit into that category.

Come To Jesus

My mother has this thing she calls a "Come to Jesus." Though she says it's "just one of those sayings," because I've never heard it before, I attribute its creation to her. If and when someone else ever says it, I will think of my mother. And I'll probably say something like, "My mom used to say that a lot."

I love that, in essence, it makes conservative Christian tactics into every day tools. It both mocks and gives credit to evangelism. I have learned, through my endless fascination with Latter Day Saints, that Mormons will visit a potential convert many times, slowly explaining the religion, getting personal with how the faith could help the potential convert's life, and discussing things in detail. Once, when I had a meeting with Mormon Missionaries, they explained the whole "Jesus visits America" thing to me for about 10 minutes and then basically asked, "Now, what did I just say?" They make sure their potential convert is hearing them. And then, after the many meetings and many, many prayers, they have the "Come to Jesus."

I'm sure not all Mormons use this device, and there are many other evangelicals that do this or don't do this. But step out of the door-to-door Christian realm and into a Best Buy or a Used Car Lot. What if sales was like the "Come to Jesus" concept? Instead of high-pressure, right now deals, the sales people slowly convinced you, over months and months. Partially by working you down and partially by actually making you believe, you find yourself wanting the product. Then, when you are so enthused that the earthly part of you starts talking you out of it, they have the final meeting. The ultimatum, if you will. And they make you think that if you don't buy this 6.1 mega pixel digital camera right now, it might be lost forever. YOU might be lost forever.

Then, there are the Christians that use the "Jesus Now, Or Else" sales strategy that many companies use. For me, these are the Christians that use tracts, those little comic books that talk about eternal damnation, etc. I pulled one of those off a 1st grader the other day (she was playing with it during class). When I asked her who gave this to her, she said, "My babysitter. She says I have two days to decide." Or else...

Regardless of the origin of these tactics, or even the bad taste they leave in my mouth when it comes to Christianity, I have found them extraordinarily useful in the classroom. Children in grades Kindergarten through Four respond to the "Come to Jesus" like no other. I don't exactly call it that, but that's what it is. Over time I remind them, "Stay on task," and "Please don't talk when I'm talking," and then one day, after several weeks of quiet reminders and patience, I have the "Come to Jesus." I tell them how much trouble I've been having and how this has got to stop. I use words like "disappointed" and "hurt". I talk about how I feel and often become very sad right in front of them. This is effective because even in a school like mine where compassion is as rare as gold, young children can't help but have a little of it every once in a while. They realize that this is more than one class to the next, it is a relationship. And in a relationship people care about each other.

With the Fifth through Eighth grades, I use the "Jesus Now, Or Else" strategy. When they start to act out, I put my foot down. "You have one chance," I tell them. And then, I write them up, I call their parents, I put them in time out, and I make them wish they had never, ever crossed me. It may sound mean and unnecessary to some, but I assure you that if I let anything slide, anything at all, the next week they will be throwing chairs, books, nails, cussing up a storm, and, my biggest pet peeve, calling each other "gay." So I give them that one chance and then there are no more chances. A few weeks ago, a class was so mean to me (this was the nail-throwing class), that I wanted to quit my job. I listed six people that were not part of the hysteria and put the rest in In-School Suspension. Though a few are angry with me, most seemed to somehow appreciate it. They try harder to treat me with respect, they tell me about their home-life, in essence, in a completely different way, they "Come to Jesus."

Jesus is, of course, never mentioned in my escapades of discipline. I am a fairly firm believer in separation of Church and State. But I think of Christ often when I am dealing with these kids. Sometimes Jesus was polite, sincere, and full of explanation. But sometimes He asked His disciples to drop everything and follow Him...no looking back. I am far from Christ-like, I know, as I am still working on the "following" part myself. My actions are sometimes exaggerated and I admit that sometimes I get it wrong. But it is in this vulnerability that I take one more step towards Christ and finally come to Jesus.

Copy Machines that Staple

World Music is my favorite lesson plan to teach. I've been altering and changing the same lesson since my freshman year of college. Adding and deleting countries, switching maps, changing versions, adding details--this is all part of my ultimate goal to create a world culture of music in my classroom.

At my last school, the students were mesmerized by this. When I put a to-scale map of the world on the board and pointed to the U.S. they gasped and exclaimed, "Look how small we are! Look how big Africa is!" They asked to take lyric sheets home and worked hard to memorize words in hopes that we could learn dance. They watched my Japan home-video in amazement and kept asking, "Is this China?" We'd look at the map again.

I believe that the school in Lorain was full of compassion. The students saw the teachers, all different cultures and colors, treat students and each other with respect. I hardly ever heard a joke or a poke at someone's appearance by students. Bullying was a problem, but not an all-school dilemma. I wasn't worried that tomorrow might be the day when gang #1 decides to bring their issues with gang #2 to school and allow us all to experience what they call "loyalty." In Lorain, the students yearned for non-English songs and loved looking at the map.

This place is different, and I'm having trouble breaking the barriers, or perhaps, even bridging the gaps. I have students refusing to sing "Mexican crap" and others saying hip-hop is "all trash anyway." I have students yelling at their classmates for speaking Spanish, screaming things like, "Illegal Spanish! Illegal Spanish!"

Then, there is the bullying that stems from all of that. Calling each other fat, gay, and stupid (usually in that order). Starting fights, making threats, and choosing one quiet person to push around every day until that person ultimately snaps and ends up in the office for violently responding to weeks, probably years, of torment.

Suddenly world music has become a difficult lesson for me. The lesson is full of anti. I talk about the origins of Hava Nagila and before I know it, some fourth-grader is off on a rant about how her mama says that "those people" don't believe in Jesus Christ and so she isn't allowed to sing that song. Another says, "I don't sing Mexican crap. My mama says I don't have to sing Mexican crap." Everybody's parents are apparently part of the game. The word "racist" is being thrown around the room like a common insult and I am yelling at them. Yelling that if Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. walked through this door right now he would be so disappointed. Yelling at them telling them that we can divide up into race and see what this classroom would look like without African-Americans, or Mexicans, or European-Americans. I yell about my upbringing and tell them how lucky they should feel that they don't walk into school every day seeing the same color. How lucky they are that they won't go to high schools with people who think poor is not getting a new car every year. And I always come back to King. Sometimes I even want to say that if he weren't dead, the site of this school would kill him. He would die of heartbreak and disappointment. I want to tell them that God would cry...is crying, because of them. I never say anything like that, but I want to sometimes.

When I yell, when things get out of hand, I become part of the destruction. I say, "Move!" instead of "Move, please." I find myself speaking louder, without thought. There is no kindness in my voice. I am being as defiant as them. It has become a battle.

I'm in a place where I am dividing blame. It's not a good place, but it's somewhere. I'm dividing it between the teachers and administrators who have let the bullying go on for so long, it's a way of life. I am dividing it between the community that encourages them to call out non-English and torment each other. I'm blaming the government, the school district, President Bush. And myself. I blame it on myself.

Compassion, respect, honesty, character, love...how do we give these things to these kids when the lack thereof is so toxic?

Find My Voice!

It's interesting that I dream a musical and then proceed to completely lose my voice...again...for the second time in three months. I went through my whole life having never lost my voice, until, of course, my profession depended on it...then it was out the window, or under the bed, or something.

Teaching class with a lost voice is not as "fun" and as much of a "learning experience" or a "challenge" as one might think. Teaching a well-behaved class with a lost voice might be the latter of the three, but far from fun. Teaching a poorly-behaved class with a lost voice is none of the above...or at least I don't see how a learning experience can come from wanting to throw yourself out a window.

And doing lunch duty by myself for the first 15 minutes with 130 screaming 2nd, 3rd, and 5th graders was not as much of a challenge as it was an inconvenience. Kids think the whole lost voice thing is hilarious. They laughed at me and asked me how it happened and why it happened and when will it end, completely ignoring the fact that I CAN'T ANSWER QUESTIONS WITH A LOST VOICE!

So I did what many teachers would do after realizing the impossibility of teaching in whispers, especially when whispering is so bad on your voice, I borrowed a TV/VCR and showed what I thought was a very educational movie about African-American influence in music. Fourth graders don't find that so interesting, especially when at the last minute both fourth grade teachers are called to a meeting, resulting in their classes combining and leaving me with 40 children instead of 20.

I am lucky it was the fourth grade, though, combined or not. The fourth grade is normally a mature enough to behave like middle schoolers but immature enough to still do whatever I tell them to do. And they tried so hard. All the girls wanted to help me take roll and keep track of points. All of the boys desperately tried to ignore each other and not talk. But that can only last so long and by the time their teacher came to get them, 10 minutes late, of course, they were in hysterics. Apparently everyone needed to go to the bathroom, everyone needed a drink, and no one's stomach felt very well.

I tell you this not to vent (though it helps) or to complain. Actually, it's a funny story. It's funny to imagine me trying to whisper loudly or utilize what little sign language I know. And it's funny that the kids, upon hearing my plight, wanted to understand more about it. They thought it was funny, and now so do I.

A quick story to close:

Tyler is an obnoxious third grader who is always getting into trouble and then looking innocent when fingers start pointing. Today he came up to me and asked if he could tell me something. I nodded. This is what he said:
"Once I had three Mexican girls who loved me. The first one broke my heart. Then the second one broke my heart. Then the third one just told me I'm ugly. Now I have no Mexican girls who love me."
I was unsure of what to whisper in a reply so I just patted him on the back and said, "Good job using those math skills."

Until My Musical

I dreamt a musical last night. This is not the first time this has happened. I'm always bothered by this when I wake up because I can never remember any of the dream; only that it was a musical. Logically, if I can dream a musical I should be able to write one. You see my predicament.

Hi. I'm Megan Highfill. And you're reading my blog entry.

After an extensive application and interview process, I have been welcomed into the blog of my best friends from college. My own blog, Dress Like a Teacher, has deteriorated in the midst of my most recent teaching experience. I suddenly did not have the time to update said blog and am glad to have another, more communal outlet for my written teaching experiences.

This entry is really just an introduction. Many of you know me but some readers may not. I am a graduate of Oberlin, like many other writers in this arena. I have a degree in Music Education and just started my first teaching job. Now, arguably, there are some bad school districts in this country. But when the United States Department of Education rates yours at the worst, you know you're in for a treat. Kansas City Missouri Public School District is large and troubled. We are not accredited and based on my experience, no one cares to change that fact. My dealings with students are heartbreaking and wonderful and my dealings with the administration are frustrating. No, I am not in a foreign country and I am definitely not saving the world. I am writing for myself as much as others. But I do hope that in this blog I might share some of my students with you and perhaps stories that normally would not be heard will finally be open for reading.

This is, at least, until I write my musical.