warning: swears. Sorry, it happens when I talk about scarcity

I declared a hunt on scarcity. Because she was ruining my life. And wouldn’t you know it, that bitch came after me first. A few of my friends are doing some really cool and really brave things, and I want to celebrate and encourage them, but I am too afraid they are going to leave me behind.

It might look different for you, but for me, I can tell I am believing in scarcity when my breathing quickens and my chest clamps up. I get nervous and jittery and start refreshing my email because. What if I miss it? What if I miss my chance? What if I miss the boat? What if an email comes, a tweet rolls by, someone puts something on Facebook and I don’t do it and I should do it and I miss my shot? 

What if the boat comes and goes and I am standing on the dock with my bags screaming WAIT!!? What if all my friends are on the boat toasting each other and sailing away into the sunset and I am on the deck crying? WHAT THEN?

What then…. then, another boat will come. And if it doesn’t a bus, or a train, or a rickshaw, or I will walk if I have to. Or one of my friends on that boat will make the captain turn the boat around. Because my belief that I missed the boat is a belief in a scarcity of chances to get it right. But God is a God of abundance, abundant love, abundant chances. When I tell people that God’s mercies are new every morning, I need to know that is true of my art too. If I miss this boat, another one is coming.

Somewhere a long the way I heard and believed of this BIG GOD. But I somehow missed the part about his BIG GRACE. So I thought that mean that God cared about every single thing I did and I better get it all right. I better not miss any boat He has for me. 

But that is scarcity talking and IT IS A LIE! There are all the boats. I don’t have to worry when my friends hop on a really cool boat that isn’t for me. I get to send them off with a hug and a cheer and a peace that there are an abundance of ways! See you at the finish line lovely ladies! That boat wasn’t for me. That is okay. I don’t have to be afraid that no other boat is coming.

So, I have two AWESOME friends who are trying to flag down some cool boats. Will you help them? As a way to fight scarcity for me, but probably for you too?

Esther is trying to get Anne Lamott to endorse her book, or at least consider it. Y’all this is awesome. Go be a part of something outlandish and fun.

And Maritza is asking for votes for the Noonday Collection trip to Rwanda. We need a bi-lingual biracial tell the truth sister on that trip. Go vote for her!

What lies has scarcity been telling you? How can we help you fight them?

OH! and if you are afraid your way is wrong, Bethany can help you right here.

You would think when a girl writes this in September, she would brace herself for the end of the year. You would think wrong. Girlfriend did not have time to brace herself. She was too busy teaching her heart out, her buns off, like her hair was on fire. And now? Now girlfriend isn’t just tired. She is t-i-r-e-d. She is exhausted. She is typing in third person and she doesn’t even care, because she has 11 days left until she does not have to speak to or be in charge of a teenager for two glorious months.

You thought seniriotis was bad? I promise you the seniors have nothing, nothing on the way the teachers are feeling, and they aren’t allowed to organize pranks or walk out of class, or take a long lunch because they have never ever in their whole career done it before, and darn it they deserve it! No, we can’t do that. Because we have to be in charge. It is completely unfair. I mean, we have been the adults in the room every single day for 169 days. When is it our turn to act like the children?

Oh yeah. Never.

The only way I can think to explain the way that I am feeling, is that the giant toddler that lives inside of every one of us, is clawing to get out. I am about three seconds from letting said toddler be in charge. And everyone knows that is a terrible idea. You can’t put the raging toddler in charge of anything. You especially cannot put a raging toddler in charge of mostly grown, but seriously lacking in the frontal-lobe-development-departmet hormone surging teens. You may want to stand at the front of your room and just scream NO! nononononono! NO! at them, but as I tell my toddler, that is not a choice. So, how exactly does one loving teacher who is seriously at the end of her rope, manage to calm the toddler inside down long enough to keep her job for the clean slate that is next September, (ugh), August? By parenting herself, to the max. When the toddler is in a mood, everyone knows there is really only so much a person can do. And it IS that bad people, I am just trying to parent myself until I can get to beditme, I mean, summer.

Choose Your Battles – As I sing to my kids on a regular basis, You can’t always get what you want. I know you want to function like the fully grown up person that you almost always are, but right now, we are in survival mode. So, (as our van currently plays on repeat) let it go. Feeding your kids cereal and yogurt on the back porch and letting your dog lick them clean will not kill them. Your kids will love it. Wearing those pants that are pajamas but can totally pass as slacks is totally allowed. Drive-thru to get coffee four days this week, even if you and your car-pool agreed that was a Wednesday only activity. You can only tell the toddler no, so many times. Only say no to the desires when said desires will get you fired.

Check Your Schedule – Everyone knows a well rested toddler is a happy one. Take all unnecessary appointments out of your schedule. Re-schedule for June or July. For the love of all things holy, treat bedtime as sacred ground and keep it. Lie to yourself and tuck yourself in a half hour early for your own good. You really need it and it is in everyone’s best interest.

Make The Toddler Giggle – Sometimes, when you get ragey, the only thing left to do is distract yourself. Do whatever it takes to give yourself a laugh. Watch that video you love (again! AGAIN!). Do a dance, listen to your favorite song, run a lap naked and giggling around your house after bath time. Getting the toddler to giggle makes said toddler forget all her previous woes. When something stops working, try something else.

When all else fails, Bribe the toddler – Sometimes you have to, you are at a wedding, you are in public, you need them to take their medicine. EVery parent knows that sometimes you  just need to bribe your kid. Take this parenting advice and apply it like no tomorrow. Wine, ice cream, cold press coffee, access to Twitter, just bribe yourself. It is fine. It isn’t forever. Just until grades are due and you don’t have to worry about saying something that might get you fired. (For every hour you manage to not say anything questionable, go ahead and give yourself five m&ms.)

Pull it together fellow teachers. We are almost done. We can do this. We can be the adults for eleven more days. Then we can bribe ourselves with as much wine as summer can handle. Cheers.

I believe in your dreams.

I’ve started this post about three hundred times, with metaphors, with snark, with manifestos and open letters. But there it is, that is what I really want you to know.

I believe in your dreams. 

I know that you have a lot going on. What other people are telling you are excuses, you see as your reality. You can’t rent a cabin, take vacation days, stop answering your phone. You would love to be able to prioritize your work above all else, but there are tiny people in your house that need to be fed multiple times a day and you are in charge of that.

You can’t just not go to work. There are bills to pay, and unfortunately, right now you aren’t getting paid to do the thing you love. And your pay checks are just barely covering the bills. I know.

I believe in your dreams, anyway. I still believe in them. I still believe in you. It probably isn’t going to be picturesque, a couple of people are going to call it crazy, but I think we can make it work. I believe your current reality can also have space for your dreams.

Let me tell you why.

I believe in your dreams, and I want to help. I am offering coaching sessions through the Story Unfolding. The website isn’t quite ready to go, but I just want to make sure you know that you can do this. 

Call it the “No Cabin In The Woods Special.” Right now, I am setting up half price coaching, for anyone who doesn’t have the funds for a cabin in the woods. For $45* (normal price 90) you get an hour with me. We will explore what you want to do, and how you are going to fit it in to your life. I’m warning you right now, it may not be the idyllic experience you dreamed of, but maybe your dream is worth doing anyway. I promise, there is room in your life for everything you are meant to do.

If you don’t have a cabin in the woods, and you are ready to figure out how to do this thing anyway, I am your girl. Email me at accidentaldevotional(at)gmail(dot)com and we will set up coaching. You are worth it. So are your dreams.

*But Abby, I took a cold hard look at my budget, I don’t have that either. Email me anyway. We will work it out. 

It is Teacher Appreciation week. I know because yesterday I got the annual reminder that the “dessert bar” will be open in the teacher’s lounge all afternoon. I am grateful I got the reminder yesterday, because I needed time to dig out my stretchy skirt for the occasion. When my student’s ask me smiling “did you try the thing my mom baked” I want to be able to answer them honestly. I am just that committed to my job. Hey, I do it for the kids.

At the school I now work at, the PTA organizes a dessert bar that the Golden Corral would be jealous of. Not only do they stock the teacher’s lounge with an artfully arranged pile of homemade treats, they also have at least three lovely moms telling you they are grateful for the work you do. You get to stuff delicious treats in your face and commiserate with the parents about how their kids are worthless less than thoroughly motivated this time of year. I go back at least three times, and one of my colleagues and I compete to see who can eat the most kinds of brownies. Really, everybody wins.

I am grateful for the awesome dessert bar and the shout outs on Facebook. I am completely burned out right now and I need all the help I can get. I have gotten free coffee from my Dunkin’ Donuts app twice this week and I see it as nothing less than manna from heaven (Hey God, that appears every day, right? Because, real talk, I have no idea if I am going to be able to make it til May 23. Amen.) I have worked really freaking hard this year and I do need someone to tell me that my job matters. Because seriously, it is May 6 and some kids are still surprised that we are reading every day. In English class.

This out pouring of treats and words of parental affirmation have not always been the case. My first year of teaching, I learned that it was about to be teacher appreciation week because someone came around asking for a donation. Yup, all the teacher’s were expected to give five dollars so that they could be appreciated. My second and third years I was sent an email reminding me that all teacher appreciation funds were used to buy us each a membership to the PTSA that exactly no parents joined so we could get some sort of 100 percent participation badge the principal felt was really important. It was weird, and I still don’t get it.

So today I am thinking of friends who work at schools where no one has the time or resources to set up a dessert bar or hand them a gift card to Starbucks. In order to have business partners to give your teacher’s freebies, you have to have businesses in the area that are thriving. Teaching at a high needs school is the kind of hard that you just have to experience to believe. And likely the only thank you these teachers are getting is attached to an “exciting opportunity” to buy supplies for their own classroom at a ten percent discount.

Here’s to you, teachers who have been buying their own pencils since October, to those who laugh out loud when a guest speaker suggests applying for a PTSA grant. Here’s to the teachers who buy granola bars for the end of the month when the food stamps have run dry, who have figured out how to teach their kids how to make award-winning art projects out of garbage and creativity. Here’s to the teachers who keep the tragedies they read in their children’s “what I did today” journal close to their heart, to the teachers who keep up with the current hip-hop music so they can make new lyrics about the cell every.single.year. because “that song was soooo 6 months ago.” Here’s to the teachers who are not being appreciated this year with a treat, or a note, or a gift card. I know that teaching is its own reward, but I also know how tired you are, how hard you work, and how much you just want someone to notice. I am noticing. You are appreciated.

I remember being told, in Sunday school while sitting on those olive green chairs the exact size of my small backside, that I was called to be a witness. I was to witness to the power of Christ. I remember being told about what a witness does in court. A witness tells what they have seen. A witness tells the stories of the things that happened to them, of the things they saw happen to others. 

Can I get a witness?

Later, working in the inner-city some of my students would sing praise songs during study hall. They liked to “have church” right there in the back row, whether or not it was sanctioned by me. (It almost never was. I really just needed them to be quiet. But there they were, singing whatever they pleased.) Sometimes they would really get going, hands in the air. 

Can I get a witness? 

One of my friends, in her infinite wisdom, often just says “witnessing” in the comments section of particularly hard and vulnerable semi-private Facebook posts. Witnessing, I am bearing witness. Liking a post about how someone is having a terrible time seems strange, so we have re-named it witnessing and the little thumbs-up numbers climb. I see you, I see that this is hard, I am witnessing your darkness, your journey, your pain.

Can I get a witness?

I had been following the story of the Nigerian girls kidnapped from their school through Twitter. This is officially how I get most of my information; I stay surprisingly  I thought it was terrible. I thought it was sad. I did not speak up. I do not think I even managed a re-tweet. One more thing in a terrible world. Of course it was terrible, but still I did nothing. It was far from my home, it seemed to terrible to wrap my head around. What am I going to do about it anyway? The only excuse I can muster is that my heart had hardened.

Can I get a witness?

My heart thawed quickly last night, when someone began tweeting the names of the girls who are missing. Their names. With their names I can no longer pretend that they don’t belong to the same world I live in. With their names, I am reminded that these girls are people too. Not just some tragedy I lament over, not a 140 character news story. I am reminded, with every name, that these are people. Women with hopes and dreams and families that are frozen in fear for their girls. I was reminded. I finally saw what was right in front of me.

Can I get a witness?

I’m thinking about the message in Sunday school. I am remembering that I am called to be a witness. I am feeling my heart ache as it softens for these names I have finally read. I am understanding, just a little bit, the magnitude of the responsibility, to be ready to testify to things of this world. 

Can I get a witness?

This month was busy. I know I keep saying that, I promise I will stop as long as it isn’t true anymore.

Spring Break!- I started this month with Spring Break! I am grateful I picked a profession where you still get one of those. No, I didn’t go Wild at PCB, I did something far crazier. I took a 2 and 3-year-old on what is usually a 10 hour trip to my parent’s house, (wait for it) by myself. My kids are awesome, we stopped for ice cream half way through and there was a bottomless snack bar of individually packaged goldfish/popcorn/fruit snacks/capri-suns. If you need someone to poke a straw through a juice pouch at 80 mph I am totally your girl. 

First Stop- Toledo where I hung with my parents, went to the church I grew up in, and saw a close friend from High school. 

Second Stop- St. Clair Shores where I hung out all day with my nieces and my own kids (five girls under ten my spring break was cra-zy) partially at my sister’s house and partially at the Burger King with a play place and free wi-fi. We hung out until we got the call that my sister had her baby (grand-daughter number 7 with no boys if you are counting) and we all piled into the mini-van to meet baby Anne. 

Third Stop- Festival of Faith and Writing, after I saw the new baby, I dropped my kids back in Toledo and headed to my friend Leanne’s house where I crashed for the Festival of Faith and Writing. She and her husband are lovely and her babies are totally charming. We kept it real with each other in all the best ways and sister can cook. Mmmmm. I met a zillion new people and affirmed how lovely so many other people were. I talked a lot about education and poverty, and was deeply encouraged to keep trudging with my writing pursuits. It was great and I certainly hope my spring break lines up again in two years.

Fourth Stop- Home. I got to my parent’s house at 1 am, finished talking to them about the Festival at 2:30 am (My friend Emily and I are shooting a video about this #extrovertproblems this summer.) and drove my children home the next day. On the way home my oldest explained to me that Bucky (that is what she named our mini-van) was sad because he couldn’t sing the Frozen sound track like her cousin’s mini-van. So, one small stop later and we listened to the soundtrack from Cincinnati to Atlanta. I got home at 1 am and taught the next day. I told you my spring break was crazy. 

Frozen- Due to the emotional pressure of my three-year-old to make Bucky happy, we now listen to Frozen any time we are in the van. Any time. From the beginning. The cutting part.

Food- At home I made an amazing meal Polenta casserole. It is easy, lean, and my Bible study LOVED it. My sister made it. She loved it too. I also made a delicious Easter dinner with Dr. Pepper glazed ham. I didn’t know, but now I know. Perfection.

While out on the town with my friend Jennifer, we has a truly amazing meal at the cutest french cafe ever (minus the ones in Paris). Brie on pretzel bread, Beef Wellington, Creme Brulee and champagne. Yes Please. It was seriously perfect. 

Friends- I had an incredible time at FFW mostly because of the friends there, and I would list them but I know I will forget someone. On the home front, my friend Vanessa took 2 hours out of her day to teach me about the rosary. I will post on that next month after I try it out for awhile. But seriously y’all, it was a gift worth mentioning.

I am linking up with Leigh Kramer (who I got to see again at FFW) go see what everyone is into!

Dear Juliet,

It is your fourth birthday, and I am grateful. Your party invitations say “Let us celebrate the friendliest child on the planet.” I stand by that. You have never met a person you aren’t hoping to make into a friend. You just love people.

You have always been tuned into our emotions, probably since before I saw your tiny face for the first time. It matters to you, how people are feeling, what is happening in their hearts. When you do something wrong, your biggest concern is if it “made mommy sad.” You are always sorry if it made someone sad.

I love this about your heart, but it also make me nervous. I love how big you love, but I sometimes worry it will hurt you. That there will be days and times as you grow up, where you will make people sad and there will not be anything you can do about that. I don’t ever want you to choose the thing that is not right for you, because it will make fewer people sad. I guess on this fourth birthday of yours, I want to tell you that the way you love, with total abandon, will hurt you sometimes. I hope you will continue to love like that anyway. I hope you find it is worth it.

The other day you looked at me, after giving up the plate you wanted to your crying sister, and announced that you are a good sharer. You are a good sharer. I have been writing about scarcity lately, and I think the person in my life who best practices abundance, and radical generosity is you. You love to share, you never worry if there will be enough for you, you love to take turns. Of course there is room. Of course that other kid can have some. Of course we can find some more. This, my love, is a radical act. It is beautiful, and subversive, and brave, just like you.

Recently, there have been an influx of babies in our life. I got to explain to you that you are my baby, and so is your sister. You now regularly refer to yourself in the third person as my baby. I am glad that is the piece of the conversation you have latched onto. You like to talk about how you once did not talk, but now you do talk. And boy do you talk. From morning until night, in the car, at home, with your sister, with us, to your teddy bear, as your dolly. You have so many words. One of my favorite parts of the day, is coming home from work and asking you to tell me all about yours. You always have a lot to tell me.

As you grow from baby to girl, I am able to see tiny glimpses of the woman you are destined to become. I can see your heart and passion, and this year has been the year that your gift of encouragement has shown so clearly. “Mommy,” you sometimes tell me as you stare intently into my eyes, “I am so proud of you. I am so glad you are my mommy.” I hope you are always proud of me sweet girl. I am a better woman for having been your mom. My heart is growing as you lavishly pour your encouragement out on me. It is a gift you have for the world, and I am grateful to be the first to receive it.

I love you, my giant-hearted four-year old. I am so glad I am your mommy too.

Love,

Mom

I have this theory about mirrors, about communities and mirrors.

I have this theory that the mirrors to our hearts, our souls, our real true selves, are morphed like fun-house mirrors. I have this theory that this has something to do with the fall. That one day, on the other side, when all is restored,  it will be easy to see ourselves as God designed us, as we really truly are. It will be just as easy as looking at the things right in front of our face.

But right now, our mirrors are warped.

We hold them up to ourselves and the image we see looks enough like us to fool us into believing that this is the truth. This pulled or shrunken, this distorted face is really our true self. And we look and we see the faces of those around us, we believe that everyone else’s inside thoughts and feelings are perfectly normal and interesting and proportional (though trust THEY don’t see themselves like that) and we are ashamed. We just wished we were like HER, whoever that is, but we know that we aren’t because of what this warped fun house mirror shows us about ourselves.

I have this theory that this warped perception of ourselves has the potential to do some serious damage. Either we walk around believing that we are the only ones with the weird bodies and the misshapen faces, with past hurts and loud voices reminding us what we are not.  We have deep shame about who we think we are, and we begin to choose to see everyone else warped as well, sometimes we even begin to point out other’s features as messed up and un-human. We decide the world will be safer for us, if we can see everyone as jacked up as we see ourselves. So we look for it. Seek and you will find.

I have this theory about warped mirrors, about the solution to warped mirrors, this side of heaven. I believe the solution to our warped mirrors is to find the perfect angle. But the secret is this, your own arms aren’t long enough. Your elbow doesn’t bend that way. You’ll never be able to get the angle right yourself. You need a community, you need someone else, to hold up the mirror and show you what they see. I think we can see our true selves, on this side of earth. I think it just takes someone else to hold up the mirrors for us, to tell us what they see. I think that is what the church is for, what community is for, if we’re doing it right.

People who have been in communities of mirror holders go on to change the world, to adjust the angle of the world’s mirrors. You can recognize a person who has really seen herself by the way she holds up the mirrors to the world. It is a gift, to be a mirror adjuster. We get to show people who they really are, turn the mirror just so, speak the truth.

Look! Don’t you see what I see? You are beautiful, you just can’t see it from your angle. Give me your mirror. Let me help.

I have this theory about mirrors, about communities that hold each other’s up and adjust the angles. I have this idea that if we just work together, we could see what things were like before our mirrors got warped.

*****

I have a lot of great mirror holders in my life, my real life community and also my online community. This was linked with She Loves Magazine a community full of mirror holders. Go and see for yourself.

It’s that time of year again, the time of year when the summer reading list comes out. You, are a responsible parent so you look at the list. You realize you recognize none of the titles. In an effort to be relevant, your school’s English department has elected to read something that has been published in the last five years, you have been raising children in those last five years and thus have never heard of the title(s) your child is being asked to read. Being a responsible parent, you Google it. You have some concerns. The book has material that you think you may object to, teen sex/drug use/masturbation/violence. You are not sure you want your child reading this book.

What should you do?

Well, as a teacher, let me give some examples of what you should NOT do. (Yes, all of these things have happened to me, or someone I know.)

You should NOT email the teacher explaining to the teacher that you are sure s/he had no idea, but there is questionable material in this book and you are happy to help do the teachers job by rejecting this book. Look, the person who shows up in the classroom day after day to talk to your kid about reading and writing, This person, your child’s teacher, knows about books. I promise. They picked this book for a reason, and they probably picked it from a list of The National Council of Teacher’s of English: best choices for summer reading, or The  American Library Association’s favorite books for teens.

You should NOT email the teacher and tell her that she is a terrible human being who hates children and is sick, sick sick. So you disagree on a number of things. Fine. But this teacher did not go into the teaching profession to corrupt your child. There are far easier things that make a lot more money if the end goal is corrupting children.

You should NOT email the teacher and insinuate that s/he must have picked the book on accident, and that surely the principal/superintendent/board of education would be horrified at this book choice so you are just trying to help the teacher keep her job by pointing out just how terrible it is. The teacher has read the book, and before it made it to your child’s hands it was vetted by the department head, the principal, and perhaps the district wide Language Arts coordinator. If your child was given that book by the school to borrow, the school board bought at least 200 copies of it. They know. You may disagree with the book, and that is your right as a parent. But let’s not insult everyone over said disagreement.

So, what should you do?

You SHOULD make an appointment with the teacher and hear them out. Give them a list of the concerns that you have and ask them how they plan on handling those things. That teacher might have some really good things to say that you want your child to hear.

You SHOULD read enough of the book that you know what is up. The conversation can be better had if everyone knows what they are talking about. If the teacher has assigned it, they have read it.

You SHOULD consider reading the book with your child and having the conversations with your kid as you read the book together. Chances are your kid is already having these conversations with friends. Here is an awesome opportunity to have your say. You can talk about how the author represented the material you object to and why you object to it and how you would like to have it represented. Because this is summer reading, you get first dibs at shaping your kid’s thinking about whatever it is you object to. This may be your perfect opportunity.

If you absolutely cannot allow your child to read this book, you should offer an alternative. Make it as even as possible, a novel for a novel, a memoir for a memoir. As a parent, it is your right to make decisions about your kid reads. I want you to continue to make that decision. I just want you to do it in a way that is kind, and thoughtful.

I don’t know how to tell my story without yelling. Without my hands raised in the air, using a calm and measured tone. I don’t feel calm and measured about the state of education in this country. I don’t feel half way about anything, but especially about injustice. Ask my mom, I’ve been screaming IT’S NOT FAIR my whole life.

I walked into the copy room this morning to find a bookshelf, full of reams of copy paper. The only problem is that we didn’t have enough shelf space. Unopened boxes wait patiently on the floor for the end of year rush to copy study guides and final exams. My first year of teaching, I got an email in October that the paper had run out. I had to supply my own. I don’t ever want to be ungrateful for those things, for the paints my students are using as we alter books this spring, for the endless supply of pencils and pens that I do not have to buy with my own money.

I don’t understand why there are schools that don’t have basic supplies. This isn’t in some far away place. I am talking about school in the same zip code as your house.

I try to talk to my colleagues about it, and they just look confused. Many of them have only ever taught here, they didn’t know that schools still existed that have such a lack of supplies.

Maybe this is why I yell. I am trying to make sure that everyone will hear me this time.

I went to a writing conference. I had meetings and met people and talked to anyone who would listen about how I wrote a book about injustice in the inner-city school. And you know what? People listened. People wanted to know about my crazy story and the ways that it can get better. I tried to be professional, not wave my hands excessively or talk for more than my elevator pitch. I tried, I did, but the tears sometimes leak out. The urgency is real.

Right now, in a school in the same city as you, there is a crop of eighth graders who are excited about the possibility of finally being high-schoolers next year. Many of these students are headed to schools with graduation rates as low as 40%. Forty percent. Congratulations, you are in high school, and you are going to have to fight like hell just to make it through your senior year. Your entire future depends on your ability, at fourteen, to consistently make good choices. The stakes are that high. 

It is dire, and urgent,and if we could just change the disparity in education, we could probably stop building new prisons. We would no longer need them. I can’t tell this story without yelling, because I am sure this is a problem that is solvable. The situation is desperate, but not without hope. For every desperate school, I believe that there is a solution. I think we could give every kid a real honest to God chance at graduating High school, if we just invested in the school closest to us that needs it.

I think systemic change could happen tomorrow, or at the very latest in August. Right now, your local school is planning for next year. Right now is when they are being told how many teachers they will have and how much of their budget will be cut for next year. Right now is when the principals are trying to figure out how to make ends meet. Call them. Google “worst school in (insert your city name) and CALL THEM. Tell them you want to help and then LISTEN. The schools already know what they need, they just don’t always have the means to get it.

So that is why I yell. Why I talk so fast at parties people can’t get a word in edge wise, why I smack the person behind me on accident because I am gesticulating wildly. It is because I want to make sure I am heard. I am trying to make you care. We could change the trajectory of an entire school. If we just decided we wanted to. I’m yelling so you will hear me.