Once a teacher...

I made a terrible mistake. Not one that I can't ever recover from, but a mistake nonetheless.  That I know now.  A choice that took me from a place of mastery of my craft to a complete novice.  From a place of routine, order, and structure to an environ of noncompliance, disruptions, and perpetual conflict. Four years ago, near the end of summer, I left my high school teaching position to become an administrator. 

At the time, I was not actively seeking an administrative job.  While I did have my Masters  and my admin licensure, I had not applied for any positions. Perhaps it was because I had applied and not been accepted to my district's academy for aspiring administrators three years running.   Carrying around the weight of resentment that my score on a Gallup survey carried greater weight than my body of work as a teacher and coach, a corporate manager, and a U.S. Army Officer. I was content teaching my five AP classes and starting my doctorate, or so I thought. 

A former coworker at a neighboring school called me to let me know that a recent admin hire had resigned unexpectedly. Several former coworkers had recently migrated to this school, so there were a number of friendly faces in critical positions.  If I was ever going to make a move, this had to be it.  A summertime move with no sappy farewell on the last day of school and a fresh start at a school on the move.  Teachers I knew and trusted vouching and advocating for me to be on their school's leadership team.  This had to be the one. 

Within two weeks of the start of school, our head basketball coach was arrested for sexual abuse of a minor, forcing a coaching search a few weeks prior to the start of practice. At the end of the first quarter, our principal, who had hired me 12 weeks earlier, resigned amid allegations of sexual misconduct.  In fact, the most time my principal and I ever spent together was cleaning out that coach's office.  A former, now retired AP at the school was named interim principal for four long tumultuous months.  Luckily, the best AP at my former school was named permanent principal in February.  That was my first year as an administrator.  Had my former AP not been hired, I most certainly have informed our superintendent that I had made a mistake and returned to the classroom. 

Over three years have since passed and not a day goes by that the classroom doesn't call to me.  Don't get me wrong, the admin life certainly has its perks and we have, in my humble opinion, made great strides at my school.  Getting paid a salary commensurate with professionals in other disciplines has been rewarding for my family.   Not having to be "on" and perform five shows a day is liberating.  I no longer live and die by the bell.  Just a few years in an admin position has opened doors to future opportunities that wouldn't have opened otherwise.  And, going to the bathroom whenever I want is truly life-changing.  

But for me, there is something to be said for being able to close that classroom door and shut out the rest of the world.  I'm often asked, whether while doing classroom observations, leading professional development, or speaking at conferences, if I miss teaching and the classroom.  

Every day.  

The Brave Team

I'm not sure when it happened exactly.  It certainly wasn't overnight.  But, over the course of the last several months a stark reality has emerged in my life and to be honest, it hurts.  I mean, like really hurts.  I'm talking constant daily reminders that life as you know it is over kind of hurt.  What is it, you ask, that could so profoundly affect a 43 year old married father of two, with a terminal academic degree and tenure?

My daughter is no longer my little girl.

We were the "Brave Team."  We ran through dozens of silly nicknames for each other.  We took forever to say goodnight as I tried to sneak out with her stuffed animals that she protected so zealously.  We took naps together under the princess blanky on the couch.  We fit perfectly side by side in my chair watching whatever cartoon, movie, or TV show she wanted.  And the hugs...oh, the hugs.  The kind of hugs that let you know you were someone's universe, their center of gravity, and there was no one else on this earth that made them feel as safe as they do with you.

All now part of our past rather than our present.

These days it's a smile and a wave.  A side hug if I'm lucky.  It's a "night night" with not so much as a look back as she heads up the stairs, not needing (even wanting?) a "Daddy Express" piggy back ride.  A text with a heart and a "Brave Team" emoji.  Hoping that she'll say "Hey, you know what?" and share something with me.  A few minutes in my car at the bus stop, before she walks to the bus while "Landslide" by Fleetwood Mac plays on the radio (true story).

I suppose this fate, this reckoning, falls to every father of a daughter.  Not that it makes it any easier.  I've never told her this, but I know that someday she will meet someone who may love her "more" than I do.  Certainly my father-in-law experienced the same feelings over 21 years ago.  I understand now, as I'm sure he does, that no one will ever love my daughter like I do.  I am strengthened by knowing that one day in her future, Audrey will slip her arm in mine for a short walk together before we go meet this person at the altar.  If only for a brief moment, we'll be the "Brave Team" again.

Roots

The simplest things make you immortal.  I am reminded of the final scene of the Tim Burton movie Big Fish, where the narrator states that his father had told stories so many times that he had become the story and would live forever through them.  This resonates with me, not only because the movie was filmed in my home county of Elmore, Alabama, but because it is true of my family as well.

The home I grew up in sat on fifteen acres of woods and pasture.  Inevitably, all four members of my family would end up in the same, small enclosed space, whether it be my parents half bathroom or the storage room off the kitchen.  It is at this point that my father would shake his head, audibly sigh, and remark:  "Fifteen acres..."  Over thirty years later, "fifteen acres" has become a Boyd family euphemism for being feeling too crowded or the cry of a person needing their space.  

And it didn't end with "fifteen acres."  My mother got into the action as well.  Some weeknights growing up, when my brother and I would ask what's for dinner, my mother would respond:  "Tonight, it's everyman for himself."  Just the other day, my daughter asked what we were eating tonight and I replied "Everyman," as it is a regular entry on the Boyd family dinner menu.  We laughed and she said that she would use "everyman" in her family one day as well.  That, my friends, is immortality.

My hope and prayer is that we all seek out and appreciate the opportunities we have to create memories with our dearest friends and family that will truly make us all immortal.  I hope to share many of my own memories and experiences in this virtual "fifteen acres."  I would be honored to hear yours as well.