Dear Pre-Service Teachers

Dear pre-service teachers,

I don’t mean to sound pessimistic, but things will go wrong. Like 2020 wrong. With no toilet paper left. Your degree will generally provide you with enough essentials to meet your daily needs – but sometimes, you just run out. Once in a while, whether due to poor planning or simply a sh*tty set of circumstances, you’ll find yourself with an empty roll and no idea what to do next. I’ve experienced an ‘empty roll’ situation on every one of my student-teaching placements, and it is certainly humbling.

During my first field experience, my partner and I failed miserably at teaching soccer to third graders. The first problem was that we were teaching as if we were coaching young athletes. Then, there was the fact that we weren’t on the same page about that lesson, and had only finished planning an hour earlier. As students stood around with no clue what they were supposed to be doing, and my partner tried explaining it again, I let my emotions get the best of me. I walked away. Literally. Let my partner deal with the situation as I went to sit with our cooperating teachers (CT). “WHAT DO WE DO?!” I whispered loudly to them, holding my head in my hands. They both laughed. They were clearly entertained by two confident student-teachers scrambling to save a lesson that was so far past gone. They told me to go back with my partner and just “figure something out.” Not the answer I was looking for. We stopped the drills and started a mini-game, which worked out as well as can be expected considering the players were a classful of confused third graders. Once the frustration wore off, we laughed about the whole mess.

The trouble with finding yourself with an empty roll is that, chances are, it will happen to you again at some point. Cue field placement three: high school this time, outdoors. It was the last period before a long weekend, and one of those days that makes you understand why teachers say snow storms wreak havoc on students’ behaviour. My CT was with a student in the gym, finishing up some fitness testing, so I was alone for all of fifteen minutes (which, normally, wasn’t a problem). Honestly, the lesson is a bit of a blur – attempts at classroom management through positive pinpointing, waiting for silence, sending a student inside… I was so relieved when I saw my CT step outside! I left the students in the middle of their misbehaviour, and told her, “I don’t know what to do!” She said she’d bring a student to the office while I figured something out. Again, not the answer I was looking for. So, they played some very disorganized games and we went inside early. Then we had a good laugh once the students were gone.

Our soccer lesson from year one – which we still refer to as our disaster – taught me that it’s important for co-teachers to be a cohesive team with good communication. Otherwise, you end up like roommates who each expected the other to buy the toilet paper – in an unpleasant situation, blaming each other.

In each case, my CTs de-briefed me afterwards, but both empty roll scenarios remind me that we learn best through discovery. As infuriating as it was to be told twice to “figure something out,” it has led me to be more vigilant when a lesson starts going downhill – and to not be afraid to switch gears completely if the situation calls for it.

If you take anything away from this 2020-esque analogy, let it be this: communicate with your colleagues, trust your training, and keep in mind that while univerrsity may be the Costco bulk-buy that gets you started, you still need to run to the store (read: mentors and professional development) occasionally to stay on top of your game. Oh – and be sure to have a good laugh about those empty roll situations when they happen – because who doesn’t love a good sh*t story?

Wishing you a plentiful supply as you navigate through your field placements!

Best regards,
Katherine Willcocks

Dear Charlie

Dear Charlie,

You’ve been gone a week now.

I miss you.

I put your food dish in the trash on Thursday – the blue one with four rubber paws. I would’ve kept it longer, but Frosty broke it two weeks ago, remember? I put a plastic container in it so you could still use it.

I love you.

Last night, as I headed to bed, I almost bent over near the side of the bed to give you a kiss goodnight. The way I used to – remember? Two pats on the head and one kiss; because back in elementary school, I read in a library book that it’s good to have a signal to let you know when it was time to stop playing, and relax. I didn’t stick to our little signal during the day for long – but every night that I was home with you, since then, that’s how I kissed you goodnight.

It hurts the most in the evening.

I don’t think I had ever realized just how many sounds you made: the sound of your paws on the floor, your tags hitting your metal water dish, your loud coughing, your snores, the clinking of your tags as you walked. I clipped your collar onto my jeans that day, Charlie. Didn’t want to take it off that night, because I wasn’t ready to not hear that sound every day.

The house is quieter now, Charlie.

The house is quieter. It hurts the most in the evening. I love you. I miss you.

​Why Fizzy Lemon Water Represents my Year

This summer was the first time I went to a drive-in movie with the man I love… and a carbonated drink. Before dusk, as we waited for the film to start, I was awkwardly positioned in the passenger seat, facing away from the screen, getting the snacks out of the reusable grocery bags in the back. My bottle of sparkling lemon water had rolled under the seat during the hour-long drive, and I was really looking forward to it after the ride without air conditioning. To my dismay, the second the pop of the plastic seal became audible, so did two other sounds. 
The first was the incredibly distinctive “PSHHHH!” of a carbonated drink violently escaping captivity in order to hurl itself onto every surface within a surprisingly large radius. The second was the most piercing scream I have ever heard in my life. And it went on. And on. And on. 

My brain forgot to instruct my now-soaked hands to twist the blue cap back to the way it was before – or at least remove it completely to stop the 360 degree spray. My body forgot how to fight or flee: instead, it froze. It froze until my mind finally processed that my ears were hearing my astounded boyfriend repeatedly telling me that all I needed to do was close the bottle. When I finally did, the sounds changed. We sat there laughing, both soaked and surprised, questioning my reaction to the fizz that could have been so easily tamed.

Call me crazy, but I feel that this situation sums up my year quite accurately. There have been so many great things in my life this year. I completed two half-marathons. Learned to do a handstand (sort of). Visited my grandfather and my dad in Alberta (and welcomed him back home later in the year). Celebrated my dog’s 15th birthday. Rescued kittens. Drove all night with my dog to surprise my sister who was working in Prince-Edward-Island. It’s been quite the year.

But life is like sparkling water. There’s the drink: the moments to be savoured. And there’s the fizz. Fizz that occasionally sprays hardship and tragedy all over our plans, soaking our expectations and experiences with uncontrollable emotion that makes our inner-selves release the most piercing screams we’ve ever heard in our lives. This year, I lost two of my grandparents within a two-month period. I got through my first summer apart from my twin. I was diagnosed with an incurable autoimmune disease that has impacted my work and my hobbies, and put into question my capacity to teach Phys. Ed.. I’ve survived a lot of worrying this year; seen a lot of fizz.

Through it all, I’ve never been alone. My amazing friends make school so much better. My family ensures that I have what I need to keep fighting. And through every misty obstacle of 2018, my boyfriend has been beside me, calmly reminding me that sometimes it’s as simple as remembering to twist the cap shut while the storm passes. All these people help towel off the challenges sprayed onto me by the lemon water of life.

Thank you to everyone who made my year drier. I couldn’t have done it without you.

Two Hours – Adapting to RA

“Auto” and “immune” are two great terms – one a prefix referring to self-sufficiency, the other a word meaning protection and defence. Two great terms… until they are combined. Until your immune system decides that your body is the enemy. 

Five months  ago, I ran my second half-marathon in two hours. Today, I had to rest after doing groceries and two hours of chores. It’s crazy how life can change in a heartbeat when your body self-destructs.

In a matter of weeks, I went from logging 20 kilometre long runs to needing help just to get up off the floor. To not being able to walk my husky on a leash, nor to walk my smaller dog as much as I’d like. To changing the way I hold my travelling coffee mug, because otherwise it’s too heavy to actually take a sip.

Rheumatoid arthritis – which really should have another name (there’s a lot more to it than just the joint pain) – raises so many questions. It demands so many adaptations, leaving the future even more uncertain than it already is. But it has already taught me a lot. 

I’m improving in prioritizing self-care and am working on saying “no” when I don’t want to (or can’t) commit to something. I’ve learned that there is nothing better for rough days than an Epsom salt bath, followed by cosy pyjamas, a hot pack, and some snuggle time. I don’t take physical abilities and small victories like getting out of a bath relatively easily for granted anymore.

It’s been a month since the diagnosis and I’ve been lucky. My rheumatologist cares, my family helps, and my significant other is a lifesaver (who often provides back rubs while I’m half-awake in the morning). It may be a while until remission, but at least for now, things aren’t getting worse.

Seriously, Sirius XM?

Sirius XM…

I used to boast about the satellite radio in my car: how I loved the channels, all the variety, and how great it was to have a three-month free trial with the new car. I use the past tense here, as I no longer have such great things to say about Sirius XM. Once the trial period was over, I’d sometimes end up listening to the Sirius XM ads (when I disconnect Bluetooth, my radio goes straight to the satellite source). I was truly appalled by one such commercial. And I heard it one time too many this morning, May 8^th, 2018, at 6:50 am.

Acute Entertainment Starvation. Seriously, Sirius? A few steps over the line, I’ll say. It would be one thing to use “AES” in any regular advertisement (even then, I’m not sure I’d agree with its use). Medical and psychological conditions are already being belittled all over the media – the stigma is only beginning to break. I might understand a commercial like this one if it came up 20, 30, 40 years ago. But today? Inacceptable.

The Acute Entertainment Starvation commercial belittles the condition of the thousands of people who go hungry daily, who die of actual starvation – which happens, daily. Beyond the use of a fake medical term, Sirius XM pushes even farther, using even the classic form of a fundraising commercial. Sure, it draws the listener’s attention, because it stands out from the other ads. But was there such a lack of creativity that it was necessary to appropriate the style used by organizations that actually help people? I doubt that.

The slow music, the low-voice, the serious tone… right down to the call for help: “Help Sirius XM save your family from Acute Entertainment Starvation”, “For just $5 a month…”.

Maybe, just maybe, this advertisement would be acceptable if proceeds were going to an NGO, or a foodbank. Until then, or until it is removed, we, as citizens, need to show them that the ends do not justify the means.

Career Choas: You’re Asking the Wrong Question

So I’m at that age. I think we’re all kind of at that age in one way or another.

That phase of your in life during which you’re constantly asking yourself what to do with your life: What career do you want? Are the sacrifices worth it?

Well that phase… I don’t think it’s contained within a certain age – it should last a lifetime.

Will we ever truly know our vocation? Perhaps. Maybe some will, probably most will not. Not right away at least. Not while they’re still in school anyway. But we’re focusing on the wrong question here.

Suppose we stop asking “what am I going to do with my life?” and start wondering “what am I going to do with my life today? Tomorrow?“, while reflecting on “what did I do with my life yesterday?” (Sure, these time markers can be metaphorical, stretched into a few weeks, maybe months, but you get the idea). Nothing in life is permanent – not even life itself. (Alright, fine, some things in life are permanent, but again, you get the point). Why should we feel pressured into a single-file, straight-line career path? What if we curved, zig-zagged, or danced in circles for a while? Forever?

As soon as we begin to learn in the traditional sense, we are told that success is the result of a long and winding road, along a ‘less-beaten’ path. Then they ask us what we want to be when we grow up (it’s a good thing nobody holds us to our answers, or there’d be far too many astronaughts and ballerinas, and not enough fitness instructors, receptionists, notaries, garbage collectors, you name it). Most children won’t follow through with the career they talk about when they’re five. Many won’t even pursue the one about which they dream when they’re 18. Situations change. Ideas change. Time changes . These change people, and that changes everything.

In elementary school, if you asked me about my career aspirations, I would’ve told you I wanted to be a writer. Or a teacher. Or a lawyer. But mostly, I wanted to be a writer. I said teacher and lawyer as add-ons, just to show people that I understood that writing was hard. To show adults that I knew that writing wasn’t a reasonable career choice, that I was a smart kid with a Plan B, who knew she’d one day need a job that would allow her to make a living. Most people don’t see writing as that sort of job. Most people are right, in a sense – but I kept writing anyway, as a hobby, and an aspiration.

I still aspire to make at least a small fraction of a living off of writing some day, but I don’t see that the same way as I did before. I no longer wish to be a best-selling novel writer (at least not quite so much as I used to). My situation changed. My ideas are changing. I grew up, and I’m still growing up. This changed me, and that changes … well, a lot. I see life differently, as I see my craft in another light. Perhaps more practical, somewhat more philosophical, writing is a tool to communicate – and there is a beauty to the freedom of mastering communication.

…then again, maybe I should be a teacher. Or a lawyer.

Not everyone will hold on to their childhood hobbies, but there is much to learn from them. If elaborate lego strucutres were your thing, consider the cognitive aspects involved in that – architecture, design, construction, etc.. I’m not saying you should chase after all your five-year-old dreams, but I do think you should consider your past self in your present (and future) decision making.

Let’s go back to our questions from the beginning: what am I going to do with my life today? Tomorrow? What did I do with my life yesterday?

Building on those, now let us change them. Consider the following:

What am I doing with my life (yesterday, today, tomorrow) that would make five-year-old me proud? What am I doing that would make my younger self cry?

Is the you from the ’90’s (or ’80’s, or ’70’s, or whatever decade during which you turned five) crying because you stopped painting because you thought you weren’t good enough? Are they in tears because you’re spending on mindless entertainment instead of saving for all those travels and adventures for which they wished? Grab a tissue (or a plane ticket), and know that the little girl or little boy that was once you is holding you accountable for their future – and your present – happiness.

Head Over Cleats: First Love

I hadn’t even planned on working at camp that summer. I should’ve been at school, but instead, I was outdoors. Paid to fib to children about the existence of fantastic, magical creatures – really, there is no better job. And I landed there almost by accident.

So there I was that night, at a camp party, at 16. Life can really take you by surprise!

I had barely noticed you over the six preceding weeks – I had been so caught up in experiencing this new world. I didn’t even know you yet, but honestly, by the end of that night, I would’ve welcomed a kiss from you. I remember the sparkle in your eyes, by the light of the campfire that evening, late into the month of June. I didn’t think I believed in love at first sight. Looking back now though, I should consider reconsidering.

A mutual friend introduced us during the dinner portion of the party. She switched places so you’d be sitting accross the picnic table from me. I can’t remember much of the conversation, but I’ll never forget the gift you received from another animator as a joke about your camp name – a pair of pink socks, much too small for your size twelve feet.

I recall watching you carefully, studying you really, as I did often that summer. I’m not sure how long it took until I realized that you were looking to get to know me, in that way. But I was a bit naïve, and quite frankly, fairly clueless about dating. I think I figured it out around dessert, after which we, along with my sister and two other friends, headed off to experience some ordinary camp activities in the darkness of a mid-summer night. Alright, not quite mid-summer, but almost.

You worked in maintenance, and I was a lifeguard, which means I didn’t know my way around the forest as well as you. The dark woods created a perfect atmosphere for horror stories, but I’ve always been a bit of a scaredy Kat (get it? Yeah okay, nevermind). So the girls stayed behind, knowingly sharing scary tales to keep me away, giving the two of us a moment alone.

You took a shortcut through the trees, and I wasn’t sure if I trusted you to not get us lost. I followed you anyway, and you could’ve kissed me that night, in the woods. But you didn’t. I stepped aside slightly, narrowing the distance between us. I still don’t know whether or not you’d noticed. It didn’t matter; it was a nearly perfect night, swinging from a wooden swing in the forest, rock climbing indoors, swimming in the lake at midnight, and watching the fireworks over the moonlit water.

During the following 13 days, we both spoke more than we probably had with anybody else ever (in that amount of time). Our conversations often converged into a game of 20 Questions, or rather, an adapted version, through which we learnt much about each other and each other’s family. We were constantly teased by the children from daycamp – apparently, sitting together on the lifeguard chair during breaks wasn’t quite subtle enough.

On the 12th of July, you came home with me before a  Thursday night soccer game. I still remember the outfit I was wearing – and I still won’t let myself throw it out, even though the clothes don’t quite fit right anymore. After dinner, we strolled down the hill to the nearby waterfall.Sitting on the rocks in the woods, next to a calmer part of the water, we settled into our routine of 20 Questions.

I asked you about your favourite colour (green, blue) and which foods you don’t like (peppers, tomatoes, onions, and sometimes mushrooms). You asked about my pets (Arhtur, Monika, Charlie), and my hobbies (soccer, swimming, writing). Then the questions dove into a new level of personal. We discussed our issues, our dreams, our secrets, and our ambitions. You really could’ve kissed me then. But you didn’t. Honestly, I was starting to get impatient.

We left the falls and undertook the short, uphill walk back home, along the bikepath. From the minute we left the woods behind us, you were acting a bit different. A bit sullen, but that’s not quite the right word. You seemed to be a little disappointed with yourself, though I didn’t really realize this until you told me later. I had realized something was bothering you, so I pushed you to talk about it, but you didn’t. And we kept on walking.

Near the top of the hill, I was stopped mid-step, as you held my hand without mentioning it, and had suddenly remained still. Not expecting this change in momentum, I was still as well for a second. A woman on a bike rode by – not on the bicycle path – watching us. It’s so fresh in my mind, it’s like it was today. Like it was happening now:

I turn towards you and look up to your eyes: you’re nervous. You bend a little, narrowing the distance between our lips. Yours so close to mine. Before we touch, I tilt my head downwards. Putting my hand on your chest for the first time, I whisper “no” – very, very quietly. You sigh, and wrap your arms around me, as I bury my face in your white t-shirt, mumbling about being shy because it would be my first kiss.

Don’t read this wrong, I sincerely wanted to share that special moment with you. I was head-over-heals, first-love, absolutely happy. But I was nervous too.

I’d been waiting, expecting you to kiss me at some point, but I had been so caught up in the moment; I hadn’t the time to analyze or even think about the logistics of it all. At that moment, I remember the sudden realization that I knew nothing about something so basic. Desiring, but panicking, worried thoughts floated about in my head: How does it work exactly? Do we just touch lips? What do I do?

I lift my head up again, standing on my tiptoes. I let you take the lead. The woman on the bike rides by again. She cheers upon witnessing our kiss. We both laugh, standing in the middle of the bike path, blissfully unaware of the time. I’m late for soccer, but I don’t even notice.

I arrive just in time for the start of the game.

That night, I’m in nets, and I have the biggest, goofiest smile on my face. I can’t help it; you swept me off my cleats.

Simply – Happiness

Happiness is a derivative of life: in directly aiming to achieve it, it can be diminished. The serenity of happiness follows not from the pursuit of it; it stems rather from an accumulation of pleasurable moments. Yes, it is cliché, but the little things really do make up our existence.

One such nothingness of my life that I cannot overlook is the memory of a joyful autumn day from November 2013. A school field trip to Montreal’s Salon des métiers d’arts automatically started the day off on a positive note. Beyond that, I had a day full of fooling around and roaming through the colorful world of artistry, all in one place, all with two special people by my side. My sister and one of my friends and I faced our final year of high school together, as most of our other friends had graduated the year before. We clung to each other, becoming inseparable at school… but the year had just begun. What would the future hold? What did it matter? We became masters of living in the present, and that day at Place Bonaventure was one of those on-the-spot, impulsive shots of happiness.

In honour of our graduating year, we bought ourselves matching rings at the Salon. Curvy like the ocean waves, our rings demonstrate how our lives simply swirled together, loosely, creating a tight bond. Full of different blues, like the ocean, our rings remind me of our many shared travels, from Prince Edward Island, to Wildwood, NJ; bringing to me the sounds of summer and the simple happiness of sand between your toes – every time I look at that otherwise ordinary piece of jewelry.

Mirrored

As children, we are taught that vanity is a vice. Superficiality. Mirrors.

Though an iconic representation of vanity, mirrors can reflect more than what’s on the surface – it is all a matter of time; time, and perspective. A winning combination of these two key elements can bring more than a reflection to the viewer; it opens a window into comprehension – and confusion -, leaving the door open to a range of thoughts and emotions. This of course depends on whether the viewer is caught in the vain act of looking, or in the rather noble act of seeing.

Seeing, like a child. Time on your hands, like a child. Sitting on the ground, like a child. Giving a new perspective to an old park visited, as children. Naturally, a train of thought is easily lead to searching for the child trapped within. Even if every other physical aspect has changed somewhat, we must have the same eyes – if we believe that the eyes are the windows to the soul. So, you search.

Like a child, it can be hard to concentrate, and eyes wander to the rest of the face. The nose, the cheeks, the teeth, the more defined cheekbones. Yes, things have changed. But you’re still the same, are you not? Perhaps. Perhaps you’d like to believe so. But where is that child?

Deep in the pupils, you find memories playing like an old movie in 24mm film. It’s a marvelous projection, but you can only watch the movie, you can’t truly re-live it. At some points, you recognize the eyes staring back at you as the ones you’ve seen so often – every time you’ve brushed your teeth, or washed your hands. There she is. She’s still in there, I knew it. She needs to tear herself away from the stress that is veiling her. Maybe she should meditate, in a field, like a child.

There’s no Place like Home

Leaving the nest isn’t easy – not even when you’re moving as a family.

Since we left my childhood home, I’ve been questioning the concept of ‘home’. How do I make myself feel at home? Where is home? Is home even a place? Does home exist? Of course, having a place to call your own can’t always be the same as having a place to call home, right? What is the reason for our (my?) obsession with finding ‘home’?

Home is safety. And family. And pets. And guitars. And wood floors. And high ceilings. And supper at the dinner table. And summer evenings on the porch. And watching thunderstorms in August. And growing up. And doing chores.

Alright, some of those points are certainly biased, but I can’t help it; I grew up with pets, and guitars, and wood floors, and high ceilings, and had supper as a family, and spent my summer evenings on the porch and wondered at the marvels of a thunderstorm.

I grew up sure that I knew where home was, what it was. I learnt that pretending to run away from home was the ultimate trick to get over an argument with my twin sister. I thought I’d always have that certitude. It was simple: home is where you live.

Shattered was that concept when we left the house that had belonged to my great-grandparents. At 17, I had to build a new idea of where home was. Because the new place? It didn’t feel like home. The old house was still home to me. With time, my definition broadened. Home, to me, became a reference to my town more than my house.

That ideology changed when, at 18, I set aside my small town roots to go to school in the city. When I first saw the apartment my older sister had found for us, I was bringing in my first load of boxes. “I hate this place!” I yelled at her, crying. An apartment couldn’t be home to me. Especially not when it was an hour away from my parents, my boyfriend, my friends, my pets, and my life (so it seemed).

But hey, you know what? I’m pretty used to that apartment now, and I will be disappointed when we leave our Montreal ‘home’. (Again, I’m biased here; the apartment has wood floors and high ceilings).

Still, I can’t quite talk about home when referring to the city; instead, I think about it as ‘home’, as a temporary replacement for a real home, since I spend most of my time in and around my hometown anyway.

That’s the problem though; everything is temporary. It’s difficult to feel secure about anything, to be absolutely sure that this place or that place is home, the same way I did as a child. If time changes everything, perception of time changes a lot as well. Childhood ignorance certainly is bliss.

But then, the young adult kicks in. Home must exist. If it isn’t a physical location, what is home then? Is it a feeling? A state of mind? A person who makes you feel at home? Alright, let me try again.

Home is when you feel like you’re right where you belong. When you’re comfortable kicking off your shoes and slipping into pajamas as soon as you get back from school or from work. When you feel like you can breathe again. When you’re with someone who makes you feel like everything is okay. When you feel safe.

Maybe home is a utopian concept. Maybe I just haven’t figured enough out yet. Maybe I’ll never be 100% convinced. What I do know for now anyway, is that the mountains the forest, and the lake are a few meters away, the ceiling fans is humming a familiar rhythm, the house is clean, there’s food in the fridge, there are words on this page that have been bursting to be written for the longest time, there’s a special someone sleeping in the next room, and there’s a husky asleep on the couch beside me. Whether or not it’s home, it sure feels like a good place to be.