An Open Letter to Mr. Caldwell: The Power of an Amazing Teacher

Note: Mr. Caldwell was my teacher in 5th, 6th, 8th, 11th, and 13th (OAC) grades.  I first tried to look online to contact him when I was teaching English overseas.  I realized the immense frustrations that can come with the job, and also realized that kids don't see you as a person, they see you as teacher.  I wanted to write and apologize for occasionally being disruptive in class and for any disrespect I may have showed. As kids, we don't realize we're being disrespectful, we are generally just being kids.

Teachers come into children's lives for a brief time period.  They build relationships, they nurture, they care, and then, yearly, they move on to a new batch of students, and have to build new relationships.  It must be a difficult task, losing touch with students they care about, connecting again with new budding minds.  Teachers are transient in our lives, but the good ones leave a significant and lasting impression.

Since I started working for the Ministry of Education five years ago, I have been constantly steeped in effective practices of educators, and am frequently reminded of the teachers that had such an important influence on my life.  None had so great an impact as Mr. Caldwell.  I have wanted many times to say thank you, and after several failed efforts to find him online, I decided that if I couldn't say thank you directly, I would write him an open letter.  I hope that somehow it finds its way to him.  


Dear Mr. Caldwell,

As children, we are almost universally unaware of the impact the people around us are having on us. It isn't until later, until adulthood, when we can see with clarity what was done for us, and what it meant. Teachers have the power to inspire young people, to help them choose their path, to show them that someone believes in them.  You did all of these things for me.

On Thursday of last week, I co-chaired an all-staff day for my Division at the Ministry of Education, on the topic of Student Well-being.  The overarching theme of the day was the power of relationships, and the power of the teacher as a caring adult in a child's life.  As I listened to the key-note speaker, talking about the importance of making children feel valued and heard, understood and supported, my mind went, once again, to you, and I wished once more that I could thank you for being an amazing teacher who did everything right.

You taught my sister Michelle before you taught me, and my father said that you were the first and only teacher in all of his years of parenting to give his home phone number to his students and their parents.  Michelle had struggled a bit in school prior to your class.  One teacher even went so far as suggesting that she needed extra tutoring.  You noticed that Michelle liked math, and you encouraged her, and built her up, and made her believe that she was smart.  By the end of grade six, you nominated her for the Wellington County mathematics award, which she won, which brought her immeasurable pride.  Your belief in her engendered her belief in herself, and eventually, she went on to study math at the University of Waterloo.  

When I became your student, you noticed that I was a writer.  I wrote for fun and pleasure, and often shared my new stories with you.  I re-read them as an adult, and let me tell you, they were pretty brutally bad (although to be fair, I was 10-12).  But, you wrote comments in the back of each of them (because I had created a comment section). You read them on your own time.  They weren't part of your job, but you read them and encouraged me.  You made me feel respected and valued and special, which in turn helped me believe in myself and my abilities.  You selected me to attend 'Author Author' without any kind of classroom competition for the right to go (which totally angered my friends, I might add), and in doing so, you honoured my passion and efforts.  I continue to write, both for work, as a policy analyst, and as a hobby.  

Dr. Jean Clinton spoke on Thursday about the importance of kids who have adults whose eyes light up when they come into the room, who truly care about them.  She talked about the importance of teaching children self-efficacy, as well as self-esteem, and how building a relationship with a child helps their brain develop much better.  A supportive and caring teacher lowers the cortisol levels in the brain, reducing stress, which makes children more prepared for learning. After the talk, we discussed alternative theories of education, including the idea of continuity of a teacher in a child's life.  I told them about you, and how you taught me in multiple grades, and as such, you were able to develop strong relationships with your students.  I'm so glad that I had a truly caring and excellent teacher for those multiple grades.  I think my outcomes may have been different in life, otherwise.

Mr. Caldwell, you made me feel heard, seen, and respected.  When so many teachers seemed to see us as kids, you saw us as people. You treated us with integrity, you built us up, and helped each of us see our own unique gifts.  I thank you from the bottom of my heart for being an amazing teacher, and for helping me become the person I am today.

With heartfelt thanks,

Ashley

On Memory-for Marc

I've often joked that if had a super power, it would be my memory. My oldest memories start at the age of two. I remember playing with my sisters, slipping around a yard covered in ice, running through sprinklers naked with friends... and so many more. I have always been grateful for my memory, but recently, when I learned of the sudden passing of a childhood friend, Marc Crozier, I felt more gratitude than ever at the number of memories and moments I could remember that Marc was a part of.

I met Marc at the age of two, at our babysitter Winnie's. There were many kids there of various ages, including my sisters, and Marc and I developed the typically antagonistic relationship of three year olds of the opposite gender. Occasionally, when I was lucky, I could convince the other kids at Winnie's to play 'Kingdom and Castle' a role-playing game that I made up. Given that it was an RPG designed by a four year old, it was rather unsophisticated. Marc was typically cast as a knight, and I was generally a kidnapped princess that needed rescuing (see why it was difficult to convince other kids to play this game?) But, Marc generally seemed pretty happy to act out a character, which was a part of his personality that endured. I loved him for this, and by kindergarten, I had a total kindergarten crush. In response, Marc and the other boys would chase me around the school yard calling me "Ashley King of the Ashes", a nickname I still find strange to this day. In turn, I called him “Marc King of the Markers”.

My Kindergarten French Immersion class was tiny, and over the years, as we grew up, it continued to shrink until only five of us remained. As a result, we all knew each other well, and had many memories together. When we went to Harriston Senior, for some reason my friend Lindsay and I rarely managed to make it to the bus stop in time. Marc would wait at the corner of Toronto and Prospect for us, and would wave at us to run if the bus was coming. There were many mornings that we made it to school only because Marc was looking out for us, and because Bill our bus driver would open the door at the stop sign at the corner).

Marc had an individuality that was unique among kids in puberty. At an age when we were all desperately trying to fit in, Marc continued on, unconcerned about what people thought of him. In grade 9, when someone told Marc that his acid-wash, wide thigh, tight ankle jeans were very much not in style anymore, he shrugged and said they were comfortable. He couldn't have cared less. I envied that in him. To be so unselfconscious at a time when most of us were cringing with embarrassment on a regular basis seemed incredibly brave to me.

In the 10th grade, some friends and I took on the Lawrence Park renovation project. We had many kids in the school participate, and our friends were group leads. Marc took on one of those roles for us, and showed up many times to help us with prep work after school, as well as with taking a leadership role on the days when we had permission to miss school (when it was MUCH easier to find participants). The next year, at the school pep rally, Katy and I were asked to prepare a presentation about the park project. For some strange reason, we decided to adapt the song 'I will Survive' for this purpose. In our version of this song, it was the park that would survive. For this presentation though, we needed people who weren't afraid to sing in front of the whole school. I REALLY was. And of course, I thought of Marc. Fearless, kind, tone-deaf Marc took the lead on our song, because he loved doing things like that. Another great example of Marc’s penchant for dress up and performance was in OAC French when I did my independent study on the evolution of music and society in the 20^th century. For my presentation, I had friends dress up in costumes from different decades. Marc, representing the 50s, dressed as Elvis, and completely hammed it up. It was awesome.

I am so grateful for the countless memories I have of my childhood, and growing up in French Immersion in our tiny town. I am grateful for my memories of Winnie’s, and of Kindergarten, and of riding the bus to Harriston Senior. And of course, I am grateful for every memory I have of Marc, because when someone with a charming, large, kind personality like his leaves us suddenly, the only recourse is in the stories we share, and the memories we keep. By continuing to share and remember, lost friends are never truly lost.

Rest in peace, old friend.

Memories of Freddy

Today, as it happens from time to time, I am preoccupied with thoughts of Freddy. My Grandfather passed away almost eight years ago. This September would have been his 100th birthday. But, it isn't thoughts of loss that are occupying me at the moment, but rather thoughts of abundance. My Papa and I had a magical relationship. He was my friend and my mirror, as much as my elder and ancestor.Sometimes, I sink into old memories, the way I would sink into his sweaters in the months after he died, wanting to smell him again, to find something tangible that I could hold onto, when I could no longer hold onto his hand. The old memories are better than the smell of his sweaters though, and I think sometimes they need to be brought out, recycled, and replayed, because only that will prevent fading. The smell of the sweaters are long gone, but the memories, I can most certainly keep.

Freddy was a great story-teller, like my father, and myself I suppose. When my sister Kristen was very young, she started asking him about his childhood, growing up on the farm in the early 20th century. In response, he wrote and illustrated a book, dedicated to my sisters and I, titled 'From Papa With Love'. He gave us each a leather bound copy; our individualized books had photocopied photos of ourselves. I was about two when he finished it. The book chronicles his early days, before he met our Grandma, and before he left for the mines in Sudbury. He wrote about his

one room school house, his pets, wildlife, and all the ways he got up to trouble. He even gave us step by step instructions on how to make our own pea shooters and sling shots. By writing those memories all down, he ensured that it would never be forgotten, and I thank him for that. I cherish his book and his words.

Freddy was also a letter writer. Last fall, when I was packing to move, I came across an old stack of letters that he had sent me. I sat and read through each one, laughing, and crying a little, loving his syntax, his voice coming through so clearly in the pages. I had a great many penpals in my youth. Freddy was my favourite. When I was about 9, I asked my Grandparents for a subscription to 'Disney Adventures' for my birthday, and instead, every month, Freddy

would write me a letter, and mail me the magazine along with it. WAY better than a subscription, if you ask me! Some months, he'd forget that he'd already sent me a copy, so I'd get two letters. I didn't mind.

More than anything else though, Freddy just loved his Grandkids. The day Kristen was born, he quit smoking and heavy drinking on the same day. He now had a reason to live, and he certainly did. He was a lighthearted, laughing, happy person who always had a twinkle of mischief in his eye. He was generous to a fault, but sometimes would combine generosity with pranks, such as when he taped $20 to Michelle's foot in her sleep, so she woke up with tape wound between her

toes, but $20 when she could get it off. I think he did this mostly because she was such a deep sleeper, and it was amusing to him to see how much harassment she would take before she woke up. (Sidenote, my dad once woke Michelle up by shaking the whole mattress and yelling that there was an earthquake... she didn't wake up until the mattress shaking rolled her out of bed lol).

Freddy and me were kind of our own thing though. We got each other on a totally different level. I believe that people can have many soul mates, and my grandfather was certainly one of mine. We used to laugh, talk and share secrets like co-conspirators. He treated me like an equal long before I was grown. When he died, I felt like a part of me was gone. To lose that relationship, with someone who understands you so completely, and loves you all the more for it, felt like a painful severing.

Now, many years later, I don't see it quite the same way. I feel like I've sort of absorbed Freddy, by holding tight to the memories of him. I love to look for new people to share my stories about Freddy with, because there is a finite number, and well, I know people hate hearing the same anecdotes all the time. Sharing these memories are really my way of spending time with him. They make me smile, sometimes make me choke up a bit, bring my heart to my throat, and fill me with beautiful emotion. With all my energy, I send all my love out to him, in memory of him, and I feel it come back to me. I breathe, and sink into that cyclical flow of love, and know that wherever he may be, he's happy I'm thinking of him today.

Vote! (and vote well)

Ah spring...when a young government's fancy turns to election. That's right, its springtime in Canada, otherwise known as election season. This year, I anticipate the election with some trepidation. I feel nervous every time there is an election in Canada, because I care about who leads our country, and what they stand for. Too many Canadians don't seem to feel the same; or, at the very least, they don't feel that how they vote is relevant. Too many Canadians of voting age don't vote. In the last federal election, voter turnout hit a record low, at 59.1%. In the first free and fair election in South Africa, people lined up for hours and sung and danced in the heat, joyfully, in order to exercise their right to vote. Voting is a privilege and a right.

In Canada, many of those who vote frequently feel that their only choice is to vote strategically, against someone, rather than proactively for someone. I read today in the Globe and Mail that many, many more Canadians would vote NDP if they believed that the NDP could actually form a government. How absurd this herd mentality seems. What about voting with your conscience, driven by your beliefs, and choosing someone who represents you? I admit, its hard to get excited about politics when you're most concerned about voting against, rather than for.

A significantly greater concern than the trend to vote against is the huge amount of people who don't vote at all. Have we forgotten what a privilege it is to be able to choose our leaders? Yes, it is our right, but it is a right that is denied to people around the world. My Great Aunt Marg once said to me that the greatest thing she saw in her lifetime (which spanned 93 years) was when women got the vote. This is a BIG DEAL. The right to vote and choose our leaders is a BIG DEAL. And yet, most Canadians generally seem perturbed by being asked to go to the polls again.

Maybe it makes me nerd, but I love voting, I love having the opportunity to choose my representative. Do I think we have a perfect system? Hell no (I favour a proportional representation system, but I am apparently alone waving that banner). But, regardless, I am grateful that I have this right.

Tonight, I watched the leadership debate in the Atrium of the CBC building, and I heard the Prime Minister refer to the democratic process multiple times as 'bickering'. He consistently ignored the other candidates with whom he was apparently debating and stared directly into the camera with small, creepy condescending smiles and did his best to convince Canadians that he deserved a majority government. What he didn't really do was participate fully in the democratic process, in that it didn't really feel like he was debating with anyone at all, and he seemed to indicate that anyone who took issue with his statements were squabbling unnecessarily. While I clearly have my own politics that lean away from Stephen Harper, what I really couldn't stand to see tonight was his disrespect for democracy (not to mention, of course, his policies on military spending, crime, immigration, social welfare, health care, international diplomacy, or any of his economic policies really at all--but I digress).

Canada is a fantastic country. I love it here. I have voted every opportunity I've had, and I am so grateful I have that ability. On May 2nd, 2011, please vote. Make an informed choice, and participate in the democratic process.

And remember, a vote for Stephen Harper's Conservatives is a vote against hugs and puppies.

void

Some days
blend, endless
like unset ink
bleeding hours minutes seconds
into one unit of time
mind drifts
and
swells
in
the

void

I be Hatin'.

As you might have noticed (or, if you managed not to, colour me shocked), yesterday was February 14th, Valentine's day. As a child, I always kind of liked Valentine's day. You got to make pretty little mailbox crafts in school, and you'd get fun cards from the kids in your class. Valentine's was an outpouring of love. It was, of course artificial love, and even back then, centered around the expectation that you'd give cards to receive them. But, I didn't mind. The point was, back then, everyone was included, even the odd kid in your class who never said a word and picked his nose a lot. Even he got a card that said 'I like you!' So what if it was lies?

As we age, however, Valentine's stops being inclusive. It becomes a day that is to be celebrated with a significant other, or alone with a pint of Haagen Daas (or a bottle of tequila for the true lonely hearts). Valentine's becomes a contrived observance steeped in expectation once you reach a certain age. For those who are single, it is a reminder of thus. For those who are coupled, men have an expectation to perform, (and not in the enjoyable way), and (some) women feel entitled to their one day a year flowers and chocolates. For serious? This is how we express love?

In high school, my sis Michelle and I decided that this whole day was balls. One V-day, I made her a card, that said "Happy Two Cool Sisters Day!" (proving just how nerdy we really were). Every year thereafter, we still wish each other a Happy Two Cool Sisters day. My sister is married, and she still refuses to celebrate Valentine's day. This makes me proud.

The thing is, I really love love. I adore everything about it. I love seeing expressions of love, and the way people who are truly in love interact with each other. I am by no means a bitter single person. I am full of happiness and pleasure and joy. My Auntie Doriann's birthday happens to also be valentine's day, and her partner wrote her a song, and posted it on facebook for all to see. I love that. I love seeing two people I adore joining their lives together; I love seeing people who after 40 years together, like my parents, are still totally happy and in love. It makes me so happy to see people become stronger, better-off people because they have that positive force in their life. I just honestly feel like Valentine's day doesn't celebrate love, it celebrates the expectation of what love should be. People who are in love are lucky, and in my opinion, every day is their day. There is absolutely nothing more sublime than the feeling of being in love. As my older sister K says: "Love is my favourite drug".

Maybe my hate-on for Valentine's day is actually born of my love of love, and I hate seeing something so amazing corrupted by this red and pink teddy bear heart chocolate long stem roses crap that gets vomited over everything for the first few weeks of February. If you love someone, and you want to get them a gift to show them that, by all means go for it. But, please, make it something that is actually of meaning to them, rather than one of these clichés that are so horribly overdone.

The last several years (whether or not I was in a relationship), I've made a point of spending Valentine's day with my friends. I've had Valentines with 8 people over pitchers and wings, Valentines that have turned into kitchen dance parties lubricated by excessive amounts of tequila, Valentines at the movies watching a slasher horror flick, and this year, I had a nice Valentine's with my roomie, working out and making a nice dinner together, followed by crochet and House. I love celebrating love, you see. I just don't like being told how to do it.

Yesterday, I got a message from my ex, wishing me a happy V.D. I wrote back, and said "Happy Venereal Disease to you, too!" And then I laughed.

Thoughts on the Bullying Question

For several months now, bullying has been prevalent in the media in

a way that it really hadn't been before. After several gay teens in the United States committed suicide as a result of bullying, a national level discussion emerged around the damage of bullying and the lofty notion of zero tolerance. Largely, the focus of the discussion was about victim impact, and in some cases looked at the larger question of a culture that turned a blind eye to the exploitation and abuse of gay youth. Dan Savage, of the brilliant and internationally syndicated advice column, 'Savage Love', started the 'It Gets Better" campaign, promising youth to keep pushing through and things will improve. It was inspiring, moving and touching and gathered the support of people in the public eye across the US, right up to the President.

During this high profile discussion of bullying, there has been very little talk about the bullies themselves. What makes a bully? And, is it a simple 'white hats/black hats' type of affair? Through my work, I

am exposed to daily discussions about bullying. These discussions talk about three groups of kids: the bullies, the victims, and the bystanders. Its often easiest to focus on one side of the coin, rather than another. I started thinking about writing this entry after watching Sunday night's Glee episode, the much hyped post-Superbowl episode. Typically, when Glee has a really hyped up episode, it tends to disappoint me. The Superbowl episode, however, did something quite unexpected that made me incredibly impressed and moved: they humanized the bully.

Its so easy on television shows to make these things appear to be simple. Kurt, the spunky, opinionated openly gay glee club member was tormented by Karovsky, the closeted teenage bully. Its easy to say, 'Karovsky bad, Kurt good'. Of course Kurt is good, and of course Karovsky's actions were bad. Kurt felt so endangered and terrified at school every day that he ended up transferring to another school. However, in the most recent episode, instead of continuing to vilify Karovsky, the show had teachers attempting to support, encourage, and include him. Student leaders followed suit. Instead of allowing further division, they showed that through support and inclusion, people can channel their frustrations into something more productive. While they had a breakthrough moment with Karovsky (who secretly is good at the song and dance glee routine), I thought the ending was much more realistic. It didn't end happily with Karovsky wanting to join the glee club, it ended with him denying his enjoyment of glee, and focused on his desire to maintain his social status, and not appear 'gay'. "I'm on top right now, why would I want to change anything?"

Today, in the Globe and Mail, there was an article about how popular kids are most likely to be bullies. What was most surprising to me about this was that it was news at all. I was a victim of bullying in school, and it was never done by a socially marginalized kid. It was ALWAYS the same group of girls who thought they had the right to degrade and humiliate other classmates who they considered 'less than'. To me, its interesting looking back that it never remotely occurred to me to say anything to anyone about it. Fear of reprisal for being a 'narc' was far greater than a desire for a bully to get suspended for a few days. Eventually, my own social status climbed to the point that I was no longer an appropriate/easy target. I would defend myself, and defended those who I saw being bullied.

People in high school who weren't victims or perpetrators of bullying were almost certainly bystanders, the problem being that pervasive in schools. Almost everyone witnesses bullying. Sometimes, someone speaks. Sometimes, someone will come to another person's defense, but, that's rare. I had close, lifelong friends who witnessed me being bullied and stood by without speaking. They were good, kind people, but terrified of provoking the bullies and creating enemies for themselves. Much research indicates that if we find a way to remove the bystander, we remove all of the bully's power. Bullying rarely happens without witnesses; that would defeat its purpose as a social tool.

Is it possible to overcome this issue? I really don't know. Can we teach empathy in a different way? What made me speak out for other kids being bullied was that I had been bullied myself, but had risen to a social position that meant it wasn't a threat for me anymore. Empathy was fundamentally what drove me, though. How do we create a climate where kids who are bullied are protected, but the bullies are supported as well? How do we remove bystanders? I wish I had answers. Instead, all I have are questions, all bundled inside the complex microcosm of the extremes of human nature that is high school.