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High School Senior Crunch Time

College deadlines are looming. Essays to write! Questions to answer! Portfolios to organize! Having taught high school seniors for years and being the mom of a senior currently (my third and final one), I have a few things to offer.

 

   

  1. Calm down. Wherever you end up won’t be perfect. It won’t correct all your deep-seated flaws or create world peace. It’s just college. Some of us (myself included) got to where we were and ended up someplace else. And that was definitely not the worst thing that ever happened to me.

 

  1. Don’t badger your teacher about the letter of rec unless this teacher has demonstrated a lack of responsibility in the past. For instance, she lost your assignments (like, for real), has been late to class numerous times, or winged (wung?) one too many lessons. You get what I’m saying here. And if this is the teacher you’ve chosen to write the letter, my first question is WHY? My second question is Do you have a back-up plan? If not, get one quick.

 

  1. Begin to have that hard discussion with your parents/guardians about the feasibility of certain colleges. The difficult discussions won’t be over once you’re admitted. In fact, they may just be beginning. In my years of teaching, I’ve seen kids encouraged to apply and “just see what happens” only to learn after they got in that their family couldn’t afford the tuition. Be realistic. Also, don’t lose hope. Some colleges will give you $$$. Some colleges will give you more $$$ if you bargain.

 

  1. If someone makes changes to your college essay or says outright it’s terrible, listen to them. Remember, the admissions person who reads your essay doesn’t know you. You are a number, a number on a long list of numbers maybe. How does your essay sound to a complete stranger? Get someone who doesn’t know you well to read it. What you want to know is this: Does my essay make me sound like a person who should be thumped on the head? If so, rewrite or revise. You can do this, I promise. And please avoid the thesaurus. Using a fancy word will not make you appear smarter. In fact, I’m guessing when admissions folks see this sort of thing, they do this.

 

 

  1. You can’t undo your high school track record, but you can stay the course and do well right now. Yes, I’m talking about your senior year. In spite of what you may have heard, your senior year matters. Studies have shown that students who are challenged as high school seniors, perform better as college freshmen. How you end things in high school is important. Don’t believe me? Read the next one to know why.

 

  1. You are creating a reputation for yourself right now this minute. And I so get that you want to blow the high school popsicle stand already. Don’t. First of all, as a teacher I can tell you I have really, genuinely, truly loved about 95% of my students. While teachers are sort of ready to get rid of seniors (because you’re a handful and you know it!), you have also become one of our children. Cheesy as that may sound, it’s true for most of the teachers I’ve encountered. And get this. You may actually need us again, sooner than you think. Several years ago, I had a student who wanted to transfer, TWICE. Both times he needed my letter of rec. He was not a perfect kid or a straight-A kid, but I liked him. He was really funny and really smart and really kind. And if he asked for my reference tomorrow, I’d still give him one.

 

  1. Speaking of teachers, thank them for those letters of recommendation. In most cases, teachers are not required to write these letters. They do so out of the goodness of their hearts. No need to break the bank getting a gift, but a nice handwritten note is a thoughtful gesture.

 

 

  1. In a few weeks or months, you’ll start getting those letters. Acceptance or rejection, it’s just a part of life. As a writer I have been rejected. So. Many. Times. Mourn for a day (two tops) and then get over yourself and your disappointment and move on. Life has a way of working out, even when you don’t get what you want.

 

  1. Eat. Exercise. Live your life. Be a high school kid a while longer because like the song says, “You will never pass this way again.”

 

 

Finally, if you are still reading, smile. To go to college may seem like a right, but think of all the people in the world, women and girls especially, who can only dream of being where you are right now. Be grateful. Education isn’t a panacea (now there’s a word for your college essay!), but it’s pretty darn close.  

 

 

Who Have We Become?

I’ve traveled quite a bit this summer, more than usual. As much as I love being home, it’s exhilarating to smell someplace new. Takes me out of my head, allows me to see the world in a different light.

While in an airport security line, I noticed a family—mother, father, big brother, little sister. This is what they looked like in any case. And being the teacher and children’s writer I am, I watched the kids, especially the little girl. Her cheeks were chubby. She had a mop of pretty dark hair. Understandably, she was apprehensive about the whole process—trays and belts and X-ray machines and folks in uniform. Yet even from my distant vantage point, I could see she was listening to the instructions, abiding by the rules, eager to please.

This same family was at my gate. The four of them going to Baltimore, too, I guessed, that is until pre-boarding began. The woman I assumed was the mother wept openly now and urged the little girl down the ramp. “Go!” she cried, literally, and off the child went.

As I watched the family walk away, my heart clenched. It clenches now as I write this post. Life is painful, I thought. There are too many goodbyes, I said to myself.

Inside the plane the little girl sat in a row by herself, tears streaming and nose running. Thinking I might console her or at least provide tissues, I sat next to her. “Thank you,” she whispered when I handed the package of Kleenex over.

There was a notepad in my computer bag and a pen, so I passed these things to her, too.

“You’re brave to travel by yourself,” I told her. “You must be at least ten.”

“I’m six,” she replied.

Six? My own children were once six, and I tried to recall them at that age. First grade. Stuffed animals. Lots of pink.

There was intermittent weeping, some drawing, some chatting.

“I like you. You’re nice,” she said.

“I like you. You’re nice, too,” I told her.

“What’s your favorite movie?” she asked.

Matilda. What’s yours?”  

Chucky,” she replied, and then proceeded to describe a few bloody details.

More time passed. The girl stared out the window. She drew another picture. I watched as she folded it in half then handed it to me.

 

“What if my mom isn’t there?” Layla asked.

“She’ll be there,” I replied.

“But what if she isn’t? I can’t be all alone,” she said.

“You won’t be alone,” I assured her.

For over an hour this continued. Crying and drawing and talking and staring and questioning. So much uncertainty in Layla’s world. So much uncertainty in so many children’s worlds. ICE raids and parents taken. Sick children deported. Unthinkable sadness and terror. Trauma that will last a lifetime. Trauma that will trickle down through generations and haunt us all.

Who have we become?

“I’m going to live with my mother and Thomas,” Layla said. “He has a basement with a washer and dryer. We can have clean clothes.”

“That’s good,” I said. “Don’t you just love clean clothes?”

“Yes,” she said. “I hope my mother is there. What if she isn’t there?”

“She’ll be there, I promise. You won’t be alone.”

Due to storms we waited on the tarmac. Rain slashed the windows and lightning flickered in the distance. Layla’s nervousness grew worse. Again and again, she said, “What if my mother isn’t there? What will I do?”

Layla had some distance yet to go. She wasn’t disembarking in Baltimore as I’d hoped, but instead traveling to another city. In the dark. Alone.  

This flight was weeks ago now, but still I think of Layla. I hope her mother was waiting that night. I hope the reunion was good and solid and true. I hope her clothes are scrupulously clean and her backpacked stocked for the start of school.

Layla was only one child, but I had a front row seat to her terror. All those faces behind chain-link fences. Not their children. Not somebody else’s children. 

My children. Our children.

Who have we become?

Never Give Up

Thinking of quitting? Think again. I’ve often wondered why I was cursed/blessed with the obsession of storytelling. Why can’t I just go to a cocktail party or a wedding or the pawn shop like a “normal” person? Why am I endlessly thinking about stories, those I’ve written and the ones I’ve read? What is the point of such longing anyway? The truth is I don’t know. What I do know is this obsession has only intensified with age.

When we first moved into our current home, I stuck this magnet to the washing machine. Probably because the laundry was daunting back then. Now my two daughters who are still at home (some of the time) do their own laundry, as does my husband. Still, I keep this magnet because when I’m looking for a sign, here it is. If you’re looking for a sign, here it is.

“Never, never, never give up.” Cliché? Yeah, I suppose. But somebody will get the higher grade or win the contest or publish the book or sign a record deal. Somebody will get the job or the promotion or reach a million followers on Twitter. The question is this: Why not you? 

Owning, announcing, broadcasting, embracing the fact that you are trying to achieve this thing is scary because your little secret is out. The world knows what you’re up to, and the powers that be may not give it to you. They may put up roadblocks. People might laugh or roll their eyes. Folks may say you aren’t a serious person. Even worse, maybe you aren’t young enough, old enough, smart enough, good enough.  

It is quite possible the universe might not give us what we want. In all my years of writing, I’ve learned this: I’m a writer. Yes, I’ve published three novels, but that is not what makes me a writer. I’ve written so many more unpublished novels. I have failed at publishing again and again, but I have not failed at being a writer. In fact, I would argue I’m a highly successful writer because in the midst of failing at publishing, I’ve still been writing. And it feels better, wiser, stronger, truer to keep going because that’s who I am and what I do. 

If today was the day you went looking for a sign, it’s here, stuck to my washing machine, next to some wet bathing suits.

Now go do whatever it is you’re dreaming of and tell at least one person what you’re up to. If they roll their eyes or scoff or list countless reasons why you’re likely to fail, think of it as fuel for your determined tank and just keep swimming. 

 

Never Give Up Magnet

 

Tidbits

What happened? Where did I go? Why has this website only recently been updated? It’s a long and a short story.

More than a decade ago, I published three books in two years. It was a dream to say the least, one I’d worked and slaved and sacrificed for most of my adult life because … well, that’s how dreams happen. After said books were published, I went back to teaching. And while teaching, I was busy being a mom and a wife and also still a writer. I blogged sometimes, too, but then I went radio silent on this here website. It wasn’t that I was too busy. I was too busy, but most people are busy, so that’s no excuse. What happened was this: my previous web designer died. He died suddenly and tragically, and it was all very, very sad. Rob was talented and artistic and kind.

I didn’t want to undo Rob’s work. I didn’t know how to do the techie stuff myself. So, I let the site sit and sit and sit. For. Seven. Years.

Many things have happened these past seven years. I’ve let my dark hair go gray. My children have vanished and been replaced by women who are really tall. Some things haven’t changed, though. I’m still writing every day, even on weekends and usually on holidays. I still love to write. It’s both difficult and easy. You sit down. You remain seated. You don’t check your phone or email or social media. You allow things to come to you and you write them down. Sometimes these things suck, so you try again.

What is this Tidbits page? This and that, really. Sometimes it’s about writing. Sometimes it’s about life. Mostly, it’s just me talking to myself because that’s how I make sense of things.

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