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Welcome. My blog is an experiment: Could I have something to say, once a month, for a year? While I like to tell a humorous story, there are stories and reflections I would like to share. My promise to you: when I've got nothing more to say, I quit. Thanks for reading.

Monday, December 17, 2012

Measure Your Life

            Though I have never seen the musical “Rent,” I have a basic idea of the plot.  But mostly, I have listened to the song “Seasons of Love” over and over—enough that it has taken on its own meaning to me, independent of the play.  (My apologies if I have grossly misrepresented the lyricist’s meaning.)

            The song, written by Jonathan D. Larson, asks the very basic question “how do you measure the life of a woman or man?”  And it also provides a very specific answer.  I have excerpted lyrics below:

            Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
            How do you measure, measure a year?

            In daylights, in sunsets
            In midnights, in cups of coffee
            In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife
            In five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
            How do you measure, a year in the life?

            How about love?
            Measure in love

            Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
            How do you measure the life of a woman or a man?

            In truths that she learned
            Or in times that he cried
            In bridges he burned
            Or the way that she died

            Seasons of love
            (Measure your life, measure your life in love)


            I have thought of my mother every day for the past sixteen and a half years since she passed away of cancer, but I think my memories pull at my heart stronger around the Christmas season.  As I try to help my wife create memories for our children, I think about all the memories that she and my father created for me and my brother—the stockings, the cookies, the candles, the trees, the music.

            I know mom had her faults and her life was far from perfect, but I think everyone who knew her will agree with one thing—she tried to live her life measured by a song she never lived to hear.  Mom was a seeker of truths—about herself, about God, about life.  In the end, I think she also tried to teach those around her how to face death.  In her illness mom became a hospice worker, she became a big sister, and she fought for her life tooth or nail, but not with anger, but with love.  And if you ask me how she should be measured, I would answer “measure her life in love.”  Her measuring cup would overflow.

            There are times over the past year when I feel that the message of “Seasons of Love” has gotten through to humanity.  There is hope for our race.  I remember watching a news spot where a young lady worked on a way to send messages of love to US troops.  Maybe you saw the photo that caught a New York Police Officer Lawrence DePrimo giving a homeless man a pair of boots he bought for the shoeless man.  There was another young lady who had a physical deformity who fought against bullying in the schools.  There was a family who lived out of their van in Florida, and when she was asked about how she survived, Arielle Metzger said “I mean, it’s only life.  You do what you need to do, right?”  I had many moments this past year when deep in my heart I thought, “It’s going to be all right, the message is getting through.”


          And then I have days like December 14, 2012.  Regardless of politics, I hope we can universally agree with President Obama’s quote from that evening when he said “As a country we have been through this too many times….We've endured too many of these tragedies in the past few years, and each time I learn the news, I react not as a president but as anyone else would –as a parent."  I am sickened by this senseless tragedy; worse, I lose my faith in humanity.

            I don’t claim to have any answers.  But perhaps we are using the wrong metric in our lives.  We tend to measure our lives by Facebook “friends” or followers of our “tweets,” by our cars and trucks, by bank accounts and boots, by our technology.  What if, instead, we measured our lives with the love that we both gave and received?  I’m certain not everyone agrees with me, but I’m pretty sure my mom is nodding as I type these words.

Wednesday, November 28, 2012

Lessons the Teacher Learned

The following text is (more or less) the speech I gave on Tuesday evening, November 27, 2012 for the Mathews High School Beta Club induction.  I post this in hopes that there are some people who this will resonate with.  I have in mind:
  • anyone who ever taught at Mathews High School,
  • anyone who has ever been a student there,
  • anyone who has ever returned to teach at a school in which they were taught, or
  • anyone who has found more appreciation for their educators and education in retrospect
...this is for you.

So if you know someone who fits the descriptions above and might appreciate the post below, please send this link along to them.  If you know a teacher who has been a generous and positive role model who might appreciate the post, please send the link to them as well.


Four Lessons I learned while Teaching at Mathews High School

          I am Phillip Sanderson (some of you may know me as Elizabeth’s Dad)—a Mathews High School class of 1987 graduate.  And for those of you who do not know me, I also taught at MHS for 20 years, starting in 1991 (thank you Harry Ward).  So this means that somewhere around 1984 I was one of you: a Mathews High School student about to be inducted into the MHS Beta Club.  But it also means that having moved back to Mathews to teach here, I have a fairly unique perspective—one from both sides of the desk.
          I know that in my four years as a student, I learned a lot of math, history, science and English.  However, looking back I realize that there are some important lessons that could not easily be learned as a student—things that I only understood inside these halls from the perspective of an adult.  So here are 4 lessons that I learned at Mathews, but as a teacher, things I didn’t have the wisdom to understand as a student—things I want to pass along to you.

Lesson number 1:         I know that all of you are smart students, or you wouldn’t be sitting in front of me.  And I’m sure that you can sort out the teachers—or the people in any job—who are just punching the clock from the teachers who really care about what they do.  And here’s what I didn’t understand as a student at MHS:  just how many of the teachers here fit that second category, that have a passion for teaching and more importantly, the students.
          I have witnessed, and have been on the receiving end, of countless acts of generosity and selflessness that I recognized only as a teacher.  (You’d be surprised how many times that kindness involved a chainsaw…thanks Mr. Comer, Mr. Thomas, Mr. Holiday, and Mr. Bohn.)  But mostly the students have been on the receiving end of that generosity.  There are teachers who took up a collection to buy a varsity jacket for a student, teachers who fed students, gave them a ride, made sure that they had a Christmas, …  And in more than one instance, I have seen teachers give their homes to students who found themselves without parents to care for them.
          As a student, I was oblivious.  Perhaps subconsciously I tried to keep every faculty member here at a distant arm’s reach.  But I think I lost out.  I could have gotten so much more out of high school if I had just been able to open my eyes and see the love that was around me.  I sold Mathews High School short, and because of that I sold myself short.
          Here’s my advice: think about what you are interested in and then find the people at MHS who are waiting for students to step up; find out how you can best benefit from all they have to offer.  If you think about it, you’ll know who to ask.

Lesson number 2:  Early in my career I had a decision to make: what kind of teacher did I want to be?  I looked around and paid attention to the teachers that students gravitated towards.  Ah… I knew I wanted to be one of those.  But on closer inspection, these teachers were of two very distinct types.  The first teacher was the “buddy” teacher.  The one who both sympathized and empathized with the students.  This teacher didn’t give a lot of homework and gave the students days off and showed movies the day before holidays.  The other teacher, the “battle axe,” was stern and demanded the best from the students.  Many times students grumbled and complained, but in the end respected this teacher.  This teacher was mentioned just as often as the “buddy” teacher, but in a different way.  This teacher was revered.
          My point is, I took shape in these halls; I was formed here.  The best of what I am came from the best of the teachers before me: Dorothy Foster, Virginia McDaniel, Joyce Deputy, Jeff Bohn, John Brown.   Choose your role models well and then actively pursue becoming the person you want to be.
 
Lesson number 3:         My first year of teaching, I made mistakes.  Not just teaching mistakes, but math mistakes.  When students tried to point them out, my first reaction was “Which one of us is the teacher?  Who has 4 years of college under their belt?  That’s right!  This guy!”
          Here’s my advice: when challenged, step back and look at your work.  Allow for the possibility that you have blundered.  From personal experience, I promise that the more you dig in your heels and assert that you are correct, the dumber you look when you are proven wrong.  And along the way, you just might gain the respect of those you’re working with.  And if you are proven correct, because you allowed for the possibility of your mistake, you come off looking not only smart, but generous.  As a bonus the student feels respected and validated, regardless of whether or not they are correct.
          Now when a student raises their hand and points out a possible mistake, I stop what I’m doing and look at the board.  It’s a win-win situation for everyone.
          The message here: never think that you are so good that you cannot make a mistake.  Approach life—both in your career and outside of it—with a measure of humility.  And if anyone thinks less of you, thinks that humility is a sign of weakness, well maybe you don’t need to be listening to their opinions in the first place.

Lesson number 4:         The final thing that I learned is best described by the author Charles Swindoll, in one of my favorite quotes:
          “The longer I love, the more I realize the impact of attitude on life.  Attitude,     to me, is more important than facts.  It is more important than the past, than         education, than money, than circumstances, than failures, than successes, than what other people think or say or do.  It is more important than appearance, giftedness or skill. It will make or break a company...a church....a home.  The remarkable thing is we have a choice every day regarding the attitude we will embrace for that day.  We cannot change our past...we cannot change the fact that people will act in a certain way.  We cannot change the inevitable.  The only thing we can do is play on the one string we have, and that is our attitude...I am convinced that life is 10% what happens to me and 90% how I react to it.  And so it is with you...we are in charge of our attitudes.”
 
         As a teacher, I find that it is important to have a really short memory, to wake up every morning and remember that I love my students.  That, even when they aggravate the teeth out of me, they are still my kids.  Sometimes when I get the most frustrated, I picture them walking down a dark alley in a city and someone trying to mug one of my kids.  In those times, I know what I would do for any of my students.
          Each morning, I made of point of checking my attitude at the door and forgetting any slights from the previous day.  My students probably thought I was crazy…they left one day with me yelling at them and they come back the next and we’re on great terms.  I guess if that’s crazy, I hope all teachers are crazy.
          I like what Swindoll says: we are in control of so few things in our lives, some days we have just one string—attitude.  And when you only have one string to play, make the best of it.  Make your attitude a conscious decision, a choice you make, and then each morning, choose to be positive.

           To summarize:  recognize the quality, love, and generosity of those people who surround you; choose good role models, live life with a measure of humility; and keepm a positive attitude.

          Finally, before I close, a small confession.  When I was a junior in high school, my plan was to leave Mathews County forever…shake the dust from my feet and good riddance.  I didn’t even buy a class ring.  Why spend money on a place I was trying to forget?   I was certain that Mathews High School and Mathews County in general held nothing for me.  Foolish boy that I was.
 

Friday, October 26, 2012

Pop….Slurp…Pop…Slurp…







           Being three years junior to my brother was like playing “Survivor” without Jeff Probst, camera crews, or the exotic location.  He seemed to excel with maddening consistency at everything from academics to athletics (fun fact: one name considered for this blog was “unclemichaelalwayswins”), and my parents looked for ways to help me find my niche in the family.  I have always been a popcorn lover and my parents decided to build up my self-esteem by dubbing me the Best Popcorn Maker in the Family.  (In truth, I saw through the ploy, but couldn’t see any reason to burst their bubble.  They were trying so hard to be good parents.)
          One evening with Mom out at church choir practice and my brother off…I don’t know where…Dad and I were watching TV and he suggested that I make a batch of my world-famous popcorn.  No sweat.  I’ll get right on it.
          In the kitchen I got out all the necessary tools…Mom’s good spaghetti pot with lid, popcorn, and…now where is the vegetable oil?  Look… look… look… Can’t find it anywhere.  But, there is a likely substitute found in a cabinet with the cooking supplies.  It’s got the right color, a similar consistency (well, kind of) and quite nearly the same name.  I was in business after all.
         We had a gas stove top so the key to good popcorn was a low flame and a LOT of patience.  After all, that secret is how I got to be the Sanderson Family Popper.  Low heat…cover the pan in a thin layer of vegetable oil substitute…pour a single layer of popcorn…cover… and wait for the popping to commence.  Once it starts, keep the pot moving on top of the burner until the popping has slowed to a near stop.  Simple.
          I went to watch TV with Dad and kept an ear out for the popping.
          I watched more TV than I should have (maybe Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom with Marlin Perkins) but still no noise.
          I grew concerned.  I went to the kitchen and put my ear near the pan.  No kernel explosions at all.  From previous experimentation, I had learned that removing the lid to watch the actual popping was a bad idea (don’t ask) so I gave it some extra time.  Perhaps fifteen minutes went by.
          When I listened again…well, there was popping…that’s true.  But not the rapid-fire sound I loved, just an occasional isolated eruption.  I needed to have a look.  I removed the lid and inside was…a sticky morass of blackened charred goo with a chance kernel popping, trying to reach an escape velocity, jumping to a height of maybe a centimeter or two before being sucked back down into the…burnt…goo that clung on resolutely.  I had cooked my very own, personal La Brea Tar Pits, a boiling miserable miasma, destined to create fossils out of an unsuspecting evening snack.  Pop.  A few seconds later another prisoner would try to escape, but with no different results.  Slurp.  (At this point it may help to visualize the Millennium Falcon being sucked back by the Death Star’s tractor beam.)
          Me:  Dad…
          I had no idea how to explain this.
          Me: I think we have a problem.
          He wasn’t sure who the “we” were or why he was being included, but he dutifully came out to the kitchen.
          Dad:  (Peers into the pot in Stunned Silence)
          Me:  *Blink Blink* 
          Dad:  (More Stunned Silence)
          It turns out that corn syrup is NOT an appropriate replacement for corn oil.  Again, similar color, only slightly more viscous, and a similar name to boot.  I felt cheated and tricked by the food industry, but my pain was nowhere near the pain on Mom’s face when she came home to find her favorite spaghetti pot ruined and sitting on the back step.  The only thing that spared me from severe punishment was my obvious remorse; nothing could spare the spaghetti pot, destined for a trip to the dump.

My next Christmas gift was an ice cream scoop.  Much safer than popcorn.