Self-Indulgence

Sometimes, I write about things other than children. A friend who by no stretch of the imagination is not a runner - the basketball playing type- has decided to run a marathon. He asked for some advice. All I could think of when he did was my own running philosophy: find that place that makes running feel secondary. This is what it turned in to...

This morning, I woke up at 6:45. I was tired as evident by the repeated buzzing of my alarm. Once I was up, stretched out like a lioness awakening from a nap, and put on the typical San Francisco at 7 a.m. running garb, I was ready.

I ran down the three flights of stairs, opened the door and the gate, and then breathed in the fresh morning air. Despite my attempt to stretch out every muscle, pop every joint, and self-adjust every vertebrate of my spine, I was still a little creaky. If India Arie’s sweet voice had not been singing through my IPOD, I was certain my knees would have sounded like the Tin Man’s pre-WD 40 steps. Two minutes into the run, everything changed.

When I reached the crest of Potrero Hill, I saw what I see every morning I decide to wake up early to get in my run: the San Francisco skyline with all of the perfectly parallel streets leading to it and following behind it to the bay. I turned right, and the man-made city seemed much less enchanting.

As I made my way down 18th Street, I was nearly blinded by the beams of sunlight bouncing off of the water, up over the hills and into my eyes. For many reasons, I am lucky this was not the case. The first is obvious. The second, not so much. As my eyes broke through the beams of light, in the distance, I saw what I see every morning I decide to wake up early to get in my run: the breadth of the bay, the big ships anchored on the shore of the East Bay, and the rolling hills – all still covered with a light layer of fog. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen a mere 20 minutes after slumber.

As India’s voice still sang, I suddenly came to a stop.

The one thing you should know about running is San Francisco is that sometimes, stops are inevitable.

As I waited for the flashing “Walk” sign to appear, I noticed the people around me. Unfortunately for them, I was singing aloud. Even more unfortunately, they were on their way to work and could not enjoy the beautiful morning run.

FINALLY the flashing light signaled that I could escape the trap of rest and continue. As swiftly as a gazelle in the African savannah, I floated across the street. The cars all came to a halt, and just like the folks waiting for the bus, I knew the drivers, too, were jealous. Two-one-two-one-two-two-two-two-two-two-two-one. The beat of the next song and my pace felt Morse-code like. I barely noticed, though because about three-quarters of a mile away, I saw what I see every morning I decide to wake up early to get in my run: AT&T Park, home of the San Francisco Giants.

Running next to the bay, now, I smelled the fresh, fishy water. I do not like the smell of fish, but today as the laser beams bounced from the fire ball in the sky onto my forehead and sweat began to drip from my forehead and through the long-sleeved shirt I decided to wear on this warmer-than-usual morning, the fresh, fishy air was refreshing.

As the reminder of Freeze Pops on a hot day filled my mind, I looked up. The bleachers in the stadium seemed so close. Close enough that if were a Friday night, I was certain that I would be able to see the faces of the fans. It was not Friday, but I was still running.

To the stadium, around the perimeter, around the café behind it, to the fishing pier.

India’s voice was suddenly drowned out. The masts of the boats clang together sounding almost as obnoxious as a cowbell. This morning, though, it was not obnoxious. Just like every morning I decide to wake up early to get in my run, it sounded beautiful.

The next few miles always blur, and today was not any different. The Embarcadero runs along the bay, and as always, others were getting their morning high, too. All were running. All were smiling. All were watching the few sail boats already on the water, the tourists up before many residents, the Golden Gate bridge in the distance, the sun slowly continuing to rise into the sky.

Then, it was over.

But not really over. As I made my way up Mission Street and away from the water, I dodged people, dogs, shopping carts, cars, and, of course, the occasional large piece of trash. I was interrupted numerous times by the solid red hand. I was surrounded no longer by nature and sunlight and fresh, fishy air but by what I see for the second four miles every time I decide to wake up early to get in my run: tall, larger-than-life buildings, cafes bustling with people, more Starbucks than in all of the city of St. Louis, briefcases, Wells Fargo ATMs, taxis, and even more trash. I took respite this morning and ran through Yerba Buena Garden, something I often do if I have enough time.

I did not stop and stretch, nor do I ever. I jog in place. I read Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.’s, famous speech, and if my timing is perfect, the message resounds as I hear the surprise of the waterfall turn on behind me. Recharged by the power of the words and the power of the natural, adrenaline high, I ran on.

Past more people, more cafes, more cars, more peeks of sunlight, I made it back to the hill.

Only this time, it’s all up. Four hills of varying length and grade.

Sprint.

Stop.

Breathe.

Sprint.

Stop.

Breathe.

Sprint.

Stop.

Breathe.

Sprint.

Stop.

Breathe.

Home.

It did not feel like eight miles. It did not even feel like one.

Find that place where running feels secondary.

Prior Knowledge

I have little time to reflect on this, but a homework assignment I received from a student at Oakland Tech made me realize all that our students bring, including prior knowledge on what it takes to be successful.

In response to the homework question:
What do you think Henry Ford meant when he said “Failure is the chance to begin again more intelligently”?
Natalie Tieng responded:
I think that this quote means persistence. (Yes, she underlined it. J) Persistence is the inner strength to stick it out when you would rather quit. Most truly successful people endure a lot of failure before they achieve success. J.K. Rowling was snubbed by dozens of publishers before she hit it big with the Harry Potter series; Oprah Winfrey was fired from one of her first jobs because somebody decided she ‘wasn’t fit for TV.’ It’s okay to fail as long as you see the lessons in every mistake you make and use them to your advantage to become even stronger. Persistence means changing the “I can’t” into “I will” – and continuing to believe in yourself no matter what. I think this quote from Henry Ford is all about persistence. (Yes, she underlined it again!)

She may already be in the running for best youth entrepreneur!

I Believe in the Special Sauce

In the 1950s NPR began a radio program inviting people from across the nation to submit essays about the core values and personal philosophies that guided their lives. Last April, the program returned to the air waves. On June 26th, I heard my very first "This I Believe" essay reading. I am not sure what I was doing - driving in Pittsburgh, I believe - but the power of the reading resounded with me. Oscar-winning producer Brian Grazer confidently boasted of his belief of "Disrupting My Comfort Zone." A few weeks later, skateboarding wonderman, Tony Hawk, urged listeners to do as he did and "Do What You Love." Synthesizing and reflecting upon these two listening experiences together, I find that my life is a literal representation of both.

Two years ago, I took not just a step but a leap out of my comfort zone. Growing up and attending college in rural Pennsylvania certainly did not provide any context for teaching in urban St. Louis. If Mr. Grazer would not have disrupted his comfort zone, movie fans around the globe would not have be blessed with his productions and he would not, as he puts it, grow. If I would not have disrupted my comfort zone, I would not be doing what I love. I might not have discovered it, either.

Thankfully, I did. Because I did, I met Miss Tomieka Mack and her classmates at E.H. Lyle Academy. Because I continue to disrupt my comfort zone and continue to fight for educational equity despite the appeal of escaping to a less controversial, less political career path, I get to do what I love and build relationships with some pretty incredible kids along the way.

Today, a colleague of mine had to substitute day five at Oakland Tech due to a scheduling conflict at my other school. When I returned to our office and inquired about her experience, the first thing she said was "They totally missed you." She continued the flattery by informing me that they asked where I was more than 25 times and requested to do the affirmation pledge they grumble about on a daily basis, and that Oscar did not seem to want to pay attention to her or have much to do with her. (This is the same Oscar who cuts to the front of the line to shake my hand and greet me each morning.) Later this afternoon, the aforementioned and pictured Miss Tomieka Mack graced me with an after-school phone call. There were questions about my "new life" and requests to visit soon, updates about her new teachers, most of whom are "not you, Miss G" and reassurrance that she would continue to use the SAT words I taught her last year. "I told my new homeroom teacher, Miss Han, that I asked the rest of the class to be quiet because I did not want them to exacerbate the disruption of her learning environment," she told me.

After I got home and started to plan the start of my extended weekend, I divulged the day's conversations to a friend. As is typical when I explain the quickly-founded relationships with students, he asked "I understand the former student missing you, but how can you get kids to miss you in five days?" "Magic," I replied.

He pressed the issue, insisting that it is not magic, asking if I devloped a plan with teachers or Teach For America friends, finally concluding that it must be me.

Humbly, I admit that it is. It's my Special Sauce.

There is no clarity surrounding the time or place of my last dance with the Big Mac (and I'm hopeful there is no copyright infringment in using the term "special sauce"), but I absolutely remember my favorite part and the only reason I would ever again consume the 7.8 ounce, 560 calorie wonder burger. It's the special sauce.

Even when following the recipe from McMenu: McDonald's Do-It-Yourself, nothing is just like it. Even if the burger is juicier than summer-ripe watermelon, the white-flour enriched bun is softer than a newborn baby's bottom, and the pickles make your lips pucker up tighter than your first kiss, if the sauce is not a part of the $2.90 package, it just is not special.

Human beings are all gifted and blessed with talents in different ways. My best friend Kelly knows the name of every muscle, tendon, ligament and bone in the body, and she can treat every athletic injury from a strained hamstring to tenosynovitis at least six different ways. Being able to make her athletes feel comfortable and maintain a the possibility of victory despite injury is her special sauce. My sister spends hours and hours every single day combining chemicals in the effort of creating some sort of reaction to cure some sort of illness (the terms and goal maintain a foreign citizenship despite numerous explanations). Never losing sight of the possibility that a cure is possible despite many failed attempts is hers. Brian Grazer's special sauce spices up each time he disrupts his comfort zone. Tony Hawk defies convention and lives through his.

My own Special Sauce flavors my interactions, my connections, my ability to build relationships with other people.

I may not be a Big Mac, and I certainly will never be a Oscar-winning movie producer, but I can convince a 14-year-old to jump a line to shake my hand. I can influence 25 of them to want to say a list or random affirmations. I can bring a smile to the face of a young woman who claims she's meaner than mean. I can garner the respect of students and get attention in a single utterance. I can persuade a young woman ridiculously fearful of falling and breaking a bone into ice skating. I can bring joy and laughter simply by being my odd, goofy, absolutely abnormal self, and I can make a group of high school freshmen miss me after just four days. It might not be mayo based, but that's my Special Sauce.