Hello all. It's been quite some time since I last wrote, not for a lack of topics to write about or even a desire to get it done. But mostly, I've been making sure the team is well situated for the end of the year, making sure kids are going to camp, as well as making sure all the things I need to do to make sure my job is being done most effectively. In the mad rush of stuff I've been trying to get done, I've had a lot of time to reflect and to think nostalgically about a variety of things, and somewhere in all of this, the idea of writing a parting letter to my seniors, to give me an avenue to voice my feelings, as well as some sort of public recognition for some kids that have literally changed the person I am. Well, here we go...
Dear Seniors,
When I was hired, I had no intention of being around long enough to even consider writing a parting shots letter. I assumed I would hold the job for a year, maybe two, before I decided on how much money i was willing to go in debt to get to law school which would inevitably guide my decision. I had the opportunity to be teach at the school the first year, and decided it was a better idea to live off my poker earnings, because I had no desire to lock in to a high school program. I had been coaching high school, but still had the itch to leave and do something, as my mother would say, "more academic." Wasn't really sure what it was, but I was pretty sure my BS degree would not be my last. In fact, I had not even intended on taking this job. I had another job offer from another school in the district, and only agreed to interview for the job as a favor to a friend. But sometime during my initial interview with Mr. Raines, I decided to not just summarily dismiss this chance without being open to the idea of what this program was capable of being. I opened up my mind, my heart and spoke abstractly with a few friends about the possibility of me working at a Catholic high school (ironically, one of my confidantes is now my co-worker, as the school just hired him). And when I took the job, the job was all about potential, as opposed to achievement. In a word, our program was lackluster at best, and not mentionable among even the top teams in our immediate area...
...and now, four years later, our program has flourished, has grown exponentially, and has become a place where a student, any student, can come and find a place where they can feel comfortable, and a place where anyone that wants to can carve out a niche, a place that, as a unit, tries very hard to operate like a family. That's a statement I always considered to be the core component in most of the successful programs in other formats of competition, but I had never really been part of a program that operated with family at the core of its operational successes and/or failures. People that knew me five years ago, and who see me now, must see a very different person. I call him un-fun Doug. every once in awhile, fun Doug will show up, just to make fun of the person un-fun Doug has become. Whereas fun Doug says things like "Let's go up to the bay and chill with your peeps!", un-fun Doug talks about gas prices, mileage, wear-and-tear on the vehicle, and the amount of time for the drive (which never seems to stop fun-Doug from kidnapping un-fun Doug for a couple of days a year, on long ass road trips across the desert to the promised land (or is it the Land of (unfulfilled) Promises)
...When I got hired, debate (and that's what it was to me for the first year definitely) was still fun and exciting, and that was the driving force behind why I was still involved. I felt my job was to make you all as good at debate as possible, and the rest of the other stuff would be dealt with by someone else. I felt my job was to cut a ton of evidence, come up with tight strategies, and be the driving force to our winning debates. I was pretty good at that. But if that was all I was willing/able to do, I definitely wouldn't still be here, possibly by my own choice, but more likely because the school would have felt under-served by my time-effort-pay ratio. Somewhere, in the middle of all the madness, it dawned on me that my job was much more extensive than I signed on for, but also that I was more than capable of doing these things. I speak to debate coaches all over the country that know more about their kids than I generally know about you all, but that's a lot by choice. I try my hardest to not let what happens to you all when you're not with Speech and Debate change my opinions of you, positively or negatively, and to only be influenced by my direct interactions with you all, and my indirect interactions with the team...
...but even as I attempt these things, it occurs to me that, in order to do my due diligence, I need to give you all more of myself, a part of myself most people don't see. And somewhere along the line, i decided to be more open, to give you all more of myself, but to, above all, make sure that this program is here, and in better shape, for other kids that may need the benefit of a place to go and be accepted, regardless of, well, anything, and to find their space. I hash on this stuff a lot, because, when it's all said and done, it's not something that is inherent in the way I operate, but something I learned from you all. I learned not how to be responsible from you all, but I learned why I needed to be responsible. You all made me want to be responsible for you...
...which i guess gets me around to my point. Thank you. Thank you for giving as much to the Speech and Debate program than anyone should ever have asked of you. Thank you for being patient with me, as I grew into the position of leadership I took on before I knew if I was ready. Thank you for being the backbone, the soul and the heart of the family our program has become. Thank you for being exceptional competitors, but better people. Thank you for giving me the passion and drive to serve you all in a way you deserve. Thank you for growing with me, because of me as much as in spite of me. Thank you for giving Speech and Debate a chance to change your lives. Thank you for dealing with my quirks and idiosyncratic demeanor, my short fuse and general impatience, and my gruff demeanor. Thank you for realizing that my goal is your success and for you to have no regrets at the end of your time in the activity.
Farewell, class of 2010. You will be missed, but your legacy will long outlive your time on the team. When I got here, we had some members on Speech and Debate, but not a lot of interaction. We had no family. We had no Culture of Success. We had no expectations. This class changed all of that, and for that, I will be forever in your debt. I am honored to know you all, and would be happy to call you my friends.
You stay strong, I'll stay black,
Mr. D
24 May 2010
05 May 2010
December 6, 1986 or the day I thought I was going to be sent to military school...
It's approaching Mother's Day, and if you've followed this blog at all (which probably means you know me, and if not, please log off creepy stalker!!) you know a couple of things: 1) my mother meant the world to me, and was one of my best friends, and 2) she's deceased, and has been for quite some time. If you think, "hey, it's has to get easier," well, you'd be wrong about that as well. I've been waxing sentimental for a couple of posts, and I just needed to get some joy in this process...
Christmas season in my home was always the same. My mother would wake up on Saturday morning, do whatever housework she felt needed to be done, and then she would go shopping. Probably a more accurate description was she went looking, as I had gone on a variety of the excursions. They usually involved going into every store in every mall she could get to from whenever she left in the AM until some time around midnight, as the malls are trying to fleece you, and it's easier to do so if they can be open for longer periods of time. And it's like clockwork- every Saturday. It was will-crushing when I was younger, as it seemed she never, and I mean never came home with anything that even looked like it might be a gift for me...
...so when my mom announced she was going shopping, and to not expect her for awhile, I was fully aware that I had the entire house to myself for the day (as my sister was a bit younger, she always had to go with Ma Dukes). And when you're 15 years old, you can't spell debauchery, but you sure as hell can get into some. The first thing I did was call over a couple of my boys to enjoy the day, watch a little television, play some video games, and oh yeah...
...I offer this caveat: when I was young, I smoked some marijuana. Some would say I smoked a lot, and some would say I didn't. In my high school days, those that might indicate that I didn't smoke a lot would include names such as B. Real from Cypress Hill, Keith Richards, Cheech and Chong, George Bush, etc. Obviously, all stunning potheads. But I digress...
...so I invite my friends over, a couple of the guys come and one girl- we call this a sausage fest, generally, but since the chances of any of us having sex with her were around the chances of Stephen Hawking getting up and kicking me in the balls, we never really gave it much thought. The plan: smoke some of this fine pot I happened to have (how I got it is referred to in an earlier post- don't tell your mother!), eat some food, play some video games and be out of the house by 5pm. This gave the house plenty of time to air out, especially if I decided to cook something, which, based on the activity mentioned, usually meant I was going to be hungry, and thus, would almost always cook. My dad is out of town, but even if he was, he was never really around, choosing to spend most of his time in the den if Ma Dukes wasn't around, but because he was in Cleveland, or Milwaukee, or Orlando or wherever in the hell he was for that weekend, this was a non-starter...
...everyone shows up, and we decided to be a little bolder than normal. Usually, we would smoke out of items that released as little smoke as possible (dugout bats, home-made apple pipes). But since I knew, and I mean I knew my moms wasn't going to be home for hours, and I knew I was going to cook to cover up the smell, and because I'm sometimes, for lack of a better description, a little fucking stupid, I decide to let a friend roll a joint to smoke. This is clearly unnecessary, as the coffee table in my living room looks like a scene from Sir Smoke-A-Lot's spot in Half Baked. Apparently, he'd just watched Cheech and Chong's Up in Smoke, so the al-jazzeri he rolled was fat like Kirstie Alley (so it was fat, yet simultaneously unattractive). We sparked it up, passed it around a couple of times, and before we knew what happened, we were all almost passed out on the couch, wanting to play video games, but not being sure I had enough energy to actually mobilize, get up, get a game in the machine, find the controller, well, you get the picture.I decide that, since it is my house, I should get up to put the game in. Mario Brothers. You. Better. Recognize...
...so there we are, sitting in the living room of my house, joint burning in an ashtray (my own, neither of my parents smoked cigarettes, which is the only reason one might have an ashtray in their home), absolutely train-wrecked. The parents are gone for some block of time, and so it's all about video games, pizza rolls and some chill time with my people...that is until I hear a set of keys rattling in the door...
"Did you hear that? Sounds like keys."
I go through the mental Rolodex, so I can figure out what this actually means. I'm not gonna lie, it was a bit disconcerting. Dad is out of town, actually out of the state. My sister doesn't have a key, as she's not even 8 years old yet. That pretty much exhausts the rest of the names in that Rolodex. This leaves only one person: my mother, Ma Dukes. And from all the knowledge going into the scenario, it seems like this going to have some fallout. My mother had almost no patience for what she called "stupid shit" and no matter how many times I ran this through my head, I couldn't come up with a reason that this wasn't going to shoot straight to the top of the "stupid shit" list. So as the keys, keep a rattling at the door, one of my friends looks over to me, and gives me a crisp salute. I ask him his reasoning, and his answer was a cold as it was cold-blooded like Rick James (as opposed to burn-a-kidnapped-bitch-with-a-crackpipe Rick James), "You're going to Military school." His sarcasm notwithstanding, there was a fair amount of concern of how this was going to be handled. I was pretty sure there would be a clearing of the house, and a hellified was-whipping, but the more I thought about it, there may well not be a clearing of the room before the beating, and so now I'm getting really worried....
...finally, after what seemed to be an eternity, the door opens, and as it does, smoke bellows out of our little hotbox like Spicoli's van on Fast Times at Ridgemont High. At this point, the secret is out, the whole house smells like Otto's Jacket, there's a 18" water pipe on the coffee table, as well as not a felonious amount of marijuana, at least an amount that will make you not want to get shit done, and there are five of us on the couch/love seat, and we look like an ad for DARE, because if you wanted to look like burned out stoners, we were getting it done, no doubt about it. Mom walks in the living room, and gives me what can only be described as a "death glare" as she walks through the house. I was assuming she was intending on picking up something to whip that ass, and then go shopping, after she sent me to that rehab farm school out in Utah, or to some place where pushups and running were legitimate responses for, well, really just about anything- all other issues can be resolved with a sock and a couple of Oranges. When she returns, she looks at me, looks at the bong, which has a bowl in it for the winner of the video game Mario Brothers. Mom looks back at me, at the bowl again and she fucking hits. You read that right. My mother hits the bowl. As I'm watching this, watching my mind get blown and world being rocked. My mouth fell to the floor, to the point of absolute shock. The next thing I notice, Ma Dukes is blowing smoke out of her lungs, and places the water pipe back in place. The only words she says before she departs is (we need to get Borders on) "we'll talk about this when I get home...
...there was a moment of stupified silence, as I at this time realized that mom did not clear the house, and that i had friends who were 1000x more stunned and surprised about the scenario. This was actually not spoken about again, and it pretty much ended the smoke session for the day...upon mom's return, her main complaint was my smoking in the living room (how would I explain this to the church pastor or the principal of your school?), and that I should "smoke in the den, like your dad." She then gives me a key to the den, and tells me not to tell dad, and to make sure not to go in the den when he's here. I placed the den key next to my other den key, and chuckled about the irony...
Christmas season in my home was always the same. My mother would wake up on Saturday morning, do whatever housework she felt needed to be done, and then she would go shopping. Probably a more accurate description was she went looking, as I had gone on a variety of the excursions. They usually involved going into every store in every mall she could get to from whenever she left in the AM until some time around midnight, as the malls are trying to fleece you, and it's easier to do so if they can be open for longer periods of time. And it's like clockwork- every Saturday. It was will-crushing when I was younger, as it seemed she never, and I mean never came home with anything that even looked like it might be a gift for me...
...so when my mom announced she was going shopping, and to not expect her for awhile, I was fully aware that I had the entire house to myself for the day (as my sister was a bit younger, she always had to go with Ma Dukes). And when you're 15 years old, you can't spell debauchery, but you sure as hell can get into some. The first thing I did was call over a couple of my boys to enjoy the day, watch a little television, play some video games, and oh yeah...
...I offer this caveat: when I was young, I smoked some marijuana. Some would say I smoked a lot, and some would say I didn't. In my high school days, those that might indicate that I didn't smoke a lot would include names such as B. Real from Cypress Hill, Keith Richards, Cheech and Chong, George Bush, etc. Obviously, all stunning potheads. But I digress...
...so I invite my friends over, a couple of the guys come and one girl- we call this a sausage fest, generally, but since the chances of any of us having sex with her were around the chances of Stephen Hawking getting up and kicking me in the balls, we never really gave it much thought. The plan: smoke some of this fine pot I happened to have (how I got it is referred to in an earlier post- don't tell your mother!), eat some food, play some video games and be out of the house by 5pm. This gave the house plenty of time to air out, especially if I decided to cook something, which, based on the activity mentioned, usually meant I was going to be hungry, and thus, would almost always cook. My dad is out of town, but even if he was, he was never really around, choosing to spend most of his time in the den if Ma Dukes wasn't around, but because he was in Cleveland, or Milwaukee, or Orlando or wherever in the hell he was for that weekend, this was a non-starter...
...everyone shows up, and we decided to be a little bolder than normal. Usually, we would smoke out of items that released as little smoke as possible (dugout bats, home-made apple pipes). But since I knew, and I mean I knew my moms wasn't going to be home for hours, and I knew I was going to cook to cover up the smell, and because I'm sometimes, for lack of a better description, a little fucking stupid, I decide to let a friend roll a joint to smoke. This is clearly unnecessary, as the coffee table in my living room looks like a scene from Sir Smoke-A-Lot's spot in Half Baked. Apparently, he'd just watched Cheech and Chong's Up in Smoke, so the al-jazzeri he rolled was fat like Kirstie Alley (so it was fat, yet simultaneously unattractive). We sparked it up, passed it around a couple of times, and before we knew what happened, we were all almost passed out on the couch, wanting to play video games, but not being sure I had enough energy to actually mobilize, get up, get a game in the machine, find the controller, well, you get the picture.I decide that, since it is my house, I should get up to put the game in. Mario Brothers. You. Better. Recognize...
...so there we are, sitting in the living room of my house, joint burning in an ashtray (my own, neither of my parents smoked cigarettes, which is the only reason one might have an ashtray in their home), absolutely train-wrecked. The parents are gone for some block of time, and so it's all about video games, pizza rolls and some chill time with my people...that is until I hear a set of keys rattling in the door...
"Did you hear that? Sounds like keys."
I go through the mental Rolodex, so I can figure out what this actually means. I'm not gonna lie, it was a bit disconcerting. Dad is out of town, actually out of the state. My sister doesn't have a key, as she's not even 8 years old yet. That pretty much exhausts the rest of the names in that Rolodex. This leaves only one person: my mother, Ma Dukes. And from all the knowledge going into the scenario, it seems like this going to have some fallout. My mother had almost no patience for what she called "stupid shit" and no matter how many times I ran this through my head, I couldn't come up with a reason that this wasn't going to shoot straight to the top of the "stupid shit" list. So as the keys, keep a rattling at the door, one of my friends looks over to me, and gives me a crisp salute. I ask him his reasoning, and his answer was a cold as it was cold-blooded like Rick James (as opposed to burn-a-kidnapped-bitch-with-a-crackpipe Rick James), "You're going to Military school." His sarcasm notwithstanding, there was a fair amount of concern of how this was going to be handled. I was pretty sure there would be a clearing of the house, and a hellified was-whipping, but the more I thought about it, there may well not be a clearing of the room before the beating, and so now I'm getting really worried....
...finally, after what seemed to be an eternity, the door opens, and as it does, smoke bellows out of our little hotbox like Spicoli's van on Fast Times at Ridgemont High. At this point, the secret is out, the whole house smells like Otto's Jacket, there's a 18" water pipe on the coffee table, as well as not a felonious amount of marijuana, at least an amount that will make you not want to get shit done, and there are five of us on the couch/love seat, and we look like an ad for DARE, because if you wanted to look like burned out stoners, we were getting it done, no doubt about it. Mom walks in the living room, and gives me what can only be described as a "death glare" as she walks through the house. I was assuming she was intending on picking up something to whip that ass, and then go shopping, after she sent me to that rehab farm school out in Utah, or to some place where pushups and running were legitimate responses for, well, really just about anything- all other issues can be resolved with a sock and a couple of Oranges. When she returns, she looks at me, looks at the bong, which has a bowl in it for the winner of the video game Mario Brothers. Mom looks back at me, at the bowl again and she fucking hits. You read that right. My mother hits the bowl. As I'm watching this, watching my mind get blown and world being rocked. My mouth fell to the floor, to the point of absolute shock. The next thing I notice, Ma Dukes is blowing smoke out of her lungs, and places the water pipe back in place. The only words she says before she departs is (we need to get Borders on) "we'll talk about this when I get home...
...there was a moment of stupified silence, as I at this time realized that mom did not clear the house, and that i had friends who were 1000x more stunned and surprised about the scenario. This was actually not spoken about again, and it pretty much ended the smoke session for the day...upon mom's return, her main complaint was my smoking in the living room (how would I explain this to the church pastor or the principal of your school?), and that I should "smoke in the den, like your dad." She then gives me a key to the den, and tells me not to tell dad, and to make sure not to go in the den when he's here. I placed the den key next to my other den key, and chuckled about the irony...
04 May 2010
Looking back for a moment...
Those that don't know me well might mistake general disdain for most things as a sign that I don't like people. And that would be a correct assumption, as, for the most part, people annoy the living shit out of me. I also don't like babies or most animals (I love my animals, but would run yours over if it meant I didn't hurt my car). It's the reason it's a little surprising to me that the graduation of my seniors is a little more depressing than I thought it would be...
...I make a pretty concerted effort to not be too involved with my students lives outside of speech and debate- makes it easier for me to not hold resentment against other parts of the campus based on taking time away from my kids, and thus hurting their possibilities of success. It also has a little to do with kids being inherently weird, and not wanting to let their who they are becoming influence my opinion of who they are. That being said, I do a fair amount of work to make sure my students learn all the things they need to learn, and although I wish it was all tied to speech and debate, much of what I find myself teaching my students has little to do with wins and losses...
...a couple of nights ago, a coach at another school called me, and we started talking, and the conversation evolved to a scenario that happened at the tournament, where a team was taking some clear academic liberties. That coach told her kids to make an argument about it- if the game of debate that we play is to have any academic legitimacy, any legs to stand on from an intellectual framework, there needs to be a standard that doesn't allow people to just lie about what is being said, and to misrepresent evidence (which has a very specific term- fabrication of evidence). They did the right thing, but as we all know, sometimes doing the right thing is largely irrelevant in the finer scheme of things- it doesn't always lead to the right result (i just flash back to the idea of the necessity of witness protection, and the thousand upon thousands of people in the program because they "we're just doing the right thing" and it literally turned their lives upside down). They lost the debate, and the coach felt personally responsible for their loss- maybe if she hadn't told them to do that, they would have won, and they deserved to win, and they shouldn't be punished for this, etc. I told them about a story of my own that was in a similar vein...
...the second year I was coaching at my current gig, and we were debating the topic of public health assistance to sub-saharan africa. over the course of the year, we'd lost on an argument that, at it's core, just seemed fundamentally racist. The argument- you can't get effective public health assistance in africa, because there ARE NO ROADS IN AFRICA. even as I type that phrase now, it still makes me a little sick inside- the assumptions this makes are outlandish. We'd lost on this argument a couple of times, and I told my kids, if someone makes this argument, to let it be known how racist and prejudicial this claim is, as well as how untrue it is. In the final round they make the argument, we make our claims, and we lose, on a 4-3 decision- because one judge thinks we're being mean when we make them justify that cities like Niarobi, Johannasburg, and Cairo don't have roads, despite the many of millions of people as well as the international airports serving these cities. This means the argument I told them cost them the State Championship- and I was devastated, until someone reminded me what my TRUE job is, and that's a TEACHER. my job is to make my students better people, more prepared for today's society. My administration likes that fact that we win, but in my heart of hearts, I know they really don't care that much about winning (I just know that before I arrived, they didn't win much, and nobody really seemed to mind much- i had to teach a culture of winning to the team upon my arrival, as nobody on the team knew how to win, much less had a mindset and an expectation of success), they care that I "positively affect the hearts and minds" of the students, incorporating the themes the school holds dear: integrity, family, hope, dignity. Teaching our students to have integrity is not just part of our job, it IS our job, and that means we need to do what's right, even if it costs our students a win, even if doing the right thing hurts us in the short term (hell, who am I kidding, even in the long term it's pretty crushing)...
...i was reminded of these words, not just to make a friend who was crushed by the outcome of the correct action, which is something I could see myself doing, saying the right words to make someone feel better. But as I found myself saying this, I could feel myself getting hostile and riled up about it, becoming more than annoyed with the idea that someone would do the right thing, and even think about second guessing their actions. I can remember a time in my life where I felt that my teams ability to win (and subsequently, not lose) debates was how I felt I should be evaluated, but now it's a little different. My team has had a fair amount of success, and I rather enjoy that. The most moving thing for me this year did come as we were winning a debate tournament, but not as I had envisioned...
...the winner of the Stanford University debate tournament receives an iPod from the school as a prize. This is a really big deal, as most awards you get may be cool, but almost none have a modicum of practicality- can't really DO anything with the average trophy. The iPod, obviously different, because you can actually listen to it. It's actually worth money, so if you have one, you could sell it for a profit (which I did with my 2005 Stanford iPod win: $350!!), or you could just keep it and look at it like people do most trophies. However, one of my students did something that surprised me- he gave his iPod, the one he just won and was really, really excited about winning, to our assistant coach, who did not have an iPod. After winning a tournament, he was much less concerned with anything but making sure he showed his gratitude for the work being done by our assistant. I was stunned by this action- until it occured to me that THIS was the kind of thing that makes me proudest of my kids- they're excellent competitors, but more than that, they are better people. And that makes me as proud as anything they do in competition...
...so i guess I shouldn't be as stunned as I am that I'm sad that these kids will be leaving. They have left an indelible mark on who I am. So to Jordan, Suhita and Subha, I say thank you. To Snehal, Zach, and Nidhi, I say thank you. And to Peter, Aakash, Chander and Katrina, I also say thank you. I hope I made you better debaters. You made me a better person.
...I make a pretty concerted effort to not be too involved with my students lives outside of speech and debate- makes it easier for me to not hold resentment against other parts of the campus based on taking time away from my kids, and thus hurting their possibilities of success. It also has a little to do with kids being inherently weird, and not wanting to let their who they are becoming influence my opinion of who they are. That being said, I do a fair amount of work to make sure my students learn all the things they need to learn, and although I wish it was all tied to speech and debate, much of what I find myself teaching my students has little to do with wins and losses...
...a couple of nights ago, a coach at another school called me, and we started talking, and the conversation evolved to a scenario that happened at the tournament, where a team was taking some clear academic liberties. That coach told her kids to make an argument about it- if the game of debate that we play is to have any academic legitimacy, any legs to stand on from an intellectual framework, there needs to be a standard that doesn't allow people to just lie about what is being said, and to misrepresent evidence (which has a very specific term- fabrication of evidence). They did the right thing, but as we all know, sometimes doing the right thing is largely irrelevant in the finer scheme of things- it doesn't always lead to the right result (i just flash back to the idea of the necessity of witness protection, and the thousand upon thousands of people in the program because they "we're just doing the right thing" and it literally turned their lives upside down). They lost the debate, and the coach felt personally responsible for their loss- maybe if she hadn't told them to do that, they would have won, and they deserved to win, and they shouldn't be punished for this, etc. I told them about a story of my own that was in a similar vein...
...the second year I was coaching at my current gig, and we were debating the topic of public health assistance to sub-saharan africa. over the course of the year, we'd lost on an argument that, at it's core, just seemed fundamentally racist. The argument- you can't get effective public health assistance in africa, because there ARE NO ROADS IN AFRICA. even as I type that phrase now, it still makes me a little sick inside- the assumptions this makes are outlandish. We'd lost on this argument a couple of times, and I told my kids, if someone makes this argument, to let it be known how racist and prejudicial this claim is, as well as how untrue it is. In the final round they make the argument, we make our claims, and we lose, on a 4-3 decision- because one judge thinks we're being mean when we make them justify that cities like Niarobi, Johannasburg, and Cairo don't have roads, despite the many of millions of people as well as the international airports serving these cities. This means the argument I told them cost them the State Championship- and I was devastated, until someone reminded me what my TRUE job is, and that's a TEACHER. my job is to make my students better people, more prepared for today's society. My administration likes that fact that we win, but in my heart of hearts, I know they really don't care that much about winning (I just know that before I arrived, they didn't win much, and nobody really seemed to mind much- i had to teach a culture of winning to the team upon my arrival, as nobody on the team knew how to win, much less had a mindset and an expectation of success), they care that I "positively affect the hearts and minds" of the students, incorporating the themes the school holds dear: integrity, family, hope, dignity. Teaching our students to have integrity is not just part of our job, it IS our job, and that means we need to do what's right, even if it costs our students a win, even if doing the right thing hurts us in the short term (hell, who am I kidding, even in the long term it's pretty crushing)...
...i was reminded of these words, not just to make a friend who was crushed by the outcome of the correct action, which is something I could see myself doing, saying the right words to make someone feel better. But as I found myself saying this, I could feel myself getting hostile and riled up about it, becoming more than annoyed with the idea that someone would do the right thing, and even think about second guessing their actions. I can remember a time in my life where I felt that my teams ability to win (and subsequently, not lose) debates was how I felt I should be evaluated, but now it's a little different. My team has had a fair amount of success, and I rather enjoy that. The most moving thing for me this year did come as we were winning a debate tournament, but not as I had envisioned...
...the winner of the Stanford University debate tournament receives an iPod from the school as a prize. This is a really big deal, as most awards you get may be cool, but almost none have a modicum of practicality- can't really DO anything with the average trophy. The iPod, obviously different, because you can actually listen to it. It's actually worth money, so if you have one, you could sell it for a profit (which I did with my 2005 Stanford iPod win: $350!!), or you could just keep it and look at it like people do most trophies. However, one of my students did something that surprised me- he gave his iPod, the one he just won and was really, really excited about winning, to our assistant coach, who did not have an iPod. After winning a tournament, he was much less concerned with anything but making sure he showed his gratitude for the work being done by our assistant. I was stunned by this action- until it occured to me that THIS was the kind of thing that makes me proudest of my kids- they're excellent competitors, but more than that, they are better people. And that makes me as proud as anything they do in competition...
...so i guess I shouldn't be as stunned as I am that I'm sad that these kids will be leaving. They have left an indelible mark on who I am. So to Jordan, Suhita and Subha, I say thank you. To Snehal, Zach, and Nidhi, I say thank you. And to Peter, Aakash, Chander and Katrina, I also say thank you. I hope I made you better debaters. You made me a better person.
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