Ahoy!

I had the honor of being animated by a very young Alex HIrsch.Who is this guy?

It’s a question a few might be having as I take up the mantle of principal at ACMA (Arts & Communication Magnet Academy) in Beaverton, Oregon. A quick search tells anyone curious enough to spend ten minutes with Google that I’ve been an educator for 25 years, having taught English, art, and leadership in Oregon and California, and spent the last decade as an administrator, most recently as a principal of a very funky school not far from the beach.

A little more digging will say that I’m coming home to Oregon after too many years away, and have the great company of my wife, Jeannette, and my two kids, Ella and Henry. …oh, and three cats. You won’t find much about the cats online, and certainly not the story of me moving north with them (though if you visited a little motel in Yreka this summer and saw a guy and his cats checking in for the night, that was me. Nothing strange about a guy and his cats).

What you might also see, and if you’ve found this little chronicle of miscellany I suppose you already have, is that over the past few years I’ve written more than anyone with simple curiosity would want to peruse to answer that question I started with: “Who is this guy?”

No problem.

For a thumbnail sketch of who I am as an educator, I pulled these half dozen posts from the past few years and my time as a middle school and high school principal. Give them a peek and I think you’ll get a sense of my way of looking at the world and the work that I am so proud to be a part of. They’re not all of who I am, but they’re a swell primer of “the new guy” at ACMA.

pirateEducation can be magic, and when the stars align and everything feels unnaturally right, things like this can happen. Things like “Swashbuckling!

I always want my students to see me as a teacher, not just the guy in the tie, and part of that commitment comes when teachers are kind enough to hand me the keys to the classroom. One of my favorite topics is Sherlock Holmes, which I first folded into a lesson when I was a middle school principal, learning, as well as teaching “…a series of lessons…

Being a principal means helping be a good steward to your school and facing the reality that you are needed most when things aren’t going easy. Construction, destruction, and the awesome power of art all combined to make one day a couple of Novembers ago one of the most memorable in my professional life. I tried to catch some of the magic in “Vertebrae.”

BluesI can neither sing nor dance well, but I can care with the best of them, and the ability to say “yes” is something I possess in large amounts, so when I was invited to emcee a school assembly and join an amazing (and amazingly talented) student in singing a Blues Brothers tune I was quick to don a black fedora and suit and put on my dancing shoes. The truth was that it wasn’t my ridiculous dancing or off key crooning that I hope students remember, it’s the message that we all are good to remind each other: “I Need You.”

Even as we need each other, to truly embrace our adventure in education we need passion, curiosity, and mentors. I saw all three last summer when my son and my dad connected over “A Fish Story.”

It’s still summer, at least as I write this, and I’ll round out these half dozen entries with an old one that tries to capture some of that sunshine that belongs to July. It starts on a roller coaster and ends in a museum, all to the lazy tune of summer when we’re most relaxed when our proverbial boat is “Adrift.”

IMG_3782If you’d like, this blog is categorized with some topics listed in the right column. For my ACMAniacs out there, I’d suggest “art” as a category that means a lot to me and might to you too.

I’m really looking forward to the start of the school year, when I will have a chance to talk with students, parents, teachers and staff. I’m excited to join the ACMA family and be a part of a very special place with a quirky spirit that feels welcoming, curious, ridiculously creative, and very, very much like home.

Shuttering the Apothecary

mug shotCommencement commenced, summer upon us, and a moving truck idling in the driveway, it’s time for me to take a few weeks to make the major life transition from one state to another, one principalship to another, and one comfortable situation to a brand new adventure.

I started this blog for education related thoughts years ago when I was an assistant principal and have cheerfully kept it up as a principal, remembering that my starting point was an understanding that it would be filled with odds and ends, diverse and sometimes personal notions, and the kind of variety suggested by the line from Shakespeare stolen for the title:

I do remember an apothecary…
And in his needy shop a tortoise hung,
An alligator stuff’d, and other skins
Of ill-shaped fishes; and about his shelves
A beggarly account of empty boxes,
Green earthen pots, bladders and musty seeds,
Remnants of packthread and old cakes of roses,
Were thinly scatter’d, to make up a show.”

But as life takes a huge leap toward the green expanses of Oregon, I know that it would be wise to shutter this apothecary for the summer and focus on making the drive north, settling in at a new school, and preparing for a new collection of “alligators stuff’d, tortoises, and old cakes of roses.” I have enjoyed the opportunity to reflect that this space has provided and relished the comments and engagement so many have offered.

I’ll pick up in the fall with Oregonian tales, and until then wish all my gentle readers a marvelous summer and, for taking time for these modest posts, a heartfelt thank you!

Penny-wise

…I am not crying
on the inside. I am no brave faker
On the contrary, I am a simple laugh
-Donald Hall “The Clown”

I picked up a copy of Stephen King’s It at Powell’s on Valentine’s Day. 1500 miles from my wife, my nerves still jangling after a job interview in Oregon, I spotted the book while browsing in a book shop to try to relax.

As thick as an upended business card, its heft enthralled me. I’d owned a copy before, a paperback with a wonderfully lurid claw reaching up from a storm grate on the cover. Alone in the bookshop, I couldn’t help but plunk down $10, curious to revisit the novel on a rainy Portland night.

The last time I read Stephen King’s 1986 behemoth, a book I can’t think of without remembering a high school friend’s amazement that anyone could write a book so long, I lived in Oregon. I can’t recall the circumstances of that first reading; there was so much pop fiction in my young adulthood. I suppose it was at least in part read alone in a room to the sound of falling rain.

It coverThe differences of more than a quarter century struck me as I read the novel through the eyes of a dad, and husband, and high school principal. …and a fellow who has been away from his home state for a long, long time.

It’s not that I haven’t felt at home throughout my adult life, but seeing Mt. Hood as I drove from the airport to my interview I felt a wave of emotion not unlike Ulysses must have experienced when he stepped back onto Ithaca.

It saw me through the flight back to San Diego, and up and back to a second interview and then a third. As I turned the pages I found that while there was so much I didn’t remember, the story, or better put the stories; It is at its heart a collection of related tales about what it is like to be human, carried with it a feeling of familiarity.

Not unlike the Sunset Highway or the stacks at Powell’s, It felt like something I knew, and at the same time it felt a little surreal.

For any who haven’t cracked the book, It tells the story of a group of friends from the fictional town of Derry, Maine who confront the manifestation of evil, often in the guise of a demonic clown, as kids in the summer of 1958 and again in 1984. In the twenty some years between the two events all but one of the “Losers Club” as they dub themselves leave the state and create adult lives of their own.

Those adults return “home” different than when they left it. The decades between their moving away and coming back, roughly the same amount of time I’ve been away from Oregon, changed them, and they returned altered versions of the selves who had gone away.

This more than struck a chord.

The twenty something teacher I was when I moved to California has been replaced by the forty something principal I have become. Along the way I’ve had experiences good and bad that have matured me, humbled me, and inspired me. As I prepare to return to the Pacific Northwest I do so with a feeling of hope, expectation, and excitement.

Staying in California would have been, to use the old saying, “penny-wise and pound foolish.” My days at San Dieguito, surrounded by gifted educators and blessed to work with so many friends, have been a dream come true, but for life beyond being a principal, my life as a dad, and a husband, Oregon was the choice that was more than a pound wise. Foolish youth, replaced by something akin to maturity.

Stephen King captured the feeling those characters had looking homeward after so much time away, across the miles and years alike, and that understanding of leaving youth and becoming an adult.

It was no big deal; it didn’t go all at once, with a bang. And maybe … that’s the scary part. How you don’t stop being a kid all at once, with a big explosive bang, like on of that clown’s trick balloons … The kid in you just leaked out, like the air out of a tire. And one day you looked in the mirror and there was a grownup looking back at you.”

And now the grownup in my mirror, so different from the fellow who filled a U-Haul and drove from Forest Grove to Oakland, is packing boxes and cleaning the garage, preparing to drive back up I-5 in the company of cats and kids who were not yet born when we left Oregon so many years ago.

I’ve got no maniacal clown to fight or promise from youth to fulfill, but like those adults from King’s novel I’m preparing to go home to a place that has not stopped changing in my absence.

Both of us are different than we were, me and the state, and how we will find each other when we meet again in July carries a delightful, if a little unnerving, uncertainty that I’m ready to meet head on.

The spring sun makes it feel all that more real. The boxes piling in our garage, the seemingly endless decisions as to what we keep and what we give away, and the steady stream of work to be done, these realities of moving will end soon and I’ll find myself back in the Willamette Valley preparing for the next stage of life.

Has the kid in me “leaked out” slowly? Maybe some; I certainly see an adult in my mirror. But working with students does much to inspire a spirit of youth. It’s tough to be too adult when every week or so someone invites you to be silly.

So I hope that as I return to Oregon I do so with a little gray hair, a few more wrinkles, and a youthful heart. …and no clowns.

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June

The tipping point is
Senior Awards
When the madcap rush toward graduation
Turns into a
Delightful
Freefall
Not to end until
The parents rush onto the field
To hug their graduates
Cry, take photos, and be proud.

This year, as much as most, it’s easy to feel the pace quicken
The students smiles speaking thoughts
Of summer
College
And the sunny future.

After Senior Awards the days shorten
Emotions lengthen
And that feeling of impermanence
(both real and as fleeting as a dream)
Tints every interaction with a touch of melancholy
Tempered only by the youthful exuberance of
Students
For whom high school feels like it will last forever.

graduation b

The Last Month

photo (4)I am surrounded by boxes. Rows of cardboard holding my family’s life, or at least our pots and pans, toys and games, photo albums and framed art fill our garage, linger in corners, and wait half full, flaps agape, to close over the remaining odds and ends, legos, plates, knickknacks, and books.

Of books, if I’m honest, I’m down to fewer than a half dozen: a biography of Duke Ellington; a paperback mystery I’m saving for the plane ride up to Oregon in June to find a place to live, slim enough to fit in a pocket, just enough pages for two flights and a couple of nights in a hotel; a Sherlock Holmes pastiche, likely to be consumed and left at the library in Encinitas before the end of June; and Crow by Ted Hughes.

In just a few weeks my family and I will be unpacking those books and boxes in Beaverton, a reality still hard to wrap our heads around.

That every time we now do something (go to a Padres game or eat at our favorite burrito spot) is the last or nearly the last time we’ll do so is sobering. So too each of my final days at San Dieguito.

I’ve been to my last SDA games, a pair of lacrosse playoffs. My last coffee with the principal has come and gone, and how hard it was to say goodbye to those familiar and friendly faces, some of whom I’ve known for years. In a week I’ll go to my final play in the Clayton Liggett Theater, Picnic, a midcentury emotional potboiler. This Wednesday is my last Spring Concert. The Friday after that is the last assembly of the year.

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As emotional are the final visits to classrooms, those places where the truly important work happens at a school. Some of my favorite memories at SDA are from classrooms, where students and teachers work together to imagine, create, learn.

Along with these “lasts” come some unique to San Dieguito: our last Student Forum, our final Exhibition Day, and a graduation unlike any I’ve ever seen.

Leaving SDA means saying goodbye to so much, so many friends, so many special experiences, and…

…and after that last “last” event, when the mortarboards land and parents swarm the field to hug their kids, something else will start.

This July I begin life at ACMA, a creative place of new adventures, and there I’m eagerly looking forward to experiencing just as many…

…firsts.

Glowing

While we are born with curiosity and wonder and our early years full of the adventure they bring, I know such inherent joys are often lost. I also know that, being deep within us, their latent glow can be fanned to flame again by awareness and an open mind.”
-Sigurd F. Olson

photo 2 (1)I grew up on an untamed acre of land, a stack of Hardy Boys books on my shelf, and parents who encouraged in me everything from baseball to rock hunting. With trees to climb, snakes to catch, and capes to wear, the world was an interesting place, a place to be experienced with muddy sneakers and grass stained jeans.

Adolescence brought me indoors, school organized sports, and a shift of priorities gradually changed those free days of childhood into something more …civilized.

By college books overwhelmed my time, my curiosity turned toward philosophy not filling mason jars with bugs, toward books not baseball cards. I suppose I grew up.

Today it feels like the world is in a rush to leave childhood behind. As a high school principal I see students already pushing themselves academically in ways that would astound my college self. They study hard, learn much, and often push aside the simple joys of youth that compete with a full slate of AP classes and the building of college resumes.

As a middle school principal I saw cell phones help catapult young teenagers away from childhood. By the time students reach high school many have acquired an adult(like) sensibility that would have felt out of place even twenty years ago. But…

Those “inherent joys” of childhood, that sense of wonder and spirit of play, isn’t gone so much as drowned out by the bustle of the world.

As educators, part of our our role is to help students navigate the path to adulthood, a winding road that leads through dense jungles, over wild waters, and along the edges of chasms that give pause to those of us over thirty. Another part of our job is to fan that “latent glow” that Sigurd Olson describes, the rich luminescence of curiosity, wonder, and adventure, back into flame.

Schools are at their best when nurturing curiosity and promoting wonder. It’s in those moments when students are inspired to move beyond comprehension and into the realm of application and engagement that education becomes transformative.

I see this work every week as I travel from classroom to classroom. It’s in the theater, where students write their own one act plays, direct each other, and create meaningful art. It’s in the science lab, where young leaders in healthcare learn how to do bone repair from doctors at Scripps Hospital. It’s in the auto shop where sparks fly as students build a go cart, facing the challenges of metal and motors with a determination that is inspiring.

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In each of these cases it is a gifted teacher standing just offstage who creates the opportunity for students to be their best. These are adults who know the value of fanning that latent glow of curiosity. As we see more and more of this we see the infinite possibilities contained in our students.

As a principal at a high school I see students who have left much of youth behind them, but within whom that “wonder” that Olson describes is simply waiting to be rediscovered. I applaud teachers everywhere who make it their mission to inspire students, and I applaud students everywhere who are willing to engage in their own learning. The result of these efforts, and hard work they are, is a school filled with passion and purpose, a school that glows.

San Dieguito’s Student Forum

Given the chance to talk and listen students become adults.

One of my very favorite parts of San Dieguito is our monthly student forum. Unfettered from adults or official ASB guidance, students at SDA gather together in the art studio, a space large enough to hold multitudes, to talk about the topics on their minds.

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Sometimes the ideas are big ones: How do we help integrate all grade levels for a more cohesive school? Other times the topics are profoundly practical: We need more toilet paper in the girls’ bathrooms! From time to time my role as principal puts me in the hot seat: We need more student parking. We do. Often the kindness of the students astounds me, as when a student addressing our visiting superintendent compared me to Beyoncé. Huh? …and thanks!

Mostly, the forum is an opportunity for students to have a voice in the life of their school.

IMG_6162Without shouting or having to mount a podium and fiddle with a microphone, every student, not just elected officials, has equal access to all her fellow students. The audience listens, really listens, students write down what is being said, and the audience responds respectfully. It is an exercise in democratic free speech that is inspirational.

Traditionally, two student moderators lead the forum, standing in front of a group well fed with pizzas provided by ASB. A blank document is projected on a screen at one end of the room, a place for notes, a list of topics suggested by the students, and announcements. It’s a document that will be shared with the staff as soon as the forum is over.

Not that staff isn’t there… Every forum all four of our administrators, many teachers, counselors, and classified staff join students at the forum to listen, answer questions, and hear about San Dieguito from a student point of view.

IMG_4364This point of view, or perhaps better said these points of view, are spoken, not shouted. Students are passionate about what they are saying, but the norms of the forum, built over years, are expectations of respect, kindness, and patience. Freshmen speak, seniors too, and students and staff listen to what they have to say.

The results can be immediate (more toilet paper), take a little longer (parking solutions), be subtle or transformative. Regardless of what comes out of a student forum, however, it is the existence of such a tradition that makes the biggest difference.

Any school is a better place when students are heard. Strong student newspapers are one way of sharing student perspectives, vibrant student governments are another, and here at San Dieguito it’s amazing to know that there is a place for every student to share her point of view. Our school is richer because if it!