Awkward

I always tell people that I've been going through an awkward stage...since about the first grade. I don't really know how it happened; one minute I was the cute little girl with the curly blond hair, the next, I was bumbling through this world with a flannel shirt and chunky sandals. For all you naysayers out there, I am NOT exaggerating. I was awkward, I am awkward, and I will probably be awkward for a while.

I've learned to embrace it.

It's hard for some people to imagine me as an awkward child. I hide it well, if I do say so myself. I didn't have many friends growing up. Okay, so that is an understatement. I could probably count on one hand the friends that I had, and the few that I did have would probably agree with me that we weren't the, "cream of the crop." (I say this with love). You could say that I never stood out, and I learned to deal with that in the standard way: I stayed at home and read books.

I learned at a very young age that being alone wasn't a bad thing.

This is starting to sound like a pity party, but I don't want pity. So I was an outcast? So I didn't have any friends? So my parents told (and tell) me on a regular basis that I was really weird and they wondered where I came from? I got over it. I actually find humor in the whole experience. I laugh because my life is so very different then what it used to be. Sure, I am still awkward. But, I find it interesting that when you grow up, "awkward" becomes, "you'realittleweirdbutIlikeit." Yeah, yeah, I'm the weird girl that stands off to the side of a crowd because I don't like meeting new people...but I blame that on my lack of social skills. (From all the book reading alone...you can't make friends with imaginary people, Chesney)

It is interesting, then, that I chose to become a teacher.

I don't know why I made the decision. I guess you could say it is because I love English, but we all know I could've (and am) doing a number of different things with that field. I think part of me did it because there is a little piece of that awkward girl stuck deep inside me, and I can't quite let her go. Being awkward was and is a huge part of my life, and it has defined who I am as a person.

It has defined who I am as a teacher. People become teachers because they believe in the power of education. They believe that each child goes through different experiences in their lives and it is through different people that they find guidance. Teachers are given an enormous responsibility to prepare the children of our world for what it will be like when they are no longer around to tell them what to do. Essentially, they are teaching children how to function on their own.

Well, well, well. It's a good thing I already learned how to do that.

I stress a lot of my writing on choices. I am a firm believer in the idea that we all make choices, good and bad, that govern our lives. Sometimes I wonder if I made the choice to become a teacher because I wanted to prove something to myself, that I was going to somehow show myself that I was better than I used to be. That maybe I wanted to snuff out the piece that defined me for so long by returning to the place that tortured me so much. But enough melodramatics. That isn't true. I can't change who I was, and I would never want to. Except for the flannel. I would take that back in a heartbeat.

I don't really know why I became a teacher. In a different world, I would be off in some room, writing the thoughts in my head until the end of time. Free from social stigmas. Free from the sometimes crippling feeling that no one will ever understand why I do the things I do. But, as we know, we aren't in a different world. We are in this world, and in this world, I love teaching. I have faith in education, even if I don't really know why. I guess that truly is the beauty of love, faith, and awkwardness.

They never go away.

Frankie Wayne

November marks the month for giving thanks. Well, November also brings back some memories that make me more thankful for one man in my life that could never be replaced. As the week approaches that marks the anniversary of a rather dark event in my life, I can't help but want to celebrate Thanksgiving a bit earlier each year.

When I go home to my parents house, I always follow the same routine. I walk inside, throw my bag on the floor, say hello to my mom, and then walk down the stairs to the basement. Before I can even utter a word, I am always greeted with, "Well hello, Toots. What are you doing here?" It is the same line every single time, and every time, I shake my head and laugh before sitting in the same chair and giving him the same answer, "It's because I missed you so much." I cherish these moments because there was a time in my life when these moments would have been non-existent.

My dad is a wonderful person, and I love him so very much. I fought with myself on whether or not I would ever do a post about him, and even as I write this, I'm not sure I really want to post it. My dad has been through so much, and his family has been through so much as a result of his challenges. I don't like to talk about it, and nine times out of ten, I end up crying about it all if I do. Frank Clark has been at the doorstep of death more times than I can count on my hand.

It is absolutely terrifying watching your father fight for his life.

I know that it is the cycle of life, believe me, I've been exposed to it enough. But regardless of your experience with something, it never prepares you to cope with the hopelessness you feel when you get the call that you have to go to the hospital. Or when you watch your father cry as you hold his hand in the ICU. It is nothing you ever get used to, but for me, I'm slowly learning to see the positive that comes from these experiences.

He is both the most stubborn and the strongest man I've ever known.

I don't know how he does it, but he just keeps coming back. He fights and fights until he beats the very thing that tries to take him from us, and I don't know how he keeps going. I do not know what drives him, but I'm not complaining. He shows me every day what perseverance is, but above all he shows me  that there are things worth living and fighting for in this world. Life is about the little pieces that paint a big picture that those around us get to see.

My dad has a beautiful picture.

He loves his family more than anything, and he has worked hard his entire life to give them the best that he can. His nieces and nephews adore him, and on any given day could probably spout off what has become a, "Frank Clarkism." His friends respect and cherish him; a couple have even saved his life, an act that could never be given enough thanks. His children see in him a wonderful father, and maybe one day an even better grandfather. Dad has lead a truly beautiful life, but only the man himself could say it best...

"Don't worry, I'm stickin' around."

Proofreading is Your Friend

Recently, I took a visit to a restaurant that I didn't necessarily want to go to, and my experience there only furthered my dislike of said eatery. I walked over to find a lid to my drink, and while I perused the utensil section, I noticed something that to this day makes my blood boil. There, created by a label maker, was a sign that said: Knifes.

I would hope that the readers of this blog know that calling something "knifes" is a grammar fail. Knifes do not exist, and I will never forgive someone who thinks otherwise. Sure, call me a "Grammar Nazi," but seriously, I think you learn about plurals in the third grade. Get it together, people.

I haven't always been a stickler for grammar. In fact, I still don't completely understand all the rules of grammar and do not consider myself an expert on the matter. But chalk it up to the fact that I am going to be an English teacher, that I read anything I can get my hands on, or you know, the simple fact that I spent two years writing a piece of literature, I've changed my ways. Part of me still doesn't care how people speak or write, but deep down inside, there is a small fragment itching to be free.

I think part of me has turned into such a grammar fanatic because I'm afraid of what is happening to the English language. It's not just "knifes" anymore. Through working in schools, I have seen so many words misspelled and misused that I never thought I'd ever see. Good lord, every computer has spellcheck on it, and phones basically write your text messages now. Proofread your things, people! Don't even get me started on what "there" to use. It. Is. Not. That. Hard.

I must admit, I am terrified to make mistakes when it comes to grammar. Yes, I spent four years studying English, so I should know every rule and how to implement it, right? Wrong. They don't teach you the grammar rules in college. Why? BECAUSE YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO KNOW. It is funny how you assume they would mention the important things, but they don't. You basically just float about your career path hoping you aren't making monumental mistakes. It's super.

My favorite thing is watching the behavior of people change when they realize what I am training to do for a living. My own parents tell me, "Don't judge me on my grammar." Let me tell you this: unless you say, "knifes," I'm probably not paying attention to your word choice. In fact, I usually just laugh about it. I don't want people getting the impression that because I have a degree in English, I am suddenly better than you at all things English. Because I'm not. I just tend to be sarcastic 85% of the time, which is my downfall.

But I swear if you use the word "ain't,"we will be having a chat.

This is my soapbox, and I will continue to vent about it until the end of time. The world is changing, and I can only do so much to ensure that the future of the English language is not going to completely fall apart. I just ask that we all take a moment to remember what we were taught in Elementary school. I'd also like us to remember one thing...

The exprets maek mistkaes, too.

Making A Stand

I love October for many reasons, as I have previously stated. It is a month jam-packed with many of the things I adore about this world, but one in particular has snuck up on me through the years. The overarching event that has taken over not only my life, but my entire family's, is that the 10th month of each year marks Breast Cancer Awareness month.

And trust me, if you belong to my family, you better be prepared to own a lot of pink.

It started off innocently enough. A bracelet worn until it faded white, a magnetic ribbon appeared on the side of the car, stolen and replaced too many times. But as the years progressed, the involvement grew much like the disease we fought to end. Agreeing to join a Relay for Life team, and later signing up for Susan G Komen Race for the Cure. Going to a camp each summer; taking an appointment on a board for your hometown cancer fundraiser. The involvement crept up on us; it seeped into our lives and took over. As bad as that sounds, I think I can speak for my entire family when I say that we wouldn't want it any other way.

Someone asked my mom recently if she ever thought she would own so much pink. Her answer? Of course not. I think the real question is, "Did we ever expect to own so many cancer related things in our lifetime?" Again, the answer is no. "Fight Cancer" memorabilia haunts each room in our house, the clothes in our closets, and the thoughts in our head each night before we go to sleep. I am forever marked with ink for my dedication to these causes, as are other members of my family. Most families go on vacations for fun, nope, not my family. We sign up for cancer fundraisers. But again, it is what we do, and we love every minute of it.

Lately, I've been thinking about why we are so involved with cancer awareness. Sure, my entire family has been plagued by cancer, breast cancer specifically. But honestly, sometimes it feels like we are throwing ourselves into battle for a war that we will not win. Cancer has been around for a very long time, and it will continue on long after we are gone. So why keep trying?

The answer is simple: we do it because of hope. We all know someone who has been afflicted with cancer, and we keep fighting for them because if we don't, that means we have given up on the hope that this horrible disease can be beat. No, cancer may never be gone, but it can be beat. But what I realized most of all through this musing is that we continue to fight these battles for the future of the most important people in our lives.

We fight for our children.

I will never know my maternal grandmother. I will never see her face in person; I'll never be able to hug her. I will never hear her laugh at a joke while she cooks a family dinner. I won't ever know what it is like to have a grandmother because breast cancer took that away from me. I realize that although I will never know her, she has impacted my life more than she probably ever thought she would. I may never have children, but if I do, I'll be damned if they miss out on a chance to know their grandmother because she wasn't aware. Sure, we all know who my mother is and the chance of her not being "cancer aware" is very slim, but this is more than that.

Other members of my family have been afflicted with cancer, and they have all beat it because they were determined to find it early. They believed in early detection, and that is the key. My family wears pink (and other cancer related colors), because it raises awareness. Call us crazy, but if our obsession with pink grabs the attention of one person, that is all that matters. We continue to saddle up and ride into battle not for fame and glory; we do it because we see a future while others dwell elsewhere in time. My family and I have hopes and dreams for this world that we may never see, but we will also never give up trying.

We imagine life without cancer.

Brothers

I love my brother. Yeah, yeah, everyone admits that they love their siblings at some point in their life. But really, he is one of my best friends, and I couldn't have asked for a better person to be forced to live with all these years. Sure, he irritates me some of the time, and at other times I wonder if he even claims me as his only sibling. Nevertheless, he is my brother and there really is nothing I can do about that. Colten and I have always had a great relationship compared to other siblings, and I still get the, "Wait, you never fight?" question to this day. No, we don't fight. (This really is true).

One thing that probably keeps us from fighting is the fact that despite our ability to get along so well, our lives have been basically polar opposite from one another. He is 6'4'', and I like to say I am 5'5''. He never cared about grades; I would've cried at anything less than an A-. He liked to go out and have fun in high school while I was at home reading Harry Potter. My brother stayed in Coldwater, and I left to prove myself. I left to discover what I was supposed to be in this world, but it took me six years to realize my brother became the very same thing I had spent so long training to do.

He became a teacher. No, not a school teacher. My brother became a teacher of what takes to be a decent human being.

Colten hasn't always been the charismatic guy that everyone knows and loves. I can remember growing up, his peers would make fun of him for his size. I was just young enough that I knew what was going on, but I didn't know how to deal with it. To this day, I still feel a horrible weight on my chest when I see a child that is bigger than the rest of his or her peers, and I know it is because I love my brother so much and I hated to see him go through that. But, despite all of this, my brother never seemed to let it get him down. He takes ridicule like nobody I've ever seen and it just rolls right off of him. He shows me every day what it takes to stand up to the bullies of this world and just let it go. Some people just aren't worth the fight.

Perhaps the greatest lesson he ever taught me was one I learned just recently. My brother coaches the middle school football team alongside his very good friend from high school, and their team won the league title last Thursday night. As I stood watching the game, I couldn't help but think about my time watching my brother and peers play football on that very field. When the game ended, I watched as my brother and his friend were soaked with Gatorade, and realization hit me like a ton of bricks.

My brother shouldn't be friends with his fellow coach. There really is no rhyme or reason for it, but a moment later I knew. They are friends because my brother did something that most people will never do in their lifetime: he forgave that man. He forgave him for everything that happened in the past, and they are living proof that we do have the ability to let things go. This is something we are taught from a very young age, but as you grow older, you find it harder and harder to accept. But right there in front of me, two people I've known my entire life showed me that it was possible.

Those two men taught a crowd of people a valuable lesson that night, even if neither party realized it. They showed us that humanity's simplest virtues are still out there, we just have to be willing to fight for them. Both men presented a scenario that we have all experienced with peers or siblings, and they showed us how you can overcome differences.

They showed us how to be brothers.

Embrace the Weird

October is the best month of the entire year. Yeah, I am saying that October is better than March (my birth month), December, and July combined, and we all know how much I love those other months. But, if you know me at all, you might be conscious of the small fact that I am a bit strange. I'll be the first to admit it, I have a fascination with things that most consider ridiculous and even slightly unorthodox.

I love ghost stories, and I proudly admit that. I don't just mean I love to hear them and enjoy the feeling of being scared; I adore stories, TV shows, and movies about ghosts. Ghost stories enchant me. I can watch those ghost hunting shows for hours without ever growing bored; I watch the same haunted history shows over and over again. My family thinks that I am crazy, and quite often when I am home I get the, "Oh, you're watching that ghost crap again?" I don't even care that it is probably the dumbest thing in the world to believe. Sure, I think the shows are hilarious at times. I squint at the TV for signs of a ghost and yell that I can't hear the "disembodied voices" they claim to capture with their fancy technology. But, I still find myself browsing the channels for anything that hints at a good ghost hunt.

Everyone likes a good story, and I think this is why I am fascinated by ghost stories. The stories that send chills down your spin and keep you up at night hoping you don't hear anything unexplainable in your bedroom. But when you really break it down, a ghost story is just an image of humanity's past. There is always a basis of truth in ghost stories, whether it is the location or the people involved in the story. For some reason, I have always loved history, and I think it is important that we hear these stories and remember them because some day there will be stories about us. The added bonus of a ghost story is the mystery of it all. The main fear that human beings face around the world is that we are afraid of the unknown.

Ghosts entrance us because we don't know if they are real or not. You can sit there and say, "I don't believe in ghosts," but really, how do you know? The answer is that we can't know if they exist or not, and that is the beauty of it all. I want to believe in ghosts, but I do not want to have an experience that makes me believe in ghosts. Because it is that slight edge of mystery that keeps us going and wanting more, and I don't want to lose that.

So why do I love October? Isn't it obvious? Halloween, of course. Halloween is the one time of year when people let go of their skepticism and believe in the unknown. They relish in the fear and embrace the ridiculousness that follows ghost stories. I love every minute of it, and I find myself giddy at the beginning of the month and so sad when it is over. Lucky for me, the shows are played throughout the year, so I don't miss it long. But, in October, there is a literal smorgasbord of ghostly encounters. Everyone falls victim to the allure that Halloween creates, and I can't help but fall into that category more as each year passes.

I know it is weird, but I also don't really care. I can think of several other things that are weirder than believing in ghosts. I have accepted this, and I am not ashamed to admit it at all. I turn on every light when I am walking around my house alone, I won't look out the window in the middle of the night, and I still find myself pulling the covers over my head before I go to sleep. Because even though I know my house isn't haunted...

I'm not taking any chances.

You Stay Classy, Laborers

As this weekend approached, I realized something other than the fact that I got an extra day to do nothing but watch horrible television shows, effectively wasting my day away. I have no idea why we celebrate Labor Day. Yeah, yeah, go ahead and mock me. Throw imaginary rotten vegetables at the computer screen. I really don't know, and I would like to know who to blame for this. I guess I could blame the American education system, but we all know that would be a bit contradictory for me. For all I know, someone taught me, I just didn't listen. (That tends to happen). So, being the "educated" person that I am, I decided to do research myself on the mystery of Labor Day. Naturally, I chose to use the most trusted source known to man...

I Googled it.

Well, lets just say it wasn't the most interesting answer I've ever found. Basically, Labor Day is everything I always thought it was, so maybe I really did learn it at some point in time. You know, or the simple fact that the name of the day is kind of a dead giveaway. I guess I was just looking for some spice. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the fact that we have this day of rest, and I am thankful for the people who protested vehemently for this day. I guess my real question for this whole ordeal doesn't have anything to do with the day at all, but oddly enough, is mentioned in almost every article I've read.

Why can't we wear white after Labor Day?

I mean, come on people. Who really even wears that much white in one outfit? I don't know about you, but I've never found myself in a situation where I had to say, "Hold on just a second while I put on my white pant suit to go to dinner..." Maybe it is just a thing of the past, or for people of "higher class" than myself, but I find it interesting that of all the traditions of this day, wearing white is so important. I almost wish I could be around to see the faces of the Archaeologist's who attempt to uncover the mystery of that fashion rule.

Labor Day is a great day. It recognizes the importance of the American worker, marks the end of Summer, and it gives us great fashion advice. So go dig in your closet for your white pants, matching jacket and boat shoes, people. After all, the rule clearly states...

You can't wear white AFTER Labor Day. (I'll meet you at the yacht).