Student-Faculty Basketball Showdown

Last year I had the idea of replicating one of my favorite memories from middle school: the Student-Faculty basketball game. At Mount Logan Middle School, it was the crown jewel of student incentive activities, and I thought it'd be cool to bring some of that magic to Henderson Middle School. But last year, my principal said no, even when I volunteered to coordinate and organize the entire thing. This year, my principal is so desperate for anything to "work" that he said, "Sure. What the hell."

I didn't realize beforehand how much work would actually be required to pull this thing off successfully. It was like taking a part-time job on top of teaching, grad school homework, and coaching baseball. There were teams to form, permissions to acquire, concessions to coordinate, and a school-wide eligibility tracker to be implemented. But I went forward with it anyway, sure that it would provide a little shimmer of hope and happiness into what has otherwise been a very dark and gloomy school year.

The day finally came. The student team was assembled. The teacher squad was two-deep. We had the pep band playing in the corner of the gym, and the cheerleaders "doin' they thang" as they say. The referee jumped the ball at center court, and the game was underway.

Mr. Boone looking official!

Ms. Padgett in traffic!

One of my former football players, Larontae, trying to get past the defenders...

Then he ran into this. Boom.

Luckily for me, the kids were pretty terrible.

I say "luckily" because, in the days and weeks leading up to the big game, I had done a lion's share of trash-talking to my kids. I couldn't help myself. I told them I'd be breaking their ankles left and right. I even guaranteed them a Faculty win several times, but they just wouldn't believe me. I don't think they could wrap their brains around young, hip black kids getting schooled by a dorky white teacher with glasses, but that's exactly what happened. Some students even wrote me notes on the day of the game, urging me to have my ankles wrapped tightly and an ambulance close by so I could be easily retrieved.

The 8th grade boys made a good run at the end of the game to bring it within 16 points, but by then it was over. Final score: Students 45, Faculty 61.

It was the most fun I've had as a teacher in 3 years at HMS. And now, thanks to some strategic gambling, my students owe me brownies.

Return to Capitol Hill

After months of grant-writing, arranging, calling, e-mailing, approving, scheduling, and vigorous planning, it finally happened. D.C. 2.0 got off the ground, soared with the eagles, and landed safely, with no major turbulence to report. And by that I mean, I just successfully took a group of my students on an overnight, 500 mile round trip adventure to our nation's capitol for the second year in a row, and not a single student died, was robbed, or became pregnant. That's a pretty big deal.

It all started early last Thursday morning. And I mean EARLY. I was out of bed at 2:30 a.m. After a quick shower and shave (and my routine bowl of cereal, eaten while reading the historical autobiography of John Lewis), I was out the door and en route to Henderson Middle School. While most folks would be groggy at such a ridiculous hour, my mind was crystal clear, and I was eager for the days events to unfold.

The kids began to arrive at about 3:45 a.m. with their pillows and blankets in hand. The bus arrived a few minutes later, and before long, kids were saying goodbye to parents, all of them with excited expressions. It would be the first time several of them would spend a night away from their parents, and while the kids seemed rather enthused about this, the parents were still victims of that paternal and maternal worry.

"Bring back my baby, now, y'hear Mr. Olsen?"

"Yes ma'am, Ms. Rodwell," I responded. "You've got my guarantee on that."

"Don't you let Ricky get into any trouble, coach."

"I'm on it, Mr. Howard. I'll have in him on a tight leash." And so on, and so forth...

At approximately 4:07 a.m., we were on the bus - a bumpy old Activity Bus that maxed out at 55 mph - on our way to Washington, D.C. We were 22 of us total: 15 students, five parent chaperons, me and the bus driver.

Five long hours later, we arrived on Capitol Hill, and our whirlwind tour had begun. We met with representatives from Senator Richard Burr and Kay Hagan's office (the two NC senators), then took a tour of Capitol Hill. Just outside Ted Kennedy's old office, I told my students about how Mr. Olsen used to work on Capitol Hill, and how he had left that job to come and teach them. I got a lot of nods and raised eyebrows. It wasn't until a few minutes later that it seemed like nearly every member of our group came up and asked me the same question: "If you used to work here, then what in the blazin' tarnation are you doing teaching in Vance County?" I tried to tell them that I was happy to be in Vance County, even happier than I had been on Capitol Hill, and then they tried to tell me I had a few screws loose.


From Capitol Hill we went to see the White House, the Jefferson Memorial, and then ended our day with a tour of the Holocaust Museum. I can't tell you how powerful that experience was. I mean, it's really beyond words to describe what it felt like to take a small group of my most eager learners, and walk through the Holocaust with them. Students were magnetized to me, and wouldn't stray more than a few feet. For every picture, video, or artifact we would come across, three or four of them would ask, "What is that, Mr. Olsen?" And then, the most satisfying part came when I wouldn't even have to answer the question, and those same students, or students who simply heard the question, were able to answer. Kristallnacht, Auschwitz, Polish Ghettos, Hitler, Propaganda, The Final Solution - they knew it all, which was a validation of my efforts as a history teacher. At one point, I was literally brought to tears as my students and I stood in one of the train cars used to transport Jews to concentration camps. As I began to explain how they were herded like cattle and crammed into a death box for a 3-day journey, my emotions got the best of me, and my kids showed me a new kind of respect that I had never felt or seen in a classroom.

From there, we ended our very long day and made our way to the motel, a modest establishment in Northern Virginia. Now, to any Tom or Molly, this place would have seemed simply adequate. Nothing to write home about. However, to my kids, this place was magical. Many of them had never spent a night in a hotel, so this was a new experience. The were excited when they saw the waffle bar of the continental breakfast, they were overjoyed when they were told they could make free room to room calls, and they were all aflutter when they saw the vending and ice machines on every floor. I'm not kidding. They thought those ice machines were awesome. "Free ice!" I heard Alfredo yell.


Now, I realized full well the risk I was running doing an overnight trip, and putting a small group of budding pubescent kids into a hotel for a sleepover. The whole scenario is riddled with promiscuous land mines, not to mention credit card charges for broken windows, broken lamps, or flooded bathrooms. That's why I made sure that every room had a parent chaperon in it, so I wasn't too worried about any incidents occurring. Luckily, the worst the kids did that night was stay up late making crank calls to each other.


The next morning we woke up early, had a decent continental breakfast (decent in my opinion, "crazy cool awesome" in my kids'), then boarded the bus and headed back to D.C. Day 2 consisted of a lot more walking and sightseeing, including a trip to the National Mall, Washington Monument, WWII Memorial, Lincoln Memorial, Vietnam War Memorial, the Smithsonian Air & Space Museum, and the National Archives. At each step along the way, I was able to gather my kids like a mother hen (or father hen?), and teach them, show them, and explain to them the significance of each site, which is something I couldn't do last year with a group of 80. With 15 students, I was a tour guide, not a zookeeper.

And the kids? They loved it. They soaked it up. They were so mature and scholarly, but they were still just kids. Eighth graders are great because they're just old enough to appreciate something like democracy, but still young enough to be entranced by a merry-go-round. They loved seeing tall buildings, they loved asking questions that made them sound smart, and they loved stopping at souvenir stands or to watch street performers. For several of them who had never been beyond the borders of North Carolina, this wasn't only a trip to the Nation's Capital, but to an entirely new world they had only heard about or seen in books.


Finally, at about 3:30 on Friday, it was time to go. We left the National Archives where we had just seen the The Declaration of Independence, the Bill of Rights, and the Constitution, and walked back to the bus. It was an exhausting two days, with round the clock meetings, sightseeing, and miles of walking. When we finally boarded the bus to go home, most of our participants (including the chaperons) passed out within minutes like they had drunk a bottle of chloroform. Perhaps I drove them a little too hard. I like to think I was just an ambitious tour guide.

The sun soon fell, and before long, we were ALL sleeping on the activity bus, a rickety old coach that didn't provide the most quiet or comfortable setting for sleep, but that didn't seem to matter. After what felt like only minutes, I awoke to the slowing of the bus. I lifted my head and peered out the window to see us exiting the Interstate, hang a left on Andrews Avenue, then arrive at Henderson Middle School. It was nearly 9:30 p.m. The parking lot was full of cars with parents eagerly awaiting the safe return of their children. The kids - who were so happy to be away from home the night before - seemed just as excited to see their parents again.

I gave hugs, shook hands, and waved goodbye as students dragged their suitcases - now bulging with overpriced souvenirs and D.C. memorabilia - to their cars and disappeared in the back seats. The bus pulled away as well, and soon there was only one car left in the parking lot. I approached the passengers door, opened it, and got in. Then Celeste drove me home and put me to bed.

The Last Day of School

I wasn’t prepared for this.

All year long, I’ve been thinking (and sometimes daydreaming) about the last day of school. It seemed as though it would never come, like a carrot luring a donkey on the end of a stick. It didn’t seem to matter how many plans we made or events we scheduled for the summertime, it felt as though the school year would never actually release its kung-fu grip on our lives.

Then, very suddenly, it did.

I knew it was coming, too. For the last several weeks, I’ve been administering end-of-year tests, attending promotion/retention meetings, and cleaning out my classroom – all signs that the end was near, and that my time with these kids was quickly drawing to a close. So how did I get blindsided?

Thursday was the last day of school. Kids came in wielding yearbooks with grins plastered onto their faces. There was a generally jovial spirit about the hallways. Kids sat where they wanted to for the first time all year, and laughed and talked through much of the day. They watched a movie in one class; made ice cream in another; they played a review game in mine. All in all, it was a low-key, low-stress day for everybody.

My last class ended at 1:30. The bell rang (just as it had all year) and kids began to file out of the classrooms and into the hallway on their way to their next class (just as they had all year). At this point, the reality of the school year ending still hadn’t hit me, and I stood at my door, watching students walk (and run) away from me.

I knew something was different, however, when students started coming up to me to say goodbye. Goodbye? This was new. Some threw their arms around me, some just yelled, “See you Mr. Olsen!” as they walked by my room. As these goodbyes occurred one after another, I finally started to realize that I wouldn’t see most of these kids ever again. And while I probably would have rejoiced at this news back in September, it was June now, and part of me wasn't ready for goodbye.

Then came Antonio. He had been one of my favorite students throughout the year. He was the kind of kid that said very little, but when he did, it was worth remembering. True to form, Antonio didn't disappoint:

“It has been a pleasure to have had a teacher like you.”

He accompanied these words with a bashful grin and an outstretched hand. I shook it, and responded, “Antonio, it has been a pleasure to have had a student like you.”

With that he walked away, disappearing behind a corner down the hallway. By this point, I could feel the emotion welling up inside of me. I quickly retired to my classroom and closed the door behind me.

I started breathing heavily and staggered towards my desk in the back of the room as images of my students faces flashed in front of me. I turned off the lights so that passers-by would think I was away from my room.

Soon my heavy breathing gave way to a sustained weeping that went on for longer than I care to admit. I was a broken man at that moment, and there was nothing I could do to fend of the tidal wave of raw emotion. My body shook as I cried. I dropped to the floor and sat with my back against the wall in the back corner of my classroom. My door didn’t have a lock, which meant anyone could have walked in at any moment. I was in no mood to be seen, so I sat on the floor, hiding behind my desk, crying like a child in the lap of my mother.

Many of the tears were happy ones. I rewound many of my favorite moments of the school year and played them back in my mind. I thought about Christmas cards my kids had made me, about our field trip to Washington, DC, and about the time I came back to school after missing a day of work because of sickness to Gabrielle’s “Thank you, Jesus! Mr. Olsen’s back!”

Of course, many of the tears were born of grief. I couldn’t help but think about how many of them will never outgrow their poverty, and how even now some of them hardly have a place to call home. Some of them have already started their lifelong and life-ending careers in drugs and crime and violence, and it hurt because I wasn’t able to change that.

It took me awhile to regain my composure. I eventually did, returned to my feet and started to clean up the mess my kids left as they hurried out of my class. What a year it had been.