Teaching – Page 3 – Meg Griswold

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Igniting a love of words and worlds.

Women’s Day Speech to Middle School Students

In honor of International Women’s Day on March 8, we had an assembly today and I was asked to give a speech about gender equality. I’m a talker and a writer, so being asked to give a speech is something that really energizes and fulfills me. Below is the text of my speech, delivered to about 300 6th, 7th, and 8th graders. The images were projected behind me.

When I was in elementary school, my mom taught aerobics in the evenings and I would go and hang out in the kids play area at the gym. I remember playing with two little kids, maybe they were 4 or 5 years old. I asked them what they wanted to be when they grew up. The little boy said, “I want to be a ballerina.”

The girl turned to him. “You can’t be a ballerina, only girls can be ballerinas.”

The boy shrugged and said, “Okay, I’ll be a dinosaur.”

It’s a funny story, but I’ve remembered it for 30 years. It was the first time I was aware of gender inequality. It was just a little moment, sure, but I saw it happen in front of my eyes. How might the path of that boy’s life have been different because of that interaction? Maybe that future–the one where he becomes a world famous dancer, travels the world, starts his own ballet school in Moscow or New York City–that future may have just closed forever to him in that moment. And he didn’t even notice. That seed was planted so young: he learned that as a boy some doors were closed to him. He probably didn’t even remember that that was the moment he learned to accept that reality.

We talk about gender inequality on large scales, and that is an important part. 56% of US college students are women, but only 24% of congress members and 18% of governors are women. Women are only 5% of CEOs of major corporations. We should also be concerned that men have shorter life expectancy and men and boys are more likely to be the victims of violence and suicide.

But we have to think of the small personal ways that someone is treated differently because of their gender. The moments in classrooms, on playgrounds, around dinner tables.

But who cares? Maybe you agree that boys shouldn’t dance, or care for children, or design clothing. What’s the harm in that?

Well, as a teacher, my goal for students is to open as many doors as possible for you so that you get to have as many choices as you can. If you never learn to read, your choices are limited. If you don’t practice public speaking, then some doors will be closed to you. Don’t we all want the most choices possible? Don’t we all want to grow up to do the work our hearts call for? The kind of work that makes us feel energized, alive, fired up?

Think for a minute about the thing you love the most. Maybe it’s painting, or video games; soccer, or math puzzles; building stuff, or making up stories. So let’s imagine for a second that you lived in a parallel world where the thing you love is done by almost no one of your gender. Other kids laugh at you when they find out you like that thing. They tease and make jokes, they whisper and snicker.

And now, imagine that because of all that, you abandoned that thing you love. It’s no longer a choice for your life. You decide maybe it’s better to be a dinosaur.

Okay, it sounds crazy. It sounds silly. But could it have already happened to you? When did someone say something about gender expectations to you as a kid? Do you even remember that moment? Do you like the things you like because you actually like them, or because you saw all the people of your gender doing it?

Are you freaking out? Maybe, maybe not. But you should be asking yourself all the time if your thoughts are your own or if they’re a reflection of the limits placed on you by the world around you. Ask yourself if you are limited or lifted up. If you are limited, shrug it off.

But wait, how do we undo this? How do we show that little boy that he can be a ballet dancer?

I think the answer is that we surround ourselves with models. Have you heard the phrase “Representation matters”? It means that what we see has a big impact on us. Seeing people that look like us in the world and on TV and social media help us imagine what’s possible. So I charge you to open your eyes and seek out representation that opens all those little closed doors. For example, this photographer completed an entire exhibition of Swedish dads taking 6 months off of work to raise their children.

Or look at these two astronauts who completed the first all-female space walk.

https://www.nasa.gov/press-release/nasa-announces-changes-to-spacewalk-schedule-first-all-female-spacewalk

Or these dads learning to do their daughters’ hair.

https://www.yahoo.com/lifestyle/12-salons-teaching-dads-to-style-their-daughters-126676016413.html

Here’s Jacinda Ardern, prime minister of New Zealand, speaking before parliament while pregnant.

https://www.kosu.org/post/new-zealands-prime-minister-gives-birth

That’s Virgil Abloh, a fashion designer who runs the fashion brand Off-White and has been named Louis Vitton’s new designer.

https://www.nytimes.com/2018/03/26/business/louis-vuitton-virgil-abloh.html

Or Angela Merkel, chancellor of Germany, making this guy really wish he wasn’t on that stage any more.

https://www.middleeastmonitor.com/20191120-germany-raises-issue-of-human-rights-with-egypts-sisi/

And here is Liberian president Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, winner of the Nobel Peace Prize, speaking at Harvard’s graduation in 2011.

https://news.harvard.edu/gazette/story/2011/10/sirleaf-wins-nobel-peace-prize/

Or, yes, Cristiano Martino of the Australian Ballet.

https://www.gq.com.au/fitness/health-nutrition/the-reallife-diet-and-training-routine-of-a-male-ballet-dancer/news-story/67cdc427a41c690dd13b782d26b6b87

You don’t even need to look that far. Look around this room at the adults who teach and coach you every day. They set amazing examples of strength, dedication, and passion–regardless of gender. We are men of science, and women of science. Women who love poetry and men who love poetry. We are shy men and women, outgoing men and women. Let these adults show you the possibilities for your future. I know that I speak for all of your teachers when I tell you that we believe in you. Our hope for you is that you believe in yourselves enough to tear down all barriers and accept no limitations.

Teaching, Travel

Re-signing for two more years

Last summer the most common question we got was, “Are you staying?”

The answer is yes! We signed a new 2 year extension of our contract. It’s odd because we signed in October even though we aren’t even through our second year. Decisions about hiring are made early in the international teaching world because orchestrating international moves means visas, translating documents, wading through multiple governments’ bureaucracies, and sometimes shipping belongings.

Calvin is in the 2nd grade now, and we’ve committed to staying until the end of his 4th grade year. In October of his 4th grade year, we will decide if we want to sign on again for 1 or 2 years, if we get offered those extensions.

We came into this thinking that we wanted to find a school where we could stay for 4-6 years, so it’s a good feeling to have that hope and expectation fulfilled.

I think that many people heard our plans and thought there was a pretty good chance we’d come back to the US after 2 years. Maybe I’m wrong in that assessment. For people who live in the US and always have, I think it sometimes gives them anxiety to hear about people who leave.

We’re in it. I don’t see an end date to our international teaching careers. I’ve met other teachers or expats in different professions who are eyeing a return. They feel the distance from family, the glitter has worn off, they are looking for a change. I completely understand that feeling. That may come for us eventually, but I can’t imagine it. With the ability to change up our whole life every 5-6 years, our love of change and novelty will always be satisfied.

What we have gained as a family make it hard for me to imagine returning to a life in the US. Our kids’ excellent education at the same school where we teach. The language learning that happens for them and us. The travel, the adventures, the experiences. I’m also really loving this community. I work with smart, funny, committed, wise, innovative teachers and admin. They’re seekers and risk takers, and I feel accepted and valued by them.

So, here we go!

Teaching, Travel, Writing

A new year!

Teaching new curricula (3 of them this semester!) is kicking my butt, and writing on the blog has been super hard.

But, I want to say, hello. I’m alive! I’m here!

A student wrote me a very sweet email, and after I wrote my response, I thought it would make a good update on how I’m doing. I’m pasting it here and adding one or two things.

I am good! Life is crazy. But not in a bad way. In a full way, and in a way that means I make lots of mistakes. I miss being an expert, being competent, knowing what the next day is going to look like in my class. This has been so humbling, but in a good way. I’m starting over, and it’s hard, but you start to realize what really matters or what you were missing in your old life.

The hard part has been writing. For a variety of reasons, I’m taking a break. One, I can’t take any more rejection. I know I looked like I was handling it all so well, but the rejections really built up and I couldn’t do it any more. Creative fields are so hard because there is 99% rejection in your responses. I love being creative, but I lost connection with the creative part and was only focusing on the response I was getting.

Someone told me I had to write for myself, not for publication. I only realize now that I wasn’t doing that. I am trying to reconnect with me, and why I want to write. Do I even want to write? I’m trying to let go of it and see if it comes back. Because I don’t know if I’m glad about how many hours I’ve given to rejection. I don’t regret the writing, but the time I spent querying and then getting rejected so quickly, so dismissively. If that’s what it takes, maybe that’s not what it’s about for me.

Ugh, I feel like I’m 22 again, trying to figure out what to do with myself. If only you got the answer and then were done. I wish!

I’ve been thinking about writing a lot. But when I find my mind wandering into thinking about agents and querying and publishing, I stop myself. I have to somehow write and separate it from publication. I probably need to be less intense. I can hear you laughing. “Ya think?” I can hear you saying.

I guess what I’m trying to figure out is, what does it look like, being a teacher who writes on the side?

One thing I’ve been doing is exercising. Between working and writing back in the US, I was not active, I didn’t exercise, and it was getting to an unhealthy level. Our school here had a 3K Turkey Trot, and after that, I kept running. I did a 5K in November and I have a 10K on February 3. Running is easy, cheap, and a good workout for the time it takes. I’m super slow and not awesome at it, but I’m enjoying doing it. A writer I follow on Twitter said to remember that we are computers wrapped in meat and we need to keep the meat healthy to make the computer run. I’m remembering that.

Brazil has been really good, though. We are doing a unit on cultural norms and taboos with 7th graders and I have so much personal connection. By seeing the norms and taboos here vs Nashville and Harpeth Hall is so illuminating. I’m questioning things. It’s not like Brazil is perfect, or Nashville is perfect. But I can see the differences and the effects on people. It’s also helpful for me to look at myself.

Teaching middle school has been awesome. And also challenging, but in a way I like. I have amazing colleagues who are smart and passionate and funny.

The kids are good. It’s been a rough 6 months, but I only realized that now looking back. I can see now that some things the kids were doing were because of the move, even though I didn’t see it at the time. But, to be fair, it’s also hard to parent 3 kids, so this may have happened no matter where we lived.

For sure, though, I am so happy to have distance from US politics and news right now. Every country has its share of bad news, but this break feels nice. I don’t long to be back. I’m not homesick.

Over the break my dad was asking me questions that all amounted to: Did you do the right thing, moving? The answer is yes. It took 6 months, but this feels more and more like home. And I know that this was a good decision.

Teaching, Travel, Writing

Almost Alumnae Speech

Today was the “Almost Alumnae Luncheon” at my school. Graduating seniors and mothers/special friends are invited to a lunch each year. There’s a student speaker, a faculty speaker, and a mother/alumna speaker. I was asked to be the faculty speaker. It was such an honor, and I want to share the text of my speech below.

(A quick note before my speech. Amy Grant is an alum of Harpeth Hall and she graciously performed three songs and played her acoustic guitar after the speeches. It was a moving performance that filled my soul in a way I didn’t realize I needed. When she came up to sing and started strumming and setting her capo, she said, “Meg, I wish I’d had you as a teacher.” I died. I am dead. Amy. Grant. You can write that on my tombstone. “Here lies Meg, Amy Grant gave her a shout out.”)

Here is the text of my speech:

Good afternoon. I am so honored to have been asked to speak to you today. In my high school, senior speeches happened at the end of the year, at a time much like this when regular class content was finished, and graduation was still a week or two away. Seniors met in a large room, and we took turns going up and giving a speech to our class. It was a chance to process, to remember and to say goodbye. Teachers were also allowed to give speeches, and I’ve been waiting, hoping that someday I might get a turn to speak as my teachers did. And how fitting that I too am in something of a senior year at Harpeth Hall. I’m in a similar position to you, preparing to leave the home I’ve known for seven years. I am poised on the lip of a new adventure, about to speak myself into the world, to utter a new existence for myself, just as you are.

Perhaps you are feeling a lot of pressure for the next four years. Someone might have told you that college was the best 4 years of their life. With no disrespect to the lovely memories of those folks, I’ve always been bothered by that. My best years will be behind me at 22?

I’m not here to say that college is not wonderful, magical, special. It can be. Certainly, it’s the first time you will take off into the world alone. But it is not the only time this will ever happen, it is just the first time. It is the beginning of beginnings, one of many fresh starts that you will be granted during your tenure on this earth. My adventure teaching in Brazil next year should serve as a tangible reminder of that. And as a person lucky enough to have had more than one new beginning, I have a few words of advice to share–as much a reminder to myself as lessons for you.

First, embrace impatience. Anyone can tell you to be patient, serene and calm. But I want you to be impatient. Chill is overrated. You’re excited for this new chapter to start. You want the rest of your life to start now!

Good, I say. Be hungry. Want it. Then, use that impatience as fuel to learn, to grow, to move somewhere new.

In 2011, I’d been living in New York City for 6 years going to grad school and then teaching. But I was impatient to leave. A teaching job in the upper school at Harpeth Hall popped up in the listings. I was hungry for a new beginning.

After embracing impatience, my second piece of advice is to be foolhardy. Not foolish, mind you, but foolhardy. To be foolhardy is to be bold, and recklessly so. Chase those goals with confidence. Sit at the table, even when you don’t know anyone; knock on the big door; raise your hand in a crowded room; bite off more than you can chew.

Who was I to apply to Harpeth Hall? I didn’t know anyone, I lived in another state, I was only in my 4th year of teaching. I had a million reasons not to apply. But I wanted to teach at a place like this. So I was impatient and dashed in with a foolhardy confidence.

Then, I showed up. Show up–that’s my next piece of advice. Showing up is more than going to class. Showing up in your own life can be incredibly hard. It feels easier to run, to hide. To cancel or to sit out. It’s easier to come up with an excuse, to find a distraction. Showing up for yourself is harder than it seems.

We spend too much time waiting for perfect conditions. I’ll write that book when I have the time or the perfect idea. I’ll apply for that job when my resume has exactly the right things on it. When I have the courage to move to another country, I’ll do it.

My secret is that I’m not brave, or honestly even ready. But, being impatient and bold and showing up is what brought me here. After a phone interview with Ms. Powers for the upper school English job, they flew me to Nashville to interview and teach a lesson. I still thought my chances were slim. Who was I? Some public school teacher from New York with a theater degree. But I showed up. And I poured all of me into it.

After 2 agonizing weeks of waiting, the call came in that I got the job.

So, you’re going to let yourself be impatient and foolhardy, you’ll show up even when you aren’t ready, even if you’re scared. Then I want you to listen. Pay attention. So, cliche, right? A teacher telling you to pay attention! Let me tell you something about adults. The path to getting where we are now may seem so inevitable when you see us up here. But in the beginning and the middle of the story that leads to this moment, the ending was anything but certain. The path doesn’t go in a straight line. You’ve got to pay attention to the signs along the way.

Some of you may know this about me, but I was a STEM kid. In addition to theater and the humanities, I took advanced math, and I even doubled up in higher level chem and bio in senior year. And in high school I needed an answer when people asked what I wanted to be. I was good at bio and chem and I didn’t really love physics, I liked working with kids, so… pediatrician. I mean, that’s what you’re supposed to do if you’re good at STEM and like working with people, right?

So, I went to college hungry and impatient. In freshman year, I showed up and volunteered at the children’s hospital, and worked in a research lab. I took all the math and science classes, and I got straight A’s.

Then, near the end of freshman year, I was sitting in my chemistry class, looking to the world like the ideal student. But in my head, I couldn’t make myself care about it anymore. I was miserable. I was so unhappy. I had been steaming forward with such vigor toward med school, doing everything I was supposed to do. And yet, when I paid attention, the signs around me were so clear. I paid attention to the truth, deep down, that this path wasn’t right for me anymore. Just because you’re good at something, doesn’t mean you have to do it.

So, what now? What was my life going to be? I felt a deep sense of despair, something akin to a major break-up. Despite the despair, I dropped my biology major and pre-med focus. Theater was the other thing I loved doing, so I turned my impatient energy toward a career on the stage. I went abroad during my junior year to London, and I studied Shakespeare and classical acting all day. From 9 am to 6 pm, I immersed myself in theater.

And then, second semester…you may have a sense of where this is going…I was miserable. In March, when the cast list was posted for the play, for the first time in my life, I didn’t care what part I got. I’d never felt that way before. But I listened to that feeling.

I came home that summer and regrouped. I got an education internship at the Kentucky Shakespeare Festival. That summer, teaching kids about Shakespeare, I felt a happiness and fulfillment that–finally–lasted.

It may sound totally obvious now, seeing me standing here, that I was destined to be a teacher. But as a 21-year-old, I had no idea. Even though I realized education was a good fit, it would take a year of graduate school for me to realize that teaching English was where I belonged.

So I want you to pay attention. Forgive yourself if the career or field you picked perhaps as far back as elementary school doesn’t end up being the one you land on. It’s not bad to admit you don’t love it like you thought you would. It’s not quitting to follow where you are most happy. And you don’t have to do something just because you are good at it.

My husband, David, likes to quote a math teacher who says, “Find what you love. Do more of that.”

You might find that the thing you love was not the thing you were known for being good at at Harpeth Hall. College is a new beginning so that you can start anew. You are not a fixed person. And you will not always be the person your parents and classmates thought you were while you were here. When I won the English award in high school, my mom said after the assembly, “I thought you weren’t good at English.” Going to college and then into the world let me see myself beyond the lens of my parents and high school peers. It’s good to get out and see yourself more clearly.

So, pay attention. Find what you love. Do more of that. Listen to mentors and professors when they compliment and encourage you. Try to silence the voices that tell you that you aren’t “that” kid. The kid who’s good at [blank]. Trust that you don’t know yet exactly what kind of person you are. Trust that you are still forming. I’m 35 and I have three kids and I still see so much change happening in my life. I’m still forming. I hope it is ever thus.

Be impatient. Be foolhardy. Show up. Pay attention. Find what you love, do more of that.

It’s what brought me to be standing on this stage, after the seven most formative years of my teaching. Like you, Harpeth Hall has been an incredible education for me. I have learned things here that I never imagined. I have accomplished things I couldn’t have done had it not been for this place and the people in it. And now I will take those gifts that this beauty on the hill gave me, and I will, as poet Thomas Lux says:

boil and boil, render
  it down and distill,
  concentrate
  that for which there is no
  other use at all, boil it down, down,
  then stir it with rosewater, that
  which is now one dense, fatty, scented red essence
  which you smear on your lips

And go forth
to plant as many kisses upon the world
as the world can bear!

Thank you.

Teaching, Travel

In the bowels of bureaucracy

In the past 6 months, we have gotten: new passports, new drivers licenses, TSA precheck, Global Entry, FBI background checks, and Brazilian visas.

Applying for our Brazilian work visas was by far the hardest part. We had to go through a process called apostille, which is basically an internationally recognized certification of documents that is recognized by other countries. You have to get a document notarized by a notary, then certified by the county clerk, then apostilled by the secretary of the state you live in (not the national Secretary of State). That’s three confusing government buildings and their correspondingly obscure parking lots.

But we did it! After we had all of these documents apostilled, we mailed them to Brazil and eventually our visas were approved. Then more paper work (and FBI background checks), and we sent all of that to the Brazilian consulate in Atlanta. It’s a little scary to put your passports and your kids’ birth certificates into a mailbox. But they got there, our visas were affixed, and they got back to us safely.

Everyone loves to have an opinion about bureaucracy, but I have a few thoughts of my own, now that I’ve spent some time navigating multiple levels within two national governments.

The Tennessee county clerk and secretary of state offices were clean, well run and easy to navigate. People were kind and moved with efficiency. I kept asking about where to go for an apostille like I didn’t quite believe it was a real thing (it is) and every time they knew exactly what I needed and how to give it to me. It was also cheap, costing only 80 bucks to get 10 documents done.

The harder thing to apostille was our NYU and Columbia transcripts. We have to submit those for our work visas because we are applying for a work visa as someone “highly qualified.” We aren’t in NY state anymore, so we paid a company $150 (each, for David and me) to go get our transcripts and have them apostilled (notary –> county clerk –> secretary of state) and then mailed to us in Tennessee.

Oh, and once our visas were approved, and we mailed our passports to the Brazilian consulate in Atlanta, we had to include $1,450 in money orders . Yes, $290 each for our visas.

I told a co-worker in a professional development session on mindfulness that we are becoming immigrants to another country. That’s how Brazil sees us, and it’s correct. But it’s a strange thing to think about as someone with an American passport, and may strike some as surprising. She asked me how it felt to be an immigrant to another country. That’s an interesting question.

First, it’s made me feel even more compassion for immigrants to the US. We have a company guiding us through this and doing some of it on our behalf and it is still hard. And I have 2 degrees, a solid income, and a support system. The school in Brazil is reimbursing us for all visa-related expenses. This is so hard in the best of circumstances. And not the kind of thing you enter into lightly.

Second, I feel so lucky that I happened to be born in Ohio and was able to have the opportunities that led another country to consider me “highly qualified.” It was the luck of the draw that I was well educated and was able to get 2 degrees from great universities and 11 years of teaching experience. If I’d been born elsewhere, it’s likely that as a woman I would not have been educated or offered those same opportunities. I’m very, very lucky.

And yet here I am leaving it. That’s not lost on me. I’m a very privileged immigrant with a passport to a country that exists and that I can return to and making a living in. I’m not destitute or desperate. I think about the images of bombed out buildings and people fleeing Syria. They don’t have the luxury of smooth bureaucracy and duplicate copies of all their vital documents.

I feel fortunate to have bureaucracy. Yes, the DMV took an hour and a half, but I got a license. I have ID. I can show someone who I am. How many millions of refugees don’t have any records like that? How many people live without documents? Maybe these documents are lovely and this bureaucracy is a sign of privilege. If so, I’ll take my labyrinthine hallways and always-full parking lots, if I get what I need at the end.

Teaching, Travel

Vamos

The Griswolds have big news! In July 2018, we are making a big international move. Below is something I’ve written and shared with my students and colleagues at my current school. NB: All of the seniors at my school give a speech during their senior year. I’ve been here seven years, so I’ve heard roughly 700 speeches. I decided that as I am moving on to my next chapter, it was fitting to write my own “senior” speech.

This semester I’ve been teaching my students about the Hero’s Journey. Developed by Joseph Campbell, the Hero’s Journey is a way to describe the pattern of stories throughout different cultures and eras. Even across oceans and millennia, there is a pattern to the stories that we humans tell, and Joseph Campbell studied it and described its features.

The first stage is the hero in their normal world. The status quo. But something happens: an inciting incident occurs, and the hero receives the call to adventure. It’s the moment that turns a regular day into an extraordinary one, one that kicks off a journey that takes the hero far from home.

How fitting that just as I’m teaching this story structure, I write to share with you that the Griswolds are heeding the call to adventure. In July we will be moving as a family to São Paulo, Brazil to teach at The Graded School, an American International School.

Many of you know that I grew up overseas with my family. When I was 10 we moved from Cincinnati to Mexico City, and at the end of 6th grade, we moved to Caracas,Venezuela, where I lived until I graduated from high school. I attended an international school in Caracas where 27 languages were spoken. I became fluent in Spanish and conversational in Portuguese. And I always thought that some day my life would lead me back to an international life.

Now that our oldest, Calvin, has started Kindergarten, we started thinking about the educational experience we want for him. We also started to think about the next adventure and challenge for us as educators. Now that our family is complete, the time feels right to set off.

But none of this would be possible if it hadn’t been for Harpeth Hall. When we moved here in 2011 from New York, I thought seriously about leaving the profession. I was coming from 4 challenging years of teaching in New York City public and charter schools. I was approaching burn-out. Borders Bookstore had just declared bankruptcy and I thought, “Well, there went my back up plan!”

I was so lucky to get hired to teach at this amazing institution. Far from burning out, I reached new heights as an educator because of Harpeth Hall. Collaborating and learning with my amazing English department colleagues was a transformative experience. Their experience and expertise, their commitment to the students, their reflection and openness on their own teaching: these things inspired and uplifted me. I became the educator I was always meant to be because of Harpeth Hall. I learned not just from my department, but from all of the faculty and staff. I learned about what a team of people can do when they are all united to work for a common goal. From our administration I learned about grace, about strength, about humanity. And all of these lessons have been formative.

Perhaps most importantly, I learned from teaching amazing students. The students at Harpeth Hall let me be creative, let me challenge myself, let me learn more than I thought possible about teaching and learning. Over my seven years at Harpeth Hall, my students’ dedication, effort, and creativity have made this such an amazing place to work. I will always carry with me the earnest desire to learn and grow that they brought to school each day.

Moving to Brazil and teaching at an international school would not have been possible had we not spent these 7 years at Harpeth Hall. When we were told that we were attractive candidates, I knew that Harpeth Hall was to thank.

So, I feel that I am now writing my own senior speech. I imagine that I am looking out at a theater of my chosen family. I feel gratitude for each and every one of you. For how you’ve pushed me, supported me, questioned me, cheered me on. Our departure, our call to adventure, is not an unhappy ending, but the beginning of an exciting new chapter. It is bittersweet for us, to know that we will be leaving a fantastic place filled with wonderful people. But it also feels right.

We will take each of you with us when we go. Your ears will burn next year with tropical heat because we will be singing your praises and carrying your lessons with us. We hope that we can keep our connection to Harpeth Hall alive, and see this new chapter for us as a new chapter for you as well. A new partnership with the southern hemisphere. Come on, I’m sure Harpeth Hall will spring for plane tickets to Brazil so that you can come check out what we’re doing!!

From the bottom of our hearts, thank you.

With Love,

Meg Griswold, Class of 2018

Teaching, Writing

On being in a funk

Yesterday I described my current mood to a student and she said, “You’re in a funk, Mrs. Griswold.”

She’s right, and she named it well. I’m in a funk. It may the broken nights of sleep due to the 9 month old and his cold. It might be the new class I’m teaching. But it’s really about rejection. This week brought two rejections from full requests. I call them “je ne sais quoi” rejections. “I just didn’t click with this” or “I just didn’t connect.” This came on the heels of me abandoning a best seller, a book I fully expected to love. And I didn’t. I couldn’t connect, so I set itdown.

I hate it and I get it.

I think about my students who probably get back at least 2 pieces of critiqued work a day, maybe more. And they don’t get to wallow, they have to keep moving forward onto the next unit or assignment. So it’s a good reminder that I’m in a place of adult privilege. I get to choose when I reach out for feedback and when I don’t. Boohoo, Mrs. Griswold.

I printed a piece from The Atlantic by Ta-Nehisi Coates called “A Quick Note on Getting Better at Difficult Things.” It was a 6 paragraph balm. A boon. He talked about learning French. The capital S Struggle. He quoted Carolyn Forche who said, “I’m going to have it.” (I don’t have any tattoos, but if I did, I think it would be that sentence.)

The students loved Coates’s piece. They liked the line, “But I also feel like I am getting better at stumbling.”

Reading that with them lifted me out of my funk, somewhat. My gloom stems from my fear that the manuscript done for, that the error is fatal. The worst feeling is not knowing what to fix or work on or learn. I need to feel like I have a path out.

Maybe I just can’t have any of those answers. I just have to wait and deal with what comes.

And begin again. Again again. I’ve got my next idea in the hopper. (Is that the right metaphor? Like a train hopper car? Is there a grain hopper somewhere in my mind as well?) I’m going to write something new during NaNoWriMo.

I told a student today that I feel best when I’m creating. Because you can’t judge and create simultaneously. Or at least, I can’t. When I am making something, I have a beautiful feeling of flow. I like producing. It staves off the despair.

I’ve got my SCBWI conference this weekend. I know that will fill my heart. Maybe I’ll see the path out then. Maybe there will be good news when I get through the weeds and the vines.

Also a nap. I hope there’s a nap soon.

Teaching

My letter of introduction, 2017

Each year I write my students a letter of introduction that I read to them on the first day. Their first homework is to write me a letter back. This is my 11th letter, and one I’m proud of. Enjoy.

August 23, 2017

Dear Students,

I’m getting comfortable with failure. Failure is the wrong word, though. Failure is so final, it denotes an ending with nothing beyond it. Struggle is the word I prefer. Struggle isn’t over; struggle can continue; struggle keeps trying. So, I will say that I’m getting comfortable with struggle. Except comfortable is also the wrong word. Struggle is never comfortable or easy. But I’m getting better at struggle, at not letting struggle equal failure.

I’m getting better at struggle by being a writer. I’ve written two novels (which add up to 130,000 words, not counting all the words I cut or rewrote) and 5, 6, or 7 picture books—fewer words, but more agony over each one. And I’ve submitted my writing to strangers 400 times. I copy the email address and I click send, hoping I didn’t miss a typo, didn’t misspell the recipient’s name or (gag!) my own.

The letter a writer sends out with her sample pages is called a query. Query, which shares a root with inquire and question. I am asking a question: do you like this? Do you want to help me make this into paper and ink that will be dog-eared and underlined, carried in backpacks, passed from hand to hand?

What I’m really asking is, “Is this any good?”

But I write cool, collected query letters.

“I think you might like this…”

“I’ve attached the first ten pages…”

“I’d be happy to send the full manuscript…”

I try not to let my longing show through in these emails, like love letters stripped of their love. I don’t tell them that I’ve sent them a piece of my soul, hours and hours and hours spent clicking away at my desk in a closet, during babies’ naps or after bedtime kisses.

I sign my letters “Sincerely,” but “Lovingly” is a better fit. I’m sending the child of my brain in 0s and 1s across the air, flashes of light in fiber optic cables; sending a signal that I hope will materialize in the mind of the reader, and tell a story they didn’t know they wanted to hear.

I told a friend about waiting months for a response to arrive. She said, “It’s teaching you to hold things lightly.” Perhaps that’s it. In front of the blank page I don’t hold back, I jump Geronimo off of outline bridges into streams of Times New Roman. But then I release my words into the world accepting that maybe no one will read them, or the ones that do won’t like them.

But I keep thinking of that lottery slogan, “You can’t win if you don’t play,” and playing in this case means making something out of nothing and then accepting that that something might truly be nothing, nothing I can control, so something only for me. Maybe?

I wonder if you, dear students, add up all the quizzes and the tests and the papers, the rewrites and the early help sessions, the red pen slashes, the “come see me’s” and the “this needs more work.” Have you reached 400? Double that? We ask you each day to put some part of you on the page or the board and we tell you what didn’t work and maybe what did. So who am I to be sad or discouraged? Perhaps I’ve just gotten too far away from being a student, I’ve forgotten how to struggle and continue, as you do each day.

Because there’s no way from here to there without going through this. No shortcuts. You have to cut through the red pen and the paper with the machete of your mind. Hack a path, all on your own.

But you, you’ve got me. I’m just ahead of you, I’ve made it through this particular jungle and I’ve sketched a map that will help me to help you. Sometimes maybe you can see me and sometimes you can’t, and you’ll wonder what I know anyway. Maybe you’d be better just to set down and quit struggling. You’ve had to double back, you’ve hit dead-ends, maybe none of this is worth it.

But, I know. I know that you will make it. I know this even when you doubt. I believe when you won’t. If you will just keep swinging the blade, inquiring of the universe, asking the question again and again.

What I want is for you to be willing to struggle. Don’t ask me to lie to you and just tell you that you’ve arrived, that you don’t need to go any further. Don’t ask me to tell you that the struggle is over. Maybe you hope you’re different, that you got lucky and landed right near the end and soon you’ll get to rest.

“Oh baby,” (I croon in the voice of Billie Holiday) “there is no rest.” But you’re moving forward, I promise. Sometimes it’s slow, and sometimes it’s fast. Sometimes you’re even backtracking. But sometimes you gotta go back to move forward and I won’t quit you if you don’t quit yourself.

Who am I anyway? I’m Mrs. Griswold. I’ll be your struggle guru teacher this year and this is my lucky 7^th year at Harpeth Hall—that must be good omen. I have three kids whose pictures dot my bulletin board. I have an old dog who’s afraid of thunder, 6 chickens, and I keep bees in my backyard. I’m a slow runner, but I like to do it. I’m a theater major who now performs for audiences of 16 and gets to analyze plays every year.

Before I lived in Nashville, I lived in New York City. Before that, London and Cleveland. Back even further I lived in Caracas, Venezuela from 7^th grade to 12^th, and Mexico City for 5^th and 6^th grade. I speak Spanish fluently and enough Portuguese to have conversations in the present tense. Until age 10 I lived in Cincinnati. So where am I from? The answer is complicated but I’m happy to call Nashville home now.

Before we begin, would you write me a letter? Tell me about who you are. What are you struggling with? How does struggle feel to you? Where are you going? How can I help you? What do you love?

Sincerely (Lovingly),

Meg Griswold

Teaching, Writing

Lab Girl Review

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I remember really well when I first heard about Lab Girl by Hope Jahren. I was driving across town between teaching classes, trying to make it to a PreK tour on time. I was listening to On Point on NPR and I heard an interview wherein Jahren read an excerpt of Lab Girl. I had been swearing at the traffic that was making me late, but listening to Jahren read aloud from her book, I burst into tears. She has a line that just cut me right to the quick. It’s from a passage that is a few pages long where every paragaph begins “My lab is…” Here’s the quote I remember bringing me to tears:

There is no phone and so it doesn’t hurt when someone doesn’t call me. the door is locked and I know everyone who has a key. Because the outside world cannot come into the lab, thelab has become the place where I can be the real me. (19)

I had to jog across the street to the school from my parked car, wiping my eyes and sniffing. I made it to my tour just a few minutes late, and I knew I needed to read that book.

I had a baby in December of last year and I finally got my chance to read it this summer when I used my Christmas gift card to Parnassus from my in-laws. It did not disappoint!

(Sometimes I find it extra hard to write about a book I really loved. It’s almost too hard to articulate what my heart is saying, so bear with me.)

Lab Girl is the memoir of a Paleobotanist. She studies ancient plant fossils, and sometimes living fossils. She does some geology, too, but plants are her passion. Her book begins with her as a child in her father’s lab, but it quickly zooms forward and follows her in college, grad school and then working as a researcher and professor at a bunch of universities.

I love the structure of Lab Girl. The chapters alternate between botany and memoir. So, the odd numbers would be chapters about how plants grow, how roots work, how plants communicate. Some of it was basic science, but usually she jumped off of the well-explained basics to talk about cutting edge plant science. But these chapters weren’t like a text book, they were like poetic love letters to trees and plants. I loved reading them.

I also enjoyed the memoir sections. The big themes were never having enough money, being lonely, impostor syndrome, staking your claim as a woman at the table. So, you know, the same issues most professional women I know deal with. That was what was so great and relatable. She was really honest and open to her readers. She talked about her struggles with mental health as well. Those topics didn’t dominate the book, and there were times when she was holding back a bit, but I think she balanced the elements well. The variety made this book a very enjoyable read.

I’m going to use a few excerpts from this with my AP Language students next year. AP Language and Composition focuses on argument, rhetorical devices and language. This book is chock full of lyrical, narrative nonfiction that uses language in powerful ways. I’m actually going to pair a chapter she has on trees to a chapter of Sandra Cisneros semi-autobiographical novel The House on Mango Street, “Four Skinny Trees.”

What I really love about this book is that she is a very poetic, creative scientist. At schools, the disciplines tend to get so segregated and I think that sometimes students feel like you can’t be a creative writer if you are good at math and science, and all poets must hate numbers. Not true! I don’t bring it up often, but I was a very strong math and science student both in high school and college. I got A’s in Chemistry and Calculus in college and loved those classes.

Jahren has a strong sense of character as well. Bill is a huge part of the story and I enjoyed getting to know him. The chain smoking lab tech of her college days was also really vivid and alive on the page.

I also love a book that uses swearing well. This definitely falls into that category. I found myself repeating some lines of dialogue or narration out loud, either because they moved me or made me laugh.

Lab Girl is an excellent read and I highly recommend it, whether or not you’ve ever enjoyed science. In fact, Jahren begins the book by telling you to think of a tree you know or look out your window at a tree. Observe it. Tada! You’re a scientist. Her book was welcoming and warm and I loved it from start to finish.

Teaching, Writing

Process insecurity

Today I was giving feedback to students on a creative writing assignment. For the assignment, they had to find a photo depicting human migration in some way. Most chose an image of Syrian refugees, or immigrants at the US/Mexico border. Some chose more historical photos of Japanese mail-order brides, or a family member who was a holocaust survival and immigrant. They could then write in their choice of genre about the photo, story, poem, stream of consciousness, etc.

I asked for a paragraph of reflection at the end of the assignment. One student commented on how hard it was to get started because she got hung up on finding the perfect structure and the perfect idea. Once she started going, though, she discovered some things she hadn’t even realized were there and ultimately she felt great about the final product.

I needed to read that. I’m having some process insecurity of my own.

Let me explain. I wrote my novel Improbable Girl with an idea for an opening scene and that was it. I had no outline, no ideas for the ending. I had some characters in mind, but they weren’t fully developed. I just wrote. And I jumped around in the plot and wrote whatever caught my fancy that day.

When I finished, I started talking to other writers and reading about writing. I read about all kinds of plotters and planners and outliners. And I’ll admit, I started to feel a bit insecure. I’m sure it was imagined, but I got the sense that writers who planned first looked at my seat-of-my-pants process (also called “pantsing”) as the inferior method of writing.

And when I sat down to edit my novel, it was a hot mess plot-wise and character-wise. I had to make some massive changes. I started to think that maybe some time spent outlining before writing might help me to save time on the revisions.

As I approach my next project, I’ve been doing some planning. I’ve been Snowflaking and outlining. The first few steps seem to work for me and then I get this feeling of dread and despair. I can’t figure out how it should end or what the next crisis will be and suddenly I feel hopeless. The whole idea is garbage and it’s not going to lead anywhere.

Today, I’m reminding myself of who I am. I am a leap-and-the-net-will-appear person. I’m a rush-in-and-find-joy-in-problem-solving person. I think my logical brain is not quite as smart as the part of my brain that runs loose when I’m just writing my way out of things. (“I wrote my way out…“)

I will say there is one pre-writing or extra-writing activity I find value in: character interviews. I’ve starting doing more and more Q and A type freewrites. I’m not controlling where it goes, I’m just asking and probing. I did one with Jane and Daniel in the Improbable Girl editing process where I just asked them, “What do you think you’re doing?” What came out of that was really crucial. It helped me clarify what was happening with each of them and where they needed to go as characters through the novel.

So enough planning. For now. Maybe a premise is enough. Maybe a character with a little wounded spot in her heart is enough. And yes, I’m going to have more work on the other end to figure out how to make it work. I’m alright with that. I’ve been there before and I know I can make it through.

Also, I read this article by Chuck Wendig (swearing makes me so happy) and I needed it. I joked on Twitter that I was going to make it a daily meditation. I might not be kidding. I might read it every day. Even though I’ve done this once–finished a book, that is–I’m feeling that same old insecurity in my abilities. Enough. No more.

To write!