“You all want to be teachers. We’ve talked about bullying, but what you probably don’t realize is that some of the biggest offenders of bullying in schools are the staff. That’s right. I’m pointing my finger at all of you and telling you now to be careful how you conduct yourself because your actions can be just as, if not more, harmful than the actions that these students deal with in their peers. I recently read a study that told me that teachers instigate bullying on a regular basis. The ways they do this are by ignoring children that are “dumb,” laughing at the jokes children make at another child, feeding into the relational aggression ala Mean Girls by taking sides or allowing it in their classrooms, lunch rooms, gymnasiums and hallways, or, what I consider to be most hurtful, going into their teacher’s lounge and commiserating about children and actively working against the better needs of the child by making the child a pariah amongst the adults as well. They also do this by writing intentionally vague and negative comments that stay in a child’s report card file until they graduate high school. This is all BULLYING and YOU are going to buy into it…unless you consider it and stop yourself now. You can do this with self-awareness and the knowledge that you will NOT be that kind of teacher and that you are teaching to make a positive impact and not crush a child’s will.”

By this time, I was gaining momentum. The room was completely silent. I have my class write journals and I knew that some of them had been bullied by teachers. One of the ways I teach my students is to share stories with them about my experiences both as a student and as a teacher. Now was the time for me to wince and share some of my personal experiences. Earlier this semester, I’d had them do an experiment on assumptions and write a journal about it. One assumption they made about me was that I’d never been bullied. It’s not true. I’d been bullied by a few students, but what really impacted me was the way some of my teachers treated not only me, but my fellow students.

“When I was in high school, I was pretty naive. I thought that teachers always had your best interests in mind and that they could be counted on to act like adults. I’d had an experience in junior high where I’d made the mistake of acting like I was going to throw my basketball at my coach. She flipped out, screamed at me in front of my team and shamed me. I didn’t play much that season and I never tried out for basketball again. Looking back on that behavior as an adult, I’m appalled and curious as to why no one thought that behavior was irrational at the time? However, in high school, I had this idea that everything was going to be different. New friends, new classes, new teachers, a new start and that things were going to be ok. I was wrong.”

“See, adults still do the petty things adults do, even when they teach. Professionalism is key. An English teacher lost her cool and called an entire sophomore class “a bunch of bitches.” She later apologized, but I don’t remember her getting into any real trouble for something that, as a parent, I would take serious issue over. We weren’t acting like a “bunch of bitches” that day. She was having a bad day, we were all working on projects and we weren’t moving quickly enough is what I remember. I was surprised and vaguely concerned that she’d lost her marbles. She also put on the school’s musical. I was helping with sound and when a tape was played improperly she went berserk. It heavily defined my high school years. Not only did she go crazy on me for what another person admitted was that person’s fault at having not rewound the tape earlier in the evening, but she didn’t bother to defend me to an angry cast of people. She walked out of the auditorium and left a freshman to deal with something that was beyond her control. I dealt with the fallout from that for not days, not weeks, not months, but YEARS. I still have nightmares about that. As adults, you are responsible for YOUR responses and for helping to calm the responses of others.”

As I spoke, some students began to look nervously at their hands and what I realized is that they weren’t bored. They weren’t uncomfortable with my story. My story had triggered their stories. I went on.

“Around that time, because of the issue with that teacher, I began lying about things to look better. I was miserable with life. I felt like I had no support and that people weren’t listening when I’d defend myself with the truth so lies were better. Because of that, when I auditioned for something that meant a lot to me, I didn’t make it. When I went to talk to the new sponsor for that activity, it ultimately boiled down to my not being able to be in the activity because a couple of the guys in that activity couldn’t get beyond it and they were short on guys. It wasn’t my lack of talent. It wasn’t that I wasn’t capable. It was that the guys couldn’t get beyond and they couldn’t lose them. The teacher had not only allowed the bullying, he’d promoted it. He didn’t help their growth and he shattered my self-esteem.”

I took a deep breath and sat down at my table in the front of the room.

“Why am I telling you this? Do I need you to feel sorry for me? Absolutely not. I am less than a year from getting my doctorate and I have no idea what path my life would have taken had I not developed the resolve that those experiences gave me. I’m telling you this because every single action you take as an educator COUNTS. Every minute of every day, every smile, every frown, every word, every shrug. It all counts. When you take actions to make your everyday life easier at the cost of hurting a child, you have no idea what the repercussions may be or how long-lasting. I remember those teachers. Let me tell you what else I remember. I remember the fourth grade teacher that wrote to me for 2 years after I moved because I was lonely. I remember the high school communication student teacher that taught me how to be a confident speaker. I remember the band teacher that gave me a chance to learn an instrument when all of the other students had been playing for years. I remember the community college professor that listened to what I wrote and proclaimed it brilliant. I remember the undergraduate professor who still writes me to tell me he’s proud of what I’m doing. I remember the masters professor who comments on my accomplishments with such happiness that I smile to know that she genuinely cares. I remember the doctoral professors who cared enough that in some dark days they cut me a real break when I needed it. I remember ALL those teachers. The good and the bad. What kind of teacher will you be? Whatever kind it is, you will be remembered. But HOW will you be remembered?”

I closed my eyes, shuffled my papers and waited. My students are insightful and this sparked discussion as to the experiences they had and the problems that they’d encountered. Those aren’t mine to share. As we grow up, we forget what it is like to be a child. We forget that people aren’t always nice and those that are supposed to protect us, advocate for us, don’t always do their job. Hopefully, I reminded them and they take it with them. If they don’t, they can always email me and I’ll give them advice.

It’s my job.

I spent some time this evening reflecting and pushing myself out of my comfort zone and letting myself talk to others and be myself again and what I realized is that my struggle is not singular. If I’m having a bad weekend, someone else reading this is struggling as well. I want you to know that even if your heart is breaking, your body is aching, your mind feels lost and you feel fragile…you are not alone and someone cares deeply for you. The things that happen are hard and heart-breaking and stunning, but they are not the end for you.

Continue to grow and love and move forward. I’m going to try to do the same along with you.

Full-fledged geek extraordinaire.

I’m ok with it and I’m not sure why others aren’t, especially when I’ve embraced this aspect of myself. Is it no longer cool to go with the self-acceptance? Dork has such a negative connotation, but there is something to be said for people that are eccentric, quirky or don’t go with the flow. We tend to stand out. Some may say that it’s not in a positive way, but I don’t think that the way I am presents itself in a bad manner.

Last week, I was in class and one of my friends was talking to another cohort about the highlights she’s had all semester. She has spent a lot of time on her outer beauty this semester and I’ve really noticed. She’s beautiful. I don’t swing that way, but if I did, I’d give her a second glance. She’s a precious, sweet, amazing, funny woman and I think that she is special. She’d commented that it took almost the entire semester for this other person in the cohort to notice that she’d had her hair done. I made the comment that I’d noticed and that I’d “been digging on her all semester.”

Not only did she smile, but she came over to me, hugged me tightly and then she and another girl made me an “Oreo sandwich.” Apparently, this is where two amazingly precious African American sweethearts hug a confused Caucasian girl and make her the cream filling. Needless to say, there were some interesting comments about what I said, but I shrug them off. I’m an equal opportunity flirt and this girl deserved what I said. Yes, it took cajones to say it, but it’s part of being quirky: You say things that others might not and it changes the outlook of the group, one way or another. She needed to hear that she is adored and accepted. I met the need and was rewarded by her, kindly.

It’s part of being a friend.

I sing in the car. Loudly. With hand gestures. Cars around me either laugh and point or join along.

I wear my heart on my sleeve and it gets me into trouble more often than not. I get hurt a lot. It’s who I am.

I will eat chicken pot pie 4 days in a row and then convince my twitter friends, they should, too. Don’t lie. You know you ate the pot pie.

I laugh at fart jokes. I tell them in public.

I’m the girl who doesn’t wear the camisole under her shirt and doesn’t realize she’s flashed people until after the fact. It wasn’t that I was trying, I just didn’t realize the shirt went down that far. It didn’t occur to me. I’m glad you enjoyed the show. They ARE beautiful.

I rarely spend more than 5 minutes on my makeup and if my hair takes more than 10, I leave it where it’s at.

I wear sneakers most every day. Screw dress up shoes.

I’m a jeans and t-shirt girl.

My perfume smells like lemons. Not a girlie smell, a CLEAN smell.

I hate to cook and clean.

I literally just played rock, paper, scissors with a presenter while the professor took over her presentation and we got bored.

I make inappropriate jokes. All the time. At the wrong times. In company where it’s wholly inappropriate.

I named my car “Betty” because anything I spend that much time with deserves to have a name.

I make fun of my education. I have to. 22 years of education makes me a nerd, along with being a geek and a dork. Yes, it also makes me smart. I’m proud of it, but not so proud that I have to make you feel stupid. I may be stupid for sitting my butt in desks made for a 7th grader for so long. We can all be happy about our education.

I wear braids, pigtails and buns. I go out in public like this. I think I look cute.

I wear the friendship bracelets my 13-year old sister made me with pride. I’ll wear them until they wear out. If you don’t like them, don’t look at them.

I want people to be my friend. Including my professors and people that may not necessarily want to be friends with someone as free with their words as I am. I have no problem joking and cajoling until people give in and become my friend. I can be charming when I want to be. Not in the typical manner. I will run up to people and invade their personal space by hugging them before they know me. Sorry about that.

I’ve done the time warp.

I’ve made, worn and given out warm fuzzies.

Butterfly and eskimo kisses are my favorite to give and receive.

I spend way too much time on my computer, but I do it because I miss the people I’ve met on here when I don’t.

I text more often than I should.

When I have my sunroof open, I feel invincible.

How are you a proud dork?

It’s hard to say exactly when the “slut ‘stume” craze started or when it will end. Perhaps it started when the whole horror movie thing began, and it makes sense. The most prominent scenes in horror films usually consist of a scantily-clad women being chased by a killer who miraculously catches up by walking at a slow even pace. And why do they include these scenes in horror movies? Because Dudes like it. Women likely picked up on it and ran with it by becoming short skirted nurses, cleavage showing police officers and strangely attractive witches.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m a dude and I like the “entertainment” just as much as anybody else – but seriously, the whole idea make no sense. Women are women, they are going to look good in anything. Plus, ladies shouldn’t do anything at 20 that they’ll be afraid to show their kids pictures of when they’re 30. Just sayin’.

Listening to the radio the other night I heard that Taylor Swift, the ideal woman (yes, I’m being slightly facetious here) and her friend decided in Junior High that instead of doing what all the other girls in her school did on Halloween they would take the alternative Halloween route. Instead of using Halloween as an excuse to act like a porn actress, they would dress completely opposite – as Chewbacca. Because the first thing every guy wants to see Taylor Swift in is a hairy alien Star Wars suit. Oh yeah.

But maybe it’s just another turn society is taking that is the result of peer pressure and lackluster parenting. Either way, if (when!) I have kids with Taylor Swift, they’re going to dress as Chewbacca and LIKE it.

________________________

Brandon Kiser is a teenage web and politics junkie lining in KY. He blogs at The American Kiser (americankiser.blogspot.com) and, at launch, will write for the conservative news site 73wire.com. Like every other cool cat nowadays he tweets using the shocking pseudonym @BrandonKiser .

Often, usually when I’m most fed up with my education and the book-learnin’ aspect of getting a doctorate, I feel the longing inside me for a simpler time. I’ve discussed this repeatedly with my supervisor at my office. I often wish that I could just observe her and soak up her knowledge like a sponge. The woman is a genius.

I feel the same about my practicum supervisor. I see how she works with children and how she draws them to her. She has them complete tasks, like a wizard of achievement testing, and I’m in awe. These people are in their element and they are good at what they do. I know why I need to be in school, but I’d much rather watch these people, full-time, and learn from them.

My education is important to me. When I’m not learning something, I grow moody (no comments from the peanut gallery) and I will start grabbing anything I can get my hands on to learn. If I’m out of school for too long, I start feeling worthless. I have things to work on in regards to how I relate my education to my feelings of self.

But I’d rather just watch and learn hands on. I think I’m just being pulled in too many directions this semester, and several of my classmates have expressed the same. Fall break can’t come soon enough.

Maybe I should have been a shoe cobbler?

I’m serious.

30 is coming soon. So, for those of you that have been wondering, that makes me the grand age of 29. In the South, women don’t tell their age. Luckily, I’m a transplanted Northerner who is attempting to be Southern, but who talks to much to make that happen. I’m also not afraid of aging, which I think is anti-cultural for this area.

Recently, in this blog, my friend, QT, made the comment that I was “What? All of 23 years old?” I grinned and laughed it off. I took it as a compliment, and who wouldn’t, but at the same time, I realize that growing older doesn’t have to scare me.

Part of this comes from the realization that my 20′s never felt typical to me. I’ve already discussed that and I still feel the way I felt then.

30 feels like a gift. The opportunity to be the woman I want to be in a manner that is comfortable, rather than struggling. Instead of finding myself, I’ll be defining myself. I found a white hair on my head the other day and celebrated that I will be having white hair (which will be gorgeous with my fair skin) instead of dishwater gray.

30 is the new 20 is the new…who cares?

I am deciding who I am in the next decade.

I am so excited.

And you get to come with me. The party happens soon! Who wants cake?

One thing that Leon’s article was missing was something that I realized he probably didn’t value the way I did. Rather than asking him to write about it, I decided to write about it myself, thus adding value back to it and giving myself more bang for my blogging buck. What? I’m honest.

Here’s the deal, though. Leon didn’t get this the way I didn’t understand why he almost peed his pants over the Chick-fil-a jokes: I didn’t connect to it on the same level he did. Leon has an unnatural love of Chick-fil-a sandwiches, so the jokes were tear producing for him. Ralphie took some time to talk about serious topics as well as comedy, and one of them was self-image.

His main comment on this was that our culture sucks in that we put all of this emphasis on looks. Women essentially wear makeup for other women and that as long as men are getting laid, they rarely care if you wear it. If they do care, there are bigger issues, etc. You can fill in the jokes there. He made fun of everyone, including himself. But, for 5 minutes of that show, he told every woman in that audience how beautiful they were and you know what? I think we needed to hear it. I know I did.

It doesn’t matter who is telling it, we need to hear it. Yes, I know “you should be able to feel beautiful on your own without someone telling you.” Well, I’m telling you that the idea of that is an idealistic one in this society. Shoulda woulda coulda.

The bottom line is that some people feel amazing about themselves and I think that’s awesome. They have managed to have an ideal sense of self that we all strive for and I truly think that they are amazing for getting there. That sense of self was helped to development by many people who made that person feel secure during development. Not everyone had that security and not everyone has been able to or chose to nurture that sense of self in that way. Most of still keep plugging along trying to hit the caboose of the self-esteem train just for a couple of minutes a year.

Where am I going with this? Hang on, I’m getting there.

So, after my Sunday night Ralphie boost, bless his little heart, I was feeling a little better and it was on to Tuesday night Gender Roles. We did an interesting exercise. It’s something that can be used to help people find their archetypes (symbolic images in folklore and those present in our current subconscious such as heroes, warriors, etc.). For me, while we did the exercise, I was able to embrace part of myself and find a warrior subtype that I connect with: I am an Amazon.

Yep. I’m a tall, big-boned, blobby-bodied, goddess who is stronger than she looks both physically and emotionally. I’m able to be rough and tumble and do what I have to do to protect what’s mine and, at the same time, be emotionally in touch with those around me and be sensitive to their needs. During our active imagination, I realized that I am more independent than I realized and that I’m more ok with what I look like and who I am than I thought I was.

Screw you, Jenny Craig. Screw you, Weight Watchers. I’m an Amazon.*

* And of course, due to cultural norms, I feel the need to defend my newfound Amazonian nature with an “I promise I’m not crazy or screwed up” comment. I’m just empowered. It’s a good feeling. And if you don’t like my Amazonian status, good. Find your own archetype and we can be archetypal enemies. It’ll be like Heroes Quest! Man, I used to love that game. Or Dungeons and Dragons (that one, not so much). Anyway, I’m an Amazon! But not the crazy kind.

Tina Fey's glasses help define her as a professional

Dorothy Parker once said, “Men seldom make passes. At girls who wear glasses.”

As a proud glass-wearing member of society, I’m wondering what gives her the idea that men are dissuaded by a good pair of specs? Frankly, I think they provide character and lend intrigue to a woman. Without them, I feel almost naked. My glasses are one more way for me to give myself a little bit of mystery.

And, let’s be honest, without them I have a bit of a moon face. There is the awful truth. It’s out and now I can’t take it back. Moony face moony face.

With my glasses, I feel smarter, more confident and, in some ways, invincible. I certainly can see, and that helps a lot. I didn’t need glasses until I was 21. I was doing support for a well-known blogging site and was spending quite a bit of time on the computer. Things began to go blurry and I started having some severe headaches. When my eyes were tested, they pronounced me with astigmatism and sent me on my way with a pair of retro shaped shades and a comment to come back yearly. And so I have.

I keep trying to make the pictures of me without glasses work, but frankly, they aren’t me and they just don’t. Being myself is sexy. Being myself is real. Besides, without my glasses, I can’t see what’s happening around me anyway, so it wouldn’t matter if someone was “passing” or not. I’d imagine it’s similar to the concept of beer goggles. I like being able to see. I think that’s sexy.

I allow myself to think about the difference in small spurts. Anything more than that feels overwhelming and since I’m only losing weight in small spurts, that feels manageable. Over the weekend, I was triggered by a PostSecret image that put into words the insecurity of some fears that I have about losing this weight.

So, what if I look better now? What if I’m happier as a big girl? What if all the chubby chasers go away and I have no more admirers? What if the Latino men and gorgeous chocolate brothers are no longer interested when there is no “junk in my trunk” and I’m no longer “cool for a big girl?” What if I get skinny and hate myself? Some days I’m just like many other women: full of insecurity. It’s just one of those days.