“It is not the mountain we conquer, but ourselves.” – Sir Edmund Hillary
It has been a quiet two days for me in Kentucky. It has been just me and little Dorian flopping around. Dorian has been meeping for food and while we play. He’s been really cuddly at night.
Rajiv (my partner) has been away in Texas, so the past two days of my vacation have been a vacation with myself. It’s been nice to run again, do yoga again, and practice henna. And now, here I am writing again, reconnecting with my thoughts.
I know that in two months time, I will be living in a new city, and likely a new state. I will be living with a roommate who I happen to be in love with. I try to imagine what I will do for work. I try to imagine the little details, like the designs on the curtains, the couches I’ll sit on, the plants I’ll water.
I am feeling at the same time two equally strong emotions that are almost on opposite ends of the spectrum. I am feeling loss, despair, and anxiety as I leave the home I have created for myself. Conversely, I am feeling jubilance, anticipation, and optimism about leaving said home. I feel like a bird sitting at my threshold of my nest wondering… if I try to jump, will I fly?
When I first graduated Clemson University, I was so ashamed that I never returned the call from the school district that reached out for an interview. I beat myself up when I decided instead to again tie an apron full of straws around my waist. I felt like I had given up. I was exactly where I started before I even graduated high school, waiting tables. I got the degrees, which I was happy about. But my thought was that I could never be a good teacher. The longer I wore that apron, the further my shoulders curled forward, eyes down, disappearing in front of my own eyes.
I felt so alone, like I had no safe haven to curl into.
I was trying to recover from some deep pain in my heart. I was living through flashbacks and coping mechanisms and denial. I was trying to learn at last what normal looked like. I yearned to know what peace looked like.
I think this feeling may relate to some of the students I work with. Here I am, beginning a new path, but what does it mean? What comes next? Will I fly if I jump?
The reality is when I walked into Cherokee Creek for the first time, I was in disbelief that I had finally found the courage to apply. I was going to learn how to stand up for myself, dam*-it! I was going to learn how to lead others. I wanted to walk out of work on my last day with my back finally held straight, my head high, and with warmth still in my eyes.
In the beginning, I always took work home with me. I read parenting articles before I fell asleep. I spent entire car-rides home wracking my brain, trying to think of how to help these guys. I slowly earned their respect, and I slowly learned how to say, “No.” I learned how to set boundaries, to not get taken advantage of, to stand up (for/and) against things that were (not) pointing towards kindness. If I looked violence in the eye, I finally learned how to roar, how to square up, how to show up if no one else could. I learned how to treat myself as I observed how I treated others.
I think one of my favorite things about working with these guys is that I get to show them how love acts. I have done my very best to model authoritative parenting, and I have tried to show these guys that they can experience secure attachment with others. I have loved learning about these guys-- that one kid is obsessed with snakes; he thinks they’re so cool. Another student has finally stopped defiantly wearing his hat indoors. I can tell when one kid is lying if I tell him to look me in my eyes. I know one kid absolutely loves G-2 pens, carries a case of them with him everywhere. I am so full of joy with these guys, helping them remember how to be happy. I get paid to walk into work and do my best to be family to these guys.
I cannot believe the amount of growth I have gotten the gift of receiving during my time at this school. My heart aches when I think of leaving behind these people that I love so much, these growing, confused, silly, angry, reaching young men who have become like young brothers along the way. I have already gotten choked up thinking about saying goodbye to these family members from other families.
I want the students I work with to know that they have been loved. They have been accepted. They are okay just the way they are. I hope that they have learned as they have accepted themselves, to love themselves, and as a result, others. I hope at least one guy has learned to turn to running, painting, animals, the outdoors, anything, “real,” and, “true,” to find themselves again. I know that these are things they have taught me.
And, now: I am not afraid to teach anymore. I am not afraid to stand up for myself anymore. I stand with my back straight. I look people in the eyes. I love myself, so I love others.
I walked into the doors of that school broken, hurting, fearful, and hopeful. I leave the doors full of love, with a warrior’s spirit, and I leave them propped open for the person behind me.
I have known suffering in the past. I venture to say that I am mostly healed, always healing. I am ready to teach because I am ready to learn. If I were to take part in their traditional graduation ceremony, I would leave my graduation rock in the way of the Warrior. I would leave these words for the community:
It may seem like things will never get better, that they can’t. You may feel almost no self-worth. You may be angry, you may hate that life has had to be this way for you. I leave HOPE for you. You are worthy. You are capable. You can and you will! You can and you will! Keep your eyes on the future you want. Live the questions, and one day, you will discover that you have slowly lived your way into the answer.
