As I maneuvered my way through several years of public school teaching, this is the title I chose for what I saw as a central theme of my professional life.
My best teaching took place in the hallway: I met students there for the first time, hauled them out for some one-on-one counsel, waited there during tournaments for debate rounds to end and judgments to be rendered, eavesdropped through paper thin motel room walls during room check, delivered harrowing reprimands as needed.
In the hallway I plead with more than one gifted debater--usually in the early stages of brilliant careers--not to quit. It didn't always work, and I didn't always try. But think Tom Hanks telling Geena Davis "it's the hard that makes it great" in A League of Their Own, except it wasn't war time, I can't play baseball, and my tactics tended to run at a 50/50 success rate.
When I would request (ok, demand) an audience of one with a student in the hallway who was a) tap-dancing on my last nerve b) jacking up the stellar academic climate always fostered in my classroom (yep...always), or c) was obviously not getting "it" done (whatever "it" was on that particular day), 9 times of 10, the conference uncovered an unmet need or a brokenness somewhere in that kiddo's life that was manifesting itself in any or all of the aforementioned criteria for a hallway chat. In the hallway I learned that kids are rarely a**holes just to be a**holes. Something triggered douchebaggery, and once I found the trigger and they knew I knew, they were douchebags no more (at least not to me). And sometimes, if I was really lucky, I could find a way to somehow meet the need or mend the brokenness--even if just for a day. Of course, some kids really are just a**holes. Bless them. I preferred to assume the former until they proved me wrong.
In the hallway, I tried to convince a sophomore in my introductory speech class (which I lovingly and ironically dubbed "penitentiary prep," a descriptor I stole from my mentor) after another defiant day wherein he pledged, once again, to kick someone's ass, that there are people who live entire lives without physically fighting. He didn't believe me. That reality wasn't his and he was sure it never would be. The following year, when he dropped a backpack in the commons of another school in town and the backpack housed a loaded gun that fired, I realized our chat was futile indeed. But I still believe he was among the 9 of 10. He was just so badly broken, I'm not sure the pieces will ever be mended.
This is just a glimpse.
The tales I've stored up these past couple decades I always promised myself to immortalize in writing. So, at the completion of my time at the helm of a terrific speech and debate program, I tiptoed into the blogosphere. What I found was that life kept happening, and the catalogue of old stories was quickly being eclipsed by new ones. And thank God for that.
Interestingly enough, this forum has become my own little virtual hallway, complete with the same attempt at resolution, (sometimes) reprimand, laughter, tears and understanding I often discovered outside my classroom door.
My gratitude for conversations in the hallway past and present is without end.
Thanks for joining the conversation.
An intense hallway moment during which I conveyed to poor Dakota (who proceeded to qualify to nationals twice) that being late to the final round of Congress was unacceptable. I am told that my eyes--when pointing out room for improvement in my debaters--could be quite terrifying. What can I say? They worked...most of the time ;).
Recreating Dakota's ass-chewing his senior year. He now serves in the Navy.
My first year as head coach. This debate room had one electrical outlet, no air conditioning, and the walls bordering the hall did not extend all the way to the ceiling. My kids learned to debate over the roar of the lunch traffic. Needless to say, our hallway chats lacked the requisite privacy. But that didn't stop me.
In 2008, the national tournament was in Vegas. That's right, a dozen teenagers and me on the strip. In this wedding chapel in Caesar's Palace, I "married" Cassidy Miller (her dad was my predecessor at Parkview). She placed 8th in the nation in Oratory that week. We remain close friends...but the marriage didn't last ;).
When the only time to see your babies is at tournaments, you take them with you. My school kids treated my kids like royalty.
Nationals in snoozy Wichita. It can be a long week, and I apparently felt the need to rest up at dinner.
John Thornton was the funniest and weirdest genius I've ever met. He often snuck up behind me as a character of his own creation. I'm on the phone here and he is just being John...but not.
My corner of the universe from 2006 until I left. We moved into this renovated chemistry lab in '06 and finally had more than one computer and more than one electrical outlet. We also had air conditioning. It was nice to teach without sweating through my drawers at least four months out of the school year.
Nationals in 2006 in Dallas. This was the end of the perfect season: we won every tournament that school year. The guy holding the trophy is now the head debate coach at Texas Tech. Alongside him are now lawyers, doctors, altruists, moms, dads. All are lifelong friends of mine.
The largest senior class of my career. Another heartbreaking goodbye, but worth it to spend four years with these gems.
Zack Perry (left) was my only four-time national qualifier and double-state champ. He is here with his Duet partner, Beav, in 2011. He assisted the squad after he graduated. Two great guys.
My last real Nationals. We are in Birmingham. In 2009, Nationals were also in B'ham and my minivan collided with a City Bus. No one died, I got sued, and I spent the rest of my career more afraid than I had been before. I had glimpsed into how one awful moment can change everything. Looking back, it was probably the beginning of my end. But on this night, all that melted away. What a redemptive week this trip to Alabama turned out to be.
More pics to come...does my heart good to see these smiling faces again...
