Coach

I got to visit with a lot of people back home during my week there, including Coach S., who I hadn’t seen in at least five years. When I knew him, he was a high school counselor and girls’ basketball coach; now he works for the district as a diagnostician. He and I spent over an hour catching up. 

When I was 14, I made the varsity basketball team at the small school I attended and proceeded to have an awful time. I was the only freshman on the team and the older girls were ruthless. School in general was hard that year and, for a combination of reasons, I knew by mid-spring that I would not be returning for sophomore year and would instead be going to the high school for our address. 

I met Coach S. when my parents and I attended a registration session at my new high school in the spring of freshman year. He led the meeting and gave the group a tour of the school. 

As a sophomore, I tried out for basketball and made the C-team. It was a wonderful season and a great first year at the new school. I was used to being abused at basketball; now I had a new group of friends. We had an undefeated season under the guidance of Coach S. 

It wasn’t all cake, though. Athletes did weekly grade checks so coaches always knew what was going on in the classroom. When I was being disruptive and argumentative in my history class, he made me explain the situation to the whole team. He told me he would always side with the teacher. When I had some C’s, my GPA still easily high enough to stay eligible, he was not shy about expressing his disappointment. 

One time I came to practice after having eaten a bunch of gummies, which made me feel sick and I was not giving much effort. Furious, he punted a basketball across the gym. I also got kicked out of practice one time; I can’t remember if it was the same day as the punting. During one of our games, I got subbed out of the game and, annoyed, didn’t high five Coach’s outstretched hand as I passed him to sit on the bench. Because of that, I didn’t go in for the rest of the game. Coach S. demanded excellence and wasn’t going to take my crap. 

The policy was that only freshmen and sophomores could play on C-team; juniors had to make JV or varsity and seniors had to make varsity. So my big goal between March and November was to avoid getting cut. I went to open gyms, shot baskets from designated spots and recorded it in a log during the summer, and did a lot of running. 

Coach S. ran some preseason sessions and mostly freshmen attended, plus another junior and me who had been on his C-team as sophomores. During one of these sessions, he was explaining to the freshmen something about the importance of respect and correct behavior in the basketball program. By then I had shaped up enough that I wasn’t getting in trouble in class nor getting kicked out of practices, so he used me as an example, telling the group that he and I “had a coming to Jesus”. This was followed by some giggles, and he soon realized it was because I’m Jewish. He apologized, but I hadn’t been offended; I thought it was funny. 

Despite my hard work, I was cut from the program in November. I was devastated. I knew Coach S. was who I wanted to talk to about it, so I wrote my name on his sign up sheet and he called me out of class a few days later. I sat there and listened as he described the coaches deliberating about who to keep and who to cut. He told me something to the effect of they didn’t want to keep me on the team just to sit on the bench because they knew I would be unhappy with that. 

It was around this time that I decided I wanted to do stats for the JV team he would be coaching. Firstly, let me tell you who cares about the stats from high school JV girls’ basketball: nobody. Nonetheless, he took me seriously and said I needed to write a proposal of specifically what I wanted to do. I did, and we agreed on my job as JV Statistician. So I sat on his bench all season, probably distracting his players, probably missing at least a quarter of the rebounds, steals, and turnovers I was supposed to be tallying because I wasn’t paying attention, but feeling very much included in the basketball program. 

Growing up can be hard, even with involved and loving parents, which I had and have, and Coach S. is one of several teachers/school employees who made my journey a little better. Now that I’m a teacher myself, I hope to be to at least some of my students who these people were to me.

Broken Finger Blues

It was the 6:30 pm class on a Friday at my CrossFit gym and the warmup called for holding a pair of kettlebells overhead for 90 seconds. Not sure what weight to grab, I asked the women from the previous class what they had used and a consensus of 35 pounds seemed to emerge, so that's what I put in each hand.

The weight was really heavy but I made a deal with myself that I would stick it out for 60 seconds. At the one-minute mark, I dropped the kettle bells from the overhead position to the ground between my feet in one swift motion. The force of plopping them down from so high caused the weights to bounce slightly and my fingers were still holding the two handles as they bumped into each other.

When I woke up the next day with a swollen, purple finger, I decided to go to urgent care and the X-ray reveled a broken finger: the distal phalanx of my left ring finger - the bone closest to the fingernail. My ring finger looked like the ring finger in this picture. (My middle finger was not broken like the hand in this X-ray.)

This is NOT my X-ray; I saw mine but wasn't allowed to take a picture of it!

Image via http://www.aafp.org

I was scheduled to compete in my very first on-site CrossFit competition in early September but now I can't. It was even challenging to drive home from the urgent care site with the splint restricting movement of all three joints of my left ring finger. Now I've been upgraded to a shorter finger guard that just covers the distal and middle phalanges, so I have more use of my hand.

I take my hands so for granted. They wash dishes, pull weeds, hold my dog's leash, and direct my car's steering wheel. At the gym, my hands support me for burpees, pushups, and handstands and grip barbells, pullup bars, and the rowing machine. My hands type my schoolwork, emails, and even this blog post, transferring my ideas to the computer just about as fast as I could speak them. They hold grocery bags, wash my hair, clip my nails, open doors, and put my hair in a ponytail. My hands give high fives and fist bumps to students and have even pulled out a first grader's loose tooth.

I broke my ankle the summer before 2nd grade and was on crutches when school started. By the summer of 1999, I'd been walking for over 6 years and suddenly that skill I took for granted was taken away from me. All these years later, I still remember the excitement of getting to the point in my recovery where I started wearing a walking boot. I'd stroll around school with that boot and just think it was the coolest thing in the world to get to walk.

As the saying goes, you don't know what you have until it's gone. Fortunately, I regained full function of my ankle and am expected to do the same with my finger; it's only a temporary "gone", but it's enough to shake me up and make me appreciate one of the most basic gifts most humans share: our hands.

Santa Claus Is Not Coming to Town

Tonight at CrossFit, a classmate asked if I had plans for Christmas. I had previously told her I wasn't sure if I was going home and when I told her that no, I didn't have plans for Christmas, she invited me to come hang out with her family. I eventually explained that I don't have plans for Christmas because I'm Jewish. She laughed and said the invitation was still good, and I thanked her.

As she was preparing to leave the gym after working out, she came to hug me and said, "If I don't see you before, Merry Christmas... Oh! Not Merry Christmas..." I told her I'm not one of those people who is offended by "Merry Christmas"; why would I be offended when someone is giving me nice wishes?

The thing is, I'm 23 years old now.

Image via http://www.clipartlord.com

Rewind a few years and I'm 5. Having attended a Jewish preschool, kindergarten was perhaps my first exposure to Santa Claus. In afterschool care one day, a classmate announced that his new shoes were from Santa. Like most other five-year-olds, I believed in Santa, but unlike most other five-year-olds, Santa did not come to my house. I was maybe a little jealous but mostly remember feeling baffled that Santa would know what size shoe to bring. I used to go to bed on Christmas Eve praying that Santa would come, but he never did.

My next Santa-related memory was two years later in second grade when we were given an assignment to write a letter to Santa Claus. Now keep in mind that I was still a Jewish kid whom Santa didn't visit, but I was only seven and still unsure about how exactly Santa worked. What was I supposed to say to this magical man who gave presents to all my classmates but never to me? My family was often told that Santa was not a religious symbol; fine, but that didn't change the fact that he came to my classmates' homes and not mine. My mom was volunteering in my class one day when we had computer lab and the teacher had her typing students' dictated letters. When it was my turn, I just came to her and cried.

When dealing with the "December Dilemma", it is so important to realize that children and adults will react differently. As a teenager and now adult, I will do just about anything Christmas-related if it's something my friends or non-Jewish family members invite me to do with them. I'll go to Christmas services at church, bake Christmas cookies, or help decorate a tree. While I don't put a tree or lights in my home, I am happy to celebrate with loved ones. I even dressed up as Santa Claus for Halloween my junior year of college!

Today if I were asked to write a letter to Santa, it would be a goofy activity that I would have lots of fun with. I am secure in my Jewish identity and I know that presents from Santa really come from parents. But as a seven-year-old, writing a letter to Santa was a truly traumatic experience.

From elementary school me to any teacher or caregiver deciding if a holiday project will be fun for all her students, please consider those in your class who do not celebrate Christmas. What is designed to be a lighthearted, innocent activity may be utterly confusing for some students. Christmas is a beautiful holiday and any extra sensitivity is not to take away from that, but rather to protect young children who cannot yet comprehend how to be non-Christian and still enjoy Christmas activities.

Spirals

I took this photo on May 28, 2012. Today is May 28, 2015. How did this photo happen to come to mind today? Facebook. Freakin Facebook. Normally I like to see what "On This Day" has pulled up for me, but not today. Not this photo.

I took this photo on my way to my summer job at a camp in Colorado. What a summer. It was a good experience with its ups and downs but ended sourly. Anger. That's what this photo reminds me of. That job is no more.

You can see my car in the photo. My 1999 Camry. The one that I rolled and totaled about 18 1/2 months after this photo. Terror. That's what this photo reminds me of. That car is no more.

That morning I said goodbye to my dogs Mali and Scout not positive I would ever see Mali again. She was already sick by then, although doing fairly well. She did make it through the summer but died the following spring just after her 13th birthday. Sadness. That's what this photo reminds me of. Mali is no more.

I took this shot because the scenery was breathtaking. That scenery is breathtaking. Who would have thought that seeing this photo three years to the day it was taken would make me feel anything but awe? But that's not how it makes me feel.

When All My Clothes Were Play Clothes

Sitting under the shade structure supervising children on the playground, I think back to when I was that age...

I miss when all my clothes were play clothes, when school clothes and exercise clothes were one and the same. I miss being able to play on the playground at a moment's notice without worrying about whether my hair would stay out of my face, because it was already so short, or whether I had the right shoes on, because I wore athletic shoes every day. I miss the creativity to turn the play equipment into a ship and the thrill of a slide that even the frequent shock of static electricity at the bottom couldn't hamper.

But alas, now I'm an adult. No longer do I run, chase, and climb all throughout the day; now my main exercise comes from my four hour-long classes each week at the gym. Before working out, I change my clothes and shoes and tie my hair into a ponytail. My daytime clothes are different from my workout clothes; I wouldn't be able to go straight from school or work to the gym without changing. I don't play tag, hang upside down, or dig holes with my bare hands on a daily basis anymore.

I miss when all my clothes were play clothes.

A Girl I Used To Know

As I was walking to work this afternoon with my music on shuffle, a song came on that reminded me of a girl I used to know: Message In A Bottle by The Police; she loved that song. She was an 8th grader and had that song on her pink iPod Mini. Worn out after being at school nearly eight hours, and sometimes up to ten, she'd listen to her music while lying on the cement and resting her head on her backpack until she saw her dad in the blue minivan or her mom in the old white Camry pull into the parking lot.

She was tall and thin, even lanky. Within inches of six feet, her height alone might suggest a full grown woman but her narrow frame would give her away as the young teen she was. She often wore printless cotton sweatshirts and jeans during the cold weather and Bermuda shorts with a t-shirt in the early fall and spring. She usually wore her short auburn hair down and clipped to the side but pulled it back into a half ponytail for basketball.

She was so proud to have made the JV basketball team as just an 8th grader, and looking back, I, too, am so proud of her. Her school spanned grades six through twelve and, while still part of the middle school, eighth graders had the opportunity to try out for high school sports teams. She had played basketball in grades three, four, and five, but her main sport had always been soccer. She had signed up to play basketball the previous year as a seventh grader but had changed her mind at the last minute. She only ended up at tryouts this year because her friend was going. She had her PE locker in the older east gym but practices were usually in the nicer west gym, so she would change into her practice uniform after school and then strut over to the other gym, basketball shoes still untied; she thought she was pretty spiffy.

She was sometimes intimidated by new things but also adventurous and quite competitive. At the beginning of the school year, her class took a multi-night trip to a camp a few hours away. While other students enjoyed activities around the property, she signed up to climb a mountain. On the morning of the trip, she woke up before dawn and hopped into a van with a handful of other students and some adults to get to the trailhead. The trail started innocently enough but by the end the group was climbing nearly straight up as they both walked and bouldered up the mountain. Many hours into this all-day trip, the sky grew dark and lightning started to strike. This girl  stayed tough, though, and kept up with the group as they continued to ascend despite the scary weather. They eventually came back down and huddled under a roof in the pouring rain to wait to be picked up.

On the same trip, the students spent some time with their advisories, groups of about ten students assigned to a lead teacher who would serve as the students' advocate and the families' main school contact for the year. Amongst a myriad of group games and trust exercises was blob tag, a version of tag in which each person who is tagged becomes part of the blob that must stay connected while chasing other players. I remember that game mostly because her advisor snapped a great photo during it which ended up in her school yearbook, and in the short color section, no less. I sure love that photo of her, captioned "running for her life". In it, she narrowly escapes the blob of at least three other kids. I think it serves as a bit of a metaphor for her; while she was often bullied and feared the unknown, she also made excellent grades, played on the JV basketball team while still a middle schooler, participated in student government, attended weekly religious school, and was a Cadette Girl Scout. In short, she never stopped running forward with her life.

I sure enjoyed knowing this girl back then. She was a fun kid, both goofy and studious, opinionated and shy. While I haven't seen this 8th grader in nearly a decade now, it made me happy to remember her today with a song she used to listen to.

Frozen Yogurt, Memories, and Change

I'm visiting home for a little while and wanted to meet up with a friend. She suggested a frozen yogurt place near our high school. I hadn't heard of it but agreed to meet her there.

We graduated from high school in 2010. Actually, my friend went to a different school for senior year but we both spent several years at our district high school. We went there from 2007-2010 and 2006-2009, respectively. Not all that long ago, right?

I used my phone before I left to see more specifically where the frozen yogurt shop was and as I drove into the shopping center, I spotted it right away.

"This used to be a TCBY, right?" I asked my friend when we were both in the shop.
"No" she reminded me, "it was a Baskin Robbins."
"Oh yeah, remember we used to come here for free scoop day after school?"
"Yeah" she responded and we both smiled.

I passed by one side of the high school on my drive over and immediately noticed that one of the parking lots was completely dirt. I mentioned it to my friend.

"I used to park there on Flex Days!" I exclaimed. I usually parked in that lot only once a week because, due to the different schedule, my first class of the day was on that end of the campus.

"Oh gosh, Flex Days!" said my friend. We recalled how easily we used to know the schedule each day, down to the exact minute each class was supposed to begin and end, and now it was so far from our minds.

"You know they're building a Walmart grocery store where the bookstore used to be?" my friend asked, referring to a space near where we were eating our frozen yogurt.

"Ya, I heard," I responded. I later realized that it has been probably about ten years since that space was a bookstore. It was most recently a Walgreens, until Walgreens moved to a new space just across the street, but she referred to it as where the bookstore used to be and I knew just what she was talking about.

A different friend told me earlier in the summer that she is working at a pet shop near my high school. I had a faint memory of that being there, but I mostly remember an Italian ice shop in the same row of shops. It moved to a new location while I was in high school.

As I drove home, I thought about all the changes that had happened in the area around my high school in just the past few years. In the shopping center where the Walmart is to be built, I noticed the smoothie shop where my friend used to work was no longer there. The school parking lot is being redone, the bookstore became a Walgreens which will soon be a Walmart, the Italian ice shop has long ago moved locations, and the Baskin Robbins went out of business and was replaced by a frozen yogurt shop where I had just spent the last hour and a half catching up with my friend.

Changes aren't just happening to the stores around my high school. In a few weeks I will be a college graduate and we just put down a deposit for a townhouse for me, my first time not living either at home or on campus. As the saying goes, the only constant in life is change, but I know that I have family and friends who will always stick around.

My "Conversion"

Image via http://ordercertificates.com

I was born to a Jewish father and a non-Jewish mother, both of whom were committed to raising their children Jewish. Shortly after I was born, I had a naming ceremony officiated by the rabbi of the congregation of which my parents were members. We were active in the temple and celebrated Shabbat and other Jewish holidays. We went to the monthly family Shabbat service and dinner and my mom was an active volunteer. My brother and I attended religious school through tenth grade and celebrated Bar Mitzvah and Bat Mitzvah at 13. We went to a Jewish day school for four years and two years, respectively. We participated in youth group and went to Jewish summer camp. In summary, we were an involved Reform Jewish family.

When I was about four and my brother was about one, my mother converted to Judaism. Jewish conversions involve immersion in a special pool of water called a mikvah. My mother entered the water under the supervision of our Reform rabbi and, in the eyes of the Reform community of which we were a part, this was a valid conversion and my mother was now a Jew.

The strange part about the conversion was that my brother and I also entered the mikvah and were "converted". In the Orthodox movement, one is considered Jewish if he or she is born to a Jewish mother or if he is she converts under the guidance of an Orthodox rabbi. However, the Reform movement identifies people as Jewish if their mother or father (or both) is Jewish and they are raised as Jews, or if they convert to Judaism.

I believe it wasn't until I was a teenager and found our conversion certificates that I realized my brother and I had also participated in the conversion. Apparently it was thought otherwise, but in reality the conversion of my brother and me did absolutely nothing to change our status as Jews. In the eyes of the Reform movement, we were born Jewish because of our Jewish father, and according to the Orthodox movement, we are still not Jewish because the conversion was done by a Reform rabbi. I continue to be baffled that I went through a conversion even though, according to the Reform movement in which we were primarily raised, my brother and I have been Jewish since birth.

Piece by Piece

She used to be an energetic 10-month-old, racing around the house and playing chase in the backyard. She loved walks and chew toys and could catch almost anything thrown her way, from a ball to a kernel of food.

When she was a few years old, she had her top front teeth surgically removed due to infection. That ended the days of fetch in the yard because she could no longer effectively pick up and hold toys in her mouth. My fetch buddy was gone.

I used to take her with her brother on walks around the neighborhood at night. By the time she was eight or so, I was carrying two leashes and a flashlight, which I shined out ahead of her.

Some more years passed. She couldn't walk at night at all anymore, even with the aid of a flashlight. Her canine brother and I walked alone on our usual route. The third member of our walking trio was gone.

She used to run around the dog park, playing happily with the other dogs. As the years wore on, she lost interest in the dog park and eventually the dog park became downright scary because of her failing vision. My dog park pal was gone.

She used to sleep in my room every night, either on my bed or nearby on the floor. Just before her twelfth birthday, she was diagnosed with Cushing's, a condition that, among other symptoms, made her always hot and panting. She was more comfortable sleeping on the cool tile near the kitchen at night. My roommate was gone.

In the weeks and days before her death, Mali was not the dog I had originally fallen in love with. Pieces of her were taken from us each year. In her last weeks and days, she was alive, but she couldn't play fetch, go to the dog park, join us on long walks, or catch things in the air. She didn't sleep in my room anymore and couldn't jump onto the couch or bed. She preferred sleeping most of the day over playing or looking out the window for strangers and cats like she used to. What died that day in March 2013 was not all of Mali, because much of her was already long gone.

Scout, now about 8 years old, had a bad foot when we adopted him at just under a year old. After a surgical procedure a few months after his adoption, his foot became much less painful and he has lived a relatively normal life. Lately though, he can no longer go for walks on the pavement. He can only walk on the dirt in the open space, and I can't safely walk in the open space at night. After seven years of nighttime walks around the neighborhood, my nighttime walking buddy is gone.

Except in the case of sudden death such as a heart attack or car accident, we all go through this process. We're still alive, but we can do fewer and fewer of the things we once loved. We resemble our younger selves less and less. Pieces of our lives are taken from us and our friends and family one by one, until someday the very last piece is gone and we die. It's important that we appreciate every moment we are given, whether walking with our dogs or even just the ability to stand unsupported, because someday these seemingly mundane activities might be taken away forever.

Sarah's Summer Summary

Well, it's been a long, mostly good summer. I worked at JCC day camp for the first time since I was 17, made good money, and got to work alongside some new people as well as some I have known since I was a kid. I joined a new gym where I learned some new exercises and a new style of strength training program and met a bunch of awesome people. I spent a lot of time with friends playing games, going out to eat, seeing movies, and just hanging out and also spent a lot of time with my family, including our sweet dog Scout. I spent a weekend enjoying the outdoors at Girl Scout Camp with my mom and many other wonderful people. I visited my friend's classroom multiple times both in May and August and continued to get a feel for what it's really like to be a teacher. It's been real; back to my "school life" in the morning!

Grandpa Jux and the Singing Michigan Pen

Julius, whom everyone called Jux, was my dad's mom's dad, my great-grandfather. I never met him but have been told that he was a funny, funny guy and that he and I would have gotten along well. Grandpa Jux loved his family and took my dad and his brothers on special one-on-one outings when they were kids. Also, he was a huge fan of his alma mater, University of Michigan.

I was in town visiting my grandparents one time when I was about fifteen and my grandma had recently received a bunch of pens from a friend. They came in different colors representing various colleges and would play the college's fight song when the top was pushed. She planned to gift them to friends who attended the colleges.

My grandma, Jux's daughter, goes to visit his grave on his birthday and on the anniversary of his death. I don't remember which one, but one of those days fell during my visit and I decided to tag along. Before leaving, I had an idea: We should take a Michigan pen to Grandpa Jux's grave! My grandma thought it was a great idea and off we went, pen in tow.

During our visit at the grave, we pushed the top and played the Michigan fight song for Grandpa Jux. I then noticed the holder at the top of the grave designed for flowers. I pushed the button and quickly set the pen into the holder, letting the song play. My grandma and I both got a kick out of that! She says she now takes a Michigan pen with her every time she visits her father.

Kansas is my family's main men's basketball team. But they're out of the tournament and so are both teams from my home state. Tonight, it's Michigan versus Louisville. I think you can guess who I'll be rooting for! Grandpa Jux would be very proud of his school!

My Favorite Teachers

This is a paper I recently wrote for a class.

When I am a teacher, I would like to be a combination of some of the awesome teachers and coaches I had as a K-12 student. I was fortunate enough to have enough quality teachers that it would be difficult to choose just one to write about. When I graduate in May 2015 with a degree in elementary education, I will be certified to teach elementary and middle school, or kindergarten through eighth grade. I have a lot of experience with elementary-aged children and am comfortable with them, but I plan to gain experience working with middle school students to better decide if I would like to work with them in my career. So for now, I just know I will teach elementary or middle school.

All of my favorite teachers had a respectable attitude. None demanded respect; students simply respected them because of the aura they gave off. There is a big difference between demanding respect and just being someone who is naturally respected. These exemplary teachers and coaches came across as respectable by having realistic but high expectations for all students and being strict in a fun, motivating way. They did not allow disruptions to distract from teaching or coaching. They hovered on the borderline of scary; I knew that they were caring and eager to help, but they were not to be tested and their cheerful demeanors were not to be taken for granted.

Their teaching abilities were unmatched. They were smart, sometimes brilliant, but able to explain concepts in age- and ability-appropriate terms. Their high expectations kept everyone motivated and working hard.

I really did not notice the appearance of these favorite teachers, at least not consciously. This must mean that they did not wear anything weird enough to catch my attention. They dressed professionally and did not wear flashy styles or other attention-grabbing outfits. They were there to teach or coach, not to show off their fashion sense.

I learned a lot of subject matter from my teachers, but besides my parents, my best teachers and coaches were probably the ones from whom I learned the most life lessons. I was always one of the brighter kids in elementary school but at some point I started telling myself I was stupid. Looking back, I think this was at least partially due to being bullied because I was smart. I was talking to my eleventh grade physics teacher about this outside of class time and she responded by saying that I could either be dumb and be teased or be smart and be teased. She implied that I might as well be smart if I might be teased either way. She saw right through my “stupid” act to the capable student I was and pushed me to excel, and I have always remembered that.

Another act of wisdom was from a basketball coach. During my high school years, the girls’ basketball team at my school was among the best in New Mexico. Still, I had hopes of making varsity, but was cut from the program at tryouts my junior year. I had played on the C-team as a sophomore and had worked during the summer and all fall to be ready for the tryouts, so I was devastated. I decided to talk to my former C-team coach who would be coaching JV that season. After assuring me that cutting me from the team was an extremely difficult decision, he arranged for me to be a sort of team manager, sitting on the bench at all the JV games, keeping stats on a little clipboard. It occurred to me sometime later that he did not need me there; nobody cares about the stats of the JV team, and I had lousy accuracy anyway because I was often distracted. He had me be there because he knew how upset I was over not being allowed to play that year and he made an effort to keep me “part of the team”.

My third and final example of wisdom as an intangible comes from second grade. I was a good writer from a young age, and my second grade teacher noticed this. She told me about a citywide writing contest and gave me the information to enter. I not only entered, but won first place for my age group. My family and I were invited to an awards banquet for the winning writers and my teacher attended. Her job did not require her to encourage me to enter a writing contest, much less show up at an evening banquet to support me, but she did. Placing first in that contest gave me an abundance of confidence in my writing abilities. Thirteen years later, I still have the first place ribbon in my bedroom at my parents’ house.

These instructors had teaching styles were engaging and unpredictable. My physics teacher had us rolling down handicapped ramps on chairs with wheels, running up a flight of stairs as part of a lab calculating power, and dropping objects off a ledge into the courtyard of the school. My basketball coach in tenth grade let us practice making cuts in the gym by playing ultimate Frisbee sometimes during afterschool practices and we bonded as a team when he had us play Frisbee golf around the high school campus just for fun. I hope to also be an exciting, enthusiastic teacher.

Some teachers in my years of school tried to act like counselors and solve everyone’s problems. My favorite teachers were generally not among them. These exemplary teachers cared deeply for their students but did not attempt to intertwine themselves with the teenage gossip that surrounded them. Their number one priority was the education of their students and they expected class time to be used for learning. If approached outside of class time, however, they were happy to interact with students on a more informal basis and even help with personal problems when appropriate. My favorite teachers were approachable but strict, brilliant and engaging, demanding and kind, and I hope to exhibit many of these traits in my future career as a teacher.

High Holy Day Memories

Sitting in Erev Rosh Hashanah services tonight, I started thinking about what I missed about being home this time of year and realized I have quite a few memories related to the High Holy Days. Some are funny… well, actually, most are funny! Without further adieu, I present to you my High Holy Day memories:

• my little brother Greg rushing out of the sanctuary headed for the oneg, weaving his four-foot self in and out of the adults slowly working their way out of the room as my mom tries desperately to get him to stand in line and wait like everyone else
• my dad playing football with all the kids at second day services in the mountains while the service is still in progress and getting reprimanded on the microphone by the rabbi for being too loud
• my mom being invited to read the same passage every year for Yom Kippur morning services; her sitting on the bimah while we waved at her from the congregation; her not waving back but smiling at us; my dad explaining that she cannot wave at us during the service while she is on the bimah
• Greg and I blowing our shofars all over the house for weeks before the High Holy Days
• leaning my head on my mom's shoulder during the never-ending sermon
• whispering with my dad during services and getting a glare from my mom
• my dad offering me food seemingly every five minutes on Yom Kippur when it was already difficult for me to fast as a teenager 
• building forts in the woods with the other kids during second day services in the mountains
• taking breaks from services to hang out and chat in the lounge
• being bewildered by the number of extra chairs set up that extend all the way to the back of the social hall
• being rushed to school after morning services; changing from temple clothes to school clothes in the car
• smiling at my mom every time a certain line was read that she doesn't like

Mali at 12

Last month, our nearly 12-year-old dog Mali was diagnosed with Cushing's Disease. We learned that it is a fairly common condition in small older dogs and is caused by a tumor growing in the brain. This was incredibly scary news, but we also learned that with proper treatment, Mali can live about three more years. Realizing that Mali is going to die all too soon is really my first experience with death as an adult. I have heard it said that mortality gives us perspective in life; we appreciate every moment because we know it won't last forever.

It was just an average day in November 2000, and my brother Greg and I were in the mini van with our dad when we stopped at Bill's Lock and Key to get a key made. I was eight and Greg had just turned six. We walked in with our dad and as he approached the counter, a 10-month-old puppy came running out to greet us. Greg and I immediately sat down on the floor and began to play with her.

My dad got the key made and then shifted his attention to the dog. We were told she belonged to the key shop owner's daughter, Colleen, who was working that day. Colleen saw how happy Greg and I were with the dog, and before he knew it, my dad was being asked if we would like to be the dog's new owners. Colleen told us that she was moving into a new living space and would not be able to keep the dog. For the two or so years prior, our family had not had a dog. A day later, after getting Mom's approval, we went back to the key shop and took Mali home.

After learning more about Mali's history, we realized she was meant to be our dog. At the time, my grandparents had a springer spaniel named Molly. Not only did our new dog have the same name, but she was a beagle/springer mix. We also learned that her estimated birthday was either my birthday or the day after.

Mali's life started out rough. She was found in the middle of a road at just a few weeks old. The person who found Mali was not able to keep her, so she gave Mali to Colleen. Despite her rough start, Mali was an energetic, cuddly little girl.

On Mali's first night at our house, my parents were going out on a date, so Greg and I had a babysitter. I don't remember why, but for some reason the babysitter and I both thought Mali was going to throw up. The babysitter suggested we put Mali outside so there would be no clean up, but I insisted on keeping her inside with us and promised I would clean up if she threw up. Well, Mali did throw up, and I refused to clean it! Mali slept in a basket bed on her first night, but on her second night, she got out of the bed and came to see us. Thus, she began sleeping in a crate with the door closed for several years, until it was determined that she would be allowed to sleep in my room with me.

When Mali was young, she had a dog toy soccer ball, and I was an avid soccer player. I used to dribble the toy ball around the yard and Mali would chase me and nip at the ball, trying to steal it. I would let her have it sometimes, and she would put it in her mouth and run around the yard while I chased her. I even took a photo of Mali with the soccer ball as if it was her team picture. She also had a toy that I believe came from my grandma called a "Wiggly Giggly". It was a ball that rolled around and made a bunch of noise. Mali and I loved to play with it.

At Mali's dinnertime, I used to take her bowl of food out into the backyard and throw it to her, one piece at a time. Back then Mali had great vision and caught most of the pieces in the air. She found the ones she missed on the ground and left prints of saliva on the deck from picking them up.

When Mali was just a couple years old, I was visiting my grandparents in Kansas City when my mom told me that Mali was having surgery to remove her four top front teeth. They had become rotten. This barely affected her at first except that, while relaxing, her tongue would stick out of the front of her mouth because there were no teeth to hold it back.

One summer Greg and I built a clubhouse in the backyard, and we wanted more than anything for Mali to be part of it. She had other plans. We tried to coax her to sit with us and hang out, but she was much more interested in running around the rest of the yard. Greg and I also learned how to climb the tree around this time, and we begged our mom to let Mali come up into the tree with us. Needless to say, this request was denied.

When Mali was two, she joined us on a family road trip to visit our grandparents in Kansas City. We stayed there two weeks, and among other things, Mali was there for the wedding I planned at age ten for two of my teddy bears.

When Mali was about four, my friend Katie and her mom introduced me to the dog park, and we started taking Mali. My dad would take Greg and Mali and me, and we would throw the football around while Mali socialized. When I was fifteen and had just gotten my provisional license, the first place I drove was with Mali to the dog park.

In 2006, a big change happened for Mali; she was no longer the only dog in the house. We had been talking about getting a second dog for awhile, both to keep Mali company and because Greg and I fought over who got to play with Mali. We welcomed Scout into our home, a young adoptee from Animal Humane. When I first saw Scout and Mali together in the backyard, I cried because I thought this was so terrible for Mali. Although Scout and Mali have their moments, I think she has come to love him. Additionally, his youth has kept her active.

All through high school, Mali was my nap buddy. I was an exhausted teenager who often came home after school and took Mali with me to "nap time". Mali had no problem passing out with me for a couple hours, and I enjoyed her company.

In August 2010, I started college three hours from home, and probably the hardest part was leaving my dogs behind. With my human family, I could communicate via phone and internet, and they knew where I was and what I was doing. I had no way of telling my dogs where I was or when I would be back. In February of my freshman year, my mom and Mali drove down to visit me. Mali was still healthy at this point, except for her eyesight which has been declining since she was only about five. We loved having her, but I don't think she had much fun, as it is hard for a sight-impaired dog to travel somewhere she has never been. Still, I am happy that she has seen where I go to school.

This past summer, Mali stopped jumping onto my bed. This, along with other seemingly unrelated symptoms, was what led the vet to the Cushing's diagnosis. Thanks to her treatments, I am thrilled that she can now jump onto my bed, hesitantly but with strong legs.

Mali is absolutely my childhood dog. I took her to show-and-tell in fourth grade, and next month, I will turn 20 and she will turn 12. She was the first dog I was allowed to take for walks all by myself, the first dog to get to sleep in my room at night, and the first dog to ride in the car with me while I drove. There is no telling what the next few years will bring for her, but I know that she has lived a long, happy life, and has meant more to me than I could express.