Essay

New and Good…

~ msjriegs ~ 1 Comment

A few months ago, my building principal asked me to be the keynote speaker at SUMMIT23 for PA Educational Leaders. I was honored, and terrified. What in the world would a high school teacher and, let’s face it, one-time author have to say to a banquet room of hundreds of administrators? After some glasses of wine and a lot of deleting, here’s what I came up with.

August 6, 2023

The Alloy Hotel

King of Prussia, PA

            Thank you so much. You know, when I told my 12th grade counter-part and work-wife, Rachel, that I was asked to speak at this conference, she said, “Uh huh. Right, right. So, hundreds of administrators, correct?” I said, “mmm hmm, yeah.” And she said, “So basically every teacher’s worst nightmare. You said yes to every teacher’s worst nightmare…

But what an honor, right?”

Don’t worry about me though… I’m going to work out a sweet little deal with Jonathan Bauer for this to cover all of my evaluations for the remainder of my career. I’m sure he’ll jump right on board.

I thought to start, I’d go back in time and read the very first piece I ever had published. That 2015 publication came along much later in life than my undergrad-self expected… about two decades later, to be exact—when my only child was in the midst of college, when I had said goodbye to a particularly endearing, particularly brilliant graduating class, when I had gone back to school, again, for the MFA…  when I thought that maybe, just maybe, I had peaked in my career.

This is eight years ago. It’s called “The Meantime.”

Over two-thousand students have walked across my classroom threshold. I have counseled and consoled as they’ve stressed over research papers and graduation projects, evaluated poignant and disastrous essays, and conferenced with them regarding the beauty of a clear, eloquent sentence. But none of this was supposed to happen. Those students were not on my trajectory. They weren’t a part of my plan.

I was supposed to be a college professor and publish great poetry that scholars and academics would clamor to read. I was supposed to travel to writing conferences, rub elbows with Mary Ruefle, Phillip Levine, and Rita Dove, and wear clothes hand-woven by hippies in island communes. This was the plan.

But it didn’t happen.

Right before a psychology exam my sophomore year of college, I stared at a pregnancy test as a little blank window turned to the most dreadful, the most perfect little plus sign I had ever seen. The irony of my situation didn’t go unnoticed. There I was, studying the greatest thinkers of the women’s movement, supporting and promoting women’s reproductive rights, examining the confines of the patriarchy—and choosing to keep my baby. I was in love, after all. Very, very in love. I was also an idealist. What’s the big deal? We’ll stagger our classes. We can still make it.

We had our baby. I traded my courses in Medieval Women’s Literature, Shakespeare, and the Modernists for childbirth, breastfeeding, and parenting classes. We married a few months later and played house. He graduated on time and made it; I settled. I needed to find something to stay afloat and succeed. I needed something in the meantime.

After attaining my Bachelors in English Literature, I took a job at Upper Merion Area High School as a writing instructor, but I wasn’t yet certified to be a classroom teacher. Students composed thematic essays in their English classes, and then we conferenced on a range of skills from avoiding the hated run-on sentence to finessing the art of voice and tone. Much to my surprise, and contrary to even my own high school memories, teenagers were fun, and odd, and needy—a pubescent mishmash of potential, bright-eyed and acne-scarred. I was compelled. I’ll teach high school in the meantime. Just long enough to save some money for my graduate degrees.  

            Seeking some sort of regimen to balance my ad-hoc high school career and toddler play dates, I made my way to Cabrini College and enrolled in secondary certification classes. I immersed myself in the coursework. If, in the meantime, I was going to be a public school teacher, I might as well be an awesome one. I could do it all—investigate classroom management and evaluation practices and cuddle up at night reading Goodnight Moon; observe master teachers in the most struggling and difficult classrooms and play the supportive company wife to my husband and his growing team of colleagues; student teach, with surprising ease and success, and make it home in time for sidewalk chalk and backyard bubbles; dictate lesson plan notes into (get this) a handheld recorder while squeezing myself into a slinky evening gown for a stakeholder’s dinner. I was unstoppable.

For all of my success, the stigma didn’t disappear. The other moms, fifteen years my elder, interrogated, the company wives looked down their noses, my own teaching co-workers whispered. But she looks too young to be a mom. It was fine. Hurt feelings couldn’t exist in the limbo of the meantime. I had a job to do, there was money to make, there were goals to accomplish.

             My meantime, somehow, turned into seventeen years. In that time, I received a contract position at Upper Merion, and they paid for my Masters in English. Life goals… check. But instead of sending out résumés and applications for college positions, I delved deeper into high school life. I even eventually, and at first reluctantly, became Department Chair. I attended my students’ activities, made a fool of myself at Faculty Follies, created collages of each graduating senior class, perfected the fine art of the college essay, celebrated each college acceptance, and dried tears when the rejections rolled in. I also used the literature to instill meaning in their strange, transitory existence—to remind them, as Walt Whitman does so eloquently, that they will, most definitely, contribute a verse.

But none of this was supposed to happen, and I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t get in the way. Each time I think I’ve had enough with the machine, when I just cannot fathom a new regulation, a new initiative, a new unqualified legislator seeking to undermine my own professional autonomy, someone is always there, at the completely right second, to pull me back—to remind me why I’m here.

I never aspired to the Hollywood-cliché classroom, but sometimes in twelfth grade English, where we discuss the meaning of life, the dramatic naturally occurs. Students’ lives are murky, and I adore that. All of their strengths and all of their flaws meld into this wondrous grey of reality. The student, who appeared to be a lost cause, manages to graduate; I win over the passive-aggressive asshole who, by all accounts, ends up not being an asshole; a mother, plagued with cancer, hugs me at graduation and asks me to look after her son when she dies; the pregnant girl, who needed someone to hold her hand in the doctor’s waiting room, ends up with PhD; a former student calls one night to say that she became a teacher and we discuss art, life, poetry, and death until the sun rises; a class collectively tears up over the beauty of “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night” and composes a group poem for me; a student lingers after class to tell me he once hated poetry, and now writes sonnets in his free time; a boy loses his dog, stays after class to ponder life’s mysteries, and becomes a second son. And then there are those I have lost—those whose lives were cut short. Their ghosts remind me how I love them all like my own. How I fear for them when they leave my classroom. How I didn’t have any more children because of them.

Today, the memories are a blur. It’s almost as if there’s a suspension of time, in the meantime. Maybe I’m still that young girl trying to figure out years of faces, moments, days, classes. They all start to merge. Some days I can’t believe I’ve taught thousands of them. I snap hundreds of pictures to remind myself that they’re real—that they were actually in my grasp for a short time.

*Pause*

I’m going to stop right there for a moment… I’ll save the ending.

The Meantime, right? Some of you were in the meantime as teachers in your own classrooms. Some of you are there as you strive for that head principal position in your district, running your own building… some of you as you climb your way to superintendent where you can tackle our work on a much larger scale. After a quarter of a century, I get it.

For years before the publication of “The Meantime,” I had taught either the full text or a portion of Robert Pirsig’s Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, and there is one particular line that I bring up throughout the entirety of my students’ senior year, and it goes like this… “It’s the sides of the mountain which sustain life, not the top.”  The sides of the mountain. Do I have any hikers here? Good to know.

You see it wasn’t just “The Meantime” getting published, it wasn’t just teaching Pirsig all those years that did it. I was still at the sides—which is lovely with flowers, creeks, the occasional snake, but you know, we’re well equipped. I started getting published for real. And those pieces gained some attention. I started a book.

I knew if I wanted to test this for real, if wanted to finish that terminal degree, if I wanted to finish that book, I needed some, well…  time. I needed to step away from the longest lasting home I ever knew, step away from five very sweet, very supportive classes of children, and to throw myself into the hike. So I saved up and took one semester and one summer and I did it all—all over this country and all over Europe I conquered fears. I travelled alone, met new people, drank many lovely varieties of red wine, and wrote and wrote and wrote, only to wake up in the morning and edit, edit, edit. I watched countless sunrises and as many sunsets, filling my lungs with delicious fresh air and my belly with new, fresh foods.

I climbed to the tops of mountains.

Interestingly enough, during one of my pit-stops back home, I stopped by Jonathan’s office to touch base. (This happened quite often, to be honest. This fear of missing out that, of course, never happens in the summer months.) I regaled him with all my adventures: the waterfalls I hiked to; the ancient churchyards I roamed; the beautiful people I met—each teaching me something new; the hundreds of poems I’d read as I listened to the crash of ocean waves and the ripples of pristine lakes.

“God, Jen. It sounds amazing. Sounds magical.”

The bell rang and students bustled in the hall outside his office window. I watched them.

“Yeah. Definitely. But no more magical than my dusty, old cinderblock classroom.”

And it’s was true. Probably the most honest, most raw words I’ve ever spoken.

There’s a Hebrew word I love: Shul. Traditionally it means school or temple—a place of learning. It also implies a sacred impression of something that was once “there.” A footprint on a path. The bones of an abandoned house that was once filled with love. A mark that remains.

That mark was never at the top of a mountain. And come to find out, I didn’t peak… that gut feeling I had was a natural evolution. My mind knowing that things would change; I would no longer be the same Ms. Rieger I had always been. And I shouldn’t be. I had to grow out of her and try on my new skin—even if it did look a little more weathered every morning when I stared in the mirror. I knew some questions would still linger—Is this the year they stop relating to me? Is this the year I lose touch? Even on those rough mornings though, I’m keenly aware that this job is important and what we get to do each day is a privilege… and I love that here, in this room, it’s kind of our secret, right? It’s so much more than a cliched meme, an inspirational poster, or even a heart-warming book that some middle-aged teacher wrote. It’s the indefinable Quality that Pirsig searches for. It’s sacred. And it’s on the sides of the mountain.

I’m sure you will spend this conference investigating new best practices and brainstorming new ways to drill down the data. I understand. It’s a big part of the work we do. We want our teachers to be equipped and we want our students to succeed.  

But I’m here to tell you it’s ok to breathe. It’s ok to linger at the sides of the mountain just a bit. It’s ok to take a walk with the meantime. It’s ok to find a little more of life, a little more purpose within that walk. It’s ok to love those kids like they’re your own and love your teachers like they’re family. It’s actually essential. I’m here to tell you that goals are necessary, but when you think about reaching the top, consider these wise words a newly retired colleague once told me…. Sometimes the best thing that could ever happen to you is not getting what you want.

So I think maybe I’ll end with the conclusion of “The Meantime”…

When I learned the content, designed the lessons, wrote my thesis, and attended countless workshops on standardized tests, nobody explained how to handle the sorrow that comes with this beautiful, frightening job—the letdowns, the bureaucracy, the losses, the goodbyes.

But they also didn’t tell me about the joy.

Maybe the meantime has always been my time. Maybe this was the trajectory predestined in the stars, if you believe in that sort of thing. Maybe I won’t be recognized for the hundreds of poems I’ve composed. It’s okay. Maybe my kids are my poem—some stanzas are free verse, some structured, some with short line breaks, and some with enjambment that continues well past graduation day. All contributing to the verse of my life. All making my time here worth it.

Elegy

~ msjriegs ~ Leave a comment

Elegy

If only I could nudge you from this sleep.

There’s a heartbreaking, but beautiful poem by Theodore Roethke that’s been circling in my mind for some time now called “Elegy for Jane.” The sentiments of the speaker, a teacher, could very well match my own. Because it’s an elegy and also begins with the subtitle, “My student, thrown from a horse,” the outcome is clear. Once a sweet little “wren” flitting about, bringing joy and laughter into the lives around her, Jane left this world too soon. By the end, the poem shifts attention away from Jane and onto the speaker where he contemplates why he’s standing at her fresh grave—what right does he have to mourn like this when he is neither a spouse nor a parent? He’s just a teacher. And he’s at a loss identifying these feelings.

The speaker may not understand, but I do. When you’re training for this profession, nobody ever tells you how much you’re going to love them. Or that many will suffer unspeakable tragedies. Or that many will die.

I thought it would get easier, but it doesn’t. I stood at the casket tonight of a man who died of a heroin overdose, but underneath the mortician’s makeup, I saw a shadow of the boy who barreled into class ready to derail every lesson and tried to charm me into, well, anything but British literature; the kid whose leg shook each football game day because he just couldn’t wait to charge the field; the baseball player who screamed the lyrics of “Buttercup” and rallied the whole team, whether there was a win or a loss. My student. Gone.

Looking around the funeral home, there they were. My kids, only now adults. So many approached, wondering if I remembered them. Of course I do. Some apologized for not keeping in touch. It’s okay. Some apologized for treating me like shit all those years ago. That’s okay too. I wanted their faces to comfort me, but they didn’t. I steadied myself so as to not shake their shoulders and beg them to be safe—beg them not to be the next casket I cry over. Their older, wiser eyes looked like they had seen a lot as well. They were different eyes than the ones I dried at another autumn funeral 15 years ago. Another classmate, another drug overdose. She was 16, and my first student death.

It’s a matter of numbers, really. The more saturated my personal student population, the more likely I am to witness tragedy. But I’m 19 years in, and I’m tired. I’m tired of waking up on weekend mornings to see #RIP all over my social media. I’m tired of my kids getting hit by drunk drivers—suffering life-altering brain injuries and paralysis. I’m tired of motorcycle accidents, suicides, gunshots, and drug overdoses. I’m tired of holding the hands of parents I once laughed with at Back to School Night, relaying my condolences, when I know they will never be happy again.

What was once an unexpected tragedy is now a ritual. I hear the news, I sort through the e-mails, texts, and Facebook messages from my graduates, I call my two best friends, also teachers—also shaken to the core because this is their kid too. We meet in the English office the next morning, walk into my room to stare at the collage of that particular graduating class, and make plans. Jason will drive, Rachel and I will wear the funeral outfits we always wear, we’ll get coffee beforehand. We will immerse ourselves in our current students to ameliorate the sting and try to talk about anything else, all the while preparing ourselves. Another funeral home, another tiny card with a prayer or poem on the back, another casket filled with high school memorabilia. Another goodbye.

As Roethke points out, it’s complicated. Teachers are charged with guiding, instructing, and caring for kids at an intensely vulnerable and formative time in their lives. It’s a huge responsibility and one I’ve never taken lightly. But, at the end of each year, as I let them go, I’m forced to remind myself that they’re not really mine. They have their own moms, just like I have my own son. But that doesn’t make any of this easier. Tonight I said goodbye to one of my 2235. A man who left this world far too soon. A child who wasn’t mine, but also was—at least for one year, 48 minutes each day.

Continuing Education

~ msjriegs ~ 1 Comment

I have a graduate who infuriates me with his social media activity. A former U.S. Marine, he’s known to post pictures of his favorite gun, his achievements at the shooting range, and memes that taunt his liberal friends. His sense of humor, not always funny. I’ll give him this though—his wit is often satirical in nature, and many, to put it kindly, have a very hard time understanding satire. Having said that, his posts are enough to drive me to drink. He’s one of my graduates, after all—one of my kids. I can remember having sincere conversations with him about standing up for what is right, defending those who are innocent and weak, and loving this country. He has seen a lot—he’s been to places ordinary citizens would never dare venture in their worst nightmares and has encountered situations that would make most of us hide from the world for the rest of our lives. He hasn’t had it easy.

Last night, while multitasking poetry submissions, London excursion research, and DNC highlights, I came across a beautiful Facebook post from Luke. These kinds of sentiments are rare, so when they pop up, I always take a minute to see what he has to say. It was about love, and beauty—holding on and letting go. How there are aspects of life that, try as we might, we just can’t put behind us. The subject of the post was ambiguous. I wasn’t certain if he was talking about a girl, a friend, or even his country, but the intention was clear. We all want kindness, compassion, and love in our lives. It is the human condition that connects us. And I cried.

I am the liberal daughter of Republicans. Feminist? Yes. Bra burner? Don’t put it past me. I do despise them, after all. My parents are moderate and support many of the social issues I also embrace; so while we disagree on many things, I think when it comes down to it, we agree upon a lot as well. Growing up, they taught me to think for myself—to be true to my heart and not let anyone sway my beliefs, including them. I’ve devoted my life to standing up for the disenfranchised, the marginalized, the voiceless, and maybe he doesn’t realize it, but my dad is the one who taught me that. He spent his career locking up bad guys—really bad guys. The kind who send bombs, anthrax, and child pornography through the mail—sick bastards who hurt children and prey on the innocent. During the attacks on 9/11, the Postmaster General asked my dad not to retire, as he had planned—to stay on as Chief Postal Inspector of the country and bring enemies to justice. So, he did. As a little girl, I didn’t understand what being a Postal Inspector entailed; I thought he was a mailman who carried a badge. Why would I think differently? My dad never, ever brought his work home with him so family dinner conversations were about school, friends, and activities. As I grew older, I started paying attention from afar. My dad was major. Ultimately, I learned that there are different ways to defend those in need, and sometimes those doing the defending have different beliefs.

I’ve unfriended and blocked a handful of graduates that have disappointed me—the misogynists, xenophobes, racists, sociopaths, anti-Semites, and homophobes. There aren’t many, but they absolutely suck. Shame on them for having the privilege of learning about diversity, understanding, and love from a district that values character education and then spreading hatred in this world. Many are not so fortunate. There are also those I “hide” from my newsfeed, and I have various reasons for using this feature. I tend to filter the Debbie Downers, the constant body-ache-whiners, the Candy Crush inviters, and those who bombard social media with their very own selfie photoshoot sessions. It just gets to be a lot. But I haven’t unfriended or hidden Luke, even though I’ve come close.

People can disagree on personal philosophies, but when you really look into someone’s heart, what do you see? Are we all just on very different trajectories toward the same goal? Isn’t that what centuries of various religious beliefs have taught us? Disregard the haters for a minute, and take a closer look at your friend, family member, or co-worker who holds a very different political stance. You know the one I’m talking about—the one who, behind his back you say things like, “but he’s so normal and caring! How could he possibly be a [insert liberal/conservative/socialist/ Democrat/Republican/Kanye fan]?” Think about that person hard. How does he conduct himself? Does he defend the rights of minorities? Does he help those facing hardships, people with disabilities, or the elderly, homeless, or sick? Is that person willing to actually get off of his ass and get his hands dirty rather than sitting around spouting off his opinions? Ouch. That’s a hard one, folks. Because that’s what caring people who actually want to change the world do. It’s called love of your fellow man.

From seeing his occasional posts, I’ve learned that Luke continues to be well-read; he does his research. He refuses to support either presidential candidate because, to put it mildly, he is dissatisfied with both choices. After my second glass of wine, aka truth serum, I sent a private message to Luke, conveying my thoughts and praising his beautifully written post. He is not one for veiled sentiment or having smoke-blown up his ass, so I think he appreciated my honesty. He simply said this: “I can sit here and disagree with all of my friends on a lot of issues, but at the end of the day, it’s their personality and the caliber of their character that I hold in regard.” Let that be true for all of us. Last night, a young man who left my classroom over a decade ago—a man who defended my right to hop on social media and voice my opinions, a man who is confined to a wheel chair, a man who is incredibly aggravating— made me stay up all night writing, analyzing, and pondering my own flaws and judgements. His views frustrate me as much as I probably frustrate my own parents. And just as they are proud of me, I will always admire those who seek good in the world. Maybe all of our conversations through this very contentious time need to start there rather than end there. One of the basic lessons I try to convey to my students is to listen as much as they speak, or even more than they speak. Let’s do that. Let’s begin with a bigger picture. Let’s begin with equality, human rights, and human decency. Let’s begin by actually doing something besides pontificating. Let’s begin with the caliber of character and work backwards.

The Meantime

Quote ~ ~ msjriegs ~ Leave a comment

Maybe this is the trajectory predestined in the stars, if you believe in that sort of thing.

Welcome to HerVerse! I am so grateful for this “mosaic” existence I’ve been living. When I’m not teaching, editing college essays, and chaperoning high school events, I try to capture each fitted, broken, smooth, and jagged piece of life, connecting back to an ancient heart that speaks to friendship, perseverance, humor and love.

I’ve lived an adult life of “the meantime”– waiting for my real life to begin. What I’ve discovered on this journey are surprising moments of beautiful truth disguised as ordinary living. It’s nothing momentous or glamorous, but I am grateful for each minuscule miracle, each kindred spirit that has crossed my path.

To read how this all began, check out my piece “The Meantime” published in Role Reboot, September 2015.

The Meantime