I feel that the American education system is failing our youth across the country, particularly students who endure struggle outside of their time in school.
These struggling students can be a little harder to "handle". For them, it is a little harder to sit and listen about math and history when their bellies are hungry and their spirits heavy from the violence they consistently see the night before and in the neighborhood whether from parents, neighbors or police officers. It is harder to listen to teachers who do not listen back and demand respect but have done nothing to earn it. It is hard to look up to school administration who look down on them and never take the time to know who they are outside of the occasional poor choices they make.
So, high school for me (like many others) was hard for these reasons to name a few. I did a great job hiding my pain with humor and made sure the clothes I wore were covered in tiny seals of status in the form of name brands- this way no one would question my life after the 3 o'clock bell rang. I learned to lie well and those four years were some of the loneliest times of my life.
Sophomore year at Case High school I decided to tryout a theater course. I figured I was great at acting at this point since I did it with everyone I met. "This class would be a joke and an easy A+." Maybe an A+ would make my social workers happy and I wouldn't have to move foster homes again for awhile.
The day I met Nancy Gibson, I realized I was not prepared for Theater 101. She was different from every other teacher I met in all the 10 schools I had been in since kindergarten.
She was the first and the only teacher who dug deep and wasted no time going there with us. She wanted to know who we were, what made us tick, what made us different and what made us the same. She pondered what courage meant for the incoming collective year after year and how each one of us could contribute to the success or to the failure of the class. She pushed me to think critically and think all the time. She pushed us to think for ourselves and than to speak that out loud to the world. She asked us to feel too which was the last thing I wanted to do. This class was not going to be easy at all.
It was the improv activities that we participated in the first day that tipped me over the edge. We had t to be comfortable and trust the others in the class to be silly and not be made fun of. This was insanely hard for me. I marched to go the guidance counselor after the bell rang and asked if there was another class I could take during that time slot. There wasn't.
Shit.
Okay fine.
I will just get through it.
As class went on I learned many things. I learned how to build community with others around me. How you ask?
Nancy.
Nancy invited us to listen to each other and as we were provided the space and time to the very many pieces of our authentic stories. Through this, I realized I was not alone in my pain. It pulled me out of being isolated whether I liked it or not. I started to make friends in this class, the real kind. The kind who listened to my words, saw me for what I was and loved me still. To this day, as a 30 year who lives abroad, many of these people are still my family.
At the end of the class, we had to put our stories together into a production that was written, directed, and acted by us. We were asked to bring those stories and that vulnerability we gave in class everyday to the city now. My heart sank. "I can't do it," repeated over and over in my mind.
With that mindset I wrote a piece that was honest, but not as brave as it could have been.
One week before we had the show, we were practicing in the theater. It was my first time saying my monolog out loud in front of our class. My paper was riddled with erasings from my latest change and edit to make this monologue said as an act, rather than said from my heart.
I avoided eyes with Nancy (which is what she let us call her because as she would always remind us- we are all equal humans here!) After the half-hearted applause from my class subsided, she rose and stood next to me. Boldly, she asked me to do it again, but this time at least "say it like you mean any of it." Line by line, she would make me repeat it till she could hear me open up. I hated every minute. I was uncomfortable. I knew she could see through the mask I put up for the world. I wanted to walk out, and she told me I could if I wanted to.
Of course, I couldn't walk out at that point. No way. We were all a family in there and that theater and Nancy were the only places that I felt safe in that school and outside of it. If I walked out on my story -I was walking out on everyone else's. I continued.
A part of my monolog came that was painful and she put her hand on my shoulder and ask me if this part made me angry. It did. She nodded her head and I knew I could scream it if I wanted. I did.
I finished my monolog in tears- heart beating fast. The room was quiet now and still.
I took a deep breath in and sat down as my theater family hugged me.
Nancy said, "there you are" and gave me a high five with her warm smile.
That moment was the first time since I entered foster care five years before that I too could see myself; feel myself. "There you are Katy." The Katy that wasn't afraid to speak from her heart. The one that was brave even though she was hurt, and still being hurt from home to home. There she was. Beautiful. Free. Standing. Crying from strength this time.
Years later, Nancy asked me to come back after I finished my Masters Degree to talk about my work around the world that involves teaching design for social innovation. I teach how to get others involved in building solutions for our world to create better programs for youth, poverty, and much more. I now work to give others a voice particularly in designing their own solutions!
During this time with her, as I sat on the aged and familiar theater floor with her she told me of the years I had missed. The classes she adored, the lessons she learned. Those years asked her to endure a close call with death from cancer. She told me the story of her pain now. The story of her partners strength and love that helped her rise from the ground. She told me the story of planting flowers in the front yard in the most desperate hours. She told me the hope, and the fear. For that moment as she shared with me, I was overwhelmed with love and admiration, yet again. You can never say that one person led you to be who you are. There are many connections, many experiences, many conversations that guide and form us into our current selves.
But for me, Nancy Gibson was the ONLY teacher that gave me permission to tell my story the way I wanted and in that I was able to re-write it. I can boldly say that class, Nancy and the other students who met with me 2x-3x a week in those seats are the first reason I chose the right path outside of class. Statistically, by age 19 I had a 50% chance of being pregnant and homeless. 64% chance of being addicted to drugs, and 64% of being incarcerated.
Instead, I was in a 4-year college working with other at-risk youth practicing the skills that Nancy taught me. Unlocking the stories in others and pulling out courage to share; courage to listen and to speak, scream, and whisper who we are.
No award you can give her will do her justice, and what she does every day is most definitely gift enough for her. Everyone who enters that theater can see that in seconds.
Theater 101 was not about "acting" at all. It was the class that helped me find who I already was. Her class was about re-discovering, building, standing, and leaning in through connection. That is a gift that words can't explain from a kid like me who without it, living a full life may not have been an option.
There is no better teacher than one who teaches that.
These struggling students can be a little harder to "handle". For them, it is a little harder to sit and listen about math and history when their bellies are hungry and their spirits heavy from the violence they consistently see the night before and in the neighborhood whether from parents, neighbors or police officers. It is harder to listen to teachers who do not listen back and demand respect but have done nothing to earn it. It is hard to look up to school administration who look down on them and never take the time to know who they are outside of the occasional poor choices they make.
So, high school for me (like many others) was hard for these reasons to name a few. I did a great job hiding my pain with humor and made sure the clothes I wore were covered in tiny seals of status in the form of name brands- this way no one would question my life after the 3 o'clock bell rang. I learned to lie well and those four years were some of the loneliest times of my life.
Sophomore year at Case High school I decided to tryout a theater course. I figured I was great at acting at this point since I did it with everyone I met. "This class would be a joke and an easy A+." Maybe an A+ would make my social workers happy and I wouldn't have to move foster homes again for awhile.
The day I met Nancy Gibson, I realized I was not prepared for Theater 101. She was different from every other teacher I met in all the 10 schools I had been in since kindergarten.
She was the first and the only teacher who dug deep and wasted no time going there with us. She wanted to know who we were, what made us tick, what made us different and what made us the same. She pondered what courage meant for the incoming collective year after year and how each one of us could contribute to the success or to the failure of the class. She pushed me to think critically and think all the time. She pushed us to think for ourselves and than to speak that out loud to the world. She asked us to feel too which was the last thing I wanted to do. This class was not going to be easy at all.
It was the improv activities that we participated in the first day that tipped me over the edge. We had t to be comfortable and trust the others in the class to be silly and not be made fun of. This was insanely hard for me. I marched to go the guidance counselor after the bell rang and asked if there was another class I could take during that time slot. There wasn't.
Shit.
Okay fine.
I will just get through it.
As class went on I learned many things. I learned how to build community with others around me. How you ask?
Nancy.
Nancy invited us to listen to each other and as we were provided the space and time to the very many pieces of our authentic stories. Through this, I realized I was not alone in my pain. It pulled me out of being isolated whether I liked it or not. I started to make friends in this class, the real kind. The kind who listened to my words, saw me for what I was and loved me still. To this day, as a 30 year who lives abroad, many of these people are still my family.
At the end of the class, we had to put our stories together into a production that was written, directed, and acted by us. We were asked to bring those stories and that vulnerability we gave in class everyday to the city now. My heart sank. "I can't do it," repeated over and over in my mind.
With that mindset I wrote a piece that was honest, but not as brave as it could have been.
One week before we had the show, we were practicing in the theater. It was my first time saying my monolog out loud in front of our class. My paper was riddled with erasings from my latest change and edit to make this monologue said as an act, rather than said from my heart.
I avoided eyes with Nancy (which is what she let us call her because as she would always remind us- we are all equal humans here!) After the half-hearted applause from my class subsided, she rose and stood next to me. Boldly, she asked me to do it again, but this time at least "say it like you mean any of it." Line by line, she would make me repeat it till she could hear me open up. I hated every minute. I was uncomfortable. I knew she could see through the mask I put up for the world. I wanted to walk out, and she told me I could if I wanted to.
Of course, I couldn't walk out at that point. No way. We were all a family in there and that theater and Nancy were the only places that I felt safe in that school and outside of it. If I walked out on my story -I was walking out on everyone else's. I continued.
A part of my monolog came that was painful and she put her hand on my shoulder and ask me if this part made me angry. It did. She nodded her head and I knew I could scream it if I wanted. I did.
I took a deep breath in and sat down as my theater family hugged me.
Nancy said, "there you are" and gave me a high five with her warm smile.
That moment was the first time since I entered foster care five years before that I too could see myself; feel myself. "There you are Katy." The Katy that wasn't afraid to speak from her heart. The one that was brave even though she was hurt, and still being hurt from home to home. There she was. Beautiful. Free. Standing. Crying from strength this time.
Years later, Nancy asked me to come back after I finished my Masters Degree to talk about my work around the world that involves teaching design for social innovation. I teach how to get others involved in building solutions for our world to create better programs for youth, poverty, and much more. I now work to give others a voice particularly in designing their own solutions!
During this time with her, as I sat on the aged and familiar theater floor with her she told me of the years I had missed. The classes she adored, the lessons she learned. Those years asked her to endure a close call with death from cancer. She told me the story of her pain now. The story of her partners strength and love that helped her rise from the ground. She told me the story of planting flowers in the front yard in the most desperate hours. She told me the hope, and the fear. For that moment as she shared with me, I was overwhelmed with love and admiration, yet again. You can never say that one person led you to be who you are. There are many connections, many experiences, many conversations that guide and form us into our current selves.
But for me, Nancy Gibson was the ONLY teacher that gave me permission to tell my story the way I wanted and in that I was able to re-write it. I can boldly say that class, Nancy and the other students who met with me 2x-3x a week in those seats are the first reason I chose the right path outside of class. Statistically, by age 19 I had a 50% chance of being pregnant and homeless. 64% chance of being addicted to drugs, and 64% of being incarcerated.
Instead, I was in a 4-year college working with other at-risk youth practicing the skills that Nancy taught me. Unlocking the stories in others and pulling out courage to share; courage to listen and to speak, scream, and whisper who we are.
No award you can give her will do her justice, and what she does every day is most definitely gift enough for her. Everyone who enters that theater can see that in seconds.
Theater 101 was not about "acting" at all. It was the class that helped me find who I already was. Her class was about re-discovering, building, standing, and leaning in through connection. That is a gift that words can't explain from a kid like me who without it, living a full life may not have been an option.
There is no better teacher than one who teaches that.
I hope Nancy can read this.
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