Sometimes the answers are right there in front of us all along; we just weren’t paying attention closely enough. Or maybe we didn’t want to accept them.
As a fan of (most of) M. Night Shyamalan’s films, I look forward to solving his labyrinthian puzzles before the big reveal just before the closing credits. So far, however, I’m batting a paltry .000.
In The Sixth Sense, all I had to do was recognize that Bruce Willis’s character never changed his clothes, and I would have realized he was dead all along.
In The Village, all I had to do was listen more closely to the villagers’ grizzly accounts of their pasts to realize the whole story took place in modern times (fun fact: Shyamalan was nearly sued for copyright infringement by Running Out of Time author Margaret Peterson Haddix).
In Unbreakable, I mean, c’mon, he slaps us in the face with the fact that Willis’ character is the superhero to Samuel L. Jackson’s villain.
If only I could have reverse engineered each story…
The thing about reverse engineering, the process of understanding through dissecting that which already exists, is that the answers are all right there in front of us. We just rarely look.
Visit any elementary school classroom, and you’re sure to see (and hear) kids being met where they are in their own learning, being given license to move around the room, and being expected to work collaboratively.
~If you need a check in, meet me at the back table. If you can help a friend with this, go ahead!
~Find a spot in the room that will help you concentrate.
~Turn and talk to a friend about what you just read.
Now do the same exercise on a secondary campus, and you’re sure to see (and hear) the difference. Kids sitting in rows. Teachers at the front of the room. Compliance showing creativity the door.
~Please stay in your assigned seat until the bell.
~I shouldn’t hear anyone talking!
~Complete 1-30 on page 382 for tomorrow.
Don’t even get me started on higher education.
So, why? Logically, shouldn’t the reverse be true? Shouldn’t it be the older kids to whom we hand the keys and get out of the way? Shouldn’t it be the littles for whom we assume the heavy lifting?
What if we reverse engineered public education? What if we looked at all the ways at which we expect elementary students to learn and grow together and applied it to the secondary level?
While I realize nothing is as simple as wishing it into existence, we need to start focusing on what is working, harness it, and apply it to all grade levels.
Otherwise, we are no different than so many M Night fans left wondering how we didn’t see the end coming, and by then, it’s too late.
At 5am, the options at my gym are limited, so I am locked in on 90s sitcoms.
In the most recent installment of Family Matters, Eddie (the eldest Winslow sibling) and a buddy get themselves mired in the seedy underbelly of local, pool hall gambling. Though it was clear to Erkel that the pool shark was conning his friend, it wasn’t until Eddie was on the hook for five hundred dollars that the gravity of the situation crystallized.
But have no fear! In a shocking twist, Erkel steps in to bail out his neighbor by using math to determine the angle and speed at which he had to strike the cue ball to run game and win Eddie his money back.
Plot twist! One of the pool sharks takes Erkel’s glasses and smashes them to nerdy bits just as he was about to win Eddie his money back!
Another plot twist! Somehow Carl and Estelle Winslow find out about the hustle and show up! Yay! Carl, in full police uniform, which has to break some sort of protocol, offers not to break up the game and arrest the con men but to step in for Erkel and finish the game. Predictably, he runs the table and is about to sink the eight ball but a horrendous leave makes that shot a statistical improbability, much to the delight of the sleeveless villain.
Another (another) plot twist! For reasons we can’t fathom, Estelle, a stout octogenarian, offers to step in for her son and Erkel and attempt the impossible shot. After a poorly edited slo-mo and some spotty interpretation of billiards rules, Estelle sinks the eight ball, all gambled monies are returned, and order is restored.
All in a tight 30 minutes.
The irony, of course, is that sitcoms have taught us not that the world’s problems can be solved in half hour increments but how ridiculous it is to expect them to be.
In our school, the schedule runs on the half hour, which means that, theoretically, teachers have 30/60 minutes to teach a mini lesson, allow for guided and independent practice, offer centers, collect data, combine groups, include brain breaks, expect and adjust to struggle, answer questions, and transition to the next subject.
Secondary teachers have it even worse with the specter of the bell looming over each lesson. Picture a deep discussion on a novel or a group presentation on social justice being cut short because, well, time’s up. The prospect of returning to that flow the next day with the same level of depth or passion is as flimsy as any sitcom’s premise.
So we do the best we can, we support teachers’ autonomy when lessons do run long, we praise the process not the destination, and we try again.
And we stay the hell out of pool halls when Estelle Winslow is shooting stick.
Less time than it takes to prepare your morning cup of coffee.
Less time than it takes to sort through your daily mail.
Less time than it takes to wash your face before bed.
That’s how long it takes for our brains to process an emotion.
That’s how much time we have to plan for our response to someone else’s emotion.
For our most regulated kids, six seconds might seem like a perfectly acceptable amount of time to digest that nasty social media post, that college acceptance letter, that playground incident. They can apply the applicable emotion in the appropriate way and move on with their day.
The same goes for regulated grown ups. Our ability to cycle through the rolodex of emotions available to us is precise, seamless, and imperceptible.
But what about when we pepper in some dysregulation, some trauma?
That six seconds quickens, the brain’s access to appropriate emotions is shut off, the response is disparate and unsettling.
The thing is it’s not what the affected person is feeling in those six seconds because we can’t control how that person feels. How we respond in the wake of those six seconds matters most.
Look at the difference between these two responses.
What is wrong with you?
What happened to you?
The former speaks to blame, to a Scarlet Letter, earned or branded, that puts the onus of responsibility firmly on the affected person.
The latter shifts that narrative in such a way that the affected person no longer bears the weight of both cause and effect. Instead, he sees his reaction after those six seconds as a result of something out of his control.
So those six seconds are no more random than they are orchestrated. They are prescribed as part of being a particular human with particular experiences, some of which we haven’t learned to process.
“Don’t ever, for any reason, do anything to anyone, for any reason, ever, no matter what. No matter where. Or who, or who you are with, or where you are going or… or where you’ve been… ever. For any reason, whatsoever.” ~Michael Scott, Dunder Mifflin Scranton
I can remember pieces of advice right down to the moment.
In the car, after I was the losing pitcher in the 12-year old championship game.
Dad: There’s always going to be somebody bigger, faster, and stronger.
Courtside at a high school basketball game lamenting to my former coach that I was terrified to student teach.
Coach: You’ll do it. Just like you’ve done everything else.
During my first year teaching, complaining to my mentor about some of the archaic, bureaucratic parts of the job.
Mentor: Just shut your door and teach.
That last one was a watershed moment in my career. I could either take Beth’s advice and run my classroom my way, despite the risk of chastisement or poor evaluations, or disregard her advice and become the kind of robotic teacher I refused I would become.
Obviously, if you read this blog, you know it wasn’t much of a decision at all.
But that was twenty-three years ago. Before the country decided to force teachers into one of two, equally horrifying categories: martyrs and pariahs. Now, teachers are leaving the profession with nothing but an existential crisis and a box of KN95 masks to show for it.
The funny thing is the pandemic, politics, and protocols haven’t shined a light on bad teaching. No, the bright lights of Twitter threads and resignation letter screenshots have flipped the script and exposed terrible leadership. And it’s long overdue.
So now it’s my turn to give advice to teachers. Teachers who have that resignation letter queued up but haven’t hit send yet. Teachers who have to sit in their idling cars for several minutes as they work up the strength to enter their buildings. Teachers who have been forced to trade creativity for compliance, relationships for data, passion for paychecks.
Shut your door and teach.
Teachers don’t serve leaders; they serve kids.
So shut your door and teach.
Standards can be explored without being drilled.
So shut your door and teach.
Lesson plans, which will likely be unread by leaders, can be copy and pasted.
So shut your door and teach.
Formal assessments are only one, often flawed, way to measure growth.
So shut your door and teach.
Lousy leaders either know they’re lousy and don’t care or don’t know they’re lousy at all.
It’s a big day, Leaders! 100 blog posts! However, under the circumstances, celebrating seems a bit tone deaf, but I would like to thank my faithful readers. Meeting with and learning from people all over the world has changed my career in a way that I’m not sure I fully understand yet. Thank you!
In the pantheon of silent communication symbols, few can rival OGs like peace, love, eye roll, peekaboo, and wink. Each is a universally accepted way of conveying that which stands on its own without benefit of a verbal qualifier. Sure, the context may change depending on the communicator (an eye roll from a 10 year old student carries with it a far different message than, say, one from your 94 year old nana), but make no mistake, wordlessness is a language all its own.
Even in the wake of our new digital, often pixelated, can-you-hear-me? communication style, an old dog has learned a new trick.
The shoulder shrug has become the universally understood response for any COVID based question from our friends, families, and communities.
How are you guys holding up?
Do you have any questions about how to connect to Zoom?
When do you think we’ll go back to school?
What day is it?
In a time during which we are obsessed with being in the know, with being the first to break a story we saw on Twitter, with having a hot take on the NFL draft, the latest White House “press briefing,” or the state of humanity itself, it’s perfectly okay to defer to our baser instincts and just shrug.
Because the truth is even the people who are supposed to know, the ones with that pesky MD after their names, don’t even know what is happening. Then there are those who pretend to know what is happening and are convinced that if they say what they think loudly or often enough it will become true. Finally, there’s the rest of us: the shruggers.
Look it’s perfectly fine to not know the answer to questions big and small. One time my son asked me if vampires sneeze. C’mon, bruh! But the difference between the non-shruggers and the shruggers is the former is convinced that there’s only one answer to every question. The latter is willing to accept that even all the answers aren’t all the answers.
So come with me, shrugging friends! There’s a whole world of questions on which we need to remain non-committal!
Listen, I spend far too much time thinking about (read: obsessing over) the social emotional health of my staff. I check in too often. I will occasionally overstep. I have their backs. I don’t know any other way to be.
As I cleaned up my Drive, I stumbled upon a piece I wrote over ten years ago that, though unpublished and apropos of nothing, helps to bring into focus why I choose to lead the way I do. Ultimately, our humanity in any field, but particularly in education, is what leads us to and makes it nearly impossible to leave each other. We all have “stuff,” and the moment we forget that, we’re doomed.
I’ve really only been fooled by women twice in my life.
When I turned 21, my mom told me I needed to go to the proctologist for a consult because “you know what happened to your father.” I agreed, begrudgingly, and made my appointment with the Ass-Man. While the first ten minutes would fall under the category of a consult, as my mom had promised, the final five would belong under the more appropriate banner of “exploration.” When the doctor said, rather matter-of-factly, “while you’re here, let’s just have a look,” I’ll never forget the silent arsenal of swear words I unleashed at my mom, no doubt smiling to herself over her duplicitous deception, which ended with some combination of fingers probing my caboose.
The second time I was duped was when my wife talked me into visiting our fertility doctor with her because it would help me understand what she could only loosely translate after each weekly visit. I hadn’t been putting off joining my wife for any particular reason. Besides, she assured me that my presence was really only necessary in cup form during the early stages of the process. Again, I marched dutifully to yet another doctor’s office, still reeling from the last time I was asked to go some fifteen years ago, and again, I was hoodwinked.
What I thought was going to be a routine meet-and-greet, “you’re-the-husband-I-keep-hearing-about” kind of appointment rapidly disintegrated into a “now-that-your-wife-is-in-the-stirrups-do-you-want-to-see-her-ovaries” fright fest. No amount of ER episodes or George Romero films could have prepared me for that legs-up position usually saved for nights when we’ve both had a bit too much to drink.
But that became our life, and as I hopped, skipped, and slid over fertility handbooks, how-tos, and metric equations on a regular basis, I noticed that there really was a dearth of literature about infertility from a man’s perspective. Ironically, the books my wife had wallpapered our house with seemed to borrow titles from their bizarro world counterparts in pornography. In the same way that porn gives us The Boobyguard (nee: The Bodyguard), I woke up to find A Few Good Eggs (nee: A Few Good Men) staring up at me from under our bed. As I thumbed through it, I was met with a cornucopia of now germane phrases and acronyms I once thought reserved for 400 level grad school courses in Anatomy and Physiology.
No longer would my acronymic lexicon be limited to DVD, DVR, and PS3. From then on, I’d have intimate knowledge of any combination of the following: PCO (Polycystic Ovaries, from which my wife suffers), HSG (Hysterosalpingogram, a horrifying procedure featuring an unclogging of the female machinery through the use of dye inserted directly into the uterus), IUI (Intra-Uterine Insemination, the gynecological version of “capture the flag,” which we tried once and then bagged), and COH (Controlled Ovarian Hyper Stimulation, which amounts to Roger Clemens doses of uterine steroid injections meant to get those “few good eggs” ready to party).
If that weren’t enough, my actual vocabulary had been sullied as a result of words like retrieval (what my baseball players do after an overthrow), sample (borrowing old riffs and chord progressions to create, largely, hip-hop jams), and even shot (Jolly Rancher, Lemon Drop, Mind Eraser) morphing into pregnancy specific terms far superior in form and function to their predecessors.
Then came the mother lode of all OB/GYN acronyms, proven to cause a sigh of resignation or a cheer of jubilation, in one fell swoop, depending on the clients to whom it is spoken.
IVF (In Vitro Fertilization).
After our woefully unsuccessful IUI attempt, our doctor breathed this possibility in our general direction, which elicited a distinctly antithetical response from each of us.
Me: So, we still have a shot?
Wife: No, this is it. This is our last shot; then it’s over.
The fact that three letters could cause euphoria and devastation at the same time speaks to the procedure’s awesome power to create life or to forsake it. What once was a perpetual education in science was now a profound and life-altering test of faith…in science.
Almost four years ago, we ventured into our first IVF retrieval and transfer process. One miscarriage and another IVF later, we had our daughter, Abby, a process that took two-and-a-half years.
Finally, my wife and I could add three more letters each to our life’s Pinterest board.
M-O-M and D-A-D. ______________________________________________________________
Never forget the awesome responsibility you have to protect, support, nurture, challenge, and connect with your staff.
In the pantheon of ambiguously worded, cleverly passive-aggressive, pseudo compliments, “outkicking the coverage” lands firmly in my top 3. I’ve used it ad nauseam and have reveled in having to explain it to the unsuspecting buddy to whom it refers.
Derived from a term in football, outkicking the coverage means you’re dating a woman who is far too attractive to be seen with you, let alone date you on purpose. Though I don’t know if there’s a female equivalent, I remember my friend Jennie, herself a beautiful blonde mother of three, asking me if I knew what it meant because someone said it about her and her ex-husband.
Yes, of course I have. I love it! And yes, your ex definitely outkicked his coverage.
Therein lies the complexity of the euphemism. It simultaneously suggests that a woman is beautiful and her partner is, well, not. What’s the proper response, then?
Um, that’s not very nice (but thank you!).
There’s more to a relationship than looks (but thank you!).
Somehow, there are couples all over the world whose very existence evokes eyebrow raises and elbows to the ribs from gawking onlookers. Inquiring minds just want to know how those couples are even a thing.
Because sometimes things just don’t make sense, and that’s okay.
Think about some of your “best” kids. Your interactions with them are universally pleasant and positive, you look forward to seeing them, you miss them when they graduate, you know they’ll be happy, successful people. Typically, behind those kids are functional, empathetic, kind grown ups who once had the very same things said about them in their youth. So, it adds up.
Now think about some of your most challenging kids. Your interactions with them are universally forced and generic, you notice when they aren’t at school because it means they won’t be in your office that day, you worry about them when they graduate, and you aren’t sure if they’ll be happy, successful people. Typically, (way) behind those kids are dysfunctional, aloof, or absent grown ups who once had the very same things said about them in their youth. So, it adds up.
What about those kids, however, who outkick their parenting coverage? Whose temperate, well-adjusted, anomalous existence, despite having little to no grown up influence, makes us question everything about everything. Moreover, such kids inadvertently, and simultaneously, dim the brilliance of the “best” kids (because of course they’re set up for success) and shine a light on the challenging kids (because of course they’re set up to fail).
When we recognize such kids, it’s vital that we call attention to them. Praise them effusively, elevate the otherwise mundane or expected results to hero status, empower them by asking them to help us support other kids, thank them for sharing space with us.
Because as much fun as it is to make fun of our friends who have outkicked their significant other coverage, myself included, it’s just as important to remind our kids that they are so much more than the sum of their parts, especially when their parts equal a grand total of one.
As a kid, I couldn’t wait until Friday night. Without the specter of another school day looming, my friends and I would play “Jailbreak” for hours on end, losing time and making memories. The street on which I grew up, Princeton Road, was full of kids, fifteen to be exact, separated by five consecutive houses. Add to that our friends who would come from all over town to play in our weekly game, and we could easily be mistaken for the kids from Lord of the Flies, without all that pesky murder.
For the uninitiated, the rules of Jailbreak are simple. Two teams decide on a playing area, a grid, in which one can hide. Then, one team tries to capture the other and keep them in jail. However, despite being captured, players can be freed by a teammate who approaches the jail, avoids the sentry on duty, and touches the jail while yelling, “Jailbreak!” Once all the members of that team are captured, the teams switch roles. The beauty of the game is that there are no winners and losers because it is just as fun to hide as it is to seek, so the game can go on for hours.
In our case, it went on for years.
For me, the intrigue of jailbreak was in the darkness. Playing a game at night seemed somehow dangerous, somehow adult, like being in the very same yards in which we played wiffle ball during the day made us renegades. The darkness made what once was familiar an undiscovered frontier full of danger and wonder. Moreover, it was never in my own yard that I would prefer to hide. To do so would be commonplace, safe.
As I hid from my captors, I remember tiptoeing around backyards just noticing things.
The Thomases rarely used lights at night, so how did they see?
The O’Brien yard always had way more fallen branches and detritus than any other yard.
The Johnsons’ was the only yard with a chain link fence surrounding it.
The Kramers’ yard had a majestic treehouse, which no one ever used.
The Fishers’ yard, like the people inside, just seemed sad.
Make no mistake, there’s something special about a backyard at night. Whether you’re supposed to be there or not, the yard maintains its integrity, its personality.
This is what it’s like when you visit another teacher’s classroom. You know what to expect, you know how things are supposed to look, but somehow you know very little else.
At first, a cursory glance around the room provides a backdrop for the class and teacher personality: walls adorned with content specific visuals, anchor charts, and character ed reminders; a desk with understated glimpses into the teacher’s personal life or a slew of yet-to-be-scored papers; desks in rows or pods; a box of tissues or band-aids.
Then, watch that teacher in action. Notice how she pulls a small group to the back table and is still able to manage the other 20 kids during centers. Listen to the subtle way she compliments a student after an answer that had absolutely nothing to do with the question. Marvel at how his affect and intonation are the only classroom management strategies he needs. Steal every great idea that teacher has.
Next, watch the kids. Better yet, only watch the kids. Whose constant movement and inattentiveness are you noticing again and again? Which kids are natural leaders, able to lead and carry group work through to presentation? Whom are you just now noticing for the first time as if she just transferred in yesterday? Whose parents do you need to call to thank them for sharing their amazing kid with you daily?
It’s funny. Back then, I would have done anything to not get caught during Jailbreak. Now, I will do whatever I can to make sure that I’m seen.
In the gym, they stand directly in front of the weight rack while completing an exercise, making it impossible to access what you need.
In the supermarket, they leave their carts in the middle of the aisle, usually on a diagonal, while they browse a shelf, daring you to breach their line of demarcation.
At the soccer field, they meander behind you, cell phone in hand, discussing loudly how they’ll break it to the kids that sometimes grown ups make mistakes and have to “go away for a while.”
At the concert, they assault your field of vision with repeated selfie sessions while singing largely inaccurate lyrics.
They are the Space Invaders, and like their video game namesake, they just keep coming.
What’s even more menacing is there are two types of Space Invaders: those who know exactly who and what they are and simply don’t care and those who have no idea they take up the space they do. The former are beyond reproach and the latter are simply clueless.
So where does that leave the rest of us who just want to grab a bottle of Hidden Valley Fat Free Ranch off the shelf and be on our way.
The answer, my friends, is not to fix or cure the Space Invaders; rather, we need to practice self-awareness to the point at which we don’t become Space Invaders.
What true Space Invaders are incapable of understanding is how their physical presence affects those around them. Whether they constantly hover over a particular student’s desk or find themselves parked in a familiar spot in the faculty lounge, Invaders can dictate a mood, a day, or a culture.
Be mindful of your presence as often as possible. Consider if a disaffected kid needs you to move closer or to stay away. Think about how often you speak during group conversations or staff meetings. Ask yourself if your staff would describe your presence as hovering or lording.
Space Invaders tend to lock in on a certain target and allow the rest of the world to melt away around them. In some ways this can be a virtue as they are keenly focused on what’s in front of them, often literally.
To borrow from my former life as a basketball coach, keep your head on a swivel. Build an awareness of what’s going on around you, both the seen and unseen, to determine if you’re invading space or if someone needs you in their space immediately.
Like their video game namesake, Space Invaders don’t have time for all that pesky reflection. Because they’re so laser focused on what is, it doesn’t dawn on them to consider what was or what will be. They just keep invading, daring the world to stop them.
For the rest of us, reflection is what helps us determine how to best use our space daily. Whether it’s through a journal, a blog, or a happy hour, reflecting on the space we inhabit for and with our schools is what keeps us from joining forces with the Invaders. And for the daring few (like me), it’s totally worth it to ask your teachers what they need and expect an honest response. If that response is, “yeah, man, you’re kinda all up in my business, and I need you to back off,” then stand down.
Whether they’re pixelated and falling from a digital sky or wearing a sharp pants suit and standing uncomfortably close to your clearly private discussion, Space Invaders aren’t going anywhere.
So be warned, friends. And if you are an Invader, kindly let the rest of us through. We come in peace.
#formerstudentFriday is an occasional series in which former students and I team up on topics of their choosing. Through their voices and perspectives, we can level up in everything we do
When I first met Mickey Welde, I had already heard about Mickey Welde, and between us, I wasn’t buying it. There’s no way, I convinced myself, this kid is that good. Sure he was uber positive, creative and energetic, and a born leader. But there had to be some smudge mark on this kid’s record, some glaring character flaw. Nope. When you read his piece, you’ll see how wrong I was.
I’m riding the train on my way home from work. The window to my right faces south. Beneath the bridge the tide flows north. In the distance I see the stadiums.
I appreciate this part of my commute. This short stretch over the Delaware River generates gratitude and wonder. A peaceful moment to ponder the questions, “What’s going on here? What’s the purpose? Where are we headed?”
I grow still. My thought process slows. I feel present.
We complete our pass over the bridge and go under the streets of Camden. This momentary experience of intense awareness reduces as the train stops at City Hall. Strangers enter through the opening doors.
A woman sits down in front of me and a dude stands in the aisle next to her. They’re having a conversation as they approach. I hear the dude say:
“Well now that I’ve given up on all my hopes and dreams I have a lot of free time.”
[Actually… let’s have you read that correctly.]
Here’s the dude, very gossipy:
“Well NOW… that I’ve given up on all my HOPES AND DREAMS… I have ALOOOOTTTTTTTTT of free time.”
Talk about a first impression.
“College lied to me… College said I would make a difference in kid’s lives. And now… AND NOW!… Well… Now I believe it’s all a WASTE OF TIME! College was a waste of money! I wanted to be a teacher in the 80s…90s… and early 2000s…PRETTY MUCH BEFORE I BECAME A TEACHER!”
It sounds like a story he tells often. I think about how painful it is to be around negativity. I put on headphones as the dude continues talking:
“He asked me… Where’s your word wall? And I’m like … MY WORD WALL! Where’s my word wall? I never once saw a word wall in high school! I CAN’T BELIEVE HE EXPECTS ME TO MAKE A WORD WALL!”
It feels like an in-person Facebook rant. I catch myself being impacted by the negative energy. I pick the first song I see, “Crack the Case” by Dawes.
The dude’s voice disappears. I watch the familiar sites go by. I feel relaxed.
Intense focus and presence re-enter my being.
There’s a lyric that says, “It’s really hard to hate anyone when you know what they’ve lived through.”
When deciding to share this story I thought about you. Many of you are teachers, administrators, and leaders who deal with tough situations, undedicated students, and unnecessary word walls. We all have complicated lives.
No one on Earth knows your complete story. Just like I don’t know this dude on the train’s full story. This interaction doesn’t define the dude’s character; however, it gives us a glimpse into some pain he’s going through.
Life is difficult. If I had the chance again I would smile at him.
Teachers and counselors are on the front line of acclimating this world’s youth into society, which is a near impossible (but important) job. People depend on you to bring positivity into your teaching and to speak life into young people’s situations. Despite the resistance I know you’re up for the task.
However, for anyone considering “giving up on all your hopes and dreams” like the dude on the train, take a moment to step back and appreciate the position you’re in. Breathe.
If zero things are appealing to you about your job, that is okay!
Your potential students and I will appreciate it if you try a new career path.
[That’s a win-win for everyone!]
If teaching is no longer making you happy, it’s cool. Sorry you wasted money, but do something else that is fulfilling and motivates you every day.
No matter what field you’re in, you are constantly influencing the people around you. A person’s past interactions, relationships, or disputes do not matter today. Gratitude is contagious so find things that make you appreciate your life.
Everyone deserves your best moving forward, especially you. Be a teacher or mentor who spreads love and appreciation. Be a role model of compassion and kindness. Be grateful and find a way to inject positive outlooks into the lives around you.
Mickey Welde lives in Mount Holly, NJ with his three favorite ladies — wife Julie, daughter Quinn, and cat Beefy. For the last five years he’s worked at the Curtis Institute of Music as Assistant Video Editor and Audio-Visual Arts Coordinator. Mick likes spending time outdoors appreciating this beautiful planet and documenting the mysteries of life. He serves as Production Team Leader at LHT Church in Lumberton, NJ and is a firm believer in spreading kindness. Go love everyone!