Dear Pre-Service Teachers

Dear pre-service teachers,

I don’t mean to sound pessimistic, but things will go wrong. Like 2020 wrong. With no toilet paper left. Your degree will generally provide you with enough essentials to meet your daily needs – but sometimes, you just run out. Once in a while, whether due to poor planning or simply a sh*tty set of circumstances, you’ll find yourself with an empty roll and no idea what to do next. I’ve experienced an ‘empty roll’ situation on every one of my student-teaching placements, and it is certainly humbling.

During my first field experience, my partner and I failed miserably at teaching soccer to third graders. The first problem was that we were teaching as if we were coaching young athletes. Then, there was the fact that we weren’t on the same page about that lesson, and had only finished planning an hour earlier. As students stood around with no clue what they were supposed to be doing, and my partner tried explaining it again, I let my emotions get the best of me. I walked away. Literally. Let my partner deal with the situation as I went to sit with our cooperating teachers (CT). “WHAT DO WE DO?!” I whispered loudly to them, holding my head in my hands. They both laughed. They were clearly entertained by two confident student-teachers scrambling to save a lesson that was so far past gone. They told me to go back with my partner and just “figure something out.” Not the answer I was looking for. We stopped the drills and started a mini-game, which worked out as well as can be expected considering the players were a classful of confused third graders. Once the frustration wore off, we laughed about the whole mess.

The trouble with finding yourself with an empty roll is that, chances are, it will happen to you again at some point. Cue field placement three: high school this time, outdoors. It was the last period before a long weekend, and one of those days that makes you understand why teachers say snow storms wreak havoc on students’ behaviour. My CT was with a student in the gym, finishing up some fitness testing, so I was alone for all of fifteen minutes (which, normally, wasn’t a problem). Honestly, the lesson is a bit of a blur – attempts at classroom management through positive pinpointing, waiting for silence, sending a student inside… I was so relieved when I saw my CT step outside! I left the students in the middle of their misbehaviour, and told her, “I don’t know what to do!” She said she’d bring a student to the office while I figured something out. Again, not the answer I was looking for. So, they played some very disorganized games and we went inside early. Then we had a good laugh once the students were gone.

Our soccer lesson from year one – which we still refer to as our disaster – taught me that it’s important for co-teachers to be a cohesive team with good communication. Otherwise, you end up like roommates who each expected the other to buy the toilet paper – in an unpleasant situation, blaming each other.

In each case, my CTs de-briefed me afterwards, but both empty roll scenarios remind me that we learn best through discovery. As infuriating as it was to be told twice to “figure something out,” it has led me to be more vigilant when a lesson starts going downhill – and to not be afraid to switch gears completely if the situation calls for it.

If you take anything away from this 2020-esque analogy, let it be this: communicate with your colleagues, trust your training, and keep in mind that while univerrsity may be the Costco bulk-buy that gets you started, you still need to run to the store (read: mentors and professional development) occasionally to stay on top of your game. Oh – and be sure to have a good laugh about those empty roll situations when they happen – because who doesn’t love a good sh*t story?

Wishing you a plentiful supply as you navigate through your field placements!

Best regards,
Katherine Willcocks

Dear Charlie

Dear Charlie,

You’ve been gone a week now.

I miss you.

I put your food dish in the trash on Thursday – the blue one with four rubber paws. I would’ve kept it longer, but Frosty broke it two weeks ago, remember? I put a plastic container in it so you could still use it.

I love you.

Last night, as I headed to bed, I almost bent over near the side of the bed to give you a kiss goodnight. The way I used to – remember? Two pats on the head and one kiss; because back in elementary school, I read in a library book that it’s good to have a signal to let you know when it was time to stop playing, and relax. I didn’t stick to our little signal during the day for long – but every night that I was home with you, since then, that’s how I kissed you goodnight.

It hurts the most in the evening.

I don’t think I had ever realized just how many sounds you made: the sound of your paws on the floor, your tags hitting your metal water dish, your loud coughing, your snores, the clinking of your tags as you walked. I clipped your collar onto my jeans that day, Charlie. Didn’t want to take it off that night, because I wasn’t ready to not hear that sound every day.

The house is quieter now, Charlie.

The house is quieter. It hurts the most in the evening. I love you. I miss you.

Head Over Cleats: First Love

I hadn’t even planned on working at camp that summer. I should’ve been at school, but instead, I was outdoors. Paid to fib to children about the existence of fantastic, magical creatures – really, there is no better job. And I landed there almost by accident.

So there I was that night, at a camp party, at 16. Life can really take you by surprise!

I had barely noticed you over the six preceding weeks – I had been so caught up in experiencing this new world. I didn’t even know you yet, but honestly, by the end of that night, I would’ve welcomed a kiss from you. I remember the sparkle in your eyes, by the light of the campfire that evening, late into the month of June. I didn’t think I believed in love at first sight. Looking back now though, I should consider reconsidering.

A mutual friend introduced us during the dinner portion of the party. She switched places so you’d be sitting accross the picnic table from me. I can’t remember much of the conversation, but I’ll never forget the gift you received from another animator as a joke about your camp name – a pair of pink socks, much too small for your size twelve feet.

I recall watching you carefully, studying you really, as I did often that summer. I’m not sure how long it took until I realized that you were looking to get to know me, in that way. But I was a bit naïve, and quite frankly, fairly clueless about dating. I think I figured it out around dessert, after which we, along with my sister and two other friends, headed off to experience some ordinary camp activities in the darkness of a mid-summer night. Alright, not quite mid-summer, but almost.

You worked in maintenance, and I was a lifeguard, which means I didn’t know my way around the forest as well as you. The dark woods created a perfect atmosphere for horror stories, but I’ve always been a bit of a scaredy Kat (get it? Yeah okay, nevermind). So the girls stayed behind, knowingly sharing scary tales to keep me away, giving the two of us a moment alone.

You took a shortcut through the trees, and I wasn’t sure if I trusted you to not get us lost. I followed you anyway, and you could’ve kissed me that night, in the woods. But you didn’t. I stepped aside slightly, narrowing the distance between us. I still don’t know whether or not you’d noticed. It didn’t matter; it was a nearly perfect night, swinging from a wooden swing in the forest, rock climbing indoors, swimming in the lake at midnight, and watching the fireworks over the moonlit water.

During the following 13 days, we both spoke more than we probably had with anybody else ever (in that amount of time). Our conversations often converged into a game of 20 Questions, or rather, an adapted version, through which we learnt much about each other and each other’s family. We were constantly teased by the children from daycamp – apparently, sitting together on the lifeguard chair during breaks wasn’t quite subtle enough.

On the 12th of July, you came home with me before a  Thursday night soccer game. I still remember the outfit I was wearing – and I still won’t let myself throw it out, even though the clothes don’t quite fit right anymore. After dinner, we strolled down the hill to the nearby waterfall.Sitting on the rocks in the woods, next to a calmer part of the water, we settled into our routine of 20 Questions.

I asked you about your favourite colour (green, blue) and which foods you don’t like (peppers, tomatoes, onions, and sometimes mushrooms). You asked about my pets (Arhtur, Monika, Charlie), and my hobbies (soccer, swimming, writing). Then the questions dove into a new level of personal. We discussed our issues, our dreams, our secrets, and our ambitions. You really could’ve kissed me then. But you didn’t. Honestly, I was starting to get impatient.

We left the falls and undertook the short, uphill walk back home, along the bikepath. From the minute we left the woods behind us, you were acting a bit different. A bit sullen, but that’s not quite the right word. You seemed to be a little disappointed with yourself, though I didn’t really realize this until you told me later. I had realized something was bothering you, so I pushed you to talk about it, but you didn’t. And we kept on walking.

Near the top of the hill, I was stopped mid-step, as you held my hand without mentioning it, and had suddenly remained still. Not expecting this change in momentum, I was still as well for a second. A woman on a bike rode by – not on the bicycle path – watching us. It’s so fresh in my mind, it’s like it was today. Like it was happening now:

I turn towards you and look up to your eyes: you’re nervous. You bend a little, narrowing the distance between our lips. Yours so close to mine. Before we touch, I tilt my head downwards. Putting my hand on your chest for the first time, I whisper “no” – very, very quietly. You sigh, and wrap your arms around me, as I bury my face in your white t-shirt, mumbling about being shy because it would be my first kiss.

Don’t read this wrong, I sincerely wanted to share that special moment with you. I was head-over-heals, first-love, absolutely happy. But I was nervous too.

I’d been waiting, expecting you to kiss me at some point, but I had been so caught up in the moment; I hadn’t the time to analyze or even think about the logistics of it all. At that moment, I remember the sudden realization that I knew nothing about something so basic. Desiring, but panicking, worried thoughts floated about in my head: How does it work exactly? Do we just touch lips? What do I do?

I lift my head up again, standing on my tiptoes. I let you take the lead. The woman on the bike rides by again. She cheers upon witnessing our kiss. We both laugh, standing in the middle of the bike path, blissfully unaware of the time. I’m late for soccer, but I don’t even notice.

I arrive just in time for the start of the game.

That night, I’m in nets, and I have the biggest, goofiest smile on my face. I can’t help it; you swept me off my cleats.

Walk Away

Walk, don’t run. I’ve gotten insanely used to repeating, rephrasing and translating this directive to the children who attend the free swims at the pool at which I work. Anybody who really spends time with kids is likely also well acquainted with this phrase. Adults are accustomed to warning offspring of the dangers of being in a rush, yet we grown-ups hurry through life at alarming pace on a daily basis. A little hypocritical of us, don’t you think? Maybe we should listen to ourselves and take the time to stop and smell the pollution to which our busy lifestyle contributes immensely, in this world of consumerism.

Yesterday, I must admit, I ran. It was fair game though; I was intentionally going for a run. I didn`t intend, however, on seeing as many awesome sights as I wound up encountering. After a few kilometers, the rose-smelling side of me got the best of me. I slowed my pace and eventually even stopped to take in an original piece of concept art that I found in the NDG/CDN neighbourhood. I stumbled upon a hollowed-out television monitor that was sitting casually atop a tree stump in a grassy section that separated the two sides of the street. Around the remains of the tree, weeds grew among the few wild flowers, encompassing the work of the unknown modern artist who had planted orange flowers in the skeleton of the television on which they had written, “The show must grow on”. Accompanying the scene was the remark, “when you throw something away, where is ‘away’?” Whoever’s work this was, they certainly left an impression – and made a good point. As a society, and as individuals, we should be more preoccupied with waste management and more aware of environmental sustainability than we are now. After all, everything we discard must, by the laws of physics, end up somewhere. As scientist Antoine Lavoisier famously stated, “Nothing is lost, nothing is created, everything is transformed”.

With this in mind, next time you find yourself rushing about your city, allow yourself a minute to breathe and be grateful for the fresh air around you. Do as you say, not as you are doing; walk, child – don’t run.

Picture Perfect

The new sign planted at the base of the cemented steps to our town house felt like my first contact with the harshness of reality. Arriving home after a day at kindergarten, I thought about how unnatural it looked to see that real estate sign in front of our house, stuck into our ground. We weren’t simply moving, we were moving away. My family was leaving Montreal, heading to a small town located north-east of the city, approximately a three-Barney’s drive up the highway (about an hour in grown-up time). We would say goodbye to my first home before the end of the school year. My twin and I often joke with people now about how we “didn’t even finish kindergarten”, as we left Montreal in the beginning of June. At the time however, it was no laughing matter for two six-year-olds about to walk away from the only place they’d ever called home.

I remember the serious-sounding conversation between the real estate agent and my parents, all sitting around the kitchen table. The lighting seemed dimmer than usual; perhaps my memory fails me here, maybe I see it that way due to my mindset at the time. I didn’t know the lady but I already didn’t like her. When she left, my parents explained the essentials to my sister and I, who were both more than bummed about everything; that night is the first memory I have of myself crying. The two of us drenched our pillows with tears as we fought to find sleep later that evening. I hadn’t lived much, but I already didn’t like change. Unleashed emotions littered the heavy atmosphere of our shared bedroom, noisily enough to send our dad in for another chat about the upcoming move.

I don’t know if I cried any of the following nights, but I was pleasantly surprised by an enjoyable moving day. Our movers were excellent entertainers. Ben and Jerry – Gerry? – something like that. They were comical; always smiling and joking around. They turned it into a good day. We made use of the new yard as soon as we arrived at the new house (which had belonged to my great-grandmother before she passed). We feasted on pizza and soft drinks while the movers did tricks such as hand-stands and walking on their hands. They could juggle too (like my dad). The yard was a giant happy place, and the house was really big (that must’ve been the words my six-year-old self used to describe it). I liked our new home in the village, it felt like we became a better family there; picture perfect.

We certainly had a good family image during most of our time in that house; three well-behaved children doing very well in school, helping out with the family business from time to time. Many winters, we made a skating rink in the yard (and once, a small ice slide). Every summer there’d be barbecues in the back, with campfires, roasted marshmallows and our parents playing country music on the guitar while my twin and I played on the family-sized hammock hung by one of our many gardens. Our two dogs, Arthur and Charlie, enjoyed the time outdoors (and the occasional “dropped” hot-dog, of course). Every evening we spent outside like that, the cat, Monika, spent sitting in the kitchen window, watching us. My sister would go in and pet her every now and then; giving her special attention once we came in for the night. I don’t think I’ll ever forget those summer nights.

We worked on the house a lot throughout primary school; it seemed there was always something to be scraped, painted, varnished, or repaired. We painted the basement floor white. This really made an impression on traditional little me, who had a hard time accepting that paint could go elsewhere than on the ceiling and the walls. We added a billiard table down there along with my dad’s record player and a whopping amount of board games and other childhood accumulations. It was a great, albeit messy, place to hang out.

The basement wasn’t the only cool area; we also had painted a chalkboard on the entire upper half of one of our kitchen walls. All kinds of things wound up drawn or written up there. Chelsea, my older sister, had a friend who once wrote “Tina was here” way up high and it stayed there for over a decade I’m sure. Many of our friends had written similar messages throughout the years, generally behind the spot where Poly’s bird cage once hung. Another one of Chelsea’s friends had written above the door. It read: “I’m off” said the madman. I didn’t understand that one for a long time.

Life was amazing in our new home, absolutely picture perfect. The problem with all things picture perfect, however, is that it is mainly an illusion, a façade. Things were also pretty messed up, I just didn’t pick up on it for a while. When I was a kid, the awesomeness meshed nicely with the not-so-cool aspects of life, making up a great childhood. As I grew up, it began to seem as though the perfection in our family picture was, in part, a sort of Photoshop phenomenon. Chelsea had moved out, I’d started high school. I’d started writing. Things were changing, things were crazy.

Eventually, the photograph tore – my parents divorced, and we sold the house to move into a duplex with my dad. Arthur didn’t make the journey with us; he was nearly thirteen by then, and his good days were few and far apart. We put him to sleep and buried him under the birdbath in my grandmother’s yard. Our yard, his yard, had been bought by the municipality of what was now our city and would soon become a public parking lot (our house stood right behind the town hall).

This move was traumatizing, even though I understood life better by then, and regardless of the fact that we were moving just down the street. I hated the new place at first, and it was much smaller. Packing took months – we had a two story shed full of stuff to sort through and get rid of, not to mention three floors worth of things in the house and a cottage on the property also fully furnished and packed with books and materials for my parent’s language school. Moving day was even more ridiculous than packing. It took us from before seven in the morning until half past midnight to finish carting boxes out of the house and into either my mother’s apartment or my dad’s new place.

I cried more intensely that night, at seventeen, than I did when I was six. The day was emotionally challenging and physically exhausting. Both the old place, which I still sometimes call home, and the new place (which I mostly refer to as the duplex) were absolutely upside-down. Even with the mess, there was still, surprisingly, an ounce of perfection left in our story. Our last few moments in that house were like the perfect finale to a television series that had run for twelve years.

My twin, my dad and I stood in the empty kitchen, thinking too much to say anything. It was July 2^nd 2013, only thirty minutes into the night. We stared at the chalkboard that nobody had the heart to erase, my dad’s sigh breaking the silence. “’I’m off’ said the madman”, he announced. Ironic and well-timed, it was perfect.

Would You Follow Me?

Where should I even begin?

Writing this, I want to make it crafty, nifty, and neat. Thinking this, I want to make it straightforward, direct, and… depressing. But it shouldn’t be depressing, should it? I mean, sure, it is a recount of life, of the limbo of a world we live in, where the fuzzy, overlapping borders of heaven and hell are found. But still… there ought to be more to it. Maybe I’m just not seeing it, maybe I just haven’t come across it. Then again, I probably have. Where am I going with this again? … oh right. I must ask you something:

If I were to just leave, would you come with me?

Here’s the thing: Today is just not cutting it for me anymore. And no, by today, I don’t mean today.  I just mean today, every day, present time, life. Yeah that’s it… life’s not cutting it anymore for me. Ok well… not life per say, just my life, my daily, ordinary, exhausting life. So anyway, I was thinking maybe I’d leave today. Alright, maybe not today, maybe tomorrow. Only, I don’t want to say that I’ll leave tomorrow, because then I’ll never go. I’ve been waiting for tomorrow for nineteen years, and it has never shown. Every day is today. So, I thought, just maybe, I’d leave today.

For a gazillion todays, I’ve been planning for tomorrow. (I’ve also been remembering yesterday, but who’s to say yesterday ever really happened?) Tomorrow never comes, and life happens instead of whatever I planned. I realize, now, that I could plan to live. What if life was my plan for tomorrow, my plan for all my next todays? If I suddenly decided to live, to leave, to get on a plane and go, go anywhere and everywhere, would you follow me?

I’m sorry, but I have to know. Please, you must tell me.

I would leave school and work, both things I used to love. I would leave my hometown, I swear. I’d find the courage somehow, someday – perhaps tomorrow? Before I up and leave, before I walk away, there’s one thing that will change my whole game, one thing I need to know. If I act on a whim, if I travelled the world, would you come and find me? Or would that be the end?

…

Listen, I know you like my company, but I’ve got things to do. I have a life to live, and I can’t live it with you. So if I walk away, oh my darn misery, if I walk away, would you stay? Stay behind, that is, because I’m really not sure if I could handle leaving if you were to come with me. For once do me a favor, and when I leave, if I leave… please look the other way.

McIntosh Leaders

Leadership can be seen under many angles. Martin Luther King was a leader. Adolf Hitler was a leader. Obama is a leader. Our mothers and fathers are leaders. None of these people led the same way; the methods used to guide another reflect the end goal desired. Though the techniques applied by each may vary, history has taught us that the most successful figures in the world’s society generally have at least one thing in common; the gift of gab. They know how to communicate in such a manner that they can climb the proverbial food chain quicker and with more ease than everybody else… almost everyone that is, because where there is leadership, there is opposition, be it organized, disorganized, chaotic, collective, or individual. A strong leader knows how to handle the pressure of rebellion. A great leader knows how to use it to their advantage, how to include the rebellious to a point where rebels become followers without noticing the transition. We are Canadians. We live in a democratic country; we choose our political leaders. We socialize in an educated society; we judge our intellectual leaders. We make our choices and our judgments based on our logic and our history. However, in order to do so, we must have strong footing. We are walking on the foundation our education lays down for us, moving forward one baby-step at a time, supported by the knowledge our teachers have shared with us. It takes a village to raise a child. It takes educators to raise a village. A great teacher is the most influential leader the human race will ever see.

Little Me

I once knew this woman who – wait no, that’s all wrong.

You see, there was this girl, this bright-eyed, happy, pensive, imaginative little kid with looks to kill. No really, if looks could kill… The gaze she cast upon many unintentionally portrayed her way of deeply analyzing anything and everything. Ever since she was a baby, one could tell that she was lost in vivid thought by the way she held her eyes. She would observe so intently the processes she was attempting to understand or the person from whom she was gathering information; it was as though nothing else around her existed. Yet, she was always so aware of her surroundings. Learning drove her, ambition fed her. The girl’s persistent personality surfaced as she seemed to knit-pick the world. Her body language was often uninviting and closed, or maybe just cold, but her mind was wide open as the golden-brown gates to her soul were constantly ajar. She could see her energy and motivation in the gaze her reflection cast upon herself.

Recently, however, she finds it more and more difficult to retrieve that spark of ambition that is deeply nestled inside her by now; she has trouble detecting it in the mirror. In fact, writing this now, I am wondering if I will ever grow up to be just as driven and inspired as I was as a bright-eyed, happy, pensive, and imaginative little kid with a killer stare.

Fitness Through Digging

Would you spend fifty straight hours outdoors in the winter? If you would, you should really check out the Intensive Winter Camping 102 fitness course at Vanier College. If you wouldn’t… well maybe you need some convincing.

This course is offered every winter semester, and the main part of it (the actual outdoor time) takes place late February to ensure moderate or mild weather conditions. It is an intensive course, so you only need to think about it four weeks of the semester – leaving more time for studying… or Netflix. This year’s trip occurred from February 27^th through March 1^st. Twenty-four students and eight instructors were involved. Some may say the best part of the class is that it doesn’t begin until just before Valentine’s Day and it’s over by the first week of March. Having participated this semester, I’d argue that the greatest advantage in taking this class is living an experience like no other, and doing so with total strangers who become instant friends.

In fact, things do happen quickly on this three-day camping trip to Camp Tamaracouta. It was astounding to remark how quickly going to one’s quinzee (the hallowed-out heaps of snow in which we slept) became “going to my room”, the same way a sleeping bag on the ground turned into a bed, entering the emergency tent became “going inside”, and using the wooden box with a hole in it was referred to as “going to the washroom”. People with little to no experience camping (let alone during the winter) were chopping wood, building a fire, and (pretty much) successfully cooking a meal over the hot embers.

There is one particular activity campers really got good at – that is if being good at something can be measured in how much time you spend doing said thing; digging. Though the quantity of snow was nothing compared to last year’s trip, many hours were spent shoveling, especially on Friday the 27^th. The teacher, William (Bill) Mitchel, often brought up a crack about renaming the course “Fitness Through Digging” during the theory sessions. Most of us didn’t imagine it would be quite so intense. In all, the shoveling wasn’t too bad as it provided a very efficient mean of staying warm.

Saturday afternoon, students split into two groups for activities. One group went animal tracking (and found some blood) while the other went river-walking. Unfortunately, the ice was too thin in some of the river sections (yes, two people did get their feet wet), so most of the walking was done on the shore and not on the frozen water. However, the group did get a chance to enjoy some time on Lac Wilson, accompanied by beautiful, very welcomed sunshine. That evening, all thirty-two campers gathered ‘round the large campfire sheltered from the wind by mounds of snow, answering a riddle, listening to bear stories, and altogether enjoying each other’s company.

Sunday morning, those who wanted to headed to the camp’s toboggan hill for some celebratory sledding. By then, there were only a few hours left of the weekend, and it was a chance for those who hadn’t had the time yet to simply return to their childhood days of playing in the snow with friends. Bill took a great number of photos during the sledding (and over the course of the trip), that will be available on the Vanier Physical Education Facebook page once they are sorted through.

Reading all this may have helped you make up your mind about this class, but just in case you still have doubts…

• Almost all of the equipment is provided by the college (included in the course fee); boots, sleeping equipment, cook sets, shovels, backpacks, etc.. Students merely need to get their hands on their own personal clothing, snowsuit, toiletries, and food.
• No, there are no chalets or running water, but;
• You sleep in an igloo-like structure, and;
• If you sleep in base layers only you will be warm
• You won’t mind the cold when it comes time to relieve yourself because you will have held it in for so long that it’ll be just that – a relief.
• It doesn’t matter if you don’t know anyone else – you will make friends
• Bill has a scary story for every lake (the validity of them is questionable)
• The answer to the riddle is double letters
• You will probably get used to the taste of ashes in your hot chocolate

If you’re still not sure whether or not Winter Camping is the right fitness course for you… there’s only one way to find out for sure!