What Having My Phone Stolen Taught Me About Myself

Look at me, I'm a nice new phone whose pictures haven't been backed up! Wanna take me for a field trip?

It’s 2:30pm and the florescent lights in my classroom are flickering ominously.

It’s been another long day and my patience dried up around 2nd period. I broke up a fight in 5th and spent the afternoon emailing a parent sending my condolences because one of my student’s grandmother had died.

Then there was the Inauguration.

My students were fidgety, the buzz of what would come in the next 4 years looming over our heads like a muddled storm cloud.

But I was optimistic. For a reason unknown to me I felt a surge of rebirth at the start of 7th period. It was a project work day. My upperclassmen Psychology class would be working on their “Build-A-Brain” projects today.

I unearthed an unusual amount of crafting supplies from my closet.

“Alright y’all,” I said enthusiastically. “I’ve got paint, I’ve got glue, I’ve got Popsicle sticks, string, a hot glue gun -about the glue gun please be careful, I’ve burned myself on this thing at least 5 times this year…”

I set them to work; my hope in humanity revived as they reached for paint brushes and rifled through old magazines for pictures.

“Miss, can we add a Cerebellum to our brain?” A student asked.

“A Cerebellum?” I said. “Well of COURSE you can add a Cerebellum, Christine! That’s my favorite part of the brain!”

As I watched their creative gears turning madly I began to feel hopeful. I loved these kids. And they loved me. It was now 3pm on a Friday and we were happily working to create visual representations of our own beautiful brains.

I turned around to see Michelle painting her hand purple.

“Michelle?”

“Yes, Miss?

“What are you doing, my little angel?”

“Oh, I’m painting my hand,” she smiled. “I like how the paint and brush feel on my hand.”

It was the most adorable thing I’d ever seen take place in my classroom. This was a room filled with 17 and 18 year olds yet she was as pure and innocent as a Kindergardener on the first day of school.

I wanted to capture her in this moment; so happy and messy like a child.

So I took my phone from my drawer. I opened Snapchat to videotape her and her purple hand.

“Whatcha doin’, Michelle?” I asked holding down the record button.

“Painting my hand,” she said.

“How good of a teacher is Ms. H?”

“She’s the best,”

“That’s right, she’s the best because she let you paint your hand. That’s right.”

I sent the video to my closest friends and put the phone back in my pocket. I laughed with her and the others at their adorable nature then handed them my Clorox wipes.

“Now don’t get any of that paint on your sweater or your mom’s going to kill me,” I fake scolded.

It was moments like these that I treasured more than anything; the tiny instances of a child’s kindness and innocence. It was all I ever wanted to hold onto that 10 seconds forever.

And now I could. I’d captured it on my cell phone.

I knew it wasn’t necessarily allowed to do these kinds of things in school, but it was for me. It was my own little record of how much I adored my students.

When thinking about the fact that I was not supposed to be using my cell phone in my own classroom I hastily took the phone out of my pocket and put it back in my desk drawer. I heard it hit the bottom of the drawer with a small thud.  

I circulated back through the room to check in on students. Many of them were now ripping paper, gluing, and making an altogether fuss about which flavor of frosting to use on their brain cake. I joined them in their excitement and helped them think of creative ways to show me the functions of each lobe of the brain.

I checked back at the clock. Time had accelerated at unknown intervals.

“Alright folks!” I shouted over their buzzing. “Time to clean up! Man, time really flies when you’re having fun, doesn’t it? Just like that article we read on the first week of school about how the brain processes time –” I trailed off as we threw the craft supplies back into bins and I scoured the floor for trash.

“HEY, don’t you be leaving without your piece of trash and a smile, people! You owe me one piece of trash and a smile at the door and then you don’t even have to see me for 3 whole days!” I always tried to leave for the weekend with a spotless classroom. 7th period usually took one for the team and were tasked with finding every small scrap of paper on the floor before they were allowed to leave.

“…Piece of trash and a smile, thank you, Thomas. Piece of trash and a smile, Christine -and what a lovely smile, Christine! Thank you Jose, piece of trash and a smile, Clair have a lovely weekend –”

I probably sound like a fucking flight attendant.  

As they exited I noticed a student packing up slowly, reminding me that I needed to print him the notes that he’d asked for earlier.

“Oh, don’t go anywhere, let me go pick up those notes off the printer for you!” I hurried out of the room, leaving him unattended. None of this crossed my mind as dangerous territory because I was so happy that I’d ended the day on a high note.

Now I could go home and binge watch The OA and make some mac and cheese with extra cheese.

The printer needed more paper, so it hadn’t printed his notes. I filled the paper drawer and waited patiently as the pages printed. I’d forgotten to only print the few pages he needed so the document printing was quite long. It was taking a while so I thought I’d grab my student so that he wouldn’t think I’d left him high and dry.

“Hey, sorry it’s taking so long,” I said as I walked back into the room. “Why don’t you join me in the office and then you can grab them when they’re done?” I attempted small talk for a few minutes.

The notes finally finished printing and I handed them to him happily.

“Here you go! Have a great weekend!” As I handed them to him he was already on the phone with someone.

“Hey, where you at?” He said to his friend. He barely made eye contact and jutted out the office door and down the hallway. He seemed just as ready to go home on a Friday as I was. No matter.

It was 3:30pm now and I was slowly reorganizing my craft bins and getting ready to leave. A few students rolled in to say goodbye to me and I remembered that as tired as I was today, we’d survived another week together. 22 of them to be exact. And we’d still have another 20 some odd weeks ahead of us to get to summer. But we were in this together.

As I packed up my bag I reached into my drawer to grab my cell phone. It wasn’t there.

Hmm, that’s odd. I thought. I could have sworn I threw it in there after Michelle painted her hand.

I checked my bag. Nope.

Jacket pockets. Nope.

Floor. Nope.

Holy fucking shit where is my cell phone.

I’d done this sort of thing about a million times since my head injury. It’s normal for most people to misplace things, but for someone like me it’s a much larger problem.

If I don’t really focus on what I’m doing it wouldn’t be hard to put my keys in the freezer or leave my phone in the fridge.

I struggle with my memory on a minute to minute basis.

Okay, keep calm. I told myself. Walk backwards in a circle and retrace your steps.

I’d taken it out to record the painting incident. Put it in my pocket for a few minutes. And then put it…in my drawer right? Or was it in my bag? No, I already emptied my bag onto the floor five times already. Could I have hid it in the file cabinet? That’s insane. Yet I could see myself doing that...

I walked myself through all of the hypotheticals imaginable. All except the most obvious: theft.

A teacher friend walked by my room and I flagged her down.

“Hey, can you call my phone real quick?”

She called once and it rang through to voicemail. I crawled under my desk searching for the sound.

“I’ll call it again,” she said.

I waited anxiously for my phone to erupt from a pile of papers or fall from the ceiling tiles.

“Straight to voicemail this time,” she said.

“What does that mean?”

“It means whoever stole your phone just shut it off,”

I sank to the carpet. I couldn’t believe it. It couldn’t be. It was impossible. How could my students steal from me? A teacher who let them paint their hands purple and printed them missing notes on demand?

I sat in disbelief for several minutes thinking of what to do. I turned back on my computer and typed “FIND MY PHONE” into the search bar. I downloaded a Samsung tracker. The only problem was that it needed to be turned on and connected to WiFi to be tracked. No dice.

I went to my classroom phone and dialed my dad. One of 3 numbers I have memorized.

“Hi Dad,” I cried. “My phone’s been stolen, what do I do?”

It had never occurred to me what to do in such a situation. Should I call the police? Just go home? How do I contact someone if I get hurt? Send them a carrier pigeon? Are pay phones still a viable option?

Dad called T-Mobile to shut off the device and I sat in traffic in agony for the next hour. The entire drive home I lamented over who it could possibly be. It felt horrible; sitting there in my misery trying to decide which student had betrayed me.

When I got home I opened my laptop and went directly to the Samsung Search App. Within seconds of logging in a tiny flag popped up on the screen.

YOUR PHONE IS HERE. At the intersection of Colfax and Fulton.

On Colfax? What the fuck?

I typed in the intersection on Google Maps and a pawn shop popped up on the corner.

OH HELL NO, I shouted at my screen.

It was true. My cell phone hadn’t sprouted legs and taken a leisurely stroll down Colfax. A student had taken it from my desk and had sold it to a pawn shop within the hour.

Now at this point in the story I became Liam Neeson.

I immediately pulled up my 7th period roster and began Google Mapping each of their addresses to see who was closest to the pawn shop. I even called my phone using Skype credits (that I had to pay for…most expensive voicemail of my life) and left a threatening message.

“This is Ms. Hayes speaking. The OWNER of this phone. Now listen up and listen good. I DON’T KNOW WHO YOU ARE. BUT I WILL FIND YOU.”

I took out the murdering part of the monologue because it’s kind of frowned upon to threaten to kill a student. Nevertheless, my head was reeling with excitement at finding the phone.

After calling the pawn shop from Skype it was discovered that another teacher’s phone (a friend of mine down in the art department where several of my students visited during my class to “get paper”) had been taken that same time, and she’d tracked her phone to the same store. I asked them if a young high school kid had come in that evening and they described him as a young black male, but that was all they could say. I later learned he was caught on tape at the school in the other teacher’s classroom.

I knew who it was. It was the student that I’d printed notes for after school. The one who’s life was finally turning around after being in jail last year. The one that was finally starting to show up to class. The one that wanted his missing work so that he could be successful.

As my dad tried to rifle through old phone boxes over Skype looking for my phone’s serial number I began to cry.

Of course I was distraught about being without a phone, but more than anything I was upset that he had hurt me. The phone had been wiped clean. The past two years of my life in pictures and videos and contacts and he’d destroyed them in an instant.

And worst of all he’d destroyed me.

I cried until my tears filled my mouth. I choked on them and spat them back out again. Two years of teaching in this classroom and I’d never felt this hurt by another person.

Someone that I believed in, trusted, and wanted the very best for in the whole world.

By the time my roommate came home I was all dried up. I’d used up my tears and was now drinking wine to re-hydrate myself to cry some more.

But then something amazing happened.

I didn’t know what time it was.

I’d begun my mac and cheese binge on the couch. Time had passed. But how much? I had no idea.

I also didn’t know if anyone was trying to get a hold of me.

I’d sent some panicked Facebook messages to my mom and a few select friends. But other than that nobody was talking to me.

I also wasn’t anticipating anything.

No creepy Tinder messages or parent emails to pop up on my bright little screen.

When I decided to go to bed I had no idea how I was going to wake up in the morning.

“Do you have,” I hesitated. “An alarm clock?” I asked my roommate.

“I don’t,” she said. “But you can use my old broken phone as an alarm clock if you want to,”

It felt ridiculous. It was almost as if time didn’t exist without my phone. I was no longer aware of it or how I was to keep track of myself in time and space.

In the morning I didn’t know how cold it was outside. I walked to breakfast with my best friend without a heavy jacket because I hadn’t checked my phone for the temperature outside.

When I drove to the Women’s March in Denver after breakfast I wasn’t positive where I should park or which route was the best to get there. So I just got in the car and drove to where I thought I should go.

When I got to the rally I couldn’t take pictures. I couldn’t Snapchat or Instagram or Tweet. I couldn’t share with the world that I was there or show them the amazing protest signs I saw. I couldn’t text my friends to see where they were so that I could stand by them.

Amidst 200,000 people I was somehow all on my own. Until I realized that I didn’t need my phone to enjoy the incredible historic scene before me.

I didn’t even need my phone to find my friends. I ran into my friend Patty and my work buddy Corey in a crowd of thousands.

And although I wanted more than anything to take pictures and share my experience, it forced me to truly be present. As I stood in that crowd with no way to contact anyone I listened to the words, “Women move mountains” over and over again as my heart filled with tremendous joy.

My student hurt me when he took my phone. He hurt me when I smiled at him as it sat in his pocket and he said nothing and he hurt me again when he cleaned out all of the memories in that small plastic device and sold it to a pawn shop.

I will never again see that video of Michelle’s purple hand or the countless loving texts from friends and family throughout the years.

But I will forgive him.

Because all I can hope for is that this student learns someday that he hurt me. And that life gets harder when you hurt the people that love you.

I cannot save him, nor do I want to. He will have to make this journey of life on his own.

And cell phone or no cell phone I will always cherish and love the moments I have with these students. The purple hands and the giggles and the tiny things that hold us together in this broken world.

I don’t need a phone to remember these things. I will always have these snapshots burned into my brain.

But if I do happen to get that phone back you better believe I’m locking that shit up like Fort Knox. 

What It's Like To Be A High School Teacher The Day After Trump Gets Elected

I’m not a politician. I’m a teacher.

I teach History and Geography and Psychology.

I teach how to make evidence based claims and how to raise your hand when you want to speak.

I teach teenagers to keep their hands to themselves for 90 minute increments.

I teach please’s and thank you’s and eye contact.

I teach respect.

I teach Anakaren to put her phone away every single day.

I teach objectives and "Student Learning Outcomes."

I teach assembly line simulations and Great Depression photography.

I teach Hitler and I teach MLK.

I teach picking up your trash and recycling.

I teach could you please stop taking Snapchats while I’m talking.

I teach Mexicans, Muslims, and boys with raging hormones.

I teach complete sentences.

I teach problem solving and critical thinking.

I teach in French occasionally and with a Scottish accent when I need your attention.

I teach while eating bagels and sometimes give kids coffee from the teacher’s lounge.

I teach that the human brain can do amazing things.

I teach PUT YOUR NAME ON YOUR GOD DAMN PAPER.

I teach to wonder.

I teach to ask questions.

I teach standardized testing.

I teach you are more than a score.

I teach to handle things with care.

I teach while accidentally bleaching the carpet.

I teach watch out for that wad of gum on the floor, Jose.

I teach treating women with respect.

I teach treating men with respect.

I teach that you can never have too many pencils in your back pocket.

I teach to please remember your pencil because I am spending too much money on pencils.

I teach that I will always give you a pencil.

I teach Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and what feels like twice on Fridays.

I teach standing on top of a chair when I am excited or when I need you to hear when this assignment is due.

I teach to capitalize and empathize.

I teach okay Jason you can somersault across the floor just this one time.

I teach kindness and I teach smiles.

I teach I'll wait til' it's quiet.

I teach no seriously I'll wait.

I teach to tired, hungry, and fidgety.

I teach that you can always come to me when your dad kicks you out of the house again.

I teach laughter and bad history puns.

I teach with coffee and more coffee.

I teach no you may not change my seating chart.

I teach it’s okay if you want to cry.

I teach shake my hand at the door.

I teach on good days and on bad days.

I teach Hurricanes and political cartoons.

I teach of course you can get make-up work.

I teach Vietnam and protest posters.

I teach kids who push my buttons and kids who make me want to pull my hair out.

I teach them that I love them even when they drive me crazy.

I teach all of these things and more.

But what I don’t teach is how to ask your teacher what to do.

Not what to do for a question on a paper or to write with a pencil.

But what to do if Mr. Trump takes my mom away.

I don’t teach Miss someone told me today to go back to where I came from.

I don’t teach hate and bigotry and fear.

I teach listen to me my children I love you more than you will ever know and I will fight for your right to be in this classroom until my last dying breath.

I teach even on days like today when it feels like every atom in my body is screaming.

I teach for them.

Because America has just taught them that this “land of the free” might not be as free as we thought it was.

The Brave Little Toast Bar: My Discovery of the Trending 'Toast Buffet'

Ohhhh...look at that sexy toast right there.

Living in a growing (ha) city like Denver, Colorado I thought I’d been up to date on my foodie trends. My friend's friend started a sushi food truck last summer and I’ve been all up in that business.

But then I took a trip to the Midwest this July to see some college buddies and everything changed.

“Let’s go to the Toast Bar,” my college buddy Sami said as we rolled out for a morning on the town.

“The what?” I asked.

The idea that toast could blow my mind sounded ridiculous, childish even. I liked the idea that it was a "bar" of sorts. But what could be so thrilling about a piece of bread?

Tucked into the art district of downtown Minneapolis, MN was a build-your-own-toast buffet. Included were three different homemade jams, four flavors of nut butters (step aside peanut, there are some new nuts in town), an Egyptian honey, and more cheeses than I could have ever hoped for.

“You mean I get to put whatever I want on there?” I asked the lady behind the counter while eyeing the tubs of butter.

Nothing against pancakes, but who knew toast could be so great am I right?

Since my stay at Canteen I have been on the hunt for the best toast bars in town. They've been trending in the Midwest and beyond. But I have yet to find something as great as that first time. I literally haven't stopped thinking about toast since that fateful day in July. It's kind of a problem, actually. 

Like any first time, it’s shrouded in mystery and nostalgia.

Plenty of my favorite brunch restaurants in Denver, City O’ City, Snooze, and Jelly, offer French toasts, pancakes, and build-your-own omelets. But I have yet to discover the illusive Toast Bar.

But I shan’t give up. I will march on in my pursuit for the perfect toast experience. I will walk boldly into the unknown on my never-ending hunt for golden and buttery perfection.  

Photo credit: Google.com

For where would that Brave Little Toaster be if he didn’t take a leap of faith off that trash compactor to save Blanky?

Dead. He’d be dead.

Writing About Writing

“Stop trying so hard to be a writer,” I wrote the words carefully in my leather bound as he said them, smiling brightly to hide my shame.

I was sitting in the second row in a cramped basement of a writer’s workshop, “From Obsession to Publication.” I capitalized on the dessert tray and snagged a spot for my friend Kristen and I among a sea of retirees.

“Dude, everyone in here is like 40 years older than me,” I poked Kristen in the crook of her elbow. With the exception of her, 10 years my senior, I was the least wrinkled person in the room.

Kristen and I had signed up together a few days prior. On an endless competition to both simultaneously get published and take over the world with our literary genius, we enrolled ourselves in a workshop as a part of Denver Lighthouse Writer’s Lit Festival to gain insight.

This particular workshop was centered around using our obsessions –obscure, endearing, or otherwise –to hone our craft as writers.

Youthful and ignorant I, calling myself a “writer.”

I’d only even considered the title of writer after spending a year and some odd months writing my first manuscript. Followed by a blog, several notebooks full of stand-up material, and another manuscript. I knew my success so far as a “writer” was fairly limited and indeed laughable.

The only publication I’d yet to receive was a snippet in HealthOne Colorado’s “Spalding Rehabilitation Success Story” in which a picture of my own head was photo shopped onto a different picture of my own body.

It’s in my classroom if you want to see it.

I show it to my students sometimes after standardized testing when we all need a good laugh.

But despite the hilarious reality that my mother might be the only one reading this (thanks Mom, you the real MVP), I decided over the past year that I wanted to be a writer, author, publisher of all things witty and fun, and future resident of Ellen DeGeneres's lovely white couch.

"Thank you, thank you, Ellen. Yes, it's great to be here- "

I wanted all these things and more, and still do, and until recently nobody ever said that this was a bad idea.

“Yeahhhhhhh,” the leader of the workshop and successful and published author winced in my direction.

“Stop trying so hard to be a writer, I can just hear it in your tone. Also get rid of all the ‘fucks.’ It’s not precise and I don’t like it,” He might have said more, I can’t be sure.

But it was too late, the words had hit me like a jagged ice pick to my soul, or a rusty arrow to my arteries. I don’t know some stupid cliché that you’re not supposed to say because writers, they say, are above that peasant crap.

I didn’t actually disagree with him entirely. We’d only been writing these pieces for thirty minutes or so and, as any writer, I thought it was an absolute piece of shit.

What confused me rather was that Kristen and I were the only ones in that tiny cramped basement to get any negative feedback after volunteering to read our pieces out loud. Because I am an attention whore by trade, I loved the idea of practicing the art of writing and then sharing that art with complete strangers.

After all, everyone so far who read their work was getting great feedback, why should my art by any exception?

I wrote a piece about the first time I fell in love; a noteworthy obsession, I thought.

I’d been thinking about the topic lately, not because I missed him or wanted to relive the traumatizing event that was two years ago, but because my editor told me to.

“Your readers need to fall in love with him like you did, they need to know why you spent five years with this guy or else they’ll be like, ‘yeah, he was a jerk, we get it’ and will move on.” She said.

She couldn’t be more right. And now, two years later sitting in a room of elderly and experienced writers, I felt called to the task.

“James was my guy,” I wrote replacing his usual name of “Weasel” or “Shit-stain” with something a bit more humanizing.

“At 17 years old I could hardly manage my thick curly locks or my rambunctious spirit, but I was ready for my guy. To sweep me off my tiny feet, to love me for all my quirks, to call me his girl.”

Oh my goodness, how cute is that, I smiled to myself as warm memories of old dirt roads and tractors rushed back to my brain.

When it was my turn to read I perked up. I was slightly peeved that the woman ahead of me had just talked about her obsession with a Zach, but the fancy author man had loved it and I was sure that he’d love mine too.

I took a deep breath and tried to consciously remember to breathe as I read my heartfelt recollection of a first love.

Aaaaand done.

Exhale. Boom. Crushed it.

Nope. Sure didn’t.

In addition to my apparent air of “trying too hard” he also took issue with my cursing. I’d used an F-bomb to describe how stupid I looked meeting him for the first time, bundled up in tight bell-bottoms, a heavy black hooded sweater, and a thick knitted hat.

In fucking July, my friends.

I suppose this feedback about the potty mouth might have gone over smoother in my brain had the leader of the workshop not been a potty mouth himself. At the start of the workshop he gabbed about his 4 year old daughter’s obsession with hummus.

“She’s such a fucking asshole, you guys. Really,” He chuckled. I liked him immediately.

So logically I threw in some colorful words thinking that he’d fucking love it.

Nope. He did not fucking love it.

Sorry, Mom.

When he finished giving me the feedback he smiled and moved on to what I thought would be the next bloody victim to his ego-crushing honesty. An older gentleman, easily in his 70’s, stood up and talked about his obsession with women’s bodies and experiencing puberty for the first time. I found it pervy, strange, and poorly written.

But alas, to the published author it was amazing and thoughtful. Not pervy at all.

At this point I started to cry quietly in my second row chair, trying not to make eye contact with Kristen for fear of bursting into absolute hysterics. Kristen read my body language and grabbed my notebook and began writing me a note:

“You are so brave to read and it takes a lot of courage to take constructive criticism –there will be a lot of disappointment followed by a lot of hard work and then a lot of success. I love you!”

Her words, while what I wanted to hear, turned me further into a sniffling pile of goo.

The workshop had ended. I ran my sleeves haphazardly over my leaking eyes.

“We gotta’ get out of here,” I announced as I made a mad dash to beat the sluggish old people out the door.

Kristen and I walked the breezy Denver streets for an hour as I cooled off and tried to figure out what in the hell had just happened in there.

“What if I’m not a writer?” I said.

“What if he’s right? What if I end up just like them? 75 years old at a writer’s workshop, still working on my Great American Novel?”

I was terrified. That this whole “trying to be a writer” business was a joke, or more accurately, that I was a joke.

The words cut me deeper than I expected, probably because I’d signed up to read a five minute passage of my book, Break Ups and Brain Hemorrhages: How You Can Make it Through Anything that evening at a Lit Fest event to about 50 strangers. And my mother.

If I received such criticism here, there would be no telling what would happen that night. And what if the leader of the workshop was there?

I could just picture it.

I’d fumble with the microphone just long enough to become immediately annoying to my audience.

“Stand up straight, you’re slouching again!” my mother would call from the front row, an inch from my face.

I’d line up my pages on the stand, but just as I opened my mouth a gust of wind would send them flying onto the face of the cute guy I’d invited. I’d graciously take the papers from his gorgeous hands only to realize that it was actually my grocery list, a crumpled up napkin, and a Comcast bill.

I’d laugh, trying to recall my most recent stand up routine without them noticing, but would soon be sent running from the stage as a garden variety of cabbage and heirlooms came flying at my head.

“Who brought the fucking cabbage? Amateurs!” I’d scream as I dodged another head of lettuce from behind the wine table.

“I tried to tell you,” Mr. Author Man would shake his head in embarrassment.

I know, I have very vivid stress dreams.

None of this happened, however. Because I totally crushed it. Watch the video below to see me slay the shit out of this reading, seriously. Slay.

The feedback and laughter from the audience was amazing and the boy I invited was cool as a cucumber about my surprise, “Oh look, my parents are over there, let’s go say hi” rendezvous.

I’m trying really hard to be a writer. I’m taking classes and asking stupid questions and spending a lot of time drinking coffee. It’s a grueling task and some days it’s hard to see if it’s ever going to be worth all the late nights, shitty first, second, third, and fourth drafts, and overwhelming self-doubt.

There will always be critics, cynics, and haters.

My friends and family will continue to cheer me on as I sob in public places about the condition of my books. I will soldier on for as long as it takes, counting down the days until I get to sit on Ellen’s couch and dish about who’s going to play me in a Broadway-adapted rendition of my book.

Which would be me, obviously.

Or, okay, Anna Kendrick. She’s about my size, has killer pipes, and would match well with Bruce Willis, who would play my neurosurgeon, Dr. C.  

"My brain just exploded. Boom."

Shout out to Dr. C-Money. If you’re reading this, you’re still entirely too attractive to be that old. Calm it down, Dr. C.

Calm. It. Down.

Anyway. No matter how long it takes, I’m going to be a writer.

And I’m going to do it really fucking well.

Don't Forget Brain Month!

OH BABY. TALK BRAINY TO ME.

When I take my Thyroid medication in the morning I throw back my water cup, screw the little lid back onto the bottle, and flip the container upside down.

That last part is key.

If I don't flip it upside down then I never took it. Or at least that's what my brain thinks, anyway. Unfortunately my brain cannot hold onto whether or not I took this medication essential to my health and well being.

I actually can't recall if I took it this morning, so that's fun.

Last year I forgot about Brain Injury Awareness month because like the location of my keys, wallet, and cellphone, this information was beyond me.

How fucking ironic. 

A brain injured person forgetting a month dedicated to them. This is actually quite hilarious if you ask me. I also wrote this post about a month ago and am just now posting it.

Figures.

But this year I made a point to remember that I am not alone in brain injury. And I wanted my students with brain injuries to know that they are not alone either.

That's where the brain facts come in.

Every day this month I have been reading out brain facts to my students. Some have to do with which centers of the brain control certain functions, others with addiction, and some just flat out cool shit about how our brains run this show without us even realizing it. 

Like did you know the language center of the brain responsible for speech has different pathways to neural connections than the part responsible for reading?

Freaking cool, you guys.

Some days my kids are reluctant to hear the brain fact of the day, rolling their eyes at another silly brain pun. Other days they refuse to do any work until I read them off a new one. They even correct me when I repeat an old fact from the week before.

"You already told us about how similar sugar is to cocaine to the brain, Miss! Give us a NEW one!"

I even showed them some of my "brain videos" of me in rehab rolling around my hospital room in my wheelchair popping wheelies.

We all had a good laugh. 

It's startling to see how far I've come since then; a frail, silly excuse for a human trying to do tricks over broomsticks and skipping down hallways with tennis-ball-clad walkers. 

And up until now I never really understood what it all meant. To have a month dedicated to all this. 

And then I got a note from a kid on one of my worst days on the job. 

Picture two tiny mice sprinting across my classroom as twenty Freshmen leaped over desks and squealed. This was not my idea of an engaging Geography lesson.

I was being upstaged and I was not amused.

The mice were derailing my 5th hour and nobody accomplished anything but adequately pissing me off by continuing to discuss the size, shape, and color of the intruders for the entire class period. It got so bad at one point that one mouse was doing a sprint routine up and down the length of the room and I threw everyone out in the hallway.

"This is ridiculous. Everyone out. OUT."

What a disaster. We tried to work on our Mayan packets but all seemed lost.

By the time 6th hour rolled in I was exhausted and peeved; utterly incapable of dealing with one more disruption. 

Someone tested me again by popping the N word to his friend like it was no big deal.

"Excuse me?"

"Miss, I wasn't saying it to you, chill."

"No I will not chill. We don't use that language in here and you know that. 10 push-ups. Now."

He reluctantly moved to the carpet. 

I have a rule in my classroom. You curse and you owe me push-ups. Some kids make it a daily routine. Drop an F-bomb. Drop and give me ten. It may be a little corporal-punishment-y for some, but it works. Also you have the option of a parent phone call.

9 out of 10 kids prefer a little exercise.

I tried helplessly not to roll my eyes at this utter waste of a day. 

"Miss, are you okay? You seem...off today..." The kids know. They always know.

"Oh, I'm fine. Just a long day, that's all," I lied.

I continued with my lecture on the Cold War and hoped to the heavens that I would survive the day without my brain re-exploding all over my dusty teacher desk.

As 6th hour left at the sound of the bell, I went back to my desk to take attendance that I'd forgotten to take all day. No surprise there.

By my computer was a small note, folded up with tiny hearts and the words "Open Me" scrawled on it.

As 7th hour sauntered in I opened it curiously. It read:

Dear Ms. Hayes,

You're the greatest teacher to ever exist! You actually make learning fun and make school fun. I love coming to this class because you're always so happy and smiling, I could easily have a really bad day and the moment I step into this class all my worries are gone! I can trust you as someone to come to when I'm having problems, you're like the psychologist I need, someone I can talk to! I really appreciate you Ms. H! You're amazing and so wonderful! Don't let anyone tell you otherwise! You're so brave and strong and that's also why I look up to you because we both had a brain injury, and we still managed to keep moving forward! Yay us!!! If you're ever having a hard or tough day just remember how far you've come and why you became a teacher! I love you so much Ms. H! You're like a mom but here at school. I hope you have a great rest of your day! Love you!!!

Your favorite student always,

Alice E. , 10th Grade

It took a while for it to sink in, most likely because I had to greet 7th hour and lead them through their case studies without someone smacking someone else or throwing a pencil across the room. But when I took the time to read it again that night I cried and cried.

It felt like I had waited my whole life to hear the words. 

I had bonded with Alice before about our shared experiences of brain injuries. She told me that she hadn't felt like herself since her stroke and that school was hard for her now. I couldn't help but feel for her. Being so young with a brain injury, things would likely get harder for her trying to get through school.

I felt lucky to have had my brain explode after college. There would be no way I could have finished my degree with my lack of focus and inability to remember anything. 

But she said the words, "look how far you've come" as if she was right there with me when I couldn't do anything. 

Back when being able to read a text message without double-vision was a good day and when my go-to outfit was stretchy pants and a stained t-shirt. 

Now I am executive functioning at top speeds. 

I put make up on my face without poking my eye out, am currently wearing heels that I can walk in without falling off a curb, and even drove a car this morning.

I teach students to be their best selves as I strive to be my own.  

I am doing everything my body never dreamed of doing back in 2014. And the fact that someone else could see that and looked up to me for that reason simply blew my mind. 

Brain injuries are silent disabilities.

They impact people in unique and strange ways. What Alice didn't know that day is that just a few short years ago I never would have expected to be standing in front of a group of teenagers imparting my quasi-wisdom, much less standing without a nurse nearby to catch me when I inevitably tumbled off the sidewalk.

For every step I take there's a neuron hard at work. Every movement a reminder of who I once was, and will always be.

On my year anniversary I posted a picture of me in my hospital bed after brain surgery; a stuffed elephant on my head and a lopsided smile, my face puffy from brain drugs. I shared my excitement at how far I'd come and thanked my friends and family for getting me through my "brain days."

A woman who I didn't know, but followed me on Instagram congratulated me on the accomplishment but told me "not to dwell" because it was "all about the future."

Dwell?

Wait. Isn't dwelling a negative thing?

I almost wanted to smack her through my cellphone screen.

How can I appreciate the future if I don't respect where I've been? Why forget the past when it's made me who I am today?

That's the whole reason why we have Brain Injury Awareness Month, people!

I don't expect sympathy. I don't ask for pity. I simply want to show my humbleness for an organism that nobody can fully understand. I want to share my story so that others are empowered to share their own.

Unlike my keys, wallet, and cellphone, I will never forget Brain Injury Awareness Month.

And that's a pretty big deal these days.