I thought after reading Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations I would consider that to be the piece of classic literature to deem overrated. But as a writer, I slowly learned how to appreciate the wardrobe scenes representing the change in character and status. For a moment I figured it would be anything written by the Brontë sisters, since I am very much team Austen. But no, it was not a British author to get under my skin and disturb me nearly twenty years later. It was the Russian philosopher Fyodor Dostoevsky and his novel Crime and Punishment.
Reading that book felt like a crime and most certainly a punishment. I swear my high school depression peaked while reading how horrible Rodion Raskolnikov’s life was in St. Petersburg. Maybe that was the author’s goal, for the reader to feel so destitute and helpless. I know the story was meant to challenge readers on their faith and bring up a philosophical question about human existence, but fuck. I still have nightmares twenty years later where no matter what I do, I cannot crawl out of the darkness.
The book is supposed to be a psychological thriller. To me, it was 110% psychological and no part thriller. If anything, it induced some form of PTSD, but that was about it. I hated Raskolnikov’s character; I found nothing redeeming about him. I just wanted him to die. He was a horrible person. I was unaware that there was a moral question that murdering people was okay to rise out of poverty.
My confusion about how this is a moral dilemma stems from how I was raised: with a strong moral code and work ethic. The idea of abandoning your career or all attempts at bettering yourself and your family is completely foreign. It doesn’t matter how hard life gets; you do not give up. Theft is unacceptable, and murder is out of the question. There are things you must do to survive, but that is not the reason Raskolnikov was doing either; he just found those options “easier” than working.
Outside of that, I’m certain that this book is why I have a distaste for the dystopia genre. Even Crime and Punishment is not dystopia, it feels like the beginning of the end for me. Everyone is so broken that they believe the only way to better themselves is to lie, cheat, and steal. Those who are good lose everything. After Raskolnikov murders the old woman and her sister, a fever dream ensues. I don’t feel sorry for him being wracked with guilt about what he did. Throughout the entire story, his guilt eats at him, but he never truly confesses. And he does; it’s so empty. Somehow the author gives him a twisted happy ending where his love, I use that term loosely, always gives him some form of redemption through her love.
There was nothing to root for here. The characters I hoped would win or have a moment to breathe never do. Maybe that’s just how it was in 1886 Russia: horrible, almost to where all hope was lost. I never felt comfortable in my own skin while reading this book. I wanted to shower and turn on every light in the room. Even now, writing this, I feel the darkness closing in. All my hope is lost and I don’t know how I can dig out of it. It reminds me so much of postpartum depression, but the only difference is I fought to get out of that darkness. I will never understand writing a character that gives up. In life or fiction, you have to fight, because if you don’t, the only other option is death. And for someone to murder another just because it’s easier, you might as well have one foot in the grave.
Share a lesson you wish you had learned earlier in life.
I’ve lost so much looking to the stars waiting for an answer. I allowed my heart to rule my destiny, ignoring the pull within my soul. I wonder what I would have been if I had chosen a different path. Would all the dark and vile things still have happened? Or would I have been safe wrapped in fate’s warm embrace?
It feels pointless to spend time on the what ifs. There is no time machine to change the past. Even if there were, I wouldn’t know where to start.
Would I go back and never say yes? Would I never give my number to a blonde mohawk in a sea of black? Or would I go all the way back to the beginning and have the courage to answer a simple question with the fire that fueled my heart?
It’s hard to face reality. My youth is behind me, and I have spent more time avoiding following my dreams and passions because I allowed the wrong people to guide me. Fear of the unknown has held me back more times than I can count.
I tell myself time and time again that I won’t let fear win. At times, the darkness seeps in, settling into my mind, and doubt swells like a bitter tide. Sometimes, the warmth of the midday sun is hidden from me, leaving me cold and alone, isolated while I am surrounded by people.
And while I dig myself out of the nightmare that is my mind, the world pushes me back down.
An incident at work has triggered my PTSD. Digging up parts of my past that I thought I had recovered from is robbing me of the joy, comfort, and protection of my classroom. Forcing me to be uncomfortable in my skin as I have to see a person related to the wretched interaction every day.
What will it take for me to finally break? Will I reach a point where I can no longer pick up the pieces of my life and force them back together? Wearing this mask everyday to pass for functioning is draining. How much longer will I play this game?
I came into this school year excited. I spent most of my summer planning out interesting ways to teach genres and trailer concepts to my students. I started with horror and built it from the start of the genre.But it seemed that, since I wasn’t dancing for TikTok or breaking up my lecture into two minute dopamine hits, a small amount tuned me out. Usually that is fine, but these students are loudest with their opinions. They are the ones who cause the most chaos.
It sucks to have to fight with teenagers just to get them to stop talking. Hearing groan after groan makes my skin crawl. A few of these students switched into my class because they didn’t want to be in the other class. I don’t know what they expected from me. But it wasn’t to sit and listen to them bitch and moan. We are at school. You have to learn. Instead of watching trailers to watch the evolution of the genre and have all the pieces broken down, they could just read a textbook. I promise that would suck.
I started the week explaining how I stopped watching horror when I began working in news. There isn’t anything a filmmaker could create that is worse than what humans actually do. So on Thursday, the day after a monster shot up a Catholic school while children prayed at mass, I broke.
I didn’t want to talk about death and destruction.
I wanted to be distracted by what my students were planning to create. So as the juniors went off to their class meeting about rings, I spoke with my seniors about what the next two months looked like. Those who had me before were amazing. Scripts were already being planned out and teams built. But again there were a few who thought my class was a fuck around class.
I hate it.
I will not be up the kids’ asses.
It doesn’t work for my class.
My upperclassmen usually know that when I am giving them freedom, they are working one way or another. But some believe they must use their phones, shouting out things. I didn’t have the energy to fight yesterday. I just let those continue to make the same mistake over and over again. I hoped that I wasn’t going to have to collect phones from the almost adults, but it looks like I’ll be treating the majority like freshmen because the loud few can’t respect rules.
I thought that was going to be the worst. Until a handful of my trusted kids broke my trust. I am not spelling out what they did because it will be blatant who I am talking about. I have enough students who read my blogs and stalk my Instagram that they will know who I am talking about. But when people go back on their word and I find out, they are burned. There is not enough time in the school year for them to earn it back. They will graduate soon, and the years of trust that had been built has shattered.
It sucks because I am here to listen to my students’ trauma dump all over me when they have problems. I help them with their classwork, look for jobs, scholarships, and things that are more than just teaching TV Production. If they had that elsewhere, they wouldn’t be asking me. I am not jaded in my belief that everyone has a stable home life or that they have an adult to seek guidance from. But because of that, I think they have forgotten I am the adult. I am not their peer. The disrespect has festered, and I am over it.
So that is how I am feeling right now.
I need a three day weekend to decompress without looking at a single email from parents accusing me of trying to fail their student because their child did not turn in work.
The question, Do you practice religion? feels vague and like a loaded gun all at once. Practice feels up to interpretation.Yes, I practice a religion. But the how feels so heavy-handed. I grew up in a Presbyterian / Catholic household. Now my father, the Catholic, was non-practicing. While my mother, the Presbyterian, is the one who took my brother and I to church. We would go to Sunday school, say prayers at dinner and bedtime, and celebrate a few holidays. But I never truly considered it practicing a religion.
I never understood the inner workings of the faith I was being raised in. I’m not sure my mom did either. When we would go to church, we would listen to the pastor’s message and take it at what it was. I know my mom’s bible had notes in it and if I would look at it now, there would be scribbles from when I was a bored child. In my Sunday school classes, I would listen to the favorites of the bible like David and Goliath or the Garden of Eden. But once I walked outside those doors, I never gave it much thought. I knew God was with me and I didn’t care what was the origins of the faith I was following.
As I reached middle school, I developed a fascination with the Tudor family. Now you may wonder what the Tudors, a royal English family, have to do with religion. Well, it deals with it a lot. Until King Henry VIII sought a divorce, the English were Catholic. It wasn’t until the Pope refused his divorce did he become interested in the reformation of the church. I had never heard of the reformation before. I knew there were different branches of Christianity, but I never knew why. I chalked it up to different flavors, kind of like ice cream. You picked what you liked best. But after reading how King Henry broke away and created the Church of England. This made the wheels in my head spin. How was the Presbyterian Church created?
I ate up book after book learning about the faith.
In high school, I would go to church with my mom still, but it felt empty. My faith felt empty and lukewarm, as if I had sat in bathwater for far too long. A lot of my friends were making their confirmation. But there was a part of me that couldn’t do it. I was trying to unweave how the Presbyterian Church was related to the Church of Scotland, but how the American Presbyterian churches followed along the path of Calvinism. It overwhelmed me. I couldn’t confirm my faith to one that I didn’t fully understand.
College was where I had the chance to truly pick apart different faiths. I stuck with the Abrahamic religions. Those were the ones that made the most sense. But the more I picked them apart, the more I fell in love with how the Catholics worshiped. The traditions that were rooted so deeply that if I went to a different state, I would receive the same message. Yes, the homilies varied; they differ at every Mass, but the readings remained the same.
It wasn’t until my mid twenties did I feel comfortable enough with my decision. I began the reformation class, which I needed to convert. I felt grounded in the rich history and speaking with the priest. I also appreciated that he didn’t shun or shame anyone for the faiths they grew up in. When I was younger, I remember at the two different churches how the youth pastors would dog on the other christian faiths. It didn’t sit well with me. We were supposed to love one another, not rip each other apart. What stuck with me the most was my priest expressing how jealous he was that the Protestant prayed. As if they had an open connection with God. He said that he wished more people in our congregation felt that they were open about prayer and their conversation with God. It made me feel comfortable with the idea that my prayers had still been heard even though I was of a different faith.
I would go most Sundays. Not as a show of someone who was and wanting my face to be seen, but for my soul. I felt a great deal of comfort in the rituals. I never had that at the other churches that I went to. They always seemed to be something the pastor did on the fly. I know they had their sermons set up, but it just felt off.
But even with all this, I never considered myself practicing. I had a rosary that I would hold and do occasionally. I didn’t read the bible anymore than I did before. And I just took the warmth in my heart and leave each Sunday and go about my life.
It took a while for me to figure out how to add my faith to my life outside of nighttime prayers. I wanted things to feel natural and not forced, so I went back to what drove me to the feeling of comfort. Studying my religion. Oddly, social media, which I gave up for Lent, offers many helpful tools. I found the Hallow App that has guided prayers and the rosary, which I use more than I thought I would. The daily homilies are quick and easy to listen to in the car. For mass I started to use a journal from Every Scared Sunday. This allows me to reflect on the messages and I feel less guilty when I miss a Sunday service because I am still reading the Mass readings. My cousin discovered Blessed is She and purchased their advent journal for my daughter and I. It was nice to break down the days leading up to Christmas and see it as more than just a reason to buy gifts. These silly little elements have made me engage more with my faith. I am no longer a passive member, just sitting in a pew each Sunday morning. By journaling, I can apply the readings to my life.
Being active in my faith is what was missing from my youth. I know others may have had similar tools, but they didn’t resonate with my soul. I didn’t fully understand what my faith was and made that was the problem but I am glad it sent me on my journey. I love the peace I have found.
What does “having it all” mean to you? Is it attainable?
What does “having it all” mean to you? Is it attainable?
What does “having it all” mean to me? That’s a loaded question, especially since its meaning has changed over the years.
A suffocating narrative shaped the millennial generation. The lie that “having it all” meant the “Boss Babe” persona. Earning a high level degree and working the corporate ladder until you reached the top.
To me that sounded, and still does, exhausting. To think I could get through life all by myself without the help of a partner. No, thank you.
Even if millennial women found a partner, they weren’t meant to be a helpmate. In fact, we were led to believe their presence would be more of a burden than a help. Somehow we were persuaded to believe women that a full-time job, combined with being a present wife and mother, was the only path.
And they weren’t wrong. That is having it all.
But what they forgot to mention is the burnout that comes with juggling all of those titles.
I never bought into the idea that was being sold to millennial women.
In high school, I cared about my grades, but I didn’t exhaust myself worrying about straight As. I knew what my strengths were and in some subjects; it wasn’t a possibility. So instead of pushing myself to the breaking point, I did my best and knew that was all that mattered. I put my energy into what brought me happiness. And it worked out for me. I could refine what eventually became a career. I put money in my pocket working in theater and broadcast. I never would have learned those skills if I were hyper focused on making sure every single academic class was perfect.
So on paper, I didn’t have it all in high school. But none of that matters. Having an A in geometry or chemistry wouldn’t have helped me find a job. But the hours spent backstage being a stage manager did.
College was much the same. I took classes that fueled my passion. Film theory classes gave me a better understanding of how and why film makers do what they do. I did all I could to keep my grades up, so I would maintain my scholarships. But instead of living my life in the library or on campus, I traveled.
I spent a summer in California. I learned I could never live there. It just wasn’t my speed. But that summer I learned more about myself than I expected. While I took a deep dive into my soul, classmates were taking extra classes so they could graduate in 3 years. I started my second year feeling refreshed, unlike my friends, who looked as if their brain had been in a blender for two months.
I watched classmate after classmate change their degree. They didn’t want to put the work into succeeding in our career. I don’t blame them. Broadcast, film, and news is truly a lackluster career. The hours you have to put in to make it in our industry are endless. Those who left wanted instant glory. Not something someone really could have achieved in 2009. There’s more of a possibility now with social media. But even so, we’re starving artists for a reason.
After graduation, so many people left south Florida.
“You can’t make it here,” they would tell me.
But what were they making? A paycheck? Sure, Florida doesn’t always pay the best, but what else brought them joy? When I was younger, I had money. I could go where I wanted and do whatever I wanted. But I was missing something. I wanted someone there next to me to enjoy those moments.
I gave up job opportunities out of state that would have taken my life in a multitude of directions, but to me, a job would not make my soul happy. I learned early in life I was looking for someone to share my journey with me. Watching so many people uproot their lives chasing a buck and returning years later with the same cloud of longing I know made the right choices.
Having it all isn’t about where you work. It’s about being happy with yourself. It doesn’t matter where you move or who you are with. If you are restless and chasing a feeling, you have to look within. The letters of CEO, MD, PHD might look successful. For some, that might be what brings you happiness. But I see a lot of friends and acquaintances whose lives look great on paper but good lord. I think they spend so much trying to find someone to share these successes with that they are empty.
What was the point of chasing a dollar if that dollar can’t bring you what you really wanted?
I say this all as a broke ass teacher with a kid in travel baseball. If you know, you know what I mean by that. My husband and I give up nearly every weekend with our oldest chasing his dream. At this point, we had our chances. We lived what we wanted to. My husband has a lifetime of experiences that can never be replicated. I traveled to different states and countries, absorbing what I could of the world. We’ll get our chance to do what we want once our oldest heads out on his journey.
But whenever I wonder if I should have taken the jobs in Arlington, Bristol, or Chicago, I get notes from students. They tell me how I am the reason they are staying in school or alive. I look at my own children and see how happy they are that I am at every game or event. Something that I wouldn’t have been able to do working at a bigger network.
So do I have it all?
I have a husband who spends every weekend with me. My kids are happy and healthy. Do I have as much money as I once did? No, I am a travel ball mom. But I wouldn’t change it for a job or a false ideal once sold to us when we were kids.
Chase your own dream and who cares what people say. Success is what brings you joy, nothing more and nothing less.
Now you’re probably wondering who in their right mind would put teaching and customer service in the same basket. That answer would be the Palm Beach County school board. Last year we were required to complete a training called catch the wave. I nearly fell out of my chair when they referred to our students as customers. Students are not customers in any sort of the word. I would know I spent my teens and twenties working as a CSR.
At 16 I landed my first job at Pacific Sunwear. As a mallrat, I basically lived in that store. So much so that the managers knew me by name and the week I turned 16, they handed me a resume. My interview was sitting down with my boss and him explaining how schedules worked and if I needed to take off for school how I would do that. He already knew I knew the product and the store’s history. As I worked there, I learned how to create full outfits from top to bottom. That encompassed selecting tops, bottoms, socks, and underwear for girls; shoes completed the outfit. We were always thinking about how we could up-sell each customer. I learned how store design uses color to draw customers in and lead them through the store.
Working retail is about selling products to your customers. It’s about convincing them to spend more than they intended. Each store has a daily goal to be met, and they wanted you to do it any way possible.
When I moved to the register, I needed to learn about our more expensive products. We had carried Spy and Arnette sunglasses. I needed to know why and how to convince the customer that they should buy the 100 dollar polarized glasses over the 15 dollar glasses that were on the tree next to the line. It was the same with the fossil watches we had in the locked case. The last thing that I had to know was the ins and outs of the story credit card. We got bonus points and other things for how many people we signed up for that day.
It wasn’t hard to learn what type of customer came through the door. Teens just browsing, we watched to make sure they didn’t shoplift. If it was back to school and moms were with their kids, we always added in an extra shirt or pair of pants that completed the outfit. When people were looking at shoes, we made sure the customer knew we had socks nearby and most people would scoop up a set before heading to checkout. But as sales associates, we didn’t care about the customer outside of what length pants they need. Did they need a size up or down on the top they brought in? Most importantly, when the customer left the dressing room, were the same numbers of items being returned to the employee.
For two years, I worked at the same store. Other mall rats filtered in as employees and soon I learned about different customers. But it wasn’t them as humans that I remembered, but how much money they spent. Those who I knew would drop a few hundred to thousands of dollars were the ones we gave our attention to.
When I moved to Boca and switched from Pac Sun to Gap Body, I learned that is how Gap functions. They break customers into categories. The sales shopper, the bargain shopper, the trendsetter, and the one who will return clothing. I’m probably remember the names wrong but it’s the same idea. Transitioning from a store’s fair treatment of all customers to a focus on maximizing spending from specific individuals felt wrong. Yes, we were to greet everyone who came in, but it wasn’t expected to go past that. I was to make sure the tables were stocked and only engage with those who looked as if they were going to spend lots of money. I didn’t like this kind of treatment towards any customer. My thought process was if someone was spending money, no matter the amount, they deserved respect.
One of the strangest encounters was a woman who brought back three massive bags of clothes. She wanted to return it all. It was obvious the clothes had been worn at least once. But she kept the tags on them all. She even had the receipt. The clothes were bought the season before. At my old store, we wouldn’t even entertain the idea of returning clothes from that long ago. But at Gap, not only did they take back the items, they gave her full price on clothes that were marked down to nearly a dollar. I stared at my manager, dumbfounded. About a week later, she was back to buying hundreds of dollars’ worth of clothes. The manager looked at me and said, “this is why we let her do what she wants. Whenever she comes in we make our daily sales goal.”
I quit not too long after that.
The next store I worked at was Godiva. My waistline hated me for it, but my stomach loved every minute of working in a chocolate store. Godiva had one mission: up-selling. If someone came in for one chocolate, encourage two. If they were buying a gift, ask them if they wanted a ribbon. Always push the customer to add onto their purchase. Holidays were the easiest to add to orders. Showing how cute a small box looked with a bigger one. Asking the customer if they wanted a chocolate drink to give them energy to last the rest of the day shopping. Sell, sell, sell. Don’t care who they are as long as they buy chocolate.
The last store I worked in was Hollister. I loved it. I worked in stock. I had one job: to keep the tables stocked and clean. I didn’t have to talk to anyone. That was left up to the “models who serve.” The title model allows Hollisters and other stores and restaurants to hire those who fit their company “look”. But I wasn’t considered customer service. I was supposed to be invisible. So if a customer stopped me, I was supposed to ignore them or direct them to a model. It didn’t matter if I had the answer or not. It wasn’t my job.
I stayed at this job for a while longer before landing one at a private airport.
Working at Avitat Boca Raton was a whole other level of customer service. Here I was no longer selling things to our customers. The customers had already purchased hanger or ramp space for their private jets. My job was to take care of these people in the best way possible, and if I did my job right I would walk away with cash money. Tips to be shared with whoever else was on shift that day.
When planes were being pulled out of the hangar I was checking the list the crew had left. Catering, ice, newspapers, and fresh coffee all needed to be in the plane before their passengers arrived. Sometimes I was delivering fresh linens to the flight attendants and they would hand me a box of dirty dishes. If there was time, I would run them through the industrial dishwasher. If there wasn’t enough time, I had to scrub and return the sparkling dishware.
When planes arrived, I had to literally lay out the carpet so they wouldn’t walk on the ground tracking dirt into their planes or cars. If it was raining, I was the one holding their umbrella escorting them to their plane, hopefully helping them stay dry.
The absolute best part was driving the cars. The clients would drive right up to their plane and I would get the chance to park Aston Martins, Bentleys, Ferraris, and Lamborghinis. Being behind the wheel of those vehicles was amazing. But I was also responsible for bringing them up to the planes, making sure they were clean and ready to go.
At the airport, it was important to learn who each customer was. We needed to know their likes and dislikes. Would the food ordered have things on the tray to upset them? Did they like the New York Times over the Post? All of this mattered because if we upset them, at best we wouldn’t get a tip, at worst they would leave and head to a different airport.
Now, even though each one of these customer service jobs dealt with different economic classes, they all had one thing in common. If you treated a customer service representative, aka the employee, like garbage, you were removed. I have seen millionaires losing their damn mind about something that happened and the managers had them removed from the lobby and handled elsewhere. Some lost their ability to park their jet on the ramp because they were so disrespectful. I lost count at how many times working in retail that security removed customers who were screaming about something we had no control over. In customer service jobs, the employee is protected one way or the other.
In teaching, we are not, and that is not the only thing that differs between teaching and customer service.
Most importantly, I am not selling anything. The kids are there to learn. I am not worried about whether or not they buy a shirt. I am there to present a lesson and everyone, no matter what skill level is expected to learn it. That means if they don’t like it, oh well, that is the task of the day. If my students have a 504 or IEP, yes, I will take that into consideration and alter their assignment, but they will still learn what everyone else is learning.
I don’t know why or how, but in some strange multi-universe that is now ours, I am expected to entertain the idea of students just not doing their work. I have given them chance after chance to turn in late assignments. And when I do this, these kids are up my butt demanding that I update their grade that they turned in weeks late. There is no respect for my time, it’s only me-me-me from the students.
A bored student may be the most terrifying kind of student. They become rude and disruptive. If customers acted like some of my students, they’d be removed from the store/airport by the police for disturbing the peace. The disrespect that teachers put up with is unnerving. In a store, I can just walk away from someone being rude to me. In a classroom, I have to figure out how to defuse a situation. Or worse, I have to entertain their behavior problems until someone comes and removes the student. But I have lost count of how many times admin doesn’t come.
Students go to school to absorb what is being taught to them. That is why they pick their classes. It’s not like the mall where they just wander about looking at what they like or dislike. I am not there to show off flashy new things to encourage them to spend more money. And I am most certainly not there to answer to their every whim and request.
So Palm Beach County School board. I hope you understand the difference between a teacher and a CSR. Because if you actually did, you all would be supporting us in ways that might blow your mind. Because right now, you don’t do shit in ways of supporting your teachers from the “customers.”
P.S. I just touched on retail…. don’t even get my started on other types of customer service.
Skynet, A.I., definitely not Skynet, the self-aware artificial intelligence network that perceives humans as a threat to its existence, thus starting a nuclear war and turning all robots against humanity. Even if a billionaire genius jokingly decided to name their AI Skynet, my students miss the foreshadowing of our impending doom, so long as they have weaseled their way out of homework.
I have a love hate relationship with artificial intelligence. I grew up watching The Matrix, Space Odyssey, I Robot, and Terminator, none of which were a good thing for humanity. However, movies like Chappie and Wall-E pulled on my heart strings for those robots. And just like my mixed emotions about A.I. in the fictional world, I have the same for those in our world.
At the start of the school year, teachers were told that we had to integrate Khanmigo into their daily use. As I sat in the factual meeting, I wondered who in the county was getting their palm greased by Khan Academy. It was dumbfounding how hard the district was pushing artificial intelligence to replace teachers’ lesson plans and student interaction. One of the biggest reasons they wanted teachers to use this program is they could track how often students were using it and what lessons were being used. I skirted this request because I wasn’t a core subject and the district had deemed us unimportant. The only lesson offered covered TV production, Pixar’s story structure, or something like that. But it wasn’t even directed for TV, it was meant to be used in English classes.
Students have moved past using the limited Khanmigo and straight to ChatGPT or DeepSeek. I can’t fault them for asking for help from certain subjects. When they are doing math homework and are stuck on a problem, they ask ChatGPT to break down how to solve it. There is no difference from asking a teacher, who would be on their off hours when students are completing their homework. But the issue is most don’t just use the software when they are stuck. I have seen many who just input each problem and write the answer. Now we are back to the idea of students just regurgitating and no longer learning. In a single year, ChatGPT has single handedly circumvented years of teaching students weird multi-step processes of completing math work.
While I have used ChatGPT to help me create lesson plans when I am stuck on how to create a new and fun, interesting way to present a subject, I have found my students doing the same for their script writing. I don’t fully hate the idea of them getting ideas, it would be the same as grabbing a card from Storymatic or prompts dice. I know not everyone is a storyteller and needs assistance. But it’s sad how quickly ChatGPT regurgitates the same storyline. My students don’t know this but I do, especially after reading four of the same script. Some students get creative and will put the script in proper format and change some character names, along with dialogue. But there are others who don’t. It’s just lazy. Part of their grade is writing in the correct format. If they just did that they would get more points.
Outside of ChatGPT, adobe has integrated artificial intelligence into its software. Students have found it helpful creating voice overs when they have forgotten to record one and their projects are due. Others have used it to clean up their audio when they have poorly recorded their sound. Again, I don’t hate it. However, this is allowing them to be lazy. Instead of ensuring they have filmed everything they need for a project, they now shrug it off. That is the correct use of “I’ll fix it in post.” I need my students to follow their shot list. I also need them to learn how to film audio correctly. Because when they use the artificial intelligence to clean up their sound, it sounds off. Either the audio becomes thin or there is just an unnatural sound to it.
Artificial Intelligence could be so helpful for students. It can guide them in ways that sometimes I can’t because it’s a room of 30 kids and I am just one person. However, I am finding that not to be the case. This is the generation that just uses technology without understanding how or why they use it, and AI is the same. Instead of sparking creativity and exploration, the kids are fine with allowing the machine to do all the work for them. So when Skynet, ChatGPT, finally takes over the world, my students will welcome their new overlord because the robots will do all the thinking for them.
This is the easiest answer. For the last twenty years, Earle Wright has quietly shaped the broadcast and production professional world. Our TV club’s Google Classroom claims we’re here for world domination, and with so many Wright grads in the workforce, it seems as if he’s succeeded in that mission.
Instead of writing something new, I’ll just share the letter of recommendation I wrote for my mentor and now colleague, Earle Wright.
I have had the privilege of knowing Earle since my time as a student at Dwyer High School from 2001 to 2005, where he first served as my TV production teacher. Throughout my career, Earle has been an invaluable mentor, shaping not only my career path into broadcasting but also inspiring my journey into teaching.
Earle has dedicated his career to shaping the future of broadcast journalism. Since joining Seminole Ridge High School in 2005, he has transformed the TV Production Academy into one of the most respected programs in the state. His commitment to excellence is unparalleled, and he holds all his students to a professional standard that often exceeds what I’ve encountered in my decade of professional experience. It’s not uncommon for his students’ work to rival that of college graduates, setting them apart in the competitive field of broadcast journalism.
I’ve seen firsthand the impact Wright’s teaching has had on countless students. When I worked at CBS 12, I knew that if a resume came across the News Director’s desk with “Seminole Ridge High School” on it, it would be moved to the top of the pile. The caliber of students coming from his program is unmatched, and it’s a reputation that has spread far beyond South Florida. Seminole Ridge alumni can be found in newsrooms and production studios across the country.
Wright’s influence extends far beyond his classroom. Even twenty years later, he continues to be my mentor, and I lean on his expertise and guidance to this day. Our partnership in mentoring future journalists and filmmakers has been mutually beneficial, helping me grow as a professional and educator. But his impact doesn’t stop there. Earle is the go-to person in the district for advice and support, always making himself available to help ensure that all schools in Palm Beach County have the resources they need to thrive. Whether it’s answering emails, phone calls, or texts, Wright’s dedication to helping educators and students in every corner of the district is unwavering.
While the FSPA State Teacher of the Year Award is dedicated to recognizing excellence in journalism education for one year, it is impossible to ignore the lasting impact Earle Wright has had on his students, colleagues, and the field of journalism as a whole. His contributions and mentorship go beyond a single year of recognition, and I firmly believe he deserves this honor for the profound, lasting difference he has made over the past two decades.
What tattoo do you want and where would you put it?
What tattoo do you want and where would you put it?
I already have four tattoos. A quill and ink on my right rib, a Celtic Cross on my left, and two blue swallows, the one on the left is holding a Tudor Rose and the other holds a royal sceptre. All are in color except for my largest, the quill and ink, those were done with black and gray tattoo. I have an entire Pinterest board decided to new designs I would like to cover my arms in. However, that’s where they have stayed for the last decade.
When I received my quill and ink in 2014, I didn’t know I would have such a lull between designs. I thought after I settled in Brazil I would find a new artist. But I didn’t have time to put in the research before I returned to Florida. After returning, I had to get my life in order. Which meant being a responsible adult and allocating my money elsewhere. Being responsible sucks because it’s been a decade and my Pinterest board keeps growing and my skin is still ink free.
If it wasn’t for responsibilities, I would ink on about three unique pieces. One dedicated to my children, one for my passion for the ocean and swimming, and the third for a special reason.
The one for my children I am still working on. I know there would be a cute cartoon field mouse, with a bow on its ear, holding a flower, with a little bee buzzing nearby. The little mouse/flower for Adelyn and a bee for Bb. Now my problem is working in Mark. His favorite animal is a penguin. But I’m not sure how to work a penguin into a design with a field mouse and a bumblebee. I could have the field mouse standing in front of a baseball, make the entire scene a little spring moment, but I just don’t know yet. I want to be certain before inking something permanently to my body.
The second design, one that I have wanted for years and have lived on my Pinterest board since the beginning, is an inside forearm piece. The design is very different from the four I already have. It is predominantly a line work or fine lined mermaid tail. Above the tail would be the tip of the wave that would swirl around the tail and end in an anchor. The ocean has played such a pivotal role in my life. From swimming to surfing, I have felt more at home in the water. Now my daughter has the same passion. The mermaid would be for both of us.
My last design would be a black and gray realism style of a compass surrounded by a rope that is knotted into a heart. The compass holds a special meaning for my husband and me. We have always said our lights have guided us out of the darkness. I have thought about a lighthouse but I don’t have space to dedicate to what I would like to have. A compass and heart would grace the cap of one of my shoulders. I think it would go on the right side since my mermaid tail would be on the left.
But responsibilities exist and until I feel more comfortable with everything all my designs will live in my heart. Which is fine by me because summer is right around the corner. Getting ink in Florida during the summer is like being grounded. You can’t go swimming, you are not supposed to have fresh ink in the sun, and you don’t want to scratch the peeling design. All of which are highlighted in the summer. Kids will want to go to the ocean and the pool. Wearing anything besides short-sleeved shirts is asking for heat stroke and all that humidity will make you sweat and itch.
So I shall wait for winter to revisit my inkful wishes.
What strategies do you use to cope with negative feelings?
Giving up social media for Lent has become a tradition. In a life long ago, I would have given up drinking and meat. But I learned my iron is far too low to continue along that path. Drinking faded away. With three kids and teaching, one would think I would drink more, but facing all these little gremlins with a hangover is not an option. So social media is one of my last vices. That and cursing.
My Lenten season started before the official date. In February I laid in bed doom scrolling. Videos of thin, fit women surrounded by their children in perfect houses filled one of my algorithms. My others were filled with writers who were getting signed by publishers or talking about finishing their last novel. I couldn’t riot in my bed any longer and deleted all the apps.
I don’t know why I get a sense of relief whenever I remove the apps from my phone. It’s not like I delete my accounts. I can still login on a web browser and do so on my laptop. But login in on my phone is just too clunky to operate. I went about two weeks before we headed out to STN in Tampa. The apps were only added back in so I could post student photos showing them meeting deadlines and having fun as teens. But as soon as the bus headed out of Tampa, the apps were gone again.
Since removing social media has become almost easy, I added another challenge. To give up cursing. This vice has been one that I have held onto for a long time. Growing up cursing was something my dad did. Sentence enhancers, he called them. My mom only used them when she was beyond angry with us. I don’t know what was so enticing about it, but cursing made me feel different.
I was able to express my feelings when my words would fail me. Sometimes when I was in pain, a certain four letter F word was the only thing that could capture what I was going through. But at some point I started using them in everyday conversation. When I was younger, leaving the words out was easier, but as I got older, it became more of a conscious decision to not use the curse words.
I read somewhere once that an honest man cusses because he’s not thinking about what he says, he’s just speaking from the heart. For me, it’s the truth. If I have to censor myself, then I’m not only thinking about what four-letter words not to say, I am also altering whatever it is I am about to say. I might soften my tone or even the entire thought altogether. But when the words fly from my mouth, sometimes vicious, it’s the truth.
And for a long time I didn’t care what my words did to people. Because I unleashed my venom only when deserved. If I unleashed my verbal tirade on you, it’s because you probably wronged me. But now, as a mother, I don’t have that luxury. I have to be careful with what I say because I can damage the Little mind that is listening to what I’m saying.
When Adelyn was small, she would correct me. Telling me “Mommy those are bad words.” It would catch me off guard because at that point in my life I became so numb to those sentence enhancers I didn’t even realize I was using them. She would ask me what certain words meant and why people used them in song. Mind you, she was about 3 or 4, far too smart for her age.
I should have stopped then, but I didn’t curb my tongue. It wasn’t until Bb started talking did I contemplate making a change. Bennett is the definition of a parrot baby. If he idolizes you, he not only does he repeat what you say, but he also mimics the tone. He heard me say the F word so many times when I would drop something or stub my toe that if he did the same he would curse.
Do you know how hard it is not to laugh when a 2-year-old drops his binky and goes “Oh fuck!”
It is extremely difficult.
And I am finding the difficulty is not just in not laughing. I haven’t gone a full day without swearing. My use of the words has gotten better. I have decreased the amount by a thousand percent. However, there are days when my temper has gotten the best of me and the words fly. I am holding myself to my goal and I would like to say by the end of Lent, I will be able to abstain from swearing.
I never put much thought into how the words I use influenced my mental state. I thought not feeding the social media monster was enough. But since the Lenten Season has begun, I have felt lighter. It could be because I’m no longer in the rat race trying to keep up with what everyone is doing. Or it could be because I am not allowing toxic words to influence my emotions.
There seems to be a theme here, the detox of negativity.
