143/365 It’s Raining, It’s Pouring (Repeat)

When I was around 13, a tornado hit the small town where I grew up. School paused for a bit because the elementary school was damaged by the storm.

When I moved to Florida, several days were missed across the years due to school closings brought on by the threat of hurricanes. This is when I became intimately aware of the phrase “hunker down.”

To this day, there’s nothing else that I can think of that would lead me to hunker down other than a hurricane.

In Philadelphia, ice storms, blizzards and extraordinarily hot days caused school closings.

When I moved to Colorado, I figured my best bet was a snow day or two. Even that seemed a pipe dream given the infrastructure’s response time when snow falls and the fact that the snowfall melts so quickly after it falls thanks to sun’s nearness.

Then there was this morning when I woke up to a text message alerting me to the closing of the local university.

“That’s weird,” I thought and decided just to check to see if my district might have made a similar surprising move.

They did.

School was canceled today because of water and its tremendous fortitude and destructive power.

The last I heard, at least one person had lost their life because of the rain that continues to fall on Boulder County. This is to say nothing of the roads that are now washed away, the homes with unspeakable water damage and the now-unsafe water supply of a nearby town.

The street one block away looks like a mud-red river. Cars have been carried downhill, basements are flooded, and families are trying to figure out what to do next.

All the while, it continues to rain. We’ve seen more rain in the last few days than all the summer combined.

A few days ago, Apple announced two new phones that harolded our further command over information, communication and connectivity to one another.

About an hour ago, I lost my Internet connection, and cell phone reception in my basement apartment is consistently spotty.

We’ve been beaten down…by water.

It’s a humbling reminder.

Does this mean I’ll need to change my twitter handle?

For the first time in a long time, I’m nervous.

Stepping in front of a classroom for the first time nine years ago didn’t frighten me. My teacher training at Illinois State prepared me for that.

Stepping foot on the Harvard Ed School campus as a student this year didn’t worry me. Learning as a teacher and student at Science Leadership for four years prepared me for that.

Next year is a bit different.

I’m going west (young man) to Boulder, CO where I’ll be one of the newest doctoral students at the University of Colorado – Boulder in their Educational Foundations Policy and Practice Ph.D. program.

While everything up to this point prepared me to complete the application and ostensibly to complete the program, joining the program also means stepping out of my depth.

Under the G.I. Bill, my grandfather completed his master’s degree when he left the army decades ago, and my mom completed hers a couple years ago. Making the move to complete my M.Ed. this year meant following in their footsteps. It was learning from the lead of two of the most impactful role models I’ve ever had. I wasn’t encouraged by the fact teachers around me had completed their master’s. It was that this was something my family has done. We do this.

The doctorate lives in a different space in my head. While I’ve encountered and befriended countless Ph.D’s, it’s not something my family has done. I didn’t realize, until I received my admission notice and was faced with the decision, how much my family and lineage weigh on my perception of what I can (and should) do.

I’m going.

In the end, it came down the chance to study a topic about which I’m passionate at a world-class institution dedicated to interdisciplinary studies with a social justice bent versus moving safely in the spaces I know.

Part of me is scared.

I could fail. I’ve no family history toward which I can nod and say, “This is something we do.”

I’m moving halfway across the country. I’m committing to the formal life of a student. I’m saying this is the work to which I am dedicating my life for the next few years. Pieces of it feel more selfish than teaching. Most of it is much less immediate than the daily workings of the classroom. But it’s something about which I’m curious and something I know to be important. It’s a chance to make a difference in a different way.

Because of this – and because it’s important to lean in to the things that scare us – I’m going.

And, I guess, if you keep reading, you’re going too.