Well, Hello…

/ Dawn Kasal-Finley / Leave a comment

I miss writing and blogging. It was such a big part of my life for so long. And then the world changed. I started blogging back in 2006 as I waited to bring our son home and then became a “mommy blogger.” And then life happened and I wrote less on here as I wrote more for my Ph.D. program. Then I went back to teaching high school full-time and I tried to write every now and again.

And then I didn’t know what I wanted/needed this space to be. To be honest, I still don’t know what I want this space to be. Personal? Professional? A combination of both? I just don’t know.

I am entering a new phase of life, kinda. My son is a rising senior so college stuff is every where and all the time. My daughter is a sophomore and spending more time with friends, etc and I am always trying not to worry about her.

I’m coming up on 4 years as a widow and still trying to figure all of that out. I’m starting to exercise after totally ignoring my body and physical health for far too long.

I’m finishing up my Ed.S. in K-12 administration and will probably transition into administration–so I can pay for college–in the next couple of years.

I’m also department chair now and am continuing to teach 5 preps.

I’m working through the changes that pandemic has foisted on us as teachers and humans and how I have to adjust my teaching to best server my students.

So, I’m planning to be writing here more often. I just don’t know about what.

Uncertainty

/ Dawn Kasal-Finley / Leave a comment

I have so many words swirling around in my head.
Swirling like they have been thrown in the vitamix
and slowly turned up to full speed.
I have been trying to put them on paper–
but the paper disappears
Faster than I can put
words down.

The words
don’t come clear quickly-
they come in violent whispers
that are barely–audible.

I grasp to grab them
before they
evaporate. But–
I fail more than I succeed.

The pages remain invisible.
The words whispers.

The uncertainty shrouds
the words and the pages.
The uncertainly feeds the fear
that eats the paper and the words.

The uncertainty
has taken
so much.

I want my words back.

**unedited first draft poem**

Nights are the Hardest

/ Dawn Kasal-Finley / 1 Comment

The logistics of life have not changed that much since Bill died.

Sure, I don’t have anyone to pick up the slack when I am just too tired to do the driving and no back-up when a decision has to be made or I have to be in two places at once.  But in general, my responsibilities have not changed that much.

I did most of the kid driving before he died, because I was home earlier than he was and it just made sense. I also like doing it.  Car rides are a great time to learn about the kids’ lives.

I am lucky I am not alone.  My parents have been an enormous help as has been our friends and teammates.

But the nights…

The evening hours when the kids don’t have activities, but are busy talking on the phone, playing with friends online, doing homework, are the moments that hurt the most.

I sit in his spot on the couch and long to talk to him; long to hear his voice.  I miss him interrupting my reading to talk about something that was really inconsequential. I miss discussing the world, his job, my job.  I miss his laugh.  I miss nagging him to carry in his plate and put it in the sink.

I miss his smile.

I miss him nagging me to put my phone down. I miss sharing what I am learning and what hearing about his day at work and the drama of the post-its on the Agile board.

It’s his companionship I miss the most.

I am independent.  I always have been.  It’s one of the things he equally loved and hated.  The fact that I didn’t need him. And I didn’t need him in my life.  But God how I wanted him in my life.

How I dreamt about our future and sending our kids off into the world. How I dreamt about the summers we would spend traveling after he retired. How we dreamt of what was next.

There isn’t anymore next.  At least not for the couple we were.  I have a whole new “next” to figure out.  A next I never wanted and have no plan for.

His absence is heavy.

The nights are the hardest.

Reminders

/ Dawn Kasal-Finley / Leave a comment

There are reminders everywhere.

Every time I open the fridge.

Every time I pull up the “list” on our DVR.

Every time I walk into my bedroom.  It’s now my bedroom. For almost 20 years it was our bedroom.  Now it’s just mine.

The mail that arrives with his name on it.  Evidence that he was here and lived.  A reminder that he is no longer here.

The random piece of his laundry that makes it into the load.

His shampoo, that will now forever be my shampoo.

Every time I open a cupboard and see “his” food. Food we’ll never eat, but that I probably won’t throw away.

Every time I take out the trash and walk past his garden–how am I going to eat all of this lettuce alone?

The reminders are everywhere.

I feel the weight of his absence every day in the load that now rests solely on my shoulders.

The reminders help lighten that weight in many ways.

The reminders wrap me in his love for us.

Teachers are Human

/ Dawn Kasal-Finley / 2 Comments

It’s been 7 weeks since my husband died suddenly and unexpectedly on what had been both my birthday and a perfect day together. Needless to say, my world and life has been turned upside down.  We have two amazing children (13 and 11) who need me now more than ever.

I also have 103 teenagers who depend on me.

This post on Twitter really got me:
45C0C68A-A5B7-4419-85FE-C25FB129DA87

 

 

This is where I see broken pieces of our public education system.  I was given 4 days bereavement from my principal.  Two of those days were “free” days as negotiated by our union.  In the public education system, I am a number. I am a cog in the wheel. I am not a person.  I am not seen as an individual human.  My principal doesn’t have the right to allow me as much time as I need to heal.  I cannot afford to take time off w/out pay or benefits.  I am now the financial security for my family.

There are no concessions granted.  Lesson plans late–I am notified.  Observations–continue on even though I might not be at my best.  No exceptions.  We are all the same.  We are not humans; we are teachers  And somehow, our personal lives don’t matter and are expected to be pushed aside.  Yes, my students deserve my best everyday–but sometimes my best is not possible. But I can’t take a day–because I only get 1 per month. More than that and I get docked a full days pay.  I can’t afford that.  So what other choice do I have?

This might not be so obvious to me if I didn’t have something else to compare it to, but I do–I taught in a private school for almost 6 years.  I know that my private school would have given me as much time off (with pay) as I needed to be whole again. To mourn. To take care of my kids. To take care of this new life.  I could take any random day I might need w/out worry of being able to feed my kids or to have it taken into account at contract time.

But our public education system doesn’t take time to treat teachers or students as human. We are inputs and outputs.  We are bodies in rooms. We are cogs in wheels.  We are expected to check off boxes and get results. We are expected attend meetings that could be emails–because we need to meet or we don’t trust you’ll read out emails.

We are expected to do hours of online training, craft lesson plans, call and email home, and teach and get all of this done in our contracted hours.  I am trying hard to not work during my non-contracted time–because I need to heal and I need to take care of my own children.

We are expected to attend PD that doesn’t apply to us and to sign in and be present. We are expected to tow the line and do what the district wants instead of what is good for kids.

I know there are plenty of functioning public school districts, but even those don’t always value teachers as human.

I just want to be valued as a professional (I’m pretty sure that is why your hire someone with almost 20 years of k-12 and college teaching experience, two content area degrees, and a Ph.D.). I also want to be seen as a human who has a life outside of school.

Teachers just want to be seen. I want to be seen.