Matthew Dicks's Blog, page 87

Plaque and a player

My friend and former colleague, Rob Hugh, who taught vocal music in West Hartford public schools for 39 years, returned last week to play percussion for our inter-elementary school choir.

The choir was also singing one of his songs.

Rob is a renowned composer of music for children’s choirs. His music is performed all over the world.

In the photo, Rob is sitting to the left of the choir, behind the piano, playing percussion. Just to his left, hanging on the wall, is a plaque honoring his longtime service to our school.

This should be everyone’s dream:

Perform beneath a plaque honoring you while listening to people perform something you wrote.

Living the dream.

Storytelling for Parents workshop

Got kids?

Know someone who has kids?

Check out my brand new Storytelling for Parents workshop.

Saturday, June 17, from 10:00 AM to 2:00 PM EST.

I’ll be teaching all of the strategies that I use to both tell entertaining, meaningful stories to my children and students and teach them to do the same. It’s a workshop designed to help you instill a culture of storytelling in your family, get your children to share more of their lives with you, and create and preserve family lore.

Click here to register or check out the video (and my kids!) below.

Fixed!

In the event that you haven’t seen a blog post from me in nearly a week, fear not.

I was still writing and posting.

You were, perhaps, just not seeing them. The problem has been corrected.

If you go to matthewdicks.com/blog, you can see all of the posts that you missed over the past seven days.

50 years of Barbara and Gerry Green

My in-laws, Barbara and Gerry – celebrated their 50th year of marriage last week, which is astounding.

They have been married nearly as long as I have been alive.

They’ve been married through ten Presidential administrations.

When they were married, gas was 38 cents a gallon, the minimum wage was $1.60 per hour, and for the first time in U.S. history, women were allowed to serve on juries in all 50 states.

Barbara and Gerry have done remarkable things over their lives:

Raised two happy, successful daughters.

Celebrated the birth of five grandchildren.

Built a home in the Berkshires. Bought a home in New York City.

Launched several successful businesses.

Evolved and transformed themselves again and again.

It’s all quite impressive, but I think their marriage might be the most impressive of all.

How lucky they are to have been able to spend 50 years with the person that each of them loves.

We should all be so lucky.

Unexpected surprise at laser tag

Charlie and I played laser tag on Sunday at Nomads Adventure Quest, an oddly named indoor amusement center in South Windsor, CT.

We also bowled, spent an hour killing zombies in virtual reality, played a round of mini golf, rode the bumper cars, rock climbed, and played lots and lots of video games.

We like Nomads Adventure Quest a lot.

As we entered the laser tag prep area to don our vests and arm our lasers, the employee running things suggested we play a team game:

Charlie and me versus the other two boys about to enter the maze. They were probably nine or ten years old – about Charlie’s age or a little younger – and gung-ho about the prospect of taking us on, so Charlie and I agreed.

The employee re-programmed our vests for a team game, then Charlie and I entered the maze through one door while the boys entered through the other.

The battle was on.

I won’t bore you with the details of the next half hour, but when the game ended and we exited the maze, all four of us walked over to the screen in the lobby where our scores were posted.

Charlie and I scored 15,000 points. I’d scored about 10,000 of those points myself.

Our opponents?

– 340 points

I’d never seen this before. They actually had a negative score.

Charlie and I had demolished them.

Here’s the best part:

After the scores flashed on the screen and the boys saw their negative score, they turned to me and said, “Good game!” Then each of them high-fived me with genuine delight.

They either misread the board, don’t understand how numbers work, or were two of the best sports I’ve ever met.

I’m inclined to think the latter.

Standing in the arena

A while ago, I wrote something that many, many people – including my wife – greatly appreciated. It was pointed, perhaps a little edgy, and not gentle, but I believed in what I wrote and understand that gentle doesn’t always cut it.

Others did not appreciate what I wrote. Almost all of my critics offered thoughtful critiques and posed alternative points of view. Some were pointed, but then again, I was pointed, too, so turnabout is fair game.

As always, disagreement is both expected and appreciated.

Also, some offered perspectives that I had not considered before, which were also appreciated.

A very tiny group of people were less thoughtful in their responses. One or two were exceedingly unkind, mostly privately through email or on their own social media. They called me terrible and unfortunate names and expressed their opinion in words that I would never even think of using myself.

Really rotten stuff.

In response to this vitriol, another handful of people sent me messages of concern. They worried about how might be feeling or reacting to one or two especially awful remarks.

Those messages of concern were kind, thoughtful, and appreciated, but also blessedly unnecessary.

Here is the truth:

I’ve written a post on my blog – which you may read on Facebook or Goodreads or in my daily newsletter or somewhere else – for the past 19 years without missing a single day. That 7,235 consecutive days of writing a thought, an idea, a story, a memory, a rant, a bit of confusion, and more.

As Elysha rightly said after pointing out one of those especially unkind comments to me:

“You’ve been writing forever. You’re never going to make everyone happy every day.”

This is precisely how I feel.

When you dare to express your opinion in writing every day for tens of thousands of readers, some people will occasionally or frequently stand opposed to what you think. They will disagree with your idea. Despise your opinion. Express outrage over your assemblage of sentences.

This comes with the territory.

Sometimes, that disagreement causes a shift in my thinking. Other times, I might better understand a reader’s point of view without changing my opinion at all. Sometimes a reader will express disappointment or anger over something I have written, and as a result, I will try to use more nuance and care in the future.

But when a reader calls me names? Threatens to stop reading? Insults me in ways that they absolutely would never do if we were standing face to face? Tells others how awful I am? Criticizes me behind my back? Lies about me in some awful way?

I know it sounds crazy to some, but it has absolutely no effect on me.

Part of my non-reaction is because I’ve suffered more slings and arrows than you could ever imagine. I’ve been attacked in ways that, according to attorneys, are truly unprecedented.

When you live publicly as I tend to do, it happens. As a result, my armor is strong.

Also, I maintain perspective at all times. Part of that perspective is the awareness that after nearly two decades of writing and posting every day, you’re going to write things that are poorly received, either because you messed up or people don’t agree.

This also comes with the territory.

Also, in this particular circumstance, I remember this:

The majority of readers appreciated my words. Both on social media and through email, Facebook messages, and the like, I was thanked for my words. Even Elysha, who is often my toughest critic, appreciated my words. If my fans outnumber my critics by a large number, I know I didn’t entirely screw up.

But also, and so important for anyone creating anything that might be criticized by others, I remember the following quote by Theodore Roosevelt. His words reside in my heart and mind, and I think about them constantly, relentlessly, and unwaveringly.

If you make things, or even if you’re just thinking about making things someday, these words might be useful to you, too:

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming.”

– Theodore Roosevelt

Please forgive Teddy’s singularly masculine pronouns. It was the custom of his day.

Teacher of the Year over the years

Henry A. Wolcott School – where I have taught for the past 24 years – has been blessed with a large number of teachers who have been named Teacher of the Year in our school district.

The district has 16 schools and more than 700 teachers. By simple average, our school would’ve been expected to have one or two Teachers of the Year over the last  30 years.

Instead, we’ve had six.

Our first, back in 1992, was vocal music teacher Rob Hugh. Rob is retired today (after 39 years of teaching) but is a frequent golf buddy of mine and is still composing music sung by children worldwide.

In 2005, I was fortunate enough to be named Teacher of the Year.

That same year, my brilliant colleague, now-retired kindergarten teacher Debby Szajnberg, was also one of the three finalists for the award.

Quite a year, and quite an honor for our school.

In 2006, librarian Kathy Paquette, now enjoying retirement in South Carolina, was honored with the award.

In 2008, instrumental music teacher Andy Mayo, who is now West Hartford’s Department Supervisor of Performing Arts, won the award.

In 2014, kindergarten teacher Jeff Michaud was named Teacher of the Year, but because he retired from teaching at the end of that school year to take over his father’s business, he was unable to fulfill the duties, so the award was passed on to the equally deserving second place finisher that year.

Still an honor for our school and my good friend.

In 2019, my colleague and fellow fifth-grade teacher, Jennifer Stanish, was named Teacher of the Year.

I mention all of this history because this year, the three Teacher of the Year finalists had Wolcott School roots.

Finalist Eric Feeney is currently a third-grade teacher in our school.

Finalist Dylan Geisler worked as a physical education teacher in our school for many years before moving on to another school in our district.

Finalist and recently named 2023 Teacher of the Year Emily McMurray was a kindergarten teacher for years at Wolcott School before becoming a preschool teacher in another school in our district.

My favorite memory of Emily is from years ago when she and I performed together in a school play. Backstage during one of our evening performances, I remember seeing Emily tucked into a corner, script sitting by her side, scissors in one hand and yellow construction paper in the other, cutting triangles and circles for the next day’s lesson in between scenes.

“That’s some serious dedication,” I remember thinking. “Some ridiculous dedication.”

Not surprising, I guess, from a future Teacher of the Year.

Congratulations to Emily. A well-deserved honor for sure.

And congratulations to Dylan and Eric. The Teacher of the Year process is a long and challenging one, so making it to the final three is quite an accomplishment.

The only problem with our Teacher of the Year process is that only one teacher gets named every year. I personally know so many deserving teachers who are more than deserving to be named  Teacher of the Year who may never receive the honor.

Thankfully, no one goes into teaching hoping to win recognition and acclaim. Most of us receive all the recognition we need from our students and their parents. As a former Teacher of the Year and one of three finalists for Connecticut’s Teacher of the Year, I can point to thousands of moments with students, notes written to me by grateful kids and their parents, and unforgettable honors like officiating the wedding ceremony of a former student as far more important and memorable than any honor my colleagues could ever bestow.

Being named Teacher of the Year is quite an honor.

Being able to change the lives of children every day is an even greater honor.

Rotten, clever children

If my students are focused and worked hard during math class, I allow them to spend 3 minutes writing anything they want on their whiteboards.

Oftentimes they draw less than flattering pictures of me.

It’s hilarious.

But recently, I’ve been teaching them that if they’re going to be cruel to me, they should at least find a way of doing it with some artistry, so I introduced them to the word “subtle” and explained that some of the best jokes in the world are the subtle ones.

Jokes that say a lot with very little.

These three caught my eye recently.

On the gravestone, please note that my sense of humor was born and died in the same year – 1970 – implying that I never had a sense of humor.

Also, my student missed the correct date of my birth by just one year, which makes this joke even more impressive.

In the “Snakes” drawing, I asked my student, “But where are the snakes?”

“Under the water,” she said. “Where they belong. Where you can’t see them. More terrifying that way. See? Subtle.”

But my favorite was the picture of the simple flower, bent over and looking so sad.

A perfectly subtle way of telling me how joyless and awful I am.

I love these kids so much.

I’m on the stupid bulletin board

I was standing in a local bagel shop with Clara yesterday. We had just left a doctor’s appointment, and I was getting Clara some breakfast before driving her back to school.

“I’m going to look at the bulletin board,” Clara said, stepping out of line, gesturing to a large board filled with community announcements. “Hold my place in line.”

“Wait,” I said. “I’m not even getting a bagel. I don’t even know what you want. Get back here.”

“Cinamon sugar with cream cheese,” she said. “Just wait there. I like looking at these boards.”

“Stop looking at the stupid board and get back here!”

She ignored me and stepped over to the board. A moment later, I repeated myself. “Stop looking at the stupid board and get over here.”

“Hey, Dad,” she said. “You’re on this stupid board.”

I didn’t believe her, of course, but she insisted. So I stepped over to look and found myself staring at myself.

On June 3, I’ll perform an hour of storytelling and comedy at the Flagg Road United Church of Christ in West Hartford.

Apparently, they are advertising the event. In the bagel shop, and probably other places, too.

If you live locally, you should come. Tickets are just $5, and every penny goes to support the church.

Call (860) 523-0121 or email flaggroaducc@gmail.com to reserve your seats. Include your name, contact information, and number of tickets requested.

Seating is limited. 

I stepped back into the bagel line, and the man behind, who saw and heard the whole thing, said, “I’ll bet that was pretty weird for you. Huh?”

I nodded.

“It was pretty weird for me, too,” he said.

I was standing in a local bagel shop with Clara yesterday...

I was standing in a local bagel shop with Clara yesterday. We had just left a doctor’s appointment, and I was getting Clara some breakfast before driving her back to school.

“I’m going to look at the bulletin board,” Clara said, stepping out of line, gesturing to a large board filled with community announcements. “Hold my place in line.”

“Wait,” I said. “I’m not even getting a bagel. I don’t even know what you want. Get back here.”

“Cinamon sugar with cream cheese,” she said. “Just wait there. I like looking at these boards.”

“Stop looking at the stupid board and get back here!”

She ignored me and stepped over to the board. A moment later, I repeated myself. “Stop looking at the stupid board and get over here.”

“Hey, Dad,” she said. “You’re on this stupid board.”

I didn’t believe her, of course, but she insisted. So I stepped over to look and found myself staring at myself.

On June 3, I’ll perform an hour of storytelling and comedy at the Flagg Road United Church of Christ in West Hartford.

Apparently, they are advertising the event. In the bagel shop, and probably other places, too.

If you live locally, you should come. Tickets are just $5, and every penny goes to support the church.

Call (860) 523-0121 or email flaggroaducc@gmail.com to reserve your seats. Include your name, contact information, and number of tickets requested.

Seating is limited. 

I stepped back into the bagel line, and the man behind, who saw and heard the whole thing, said, “I’ll bet that was pretty weird for you. Huh?”

I nodded.

“It was pretty weird for me, too,” he said.