When I was in high school I told my parents I wanted to major in psychology "so I could help people with their problems." Both were aghast at this notion of their daughter literally listening to others' tragedies, traumas and stressful lives all day long. I have always been a very sensitive girl. Not that I cry at any little thing. But since I was little, I have always been much in tune with others' feelings. I was the girl who defended the nerdy kid who sat in the back of the room. I was the girl who, in sixth grade during my first year at St. Agatha (I had two friends at the school at that early point in the school year), stood up in religion class and said, "You two think you're a bunch of hot shots. You're not." I was referring to the class cool guys, J and C.

J and C weren't downright cruel, but they had a very arrogant, self-obsessed way about them that bothered me. Neither of them were ever mean to me, but I didn't like the way they treated the majority of the class. So I told them what I thought. Both of them went pale. All the "others" cheered silently but smiled openly.

I know when I should stand up for what's right. I don't and will never understand people who don't stand up for: themselves, those who can't speak for themselves (animals and children) and people who are weak of mind for whatever reason.

Back to my parents. I listened to their pleas, which were something along the lines of, "You will struggle separating yourself from their problems. You will suffer too much. You will always bring the weight of your work home."

I changed my major a handful of times and took too long to graduate because I wasn't sure of what I wanted to be when I grew up. Finally I took my aunt Sylvia's advice, which was to just major in what you love. I love writing; I chose journalism.

Fast-forward to Feb. 3, 2011. I teach at my alma mater and I absolutely love it. I love my students, the material, my coworkers and feeling that cozy sense of being home.

Being a teacher, there is a very fine line that we should not cross. It's hard for me. I see a sophomore who is usually happy and social come to school a few days one week looking sad and melancholic. All I can ask is, "Everything OK?" I can't get into personal matters with them because, despite the fact that they could all use the advice of an intelligent, caring, been-there-done-that adult, I can't blur the line of teacher and friend. If they see me as a friend, they start treating me as such. That'd be a problem.

You may be wondering what my hot shots story has to do with my initial desired career story and what those two things have to do with my students.

Well, ladies and gentlemen of my blog, I have an announcement. I am seriously considering graduate school in counseling. Maybe I had to choose journalism so I could write and do what I love but then I had to start teaching so that I could see how much I care about adolescents to then realize that while I love teaching, my passion is people. Helping people, that is. And not just people. Young people. People who have their whole lives ahead of them and who could truly be whomever they want to be if only they had the right guide steering them in the right direction.

I'm not making any pretenses about the fact that some kids will still do drugs, behave sluttily, send their parents to hell and back and all that other bad jazz no matter who is manning the ship.

Still, because I am nothing if not an optimist, I leave you with one of my favorite stories of all time.

The Starfish Story

adapted from The Star Thrower

by Loren Eiseley (1907 - 1977)

Once upon a time, there was a wise man who used to go to the ocean to do his writing. He had a habit of walking on the beach before he began his work.

One day, as he was walking along the shore, he looked down the beach and saw a human figure moving like a dancer. He smiled to himself at the thought of someone who would dance to the day, and so, he walked faster to catch up.

As he got closer, he noticed that the figure was that of a young man, and that what he was doing was not dancing at all. The young man was reaching down to the shore, picking up small objects, and throwing them into the ocean.

He came closer still and called out "Good morning! May I ask what it is that you are doing?"

The young man paused, looked up, and replied "Throwing starfish into the ocean."

"I must ask, then, why are you throwing starfish into the ocean?" asked the somewhat startled wise man.

To this, the young man replied, "The sun is up and the tide is going out. If I don't throw them in, they'll die."

Upon hearing this, the wise man commented, "But, young man, do you not realize that there are miles and miles of beach and there are starfish all along every mile? You can't possibly make a difference!"

At this, the young man bent down, picked up yet another starfish, and threw it into the ocean. As it met the water, he said, "It made a difference for that one."

Many years ago, a dear friend named Noelle told me about a book she was reading called The Four Agreements. I frequently think of these simple yet complicated agreements, especially when I'm guilty of not following one. I thought it would be a good idea to interpret each agreement in my own way; do my own spin on Don Miguel Ruiz' ideas.

1. Be Impeccable With Your Word.

In other words, don't talk sh*t about people. You know that sinking sensation in the pit of your stomach you get when you somehow find out that someone said mean things about you? Now, would you ever want to be the cause of making a fellow human being feel that way? Karma, anyone? That said, this one is so hard to follow. When someone at work or at home or even on the road upsets us, our first instinct is to rip that person to shreds to the first person we speak to. But does it really do any good? Does it erase that bitchy look a coworker gave you by the coffee pot? Does it do away with that time when your brother gave you attitude for no apparent reason? Does it revoke the license of the bad driver who cut you off in rush hour traffic? No times three.

2. Don't Take Anything Personally

When my students give me a particularly hard time (I'm talking to you, sixth period), sometimes I have to fight back tears. I honestly think, "I'm a horrible, ineffective teacher. I can't get these kids to stop chatting or calling out. I'm in the wrong profession. Can I just leave and never come back?" Truth is, they're teenagers. They're hormonal, imbalanced, trying-to-be-cool teenagers. Is this my fault? No. Does that mean I should stop learning classroom management skills from veteran teachers? No. You follow?

3. Don't Make Assumptions

"My boyfriend didn't tell me he loved me when we hung up the phone today. Something must be wrong. What could be wrong? Is he still mad about that argument from two nights ago?" NO. If something bothers you, ask the person who'd be the best source. Stop worrying. Chances are, your assumptions are wrong. No, scratch that. Assumptions are always wrong. We all know what happens when one assumes...

4. Always Do Your Best

Your best will change from day to day. You're not going to be the same superstar you were last week when this week you have the flu or are feeling really blue or are going through a breakup. "Your best" is individualized to you and your circumstances and your abilities. But don't sell out. This means don't resort to laziness, mediocrity or excuses. And when you do -- because we all do sometimes -- snap out of it as soon as you can because you're really robbing yourself of joy. When I put my all into a lesson and really take my time preparing it, it shows. I am so happy to present this lesson I worked so hard for to my students, that I am genuinely excited about the material. This is contagious. Would you rather learn from a person who looks like they'd rather be gardening or a person who is smiling and joyous? This can be applied to any job at any level.

"Know that truth, forgiveness, and love can heal the world... The world would become a place where all of us live in love." ~ don Miguel Ruiz

I just read the Pioneer Woman's post about how she fell off her picnic table after it unceremoniously broke, and became inspired to write about one of my many clumsy moments.

Several years ago, my aunt and I got tickets to see Movin' Out, the jukebox musical featuring Billy Joel's songs. We're both huge fans, and were beyond excited for the night. The musical was at the Jackie Gleason Theatre in Miami Beach. For those of you unfamiliar with Miami Beach, this theatre happens to be in an extremely busy area. It's next to the convention center, Lincoln Road (heavily trafficked by tourists and locals alike) and pretty much smack in the middle of lots of action.

It was a little chilly that night. This means Miami folk like to take advantage of the few "cold" days a year and bring out our winter gear. So I wore boots. New high-heeled boots. New high-heeled boots that I hadn't realized were slippery.

We were running a little late, which was of course my fault. My aunt is extremely punctual. Her punctuality annoys me and my perpetual ten-minutes late tardiness annoys her even more.

We parked across the street with just a few minutes to spare. When we got to the intersection we had to cross, the light was about to turn red. So what does she do? Rather than wait for the next light, she grabs me by the hand and yanks me into the street, yelling, "Run! We're going to be late!"

I, a non-athlete, was completely unprepared for this sudden burst of cardio, so I kind of let her drag me before my legs started moving. I guess this combination of factors led my right knee to great confusion, because it simply gave out on me.

I tumbled to the asphalt, my purse went flying three feet to my left....and cue: oncoming traffic. My aunt always, always tells people, "If you ever fall in front of me, do not count on me to help you up because I will be too busy laughing hysterically." Um, she wasn't kidding. I had to quickly shove my various cosmetics, sunglasses, wallet, cellphone, and God-knows-what-else back into my purse while attempting to get up without getting pummeled by a Miami driver.

The worst part was we were right in front of the theatre. This means a lot of our fellow audience members witnessed the entire debacle. While I was purchasing drinks, while I was in the bathroom and while I was trying to find my seat, I had people asking me, "Are you OK? We saw you fall. That looked awful."

Sheer and utter embarrassment.

The video that made me sob but inspired me to become a vegetarian

I've always yearned for the will to become a vegetarian, but being the food-lover I am, I've never even tried. But I'm a huge animal lover, so I've also felt hypocritical about the fact that I eat meat. Today I went on the PETA website and started clicking around. I frequently receive their emails, but I'm embarrassed to admit - I usually delete the messages before even opening. It's not because I don't care or feel I have more important things to do with my time. It's because I'm a wimp. It breaks my heart to read detailed accounts about how circuses beat their elephants or how monkeys kept in labs go insane. I know it happens, but I can't bear to know every gory detail.

I don't know what possessed me today, but I sat through a 12:34 extremely disturbing and graphic video on the PETA website that detailed everything that happens to chickens, cattle, cows and pigs across America. Needless to say, I sobbed through the entire thing. There were some especially gruesome parts that made me cover my eyes, but I forced myself to open my eyes and watch.

No, I'm not a masochist. But I needed a big push toward doing something I believe I should have done a long time ago.

I know this is going to be hard for me, and I pray that I can succeed, but starting today -- I will not be eating meat. After some time has passed, I plan to also eliminate poultry. Wish me luck.

That noble title teacher. It's mine. And I'm damn proud.

This woman is my new hero. The face of education in Florida is changing: rapidly, scarily and to the detriment of us all.

I am a teacher in Florida.

I rise before dawn each day and find myself nestled in my classroom hours before the morning commute is in full swing in downtown Orlando. I scour the web along with countless other resources to create meaningful learning experiences for my 24 students each day. I reflect on the successes of lessons taught and re-work ideas until I feel confident that they will meet the needs of my diverse learners. I have finished my third cup of coffee in my classroom before the business world has stirred. My contracted hours begin at 7:30 and end at 3:00. As the sun sets around me and people are beginning to enjoy their dinner, I lock my classroom door, having worked 4 hours unpaid.

I am a teacher in Florida.

I greet the smiling faces of my students and am reminded anew of their challenges, struggles, successes, failures, quirks, and needs. I review their 504s, their IEPs, their PMPs, their histories trying to reach them from every angle possible. They come in hungry—I feed them. They come in angry—I counsel them. They come in defeated—I encourage them. And this is all before the bell rings.

I am a teacher in Florida.

I am told that every student in my realm must score on or above grade level on the FCAT each year. Never mind their learning discrepancies, their unstable home lives, their prior learning experiences. In the spring, they are all assessed with one measure and if they don’t fit, I have failed. Students walk through my doors reading at a second grade level and by year’s end can independently read and comprehend early 4th grade texts, but this is no matter. One of my students has already missed 30 school days this year, but that is overlooked. If they don’t perform well on this ONE test in early March, their learning gains are irrelevant. They didn’t learn enough. They didn’t grow enough. I failed them. In the three months that remain in the school year after this test, I am expected to begin teaching 5th grade curriculum to my 4th grade students so that they are prepared for next year’s test.

I am a teacher in Florida.

I am expected to create a culture of students who will go on to become the leaders of our world. When they exit my classroom, they should be fully equipped to compete academically on a global scale. They must be exposed to different worldviews and diverse perspectives, and yet, most of my students have never left Sanford, Florida. Field trips are now frivolous. I must provide new learning opportunities for them without leaving the four walls of our classroom. So I plan. I generate new ways to expose them to life beyond their neighborhoods through online exploration and digital field trips. I stay up past The Tonight Show to put together a unit that will allow them to experience St. Augustine without getting on a bus. I spend weekends taking pictures and creating a virtual world for them to experience, since the State has determined it is no longer worthwhile for them to explore reality. Yes. My students must be prepared to work within diverse communities, and yet they are not afforded the right to ever experience life beyond their own town.

I am a teacher in Florida.

I accepted a lower salary with the promise of a small increase for every year taught. I watched my friends with less education than me sign on for six figure jobs while I embraced my $28k starting salary. I was assured as I signed my contract that although it was meager to start, my salary would consistently grow each year. That promise has been broken. I’m still working with a meager salary, and the steps that were contracted to me when I accepted a lower salary are now deemed "unnecessary."

I am a teacher in Florida.

I spent $2500 in my first year alone to outfit an empty room so that it would promote creative thinking and a desire to learn and explore. I now average between $1000-2000 that I pay personally to supplement the learning experiences that take place in my classroom. I print at home on my personal printer and have burned through 12 ink cartridges this school year alone. I purchase the school supplies my students do not have. I buy authentic literature so my students can be exposed to authors and worlds beyond their textbooks. I am required to teach Social Studies and Writing without any curriculum/materials provided, so I purchase them myself. I am required to conduct Science lab without Science materials, so I buy those, too. The budgeting process has determined that copies of classroom materials are too costly, so I resort to paying for my copies at Staples, refusing to compromise my students’ education because high-ranking officials are making inappropriate cuts. It is February, and my entire class is out of glue sticks. Since I have already spent the $74 allotted to me for warehouse supplies, if I don’t buy more, we will not have glue for the remainder of the year. The projects I dream up are limited by the incomprehensible lack of financial support. I am expected to inspire my students to become lifelong learners, and yet we don’t have the resources needed to nurture their natural sense of wonder if I don’t purchase them myself. My meager earning is now pathetic after the expenses that come with teaching effectively.

I am a teacher in Florida.

The government has scolded me for failing to prepare my students to compete in thistechnologically driven world. Students in Japan are much more equipped to think progressively with regards to technology. Each day, I turn on the two computers afforded me and pray for a miracle. I apply for grants to gain new access to technology and compete with thousands of other teachers who are hoping for the same opportunity. I battle for the right to use the computer lab and feel fortunate if my students get to see it once a week. Why don’t they know how to use technology? The system’s budget refuses to include adequate technology in classrooms; instead, we are continually told that dry erase boards and overhead projectors are more than enough.

I am a teacher in Florida.

I am expected to differentiate my instruction to meet the needs of my 24 learners. Their IQs span 65 points, and I must account for every shade of gray. I must challenge those above grade level, and I must remediate those below. I am but one person within the classroom, but I must meet the needs of every learner. I generate alternate assessments to accommodate for these differences. My higher math students receive challenge work, and my lower math students receive one-on-one instruction. I create most of these resources myself, after-hours and on weekends. I print these resources so that every child in my room has access to the same knowledge, delivered at their specific level. Yesterday, the school printer that I share with another teacher ran out of ink. Now I must either purchase a new ink cartridge for $120, or I cannot print anything from my computer for the remainder of the year. What choice am I left with?

I am a teacher in Florida.

I went to school at one of the best universities in the country and completed undergraduate and graduate programs in Education. I am a master of my craft. I know what effective teaching entails, and I know how to manage the curriculum and needs of the diverse learners in my full inclusion classroom. I graduated at the top of my class and entered my first year of teaching confident and equipped to teach effectively. Sadly, I am now being micro-managed, with my instruction dictated to me. I am expected to mold "out-of-the-box" thinkers while I am forced to stay within the lines of the instructional plans mandated by policy-makers. I am told what I am to teach and when, regardless of the makeup of my students, by decision-makers far away from my classroom or even my school. The message comes in loud and clear that a group of people in business suits can more effectively determine how to provide exemplary instruction than I can. My expertise is waved away, disregarded, and overlooked. I am treated like a day-laborer, required to follow the steps mapped out for me, rather than blaze a trail that I deem more appropriate and effective for my students—students these decision-makers have never met.

I am a teacher in Florida.

I am overworked, underpaid, and unappreciated by most. I spend my weekends, my vacations, and my summers preparing for school, and I constantly work to improve my teaching to meet the needs of my students. I am being required to do more and more, and I’m being compensated less and less.I am a teacher in Florida, not for the pay or the hardships, the disregard or the disrespect; I am a teacher in Florida because I am given the chance to change lives for the good, to educate and elevate the minds and hearts of my students, and to show them that success comes in all shapes and sizes, both in the classroom and in the community.I am a teacher in Florida today, but as I watch many of my incredible, devoted coworkers being forced out of the profession as a matter of survival, I wonder: How long will I be able to remain a teacher in Florida?

-Jamee Cagle Miller

I'm a middle school teacher, as my loyal readers (all four of you, lol) know. I'm teaching Language Arts this year, which I'm positively thrilled about. In all of my classes, we start with a journal topic. As I take attendance and tie up loose ends, the kids are at their desks responding to the journal topic. The topic varies, of course, from day to day. Last week I had a journal topic up for them, which was courtesy of my friend :) and department head, which inspired me to join the kids and write my personal response. Here is the topic along with my response.

It would be nice to visit places around the world. Imagine you could go anywhere in the world, at any time in the past or future. Where and to what time would you go? What would you want to see, and whom would you want to meet? Explain.

I’ve heard amazing stories from my grandmother, Abuela Pachy. Actually, her real name is America. When she was born, her father named her after, “El mejor país del mundo – Los estados unidos de America.” If I could visit any place in the world during any time period, I would visit Cuba in the 1930s. Specifically, I’d visit Puerto Padre, the small, sleepy beach town where my grandparents grew up next door to each other and fell in love. My grandfather was eight years older than my grandmother. He fell in love with her when she was just a girl of 14. My great-grandfather, Puerto Padre’s only attorney, adamantly told her, “You must finish school before you start after any matters of the heart. He’s a nice boy, but he’s too old for you. Besides, focus on school.”

Some kids always obey their parents, and some kids always disobey them. My grandmother fell somewhere in the middle, which is to say she didn’t exactly obey one-hundred percent of the time. To illustrate, girls were not to ride bicycles back in those days, but she would steal one of her two older brothers’ bikes – Ramiro or Victor – when her dad was working in his office and her mom was toiling away at the kitchen stove. But when her father said, “No boys allowed,” even she knew it was best to obey.

Years went by, and finally! She felt it was time to ask again. Besides, her cousin told her she’d better hurry because there was talk around the town that he was engaged to another woman. "Ponte la pilas!" her cousin warned her. My grandmother couldn’t believe it! She was already in her early 20s and dared to ask her father. He acquiesced. They were engaged almost immediately, my grandfather had proved himself to my great-grandfather through all the years. My grandmother was the girl my grandfather had been waiting for his entire life.

The wedding was beautiful, as I've learned through plenty 8x10 black and white photos. I rifle through my grandparents’ closet and look at the white photo albums they’re carefully stored in, my organized and clever Aunt Lissette’s idea. I always select the album that contains their wedding pictures. I sigh in contentment whenever I see true love exists.

My grandfather passed away in December 2008. But I can still feel the love my grandmother has for him, even now that he’s no longer with us, when she so much as talks of him and the way he was. In her heart, she’s still the bold young girl, brimming with bravado, pedaling as fast as her stick-thin legs could take her, racing past his house to see if she could just catch a glimpse of him and his sky-colored eyes. The eyes that contained a whole world of love…just for her.