Blue Peter and the Class of 2018

Tonight was my school's graduation. While all graduations are special, tonight was even more so. Tonight my Crew graduated. We started together in 2014 and over the past four years all 15 of them have become an important part of my life. I love those kids (not really kids anymore!) and will miss them desperately. I was lucky enough to be chosen by the class of 2018 to give their commencement speech. Here's the text and if you happen to be friends with Kate on Facebook you can watch the whole thing. Congrats to the class of 2018. 

Principal C, fellow staff, guests and of course the class of 2018.

Let me start by first thanking the students. We started here together

four years ago and I have now taught almost every student in the school but You

are my people. Thank you for giving me the honor of addressing you on this

wonderful day.

The life of a sailor cannot be an easy one.

While potentially filled with the adventure of seeing the world, this life also

includes the monotony of 4 hour shifts on watch examining the endless horizon,

eating bland food in the galley, and the cramped quarters found below deck. There

is however one place that every sailor loves: port.

Once docked in a port city or town, the sailor is free to do anything ranging from

seeing the sites of the place in which they have just arrived to the more

debaucherous practices commonly associated with sailors which are

not fit for a high school commencement address. Once their time in port is over,

it is time for the sailor to return to the ship. They knew it was time to go back

because as they looked back from the streets of their temporary home they would

see the Blue Peter.

What IS a Blue Peter?

This is a Blue Peter

Blue Peter

It’s a flag

More accurately, it’s a nautical flag.

Nautical flags were originally used for communication between ships and sailors in 

the time before radios and phones. 

There are 26 flags. Each one has a different design and color and each represents

a letter of the alphabet  and has a distinct name and meaning. Traditionally,

Blue Peter is the nickname given to the flag that represents the letter “P.” It is a

blue flag with a white square in the center and it means “All persons should report

on board as the vessel is about to proceed to sea.” So when a ship is flying the Blue

Peter, everyone knows that its voyage is about to begin. In short, the ship is

Outward Bound.

Well as you might have noticed on one of the many t-shirts you received over the

past four years, we are a New York City Outward Bound School and whether you

know it or not, we first raised this flag together on September 4, 2014, your first

day as a student at the Kurt Hahn Expeditionary Learning School. We met as a

Crew for the first time and you were soon off to the beginning of life as a high

school student. You were led through expeditions and case studies by Ms. G,

Ms. D, myself, Mr. B, M, V and W. You started to build relationships in Crew with not 

only your classmates but also Ms. B, D, J and O and myself Mr. B, J. As the first few 

weeks turned into the first two months you got more comfortable. You even heard a 

voice in your head. Even if it was a whisper, you thought to yourself: I can do this

Then, we did what Outward Bound and Expeditionary Learning do best: we

challenged you. We even made you a little uncomfortable. We brought you

camping. Adventure Week is not an easy thing. It is rewarding, it is foundational, it

is important but it is most definitely not easy. But after five days and four nights

together as a Crew in the woods with no shower, at times less than desirable food,

and even some snow, you might have begun to realize that there was more to you

than you thought. You came back to East Flatbush and pushed through the dark

winter months that precede the warmth of spring. You presented a 9^th Grade

Roundtable and were soon on your way to 10^th grade. When you arrived in

September you noticed some new faces (Ms. R joined our Crew) as well as

some missing ones. SLCs, a college trip to Washington or Philadelphia and

10^th grade Passages left you at the doorstep of 11^th grade and as that year ended,

you again said to yourself: I can do this, except this time it was a little bit louder.

Then you became upper classmen. 11^th grade brought Ms V and Ms.

R into the 2018 family as well as….Alexander Hamilton. You began to hear

and think more about college and life after high school.

You also entered into the world of PBATs.

Over the course of the next two years, you would be challenged once again. This

time you were asked to analyze and assess, compare and contrast, decide, discuss,

and defend. Which is the most durable material for a cell phone case? What is the

best way to fight racism?  How can you measure beauty mathematically? Does

globalism do more harm or good?. Your teachers pushed you to do

more and over the next two years, your once bold statement changed a little bit.  I

can do it was replaced with a more hesitant I can do this? which then shifted into

more doubtful statements

I hope I do it.

I don’t want to do it.

I can’t do it.

Senior year was just plain hectic. Counting credits, college applications and essays,

more PBATs and a walk down Avenue D to Utica on a cold December morning to

mail your college applications. Some of you only had to panel for English while

others faced a more treacherous path towards graduation. As the semester ran

down and May turned into June you might have been faced with another thought:

I’ve come too far. I have to do this. Some you may have been having that

thought this morning or even this afternoon as you raced under the wire.

But now, here we are.

You sit here, in the same auditorium that you entered on September 4, 2014. The

same auditorium where you competed in Crew Olympics and proudly entered as a

college applicants and now, as a member of the graduating class of 2018. Your

mantra has transformed one final time. Now it is a simple yet powerful three-word

sentence:

I did it.

This is an important because as you prepare for the new challenges moving quickly

towards you, you know that you are ready. If you don’t feel ready then you better

get ready in a hurry.

Now it’s real.

Not that it’s been fake leading up to this point, but now it’s real.

School costs money.

Ms. C won’t be there to pull you into her office for a graduation update,

your Crew teacher isn’t going to be there to remind to meet that deadline. Your

family isn’t coming in for an SLC. Now, it’s up to you. When times get tough and

that doubt creeps back in, as will certainly happen, be prepared to repeat that credo

again and again: I can do it. Say it with conviction because over the past four years

that’s exactly what you’ve done.

So tonight, the Blue Peter is raised one more time, but this time it’s different. This

time, YOU are the one raising the flag. YOU are the captain. YOU are Outward   

Bound.

Over the past four years everyone in this room has been preparing for this moment.

Your moment.

Like all good captains you have made sure that your ship is ready for the

journey. As you depart, take with you the lessons that you learned while in port

here on Tilden Avenue over the past four years.

Be compassionate

Do your work.

Respect others but more importantly, respect yourself.

Say thank you.

Speak your truth.

Try new things.

Remember that no one is going to do it for you.

Smile.

Laugh.

Cry.

Be kind.

Don’t throw away your shot.

Find value in what you do, whatever that may be.

Be humble.

We love you.

We’ll miss you

GO DO IT

Thank you and congratulations to the class of 2018

This is MS

This week is MS Awareness week.

I learned of this from the same place we learn many things in 2018: social media. On Facebook, I was given the option of framing my profile picture with an orange theme and the words "This is MS". As someone who lives with this disease, I decided that this was a simple way I could give the people in my life a reminder of what my family and I, along with millions of others live with every day. When I went to do it, I realized that my profile picture was one of my two sons taken during a trip down to the Naval Academy last fall. I immediately stopped what I was doing because I thought to myself "THIS is not MS. My sons don't have it, I do." This may sound obvious, but I just didn't feel like it was an appropriate picture to post as to what MS "is".
Then I thought about it.

I realized that much like almost everything in my life, this disease wasn't just about me. I reframed the dilemma in my head and realized that there are many things that I could identify and say "This is MS."

My sons are two of them. My two lovely boys can both exacerbate and heal my illness. The demands of being a father to two young boys most certainly wears me down and leaves me short of both energy and patience, both amongst the most prominent of my symptoms. However, it's the same boys who I can watch during quiet moments and be amazed by the love I have for both of them. This love is a driving force in keeping me positive during the toughest times, reminding me that I have so much to live for as I watch these boys grow every day.

My wife is MS. I wrote last spring about the support she has given me every day since we started this journey and she continues to do so every day. I couldn't do anything without her.

My cane is MS. I'm fortunate that I haven't had to use it for over a year, but the can I acquired during my very first occurrence in December 2015 is always lurking around the corner. It provides a reminder and a sense of humility any time I think I can skip riding my bike or taking my vitamins and supplements.

My treatment is MS. I often think to myself that the only time I truly feel "sick" is when I go for my treatment. Checking in at the front desk, getting weighed, being questioned about my symptoms and then poked with a needle are all a part of a monthly ritual that makes me take pause on the maintenance that I have to keep up with in order to remain healthy. I am blessed to have received my diagnosis when I did, as we live in a time where the medicine and treatment of the disease are well researched and effective. At both treatment and appointments with my neurologist, I see people who are confined to wheelchairs and haven't had the same fortunate turns that I've had through the uncertainty of MS. I feel tremendous empathy for those people because I've had moments in the past two years where I wasn't too far from being in a wheelchair myself. My doctors, my treatment and the work of the National MS Society continue the progress made over the years to help us live as normal of a life as possible.

Finally, I am MS.  It's been 27 months since my left leg went numb and my life changed forever. I've had dozens of MRIs, a spinal tap, steroid and blood spinning treatments, monthly infusions and more exercise that I had most of the previous 30 years of my life.

So here I am. My left leg and foot are still numb, I wake up feeling hungover without having touched a drink the night before and the bathroom is still an adventure. But you know what? I'm doing pretty damn good. I'm one of 400,000 people in the US and over 2 million worldwide who fight this fight every day. I continue to grow and learn from all the people in my life as I try to be a better person every day. I never know whats waiting for me in the future but I know that whatever it is, I'm ready for it.

On April 15th, my family and I will be participating at Walk MS-New York City. Any donations to our fundraising page can help the MS Society continue to do the research needed to fight this disease. Thank you for your support!

A New Normal

I’ve been writing a blog for almost 8 years and nearly each of the over 100 entries start with an anecdote of some sort. As my own writing has developed, I used the beginning of each post to set the stage for what was to come.

A few months back I had the absolute best opening for this blog that I’m writing now. It was witty and clever (at least I thought so) and would be the perfect opening for the news I was about to share.

I then I forgot it.

For the life of me, I couldn’t remember what it was. All this time later, I still haven’t a clue. When sharing this story with Kate, I came to the realization that this experience had indirectly created a new anecdote to replace the one that had slipped my mind. I couldn’t remember my opening because, quite frankly, I was having trouble remembering anything. This loss of memory was just one of the many symptoms I had been dealing with off and on for the past seven months, back when I was first diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis.

Back in December of 2015, the strangest of things happened: my left hip started to go numb. Soon after this sensation (or lack thereof) began to creep down my leg. Within a few weeks, I was limping and soon I couldn’t feel my entire leg down to my toes. What was it? Did I need to see a chiropractor? Was It related to my hernia surgery the previous year? I visited my GP, was soon referred to a neurologist and waited interminably for insurance approval for an MRI (I thought that stuff only happened in socialist Europe!). When all came through I was diagnosed with transverse myelitis, a legit 1 in a 1,000,000 condition that is an inflammation of the fatty substance (myelin) around the spinal cord that crossed the signals being sent out to my legs. The site of the inflammation determined the location of the sensation issues, hence the problems in my thoracic spine (fancy description for the middle of my spine/words I never knew or had to worry about before) led to the problems in my legs. My neurologist soon had me admitted to the hospital for 5 days of steroid treatment to address the inflammation. While there, I had endless visits from medical students to see in person the condition they had only read about in their books. I was walking with a cane but luckily was discharged in three days, one week before Christmas, including the Christmas Eve dinner that we would be hosting. I completed my treatment at home and was off the cane and back to normal after a bizarre month and a half.

All seemed normal until the end of April when it came back. This time, less severe but definitely impacting the sensation in my feet as well as headaches and fatigue, something that could easily be misattributed to life as a 9^th grade teacher with two small sons. More MRIs, a spinal tap and multiple doctor’s visits left me without a proper diagnosis, as recurrences of transverse myelitis are rare. It never really went away, I soon had problems using the bathroom (sorry to drop that one you, poor reader) and at the beginning on August, I was unknowingly entering the scariest month of my life.

After returning from a trip to Cooperstown, I began to feel the “numbness” on my arms. This was new. This was worrisome. More MRIs showed large lesions of inflammation in my cervical spine (my neck, for you non-medical folks out there). Soon my right leg was numb and I was walking with a noticeable limp. I was back on home IV steroid treatment for the third time, administered each night by my saintly wife, but things we not improving. All the while, the summer was disappearing while I lay in bed, losing time with my family as well as the final days of our soon to be sold family home in Montauk. My neurologist recommended I undergo plasma pharesis, a blood spinning treatment to clean up my blood. This amazing treatment slowly but surely got me back on my feet, although it would be weeks before I felt confident moving around independently.

“I think we have an answer, you should come in to the office.” These were the words of my neurologist from the other end of my phone when he called me with the results of my most recent brain MRI. While I was confident it wasn’t anything life threatening, I knew the news that was coming. Over the previous weeks, I had recited the same line to people that if it was MS, “that’s fine as long as I finally know what it is” but the repetition of that line hadn’t fully prepared Kate and I for the news that I did indeed have a disease that I would carry with me and us for the rest of my life.  My own lack of knowledge of the disease only complicated my feelings, especially since the little I did know was mainly the spastic and mute version of comedian Richard Pryor that existed before his death. I knew I didn’t want to be like that, but the previous eight months had already taught me I had no choice in the matter.

I was immediately put on an aggressive course of treatment to address both current and future recurrences. While this medication had the un-welcoming potential side effect of brain infection (and death), I was at least finally on the path towards battling this mystifying disease. Luckily, bloodwork showed that I wasn’t at risk for the brain infection and other than some fatigue (a symptom I was already experiencing), the treatment has been great.

As with many life events, the past 16 months has been difficult, enlightening and most of all a chance to learn. The only redeeming value of challenge and struggle is that it gives us a chance to learn through reflection. Here are some of the things my illness has taught me:

Life is a consistent adjustment to new normals. Things change all the time. Sometimes it’s what we eat for breakfast, sometimes it when you lose your parents, have a kid or even lose the ability to take a stress free piss. Regardless, we must adapt to these new normals or have them permanently and negatively change the people we had been before them. Adapt and overcome is a phrase that can apply to all of us, but my wife and I have most definitely put this creed to the test in recent months.

Be there for one another. It’s cliché to say that trying situations help to reveal those who are most true to you but this has definitely been the case, particularly in August when I was at my absolute lowest. Some rose, some shirked. This not only taught me a lot about the people in my life but also about the importance of letting people know that you are there for them, particularly during difficult times. A few seconds to send a text or note of support can mean the world to someone who is struggling.

Never take for granted the simple things. During my first occurrence, I remember reading a Curious George book with my son. In it, the man in the yellow hat walks through the city with George on his shoulders. With everything that was happening, I had the frightening and heart breaking realization that I might never ever be able to put my kids on my own shoulders again. Potential activities that I have looked forward to doing with my boys from playing catch, riding bikes or rounds of golf all seemed to dissipate around. For over a month, I couldn’t pick up my sons, drive a car, or walk without assistance. I lost all of these things. I never want to lose them again so each time I get to do them I will appreciate them, because you never know when you might not be able to take a piss (sorry to go back to this again but it’s really quite a horrible nuisance)

I chose the right woman (or the right woman chose me) This was not a new learning for me, but instead a confirmation of what I have known since 2005. My wife has been a Gibraltar size rock of love and support; an advocate who listens to me when I’m struggling, patient with me when frustrated. She has carried our family over the past 16 months, caring for two young boys and a sick husband while also completing a daily 3 hour round trip commute to a job in which she helps hundreds of teenagers navigate through the difficulties of high school. She is amazing. I genuinely know that without her, I would be nothing.

So there you go. A long and unknown road stretches out ahead of me. With my wife and sons beside and the love of family and friends, I’m ready to take this journey with an optimism that will help buoy me in trying times.

Now if I could just remember where I put my keys.

On May 20^th, my family and I will be participating at the MS Walk at Jones Beach. Any donations to our fundraising page can help the MS Society continue to do the research needed to fight this disease.

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Coordinated Randomness

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As things at school have quieted down with the departure of students and the completion of student history panels, I have had more time to do some cleaning of my room and planning for next year. Accompanying this work has been a "shuffle" of all the music in my iTunes library. Since I can only fit about 10% of this music on my phone, I have been re-introduced to music that brings me back to different times in my life. Today, the Irish musician Phil Coulter consistently popped up, despite the songs being set on shuffle. While my love for Irish music is well known and has become one of the defining features of both my musical taste and overall person, it might seem a bit strange to have instrumental music categorized as "New Age" in my library. Like many things in my life, the answer traces back to my dad.

My dad had a penchant for this genre of music as was evident in his overabundance of Yanni and John Tesh CDs, but his favorite was Phil Coulter. The cassette tapes of the 80s and CD's of the '90s were permanent fixtures in my life as well as the lives of my mother and sisters. The music was the soundtrack to every car ride (long or short) and holiday of my youth and young adulthood.  I know these songs inside and out. Each beat, key and note is ingrained in me and brings me back to different times in my life. When I hear them I can see a burning fire in our living room on Christmas Eve; I can hear the clink of a glass from the mixing of a scotch and soda and the sounds of grandchildren that filled our home in the later years. When I hear these songs I can think of my dad and my family as it once was. These emotions are overwhelming at times and while the prevailing one is sadness, I remind myself that if it makes me sad it is only because what is past was so happy.

The bittersweet is that all of this music is on my computer because I put them on an iPod I purchased for him back when he got sick. In an attempt to normalize a time that was a bit mad (to say the least) I wanted to give my dad something to listen to during his treatment, and what better than the soundtrack to many of our times together as a family. Now, they will forever live both in my mind as well as on my computer. The memories of lost loved ones have funny ways of sneaking up on you. They come with a coordinated randomness that make you question just how random they are. I have come to appreciate these memories and the brief tear but longer smile that accompany them.

One for Mom

When my son is 14, I really hope he's not the way I was in 1994.

It's not that I was "bad" kid, but instead I could have been accurately described as a a bit of a pain. In fact, I would attribute nearly all of my pre-teen transgressions to either pure stupidity or just waiting to get a laugh. Regardless, I must have be a handful for my parents especially my mom. I rarely had good grades and schools always seemed to be calling home about me, starting with Mrs. Devine in 5th grade and ending with Residential Life at Fordham. Throughout it all, my mom was always my greatest supporter. As I moved through high school and college she continually reminded me that, sooner or later, I would "get it together." When I got my Masters and started teaching, we were both able to smile that I finally had.

Last summer, my mom got sick. After a brief and difficult illness, she passed away on September 21st, one year ago today.

I've been avoiding writing this blog for 365 days. I wrote about my dad when he passed but have not been able to sit down and write about my mom. I couldn't bring myself to do it; it was just too hard.

There are things that I will never understand about my mom's death. I have a tough time accepting both how she went as well as when she went. The last few months of her life were not easy as we tried in vain to get her better. I will never accept that she didn't get the chance to meet her grandson,  my beautiful son, Francis. I often imagine the two of them together and how much she would have adored him and while it can make me smile, it also leaves me sad.

While things were difficult at the end, I can't let it define the memories I have of my  mom. Both of my parents were tremendously influential on my life and since they passed I have come to realize one very important thing: my father shaped the life I lead but my mother made me the person that I am. She was a wonderful, caring person who would do anything for you (unless you crossed her that is) and gave of herself to not only family and friends but strangers as well. She raised three children and managed to live with my father for almost 44 years, a challenge that I would put before any person. She had a career as a mom, secretary and grandmother while also finding time to volunteer at soup kitchens and beat lung cancer. My family and I met people at her wake who spoke of her as an amazing co-worker, neighbor and friend. We weren't surprised as much as we were happy to know that she nearly meant as much to others as she did to us.

She did everything for me, from the small but wonderful like writing my name on my lunch bags in calligraphy to the big and powerful like supporting me when times got tough. When I faced a major challenge in my teaching career she vowed to "write a letter" to the powers that be once I received my tenure. While she knew that I received my tenure (she was the first person I called) she never got a chance to write that letter before she got sick but it didn't matter. It was just one more example of her having my back, even though I was 30 years old and married.

As I write this long delayed entry, I realize that I cannot let the way that she died define the life that she lived. She was an amazing sister and daughter, wife, mother and friend. She taught me how to care for others, love my family and be strong in the face of overwhelming adversity. I think about her everyday and will always miss her but I am blessed to have had her for a mom.