9 Days

In 9 days, I’ll park my Jeep under the US and USVI flags for the last time. I’ll walk down the faded zig zag ramp to the green top and open the door to a classroom that changed my life in 169 days.  I’ll turn on three fans and open three sliding windows to cool the room from whatever wind nature sends our way that day.  I’ll use the remaining mist in my OFF can to discourage the mosquitos who have constantly reminded me that this is not my island but theirs. I’ll flip on my lamp and plug in my twinkle lights one more time. I’ll look around this room, 30 minutes before students arrive, and think to myself, “This is the last morning that they will knock me down to get in.” 

You see, the journey to and through this life-changing experience didn’t come easy for me.  I was a successful educator in a small Texas town for 16 years. The last six years were spent leading an amazing early childhood campus, full of color, life, exploration, and imagination. I loved going to work and serving our community.  The offer to move to St. John came unexpectedly in February 2014 as my husband and I delivered a birthday gift to a friend while we were on vacation. As island visitors, we stopped by the Gifft Hill School office. Moments after opening the office door, it opened a door of possibilities. This simple gesture turned into a two-minute moment that changed my family’s life. 

Though the offer to live and teach here came quickly and caught me by surprise, the decision to accept it took a while.  Leave the school that I had helped build from the ground up? Walk away from a successful run as an administrator and go back into the classroom to teach? Pull my own children out of their schools and away from their friends?  Leave our parents and whisk our kids away from their grandparents? These were only a few of the difficult, life-altering decisions that we were faced with. Do we stay with what we know, what is safe, what is comfortable, and somewhat predictable or do we go against the norm, grab life by the reigns, and jump through the open door that would send us over two-thousand miles away from home?

We jumped. From May to August, we prepared to leave Texas, but more importantly, we prepared to take the chance that we had been given to influence and change lives on a remote Caribbean island. That influence and change began with our family. 

You pass by island inspired stores here and they sell t-shirts (designed for the locals of STJ) that say, “The struggle is real.” I laughed at those and didn’t quite understand them until I became a local.  The cost of living is astronomical compared to Kaufman, Texas. A pint of strawberries is $8.99 at the local market.  It's  not uncommon to pay nearly $6.00 for a bag of shredded cheese, $12.99 for a bag of pink lady apples, or $6.99 for a 6-pack of Cokes.  Yes, the struggle IS real.

The struggle is real that all of our running water is collected in a cistern from rain water.  You use too much—you run out and have to call for a water delivery truck.  The struggle is real that a trip for supplies costs you a $50 round-trip ferry ride to St. Thomas on the car barge.  The struggle is real that timing, even on an island, is everything.  You live by the schedules of others, which are not always timely, consistent, or convenient.  

The struggle is real that I spent an entire school year being attacked by mosquitos in my classroom, bedroom, and bathroom. The struggle is real that modern amenities like reliable wifi and power are not givens but something that you truly appreciate when they are working.  The struggle is real that the island shuts down (ferry systems too) when an impending hurricane is headed toward you.  

The trade-offs to the struggle: A life that you never knew existed;  a place where the culture is composed  of people who dared to be different;  a feeling of community and caring unlike anything I’ve experienced;  an experience that allowed me to give yet receive more than I ever dreamed possible; life-lessons that my children will always remember.

It took me about 10 straight days of purging, disinfecting, unpacking, arranging, rearranging, decorating, swatting at mosquitos, chasing lizards, chickens, and one affectionate resident cat named Lulu from my room to prepare for my Firsties to walk into our class on day #1.  The magic began not on day #1, but rather the creation of day #1 in my mind back in June.  I decided, without reservation, that we would be pirates.  After all, who doesn’t love a pirate?  (Well, I found out the answer to this question months later, but that’s another story.)  

Day #1: It was the first 15 minutes of the day, all of the parents were gone, and we were 10 minutes from an all-school welcome assembly. I didn’t take attendance (I could see that all 9 were there—a couple would arrive later that month). I didn’t put school supplies away (that could wait).  I didn’t take a lunch count (they all brought their lunches).  I introduced them to the “ship deck,” AKA: our class rug.  I asked them to meet me there with a serious tone.  I looked at one student sitting on the back of the ship deck and said, “Shut the door. Turn off the lights.” Our room was still flooded with tropical light, but they knew that I meant business. I was talking rather softly as I asked them to “move in” and “get closer” to me because “I have a secret to tell you.” That secret has never been shared publicly, since day #1, until now. You see, this secret was the foundation of our entire time together.  It established my expectations and a growth mindset in the minds of 6-year olds.  The moment was precisely calculated and worth every second that it took to orchestrate.  Whispering, so no one on the other side of the door could hear, I said, “I haven’t been on island long, but I’ve been told something. Before I can tell you, I have to trust you. Can you promise me that what is said on the ship deck, STAYS on the ship deck? (wide eyes fixated on me, heads bobbing up and down) Get closer.  (They are practically in my lap at this point) I’ve heard, and I don’t know if it’s true, but I’ve been told that THIS is THE BEST, first grade class on the island.” The looks on their faces were priceless. I will never forget that moment as long as I live.  Here’s what came next.  I said, “We are about to go up to the assembly in front of the entire school. If we ARE the best first grade class on the island, then we need to show everyone in that room how it’s done. I have just 10 minutes to teach you how to be a pirate.”

How to be a pirate came in the form of whole brain teaching methods with a pirate twist.  They learned catch phrases such as: “peg legs cross your sticks” (sit criss cross), “walk the plank” (get in line), “patches and hooks” (they turn their entire body and focus to me), “PIRATES” I call/they call back with “ARRR” in the same tone/inflection that I used. In 10 minutes, I established the tone for the year in two critical phrases: “We ARE pirates” and “We ARE the best first grade class on the island.” From there, we walked into the public eye knowing and being what we were. 

There is no possible way for me to capture every detail, teachable moment, celebration and challenge that we went through this year.  I can’t summarize how amazing these 6 and 7-year olds are and how they will impact the world in years to come.  I can’t tell you in a few short sentences what it’s like to go from being an administrator to a PIRATE teacher.  What I can tell you is that when you open your mind to possibilities and do something that scares you beyond measure, you have the opportunity to embrace and create life-changing lessons that will impact generations to come, including your own. 

I remember day #1 like it was yesterday. The camera roll on my phone has over 5,000 pictures from a year of a million memories.  As my last nine days fade into the sinking sunsets, I am torn. I leave for Texas in 13 days.  There are new opportunities and lives to touch.  This is my 17th year to end a school year, but it never gets easier. In fact, this is a departure that I will struggle with for years down the road.  Until the moment that I typed this reflection, I hadn’t allowed myself to grieve what I will lose in just 9 days.  

In just 9 days, I’ll no longer park my Jeep under the US and USVI flags. I won’t walk down the faded zig zag ramp to the green top and open the door to the classroom that changed my life in 169 days.  The fans will remain still and three sliding windows will all be closed.  In just 9 days I won’t be covered in mosquito bites or OFF, I’ll be packing for a one-way plane ticket that will take me home. My lamp will be dark and my colored string lights from our New Year’s celebration will no longer twinkle.  In just 9 days, I’ll turn in my keys and say good-bye to a school bearing the name Gifft Hill School. Ironically, it gave me 11 unforgettable gifts. I’ll hug each one of them as if it’s our last, because it will be for a long while.  Unlike school endings for the last 16 years, I won’t be able to touch my pirates, see them in the grocery store, run into them at sporting events or birthday parties.  My departure stings because I don’t get them back. I’ll look around this room, one last time, and think to myself, “I can’t believe that it’s over in 169 days. I made a difference. I changed lives. They changed mine.”

Every student that you teach, you influence, for better or worse.  Their perception of how you see them has a ripple effect on their lives for years to come. Passion is just the starting point for being a dynamic educator.  You have to let yourself go, jump into the unknown, to uncover the treasure that awaits you. My year as a PIRATE, is undeniably the most life-changing year of my career. I taught them the standards with unconventional methods, I challenged their reasoning to create problem solvers, I influenced their hearts to create a world of better citizens. In doing all of that, I received the greatest gift: I grew.