The ACE Post

At times, it can be difficult to remember to find Christ in our daily lives—struggles arise, stress mounts, and it's easy to start to forget how blessed we really are. Most recently, I found myself struggling to make it to Thanksgiving break. Having gone so long without being home, I yearned to be near my family. But, it was the many faces of Christ that helped me to endure this test of time.

The week before break, Melissa, the chairperson of my school's English department, unexpectedly told me she would be my Brownsville mom. During our free time at the Encounter retreat we were leading, we managed to fit in meaningful conversations about family, friends, and relationships. She listened with an open heart, and we realized just how much we had in common. It was through her presence that I saw Christ's understanding and patience.

During that same retreat, I had the opportunity to get to know Manuel, the Spanish teacher at SJA. He shared his pride for his daughter and her accomplishments, speaking highly of her dedication and perseverance. He reminded me of my dad simply by his humor and kind heart. A few hours after Melissa offered to be my Brownsville mom, Manuel also spontaneously volunteered to "adopt" me as his daughter.

Two teachers and friends had offered to take me in as their own. While I had never shared with them my homesickness, both had somehow been drawn to call me family, take me under their wing, and make me feel at home. In Manuel, I found Christ's pride and happiness.

After the retreat, I was reinvigorated by the wonderful experience but still faced a few more days of work. As I rushed to finish last minute assignments and grade my students' performance assessments, I ran into Tony, the head of the our school's campus ministries. He took one look at me and absolutely understood what needed to be said.

He talked me through my list of things to do. Tony put everything into perspective by emphasizing the value of living in the moment and only doing what actually could be done. In Tony, I found Christ's peace and friendship.

In the span of one week, Christ revealed himself through these three individuals. He made his presence known by showering me with the understanding, patience, pride, happiness, peace, and friendship I needed in order to make it to Thanksgiving break.

But, on a much larger scale, Christ has presented himself in all of my Brownsville community. They have taken me in as their own and have made me feel at home. Knowing my need for a place to belong, Christ made a home for me in Brownsville, granting me an absolutely wonderful second family.

"I don't need any help, Mr. Wilde."

Stepping back to recover from the blunt delivery of this declaration, the surrounding silence soon allowed the ramifications of my student's frank response to crystalize in dizzying clarity. Her moment had arrived. Pencils sharpened, desks cleared, deep breaths in, and back out, the test was out. For weeks now, years really, she had been preparing for today. It was now or never.

* * *

Allow me to expand upon my surprise. Here was a student my coworkers had warned me to show added care. She has been wounded by years of let downs and set backs, they assured me, though she masks it well in feigned indifference. For as long as she can remember, test scores have told her she is too slow. Her circle of friends snicker in chorus each time she answers yet another question incorrectly. And her home life would break your heart.

For months now, I had strived to get through to her, an eighth grader still counting basic addition on her fingers. Making an intentional point to try to differentiate my instruction to her needs, I would not hesitate to offer words of affirmation, check in for added clarification, and go out of my way to give reminders regarding upcoming assessments.

Still no single day's interaction could come anywhere close to predictable. With her life's endless list of variables, one fleeting moment of misunderstanding could readily transform her from a beaming, carefree adolescent, to a defiant, disengaged occupier of a seat. Just two weeks prior, she turned in a quiz without having even written her name. No plea for a retake, no reaction when I assured her I would allow one—numbness.

It was not until the following day that I guardedly noticed a faint shift; a flickering spark just smoldering, begging for a breath of life. She returned to my class with unprecedented focus. No more constant questions just fishing to be handed the answer, no more excuses for having neglected to complete yet another assignment; she was determined. And as the days before our unit test dwindled to a close, the fruits of her newly concerted efforts had come to maturation.

Her classmates exchanged quick glances of disbelief as she earned the top score in our final review activity and she proudly proclaimed she had spent the weekend studying. She had something to prove and as I distributed the test, the tension was palpable.

* * *

Minutes ticked away, and her exasperated sighs increased in frequency. Her frantic rustling of papers made her ever more panicked stress bitingly known. Passing quietly past her desk, I whispered to just let me know if there was anything I could do to help.

"I don't need any help, Mr. Wilde."

She knew the steps forwards and backwards, recognized her most commonly made mistakes; she had put in all the practice, but still, she found herself not measuring up. Never enough. A final, defeated sigh signaled her complete surrender and with her test still unfinished, the clock still ticking, she set her head between her crossed arms in crippling frustration.

As her classmates obliviously continued their calculations, time slowed to a stop. The decision that lay before me was simple, but the effect anything but certain. Deep breathe in, and out. It was a chance worth taking. So I strolled over to my desk and picked up a Post-it pad. How best to say it?

Scribbling down the decided combination of simplicity and support, I whisked back by to place it on her desk, with her still none the wiser. Pause. As she read the note, her eyes peeked open, locking immediately upon the foreign note. And after a moment's hesitation, and a look of disbelief, she reached back for her pencil.

All tests were in, the class bell tolled, and my students gathered their things. From the front of the room, I watched with a now-warming heart as my student carefully secured the simple Post-it note on the inside cover of her binder. And without timidity, she spoke up before the friends she knew all too well might snicker.

"Thank you Mr. Wilde, for the note."

The next day's returned score would send her rushing into the hallway glowing with the joy of showing other teachers just what she had accomplished. The best score she had ever earned on a math test, second highest in her class. News would spread and with it congratulations. And as she greeted her mother at dismissal, "math" would be among the first words out of her mouth.

* * * 

She never said it in quite so many words, but we all tell ourselves the same lie at times. Indeed, we have been conditioned to recite it. Proudly, we proclaim that we are independent, self-sufficient. That no problem is too burdensome, no disappointment too defeating, no help needed. But one single moment's grace can expose the outright absurdity of this seasoned self-assurance. More practice problems, more friend requests, more hours of even the most heartfelt work can only go so far towards the realization of who we were made to be. No, to become that, we all need help; for we must believe the sometimes unbelievable. That we are worthy. Seen. Heard. Believed in. Beloved.

If I teach them nothing else, let it be this:

We believe in a God who believes in us. Who loves to call us His Beloved. Fashioned then in his image, let us never cease in striving to love as He loves us. Let us believe, just as proudly, in the worth of our sisters and brothers.

Even when they fall, lash out in pain,
and shield their faces for fear of ridicule;
day in and out, let us take the risk to tell them,
to show them—

You matter. More than you believe.

A day in the life of a Catholic school teacher starts early and it ends late. From before the sun rises to well after it sets, we work to shake off the stress and the tiredness as we give everything we have for our students. As Thanksgiving approaches, though, we are offered an opportunity to remember to give thanks, and remember that each and every moment of our days is another chance to be thankful for the blessings we constantly see around us. Let me walk you through one of those days and show you just what I have to be thankful for.

5:45 AM: Waking up is the most difficult part of the day; it takes all the energy you can muster just to get out of bed. The dark morning makes a convincing case for you to press snooze, but as soon as your eyes shut, you're reminded of the resources you'll need to print for the day's lesson, the stack of papers still waiting to be graded, and the mountain of letters of recommendations due soon. So, any chance of sleep is gone and the day begins.

6:30 AM: If the early drive to school wasn't evidence enough, the empty faculty parking lot will confirm that most sane teachers are still in bed. Grabbing my bags and coffee cup, I walk towards my classroom, shaking off the sleepiness with each step. As I open the door to my home away from home, I'm instantly reminded of my "Things to Do" list and get right on it.

8:00 AM: Just as I begin to feel overwhelmed with life, Lizette Cantu, one of my English students from last year, walks into my classroom. Sure, there are 30 minutes before first period. Yes, I still have tons to do. No, it won't get done. But that's okay because Lizette reminds me of myself. She is a walking and talking reminder of why I teach.

So, when she walks in, I naturally set aside everything and just listen. Sometimes, she talks about the stress of school, and other times she talks about life and her place in it. I try my best to answer her questions, and while I realize that I may be entertaining the same question, I rise to the occasion and am wholly present for her then.

8:30-11:10 AM: As Lizette gets ready to leave for class, my students trickle in, shaking off the same sleepiness I had about two hours ago. At times, I am amazed at how quickly I can switch modes between previous and current students. Then again, Jose's daily joke of forgetting his materials is trigger enough to return to teacher mode. "What? We needed our book today? I'm just kidding!" And, just like that, I'm the English 11 teacher for the next three periods.

Before noon each day, I see about 60 students, each with their individual personalities. I once thought it impossible to jump from class to class and still be able to treat each period as its own entity. Now, I'm surprised to see that I have surpassed that expectation and am now able to jump from student to student, adapting to each of their needs. It truly is the best gift that I have been granted.

11:10 AM-12:05 PM: After three back-to-back periods, I finally get a moment to catch my breath. Just as I start pulling up my list of things to do, Kelly Sosa walks in and shares her usual greeting. Strolling in with a great smile, she brings light to the middle of my hectic day. She always makes sure to remind me that I'm going to miss her when she graduates—and she's right.

As she leaves, I pull out my "to-do" list and continue on with my work. Suddenly, the exhaustion that had come over me at the end of the third period was washed away by Kelly's presence. I remember that my time with my students is limited, and I have to make the most of it.

12:05-12:40 PM: I was given the very special opportunity to serve lunch during our school's lunch hour in exchange for a free lunch. It's a pretty sweet deal for many reasons. For starters, I have the chance to mingle with the lunch ladies. In those 20 minutes of serving lunch, I take off my teacher hat and experience a small piece of my home. We have casual conversation in Spanish; they ask about my day, my family, and overall current state. I'm not Ms. Ramos; I'm Chelsey.

Secondly, I get to see my students outside of the classroom, eagerly fighting to get the last hamburger or french fries. Each of them smiles and says, "Gracias, Ms. Ramos." Although it may be entirely out of the context of my classroom, it is still nice to hear my students utter these words.

12:45-1:35 PM: Before ACE, I was absolutely certain that I could never teach middle school. I believed this to my very core. When I learned at the beginning of the year that I would be teaching 7th grade Language Arts, I got a pretty sick feeling in my stomach. Me, a 7th grade teacher? What about all of the procedures that I never learned for middle school? What about the exceptionalities that I did not account for at the middle school level?

It's safe to say that the first month was a brutal learning curve. I was convinced that my previous notions were spot on. But, somewhere between mid-September and the end of October, I fell in love with my 7th grade classes. I realized that they were not quite as jaded as my 11th graders, and they enjoyed things such as "Freeze Frame" and competing to hand in their papers faster than the previous class. They are everything I never knew I needed.

1:40-2:30 PM: Alas, the second planning period of my day. As I leave the middle division to head towards my classroom, I see my students from last year walking towards their classes. They stop and half-jokingly and half-seriously remind me that they absolutely cannot wait until I submit their letters of recommendation to their portfolios online. More than anything, they make sure to share how much they miss my class. While it's hard to imagine that after hearing so much of their whining last year, I now realize that it's only after the fact that students appreciate their teachers and all of their hard work. So, I let them say it and revel in those moments for as long as possible. Once I get back into my classroom, I continue grading, lesson planning, and emailing. I chip away at the work one task at a time.

2:35-3:25 PM: Seventh period brings its own challenge of the day. Both the students and I are exhausted, yet we all understand that we have one period left to get through before the end of the day, and so we try our best. I teach and they learn. Almost in solidarity, my students pay attention and try to fulfill the assignments effectively and efficiently. Every now and then, the tiredness of the day will overcome us and very little can be done but to literally cheer each other on until the final bell.

3:25-Bedtime: There is no telling what goes on after school. Sometimes, students come in for tutoring, which is both rewarding and challenging. It allows for one-on-one time with the students, but it also forces me to come up with a new way to teach the material to an already struggling student. Other times, no students will come and I sit for the remainder of the tutoring period, thinking of all that went on throughout the day. I mentally make a list of the pros and cons; evaluate my performance as a teacher, mentor, colleague, and overall person; and add to the list of things to do.

Depending on when I want to call it a day, I stay in my classroom planning my next lesson. Then, I finally go home and I am warmly welcomed by all of my community. We share our most memorable moments and most pressing concerns. We are sources of comfort and reassurance for one another, walking the path of ACE teachers together. And, after everything is said and done, we continue to work, grading, lesson planning, and completing assignments together.

Each day brings its own challenges and rewards, but as I slowly make my way through the year, I look back each week and see how much I've grown as a teacher, community member, and person. Most of all, I rejoice in recognizing the transformation of my past and current students in the short time that I've known them. That in itself is the greatest reward, and it completely overshadows whatever challenges may have occurred along the way. A day in the life of an ACE teacher is a day well lived.

The best teachers are admired for their ability to convey their own passions to students. Think Willy Wonka: a mysterious man reveals a magnificent world of unending wonder hidden within a seemingly mundane factory. New questions arise around every corner, and those on the tour are left wanting more.

It is a fact that teachers do, indeed, have the ability to turn the average into the interesting and the exciting for their students, so that the students, too, develop a passion for the content material. Yet I've stumbled upon an extraordinary aspect of this phenomenon that too often goes overlooked. 

What if this process of conveying passion from teacher to student is not quite as simple as we make it out to be? What if the student, despite only being recently introduced to the subject material, actually conveys the passion to us, the teachers? It may not seem like the most logical sequence, but my 4th grade science class provides me with evidence of its legitimacy.

I have never been much of a "science guy." I've never disliked it (with the exception of my high school sophomore advanced chemistry course, which still makes me shudder), but as I grew older and my schooling offered more choices between the sciences and the liberal arts, I usually chose the latter. But that's all changed.

In part, this change has occurred simply because I have been reintroduced to the material (so many forgotten facts from my 4th grade years!). Interestingly, though, science has become so important to me, but not because of the subject's facts. Rather, my newly found passion for science is fueled by my students' reactions to the content.

Plants use the carbon dioxide that we produce to make food? Earth's continents used to be one giant landmass? Salt is a mineral, and we eat it? A small paper wad can float between two liquids, due to differences in density? Sponges are animals? WHAT?

In science class, ideas "click" and minds are "blown" throughout lessons as students grapple with ideas and concepts essential to our world. Through inferring, observing, measuring, communicating, classifying, and predicting, students (and myself!) are constantly seeing everyday objects and actions with new, amazing perspectives.

We learn from the classroom plant, a rusting gutter, clouds, and sand. And because science is essential to everything, astonishing connections are always being made: "Mr. Casey, I'd like to make a connection between religion and science. Mortal sins are like metal rusting, because the rust changes the metal until it breaks off. And mortal sins break our friendship with God." That really happened.

Ultimately, I believe the subject of science is important because it forces us to question the world around us, and through such engagement we live more fully within our world. Through the reactions of my students, I've realized the importance of my duty to provide students with the knowledge and resources to discover these miracles. And this is what drives my passion for teaching science.

Stop for a just a moment and think—what do you remember from freshmen English class?

I've been asking this question a lot lately—to everyone from other ACE teachers who are self-proclaimed "science people" to adults who are decades out, and even my juniors at TC. Despite this variety, I've been getting similar answers. Everyone remembers their teacher, of course, and how they felt about him or her. That always comes first. Most people can then also remember some of the books they read, maybe a particularly poignant short story, and perhaps even a writing assignment, if it was creative or personal. But the day-to-day? Not much. Could they tell me how their teacher introduced Shakespeare or the concept of theme? Usually not.

So where does that leave a smiling, optimistic, brand new teacher like the one pictured here?

Most of what happens in our classrooms will be forgotten. And while this truth can be comforting in certain low moments, it's also somewhat unsatisfying, and I approach it like a challenge.

We remember things that engage us, which somehow manage to reach us on a deeper level. Memory is a process of connection-making. It seems to me that it is an English teacher's job (and in fact, his or her privilege) to facilitate these connections—not just within and among books, but between books and their readers.

In light of this, my approach to teaching has changed.

Now, I focus primarily on facilitating connections between ideas. While reading "The Most Dangerous Game," for instance, we came upon these lines:

"Sometimes I think evil is a tangible thing—with wavelengths, just as sound and light have. An evil place can, so to speak, broadcast vibrations of evil."

In each of my freshmen classes, we left the text to have a discussion about evil. Perhaps a bit of a dark topic, but an important one. They shared stories of times in which they had felt "vibrations" of evil and their opinions about whether evil truly existed. I couldn't call on people fast enough, and they were listening intently to one another about Ouija boards and ghost stories. Fifteen truly fascinating minutes later, we returned, with a clear understanding of what Whitney meant by those lines.

Then, at the end of this haunting story, in which one human hunts another because he's bored of hunting animals, we stopped to talk about theme. What was this story trying to teach us? I posed the question just like that, and here's what they came up with: "We are all born in the image and likeness of God," "Life is not game," and "In some games, there are two losers."

Wow. As a class, we launched into a discussion about humanity. Could one lose their humanity? What kind of situations might cause that kind of loss? If "The Most Dangerous Game" was a comment about the effects of war, in what way might it be relevant to the modern world? Had we ever met someone who didn't seem fully human? How can we protect our own humanity and the humanity of others?

My freshmen will probably always remember moments from their first Homecoming Week. But it is my hope that if I teach English 1 correctly, they might also remember something they learned from a very short story about a dangerous game—that their own and others' humanity is fragile, and it should be protected.

Education is a wildfire.

And a single educator is but a flickering of this timeless flare, hoping to shed some light where there is darkness.

I've come to see myself not as some unerring fountain of knowledge, but an active participant in a dynamic process. I stand not alone, but on the shoulders of those who came before me; those courageous educators who kept the light of knowledge burning, and passed the torch of inspiration.

Like any flame, I, too, require fuel, a life-giving breath of oxygen.

And it is here that I find myself just as much a student as I am a first-year teacher. My students, this community, and God who keep my soul alight. It is their joyful curiosity, their tried endurance, and their boundless love that lead me through each day.

Take for example:

Another school day comes to its close and I find myself spent. The sum of every mental note, committed appointment, and striving self-reflection coalesce in a spinning slurry of to-dos. But it is just then that a fifth grader enters with a shy smile and turns my world back upright. With a simple note of honest gratitude, she has made my world stand still. And in a flash of light and love, my self-doubting pales.

If teaching has taught me anything, it is that my students have much to teach me. And as their reciprocated student, I can always use the review.

These sixty-two bright, burning coals remind me who I am and who we are together. Even when the class ceiling leaks, the projector bulb is kaput, and I have deemed my lesson plan a painfully flawed attempt at improvement, their stretching smiles and accepting laughter join my own to radiate God's love anew.

In innocently reminding me of my imperfections, from in-quiz typos to the belt I forgot to wear, they help me focus on what matters most.

And all the more they demonstrate, if only subtly, their depth of appreciation for my efforts, indeed my presence in their lives. From the student who chooses to confide in me the turmoil stemming for his parents' bitter divorce to the chorus of elation proclaiming my arrival at soccer, I will forever remain a student of their beautiful humanity. Each day, they remind me that I belong here, that this is part of His plan, and that I am enough.

All the communicated knowledge in the world cannot amount to true education, if one's heart and soul remain unchanged. More than my assessments, more than our outcomes, if anything, it is my character these students will remember. Those quiet moments of enacted humility, courageous honesty, and enduring care. The shared fires of inspiration and motivation hold the promise to brighten our world. First year teachers remain but single tongues of flame, but with the warmth of God's love enveloping us, we might just set the world ablaze.

And so I return to a quote now seared into the fiber of my teaching. I behold each of my students anew, as precious lanterns of untold potential. They stand not as empty minds to be filled with information, but smoldering tinder, just waiting to ignite. I pause, thanking God for the privilege to let my life's vocation reach them, wondering with a smile just how far their lights shall shine.

From an outside perspective, the life of a first-year teacher might well seem predictable—regimented even. Let me assure you—it is anything but that.

True, the skeleton of one's day follows a now-hardwired schedule, but the magic of teaching transpires between the class bell's tolls. Hours of dedicated preparation and masterfully enacted lesson plans seem perfect formulas to yield tangible student success, but it is in the simple, unplanned moments that I know God works alongside and within me. To fully appreciate this, I believe one must experience it; so please, walk with me through today—one unlike any other.

5:32 AM: My still weary eyes open, lamenting that my cold has most certainly set in. The temptation manifest in my symptoms nags—just hit snooze, roll back over, you need to rest. But sixty-one faces swiftly
surface to the forefront of my subconscious. They need me even more. There is cake to be eaten today! A universe to be unlocked. God's love to be shared.

6:25 AM: As I greet the crisp fall air outside, it is quite apparent that auto-pilot has only semi-successfully led me through my morning routine. Community coffee brewed, tie tied, breakfast downed (despite this morning's protesting stomach), and the door to our humble convent locked tight on my way out. A thirty-minute commute awaits me on my way to Richmond, a time of reflection and clarity I have come to cherish dearly. And it is here that my day turns.

7:45 AM: My classroom now lies in wait for the students who will brighten it. Practice sheets, returned assessments, and reminders home sit organized and prepared to streamline the day's instruction. I triple-check that today's technology is bug-free, offering a silent prayer that cough drops might soothe my already failing voice. I head downstairs to the gathering point of our school's gymnasium and in an instant, the familiar flood of questions flows. I reassure anxious fifth graders that one late assignment will not destroy their grade, confirm with my seventh graders the exact location of this evening's soccer scrimmage, and share in the barely containable excitement of my sixth graders' home-baked models of the cell. As our school stands to recite our pledge and morning offering, I breathe in the goodness of this place, the hope of the community, and exhale any exhaustion that might oppose it.

3:45 PM: For the first time since 7:45 AM, I sit in silence. My students love to point out that I never sit down, and my legs have long since joined in the aching of my throat. Today has brought a blur of beautiful progress, bitter frustration, and an ever-burning desire for tomorrow's continued improvement. Together, my students and I have comprehended the expansiveness of our observable universe, connected chemistry to the geological formation of caverns, laughed over lunch, decoded algebra, and enjoyed the reward of cellular baking. And just as I sit to plan still further ahead, my mentor teacher swings by unannounced with Ricola cough-drops and reassurance. She invites me to consider anew the work of this day, and find God there. She leaves me with this thought, but my wavering mind is already made. Tired can wait, I have a soccer scrimmage to attend.

8:13 PM: The game is over and the All Saints Knights have narrowly prevailed. Twenty-two grinning faces gleefully acknowledged my presence at the pitch. Casual sideline conversations with parents followed with the revelations that several students I struggle to keep on task have proudly proclaimed my class to be their most engaging. After high-fives and congratulations, the commute home offers a chance to call home and unwind. And the instant I enter the door, my community members sit to intentionally ask me about my day.

Fifteen hours have passed since my head left the pillow. Yet somehow, head-cold and all, I am wide-awake with the week to come. Today was no piece of cake (though I did help myself to two), but it was unlike any other. Authentic teaching will never amount to a stilted routine of standards-based curriculum. For it is inseparably infused with the joy of simple, shared humanity and the overflowing love of Christ. Today was just one day in the life of one first year teacher, but God knows the work of a single day can set hearts on fire.

Community pictures are an ACE standard. They're taken in the middle of the summer, uploaded onto the ACE website weeks after, and, sometime at the beginning of the school year, they make their way home to their respective communities, where they will hang on the wall for years to come. So with much thought and creativity, ACE communities find a location on campus, choose a community pose, smile, and say cheese. Then, they wait.

After scrolling through Pinterest family poses and taking screen shots of the ones we liked the most, ACE Brownsville decided on the "jumping in the air, half smiling, half screaming, not sure what to do with my arms" pose. If all else failed, we could always count on the "sorority" pose. We must have taken the picture four or five times. Each time, we climbed up the step and jumped off, hoping that someone's face wouldn't be hidden by the sunlight or that we would all be in the air at the same time. Not entirely convinced that we got it right, we took a picture in our "sorority" pose just in case. Then, we waited.

The picture on the top is the photo ACE uploaded to its website. It is the picture that is now framed and hanging on our wall. For years to come, ACE Brownsville communities will look at our picture and know that there was love in our home. And, it is true; there is love in our home. But, the picture on the bottom will forever be my ACE Brownsville community; it captures the nuances of our ACE Brownsville personalities and the transformative nature of living in community.

In this picture, you see Sarah with her arms wide open, ready to take you just as she found you. She made her way into your life with God's love and wisdom because only He knew that she's exactly what you needed in order to feel and know that every bit of you is divinely made and eternally loved.

Next to Sarah is Brett. While his arms are cautiously in the air, carefully avoiding bumping into mine, his face just radiates energy and positivity. When you need it most, his positive energy brings you back to life. He reminds you that you are alive and that that is reason enough to rejoice.

Next to me is Brian. With one quick glance, you see his legs are kicked back in a playful manner and his face is staying true to his calm and cool composure. In stressful moments, he brings perspective, reminding you that you are indeed a human being and subject to mistakes.

Amanda is up next to Brian. Immediately, you notice the excitement on her face. When you come to her with crazy and complicated ideas for school projects, it is her excitement that reassures you, reminding you that there are other people out there who have crazy and complicated ideas too.

Gabriel hovers in the air with a full blown karate chop. He is a wonder to witness in action. Few others can contain such dynamic character, yet he does it quite gracefully. You have no choice but to simply watch and learn.

On the right, you see Liz. One look at her and your soul is reinvigorated. Her passion for life is a testament to living life fully. She truly lives to love and loves to live. She gives and asks for nothing in return. And, in your heart, you know that you will forever be a better person for having known her.

Living in community transforms you slowly and all at once. It is a transformation that no picture will ever be able to capture, but my ACE Brownsville community photo comes pretty close.

The first ACE summer prepares ACErs to be first-year teachers extraordinarily well. Unfortunately, though, there are aspects of being in a classroom for which no teaching program, no matter how qualified, can prepare you. What do you do when Sandra begins throwing up smack in the middle of standardized testing? How do you mourn with the class when Miss Suzy, a beloved faculty member, returns to God? What do you do when a plump, old, white-robed Father Niccolo unexpectedly bursts into your classroom to teach Italian Christmas carols? How do you best express your gratitude and love when all of your students remember your birthday?

There will always be moments like these, whether you have taught for two or 30 years. Indeed, they continue to happen every day for me as a second-year teacher. Such moments no longer feel as daunting or disruptive, though. I can roll with the punches and still actively engage my students in a darn good lesson. The difference between this year and last? My store of confidence, which gradually built up throughout my first year of teaching.

Yet with great (and I use this term loosely) confidence comes great responsibility. While many of the initially daunting tasks of the first year are no longer challenging, new challenges have stepped in to take their place. More so than my ACE academic supervisors, my principal, or my mentor teacher, I am holding myself to higher standards. And I believe this to be true for each of my fellow ACErs. Differentiation, unit planning, after-school activities, one-on-one time with students, parent correspondence . . . regardless of the area, we want to exceed the accomplishments we made last year. We want to make a bigger difference.

It was a bit odd, starting my second year at Sacred Heart. Unlike last year, I was no longer the fresh new face on the faculty, the mysterious young male teacher joining the ranks of the seasoned female elementary teachers. The students are generally less intrigued by my existence (although perhaps this is something for which to be thankful). I am no longer finding new (well, new to me) supplies on the shelves of my classroom. Ultimately, the excitement inherent in entering a completely new experience, a new community of people, has worn off.

This does not mean all excitement is gone, however; it's certainly safe to say that teaching is a vocation that will never lack excitement. And the oddness that came with no longer feeling new stemmed from a gradually built sense of ownership and belonging. What was novel last year is now familiar; what I viewed with curiosity and wonder I now view with endearment. I am settled.

Every morning I oversee the car line as students are dropped off at school, a job I began at the beginning of last year. This year, though, the kindergartners no longer walk past me as quickly as possible. The seventh and eighth graders look me in the eye (I think it's safe to say they may even think I'm "cool"). My former students bring up concepts learned last year, despite rubbing sleep out of their eyes (side note: I can say I have former students!). And I am confident not only in my ability to teach but also in my desire to work even harder to make each of these students' lives better.

"Remember where you come from and celebrate it. To remember where you come from is part of where you're going." -Anthony Burgess

It may be that this idea seems obvious to you, but I've found that in the frenzy of the modern world, it's often lost in the shuffle (perhaps somewhere between the latest Buzzfeed quiz and your second cousin's status updates). We are tethered to each present moment as it passes, and often too distracted to stop and see our lives in true perspective: past, present, and future.

In a radical show of counterculturalism, then, Ms. Hughan's English III class took Burgess' advice to heart and stole a moment to step back and dwell on the past. As we finished our study of Early American Writing, we discussed the somewhat abstract concept of "origin-writing." What does it mean to write the story of one's origin? What is at stake in such an ambitious project?

In the 18th Century, various Native American tribes carefully preserved their creation myths through oral storytelling while William Bradford wrote his travelogue chronicling the Puritans' tumultuous arrival in America. Each aspired to tell the story of an entire people. Just imagine that for a second. Extraordinary, right?

In 1999, George Ella Lyon wrote a poem called "Where I'm From." Unlike Bradford and the Iroquois, she aspired to tell the story of only a single person, but even that's no small feat.

But who doesn't love a good challenge? In 2014, everyone in Ms. Hughan's English III class embraced the same project. We began by brainstorming about the objects, inside jokes, smells, children's books, foods, family sayings and names of people which, taken together, might have the potential to convey the essence of one's origin. Refined into poetry, and performed in front of one's classmates, these stories were like a tapestry with multicolored threads that were both interwoven and distinct. It's hard to describe the atmosphere of a classroom in which each person is required to become vulnerable.

"I'm from the cul-de-sac, the playing field where all the neighborhood kids gathered as if we were a team."

"I'm from the small town people and the big city believers. From get up! And get it done! I'm from holy bibles and giving trees..."

"I'm from the hard work of a southern family, whose mottos are ingrained in my skull. 'Work harder.' 'Be respected.' 'Be the strength you need.' I'm from J.D. Salinger, Bukowski, Billie Holiday and Debussy..."

"In my house, pictures cover the walls, of a girl frozen in different periods of time. She changes, she grows, living in different moments. But she always smiles. I know this because I am that that girl, and I know where I am from."

Needless to say, I was impressed and moved. All the sudden though, my students declared that it was my turn. Luckily, I had thought they might ask and had come prepared. I stepped up to the podium. For a split second, I was nervous. A moment later, I let go in the way that I am learning a teacher must—I spoke with power, conviction, and truth in a way I never have before. It was exhilarating because it was important. When called to be a leader and a role model in the classroom, one must rise to the occasion. With every word of my poem, I was telling them something else: "Remember where you came from and celebrate it."

At the end, one of my students said: "Wait, Ms. Hughan, that was so good, we want a re-match." I think I just laughed, but in my mind I was thinking: "You're on. I'll be here all year, and we're not even close to finished."

To my new students:

At Tampa Catholic High School, they say "sports is king," but it just so happens that they're wrong, and I'll prove it to you. Walk into our gym, and take a look around. Amidst state championship pennants and varsity rosters, you'll find a banner that tells you everything you need to know. It reads:

"Be it known to all who enter here, that Christ is the reason for this school. He is the model for our faculty and the inspiration of our students."

There it is, in black and white. At Tampa Catholic, sports aren't king at all—Christ is.

But what does that mean? The answer is in those 29 words. They make several important promises to you. They promise that this school is rooted in something much deeper than academic excellence. They promise that our faculty share a single vision for their role as teacher. Finally, they promise that Christ has the power to inspire you. At your age, the power to inspire is like magic. You are the future—imagine if that future is inspired by Christ.

That word "inspire" is a great one. If you break it down to its Latin roots, it means "to breathe life into." So many things will breathe life into your high school experience: simple practical jokes executed in the quick five minute passing periods between classes, all the hours you spend serving your wider Tampa community, what is sure to be a whole host of extracurricular activities, and of course, the knowledge that lies buried in the pages of your textbooks, waiting to be wrestled with.

Every once in a while, though, stop and think about what truly inspires you, and make sure you find Christ there.

That's not always easy. Let me try to help. Check out this photo:

This is what the first football game of the season looks like: the treasured tradition of "Friday Night Lights," where parents and younger siblings, faculty, our principal and deans, football players, cheerleaders, and devoted fans all gather together under the Crusader banner.

They gather under something else, too. Something bigger. Take a look at that gorgeous Florida sky. What you're seeing is what's called "the pink moment"—that fleeting moment when the sky lights up with an ethereal burst of spectacular pink.

Maybe I'm crazy, but I like to think that's Christ, breathing life into TC Football. At the very least, though, that sky is a good reminder that there are things much more important than field goals and touchdowns at stake here. There is a backdrop which frames all that we do in and outside of the classroom: "Christ is the reason for this school."

Come to TC willing to live like Christ, to be inspired by his example, and you will find a home here.

After particularly tough school days throughout my first year teaching, I would often remind myself that I was one day closer to setting foot on Notre Dame's campus for a second ACE summer. The muggy two months that make up ACE summer sometimes seemed to be lasting a lifetime, but when they finally came to a close, I was left wanting more: more teaching preparation (you can never get enough), more advice from professors, more dorm masses and Folk Choir songs, more of Father Joe's cookies, and—more than anything else—more time with my fellow ACErs.

In some ways, I imagine ACE summer being comparable to studying at Hogwarts (without the magic, unfortunately). ACErs live in an old, stone dorm with all of their friends. Meals are eaten together, often with professors and other teaching assistants. As a first-year, I was guided and encouraged by the returning second-years. As a second-year, I was reinvigorated by the excitement of the first-years (and affirmed that I did, in fact, gain knowledge to pass on to them). When I needed additional advice and support, the ACE staff—professors, pastoral team, priests—were more than willing to put me before whatever else they were doing.

Reflecting on the many experiences of my ACE summers, one aspect stands out more than any other: solidarity. There are few other times in my life in which I have experienced this principle as much as I felt it over my ACE summers.

As I already mentioned, the ACE staff and professors were available whenever I was searching for guidance in teaching—or any aspect of my life. It was through their examples more than any journal article or education study that I learned what it means to be present to my students. The mentor teachers—ACErs who have already completed the program—played many different roles for current ACErs. For me, they provided affirmation, practical knowledge, support, and encouragement. They continue to be role models for me both as a teacher and a community member.

More than anyone else, I experienced solidarity through my fellow ACErs. It is one thing to commiserate with someone going through a shared challenge, which we certainly did. However, I was constantly blown away by instances in which, despite their own challenges, my ACE brothers and sisters reached out to see how I was doing. We make each other laugh, challenge each other to think beyond our initial conceptions, and carry each other through the struggles that every beginning teacher faces. We swap stories and trade our best teaching practices and strategies. Together we visit the Grotto, make sock puppets, lesson plan, play basketball, sing karaoke, swap stories, and build each other up until we have no choice but to be the best we can be.

The lasting impact of this solidarity is not just the invaluable, life-long friendships that I have made. Just as impactful as these friendships are the insights I gained through them—insights about teaching, my relationships with others, prayer and spirituality, and the ways in which I hope to live my life. I'm still quite far from perfect, but thanks to the extraordinary group of individuals brought together for ACE summers, I'm certainly a better person than I was before.

One year ago, I ought to have asked for little more. With the advent of my senior year, I had just welcomed my younger brother to Gonzaga University in Spokane, Washington, as a freshman and fellow Zag. Surrounded by a network of inspiring mentors and incomparably supportive friendships, the opportunities of the coming months might well have felt boundless.

Yet amidst the anxious excitement of orientation and joyous, post-summer reunions, I found myself continuously exhausted by the seemingly circular process of vocational discernment and re-evaluation. Paralyzed by the uncertain state of my post-graduate ambitions, my prayer life had effectively withered to the frustrated recitation of my deepest desire—to know, indeed to foresee, God's will for my future.

I chided myself to focus on the present and sought to mask my trepidations. For given the gravity of my present predicament, the tried and true mantra to "let go and let God" suddenly seemed fanciful, if not downright foolish. After all, a mere handful of decisions were about to largely determine a trajectory that might well last a lifetime.

In hindsight, it borders on the unbelievable, but if I am being perfectly honest with myself, the catharsis that emboldened me to follow through and apply wholeheartedly to the Alliance for Catholic Education came exactly two years after I first heard of this program's existence. Dizzying as it is to fully appreciate, I had never genuinely considered a vocation in education before partaking in a spiritual formation retreat through Gonzaga's University Ministry at the onset of my sophomore year. The bus ride back to campus would be the first time that I admitted to anyone, including myself, the desire to inspire others through intentional, holistic education. Countless phone calls home and late-night conversations with friends would soon lead me to this very website. Until one year ago, ACE's invitation was one I couldn't be certain I was worthy of accepting. Its confluence of spiritual development, intentional, communal living, and professional teaching that strives to serve under-resourced students, families, and schools felt too ideal to be realistically attainable. Acknowledging that I would accept ACE in a heartbeat, I could not bring myself to fully believe that ACE would accept me back. And so, I bided my time, collected second opinions, and explored alternatives, all the while anticipating some hidden snag.

The first domino had long since fallen, but it took two years for my educational epiphany to reach the point of maturation. Yet another retreat, centered around vocational discernment and contemplative action, would afford me the opportunity to name my predicament as a restlessness of heart. To authentically understand that in a world of sneak-peaks and pre-determined paths, faith itself would lose all meaning. To appreciate that the reason there was no simple answer, was because God had left the decision my own to make. To recognize that the only hidden snag there had ever been was my own disbelief. The second domino fell.

One year ago, I was restless, paralyzed by the expansive possibilities of my own uncertain future. Today, I am still restless, but empowered with the 61 uncharted futures of my vibrant, talented students. I believe that God and I chose the ministry of teaching together, and I believe that I will be restless until I rest in Him. I now also see that this restlessness is fuel. An inexhaustible reservoir of the passion needed to change hearts, to captivate imaginations, and to challenge my students to invest in their boundless potential.

My first year of teaching felt like a whirlwind of students' faces, lesson planning, assignments, deadlines, meetings, smiles, grimaces, tears, and, most of all, hope.

I arrived in Brownsville, Texas feeling very much at home within the ever present Mexican culture, though I still wondered how I would create a home with my students. I would, after all, spend most of my time with the overwhelming 110 students I was chosen to teach. If I was going to endure the challenges of my first year, I would not only have to survive my students, I would have to thrive amongst them.

Garcia, Hernandez, Ramirez, Cantu—all names that I could pronounce quite easily without a slip of the tongue. Just a week later and I already had their names memorized and their faces forever engrained in my heart. I now needed to create one space for all of us, a place for the people that inhabited those names on the roster sheets, the personalities that occupied the seats in my classroom, the yearning and palpitating hearts that filled the silence as their owners awaited direction.

My greatest fear was that a year would pass without making any connection between me and my students.

I spent the majority of the first quarter lecturing my students, not on the content, but on life lessons—"If you don't read, you will never get better." "You can't get away with these kinds of things in college." "You need to think about your future and how your actions will affect it"—all to no avail. I was convinced that my students were a representation of my work as a teacher. If they failed in any facet of their life, I would have let them down. I trudged along the second quarter, giving reading check quizzes, creating interactive and unorthodox learning activities, and spending late nights commenting on every submitted assignment.

There seemed to be very little progress academically; students were still choosing not to read, waiting until the last minute to do homework assignments, and indifferent to all things English class.

It took months of soldiering on with my head down before I finally looked up and I saw beauty in what I had perceived to be absolute chaos. My students were still my students, but I was different. They had changed me with their uncontrollable laughter during vocabulary games, frustration while reading Gatsby's unraveling in The Great Gatsby, hope when learning of Holden Caulfield's rebellious spirit, and accomplishment when their ideas actually came through in their writing. My students were finally my home, not because of their academic progress, but because we all grew together as one community. We lived through each day, acknowledging each other's humanness and allowing it to flourish at its own pace.

Coming into my second year, I look back and am reminded of the transformative words found in Slaughterhouse-Five: "everything was beautiful and nothing hurts." I begin this year with my head held high, trusting myself as a teacher, leader, friend, and human being. My goal is not to create a home with my new students; it is to open the doors to my existing home, allowing them to fill it with all of their uniqueness and knowing that they will be welcome in my heart always.

As a student at the University of Notre Dame, I majored in English and Latino Studies. I participated in MEChA and Mentorship while working at the Irish Ink Café, Julian Samora Library, and the Office of Undergraduate Studies. I am currently living in Brownsville, Texas and am working at Saint Joseph Academy. This year, I am the moderator of the Film Club, Words Have Power Workshop, and a Book Club at Guadalupe Regional Middle School.