Prayer of an Educator

My philosophy of education is....well, actually, I hate the question. Often in academia, we are asked to explain our philosophy of whatever our craft is. It sounds nice, but honestly, I end up praying all the time about my career. Either I've had the kind of day where the decisions I've had to make required God's divine guidance, OR just getting THROUGH the day required God's divine intervention to keep me sane! Either way, prayer was a big part of it. So when I was asked to write my philosophy of education, it only seemed fitting to write a prayer. I chose to pattern my philosophy after the well known Prayer of Serenity. This was in 2002, and a decade later, it still holds true for me.


God, grant me the willingness to be a student first,
Learning from the students, staff, parents and community
I serve.

God, grant me the aptitude to foster a love for education and self-esteem in my traditional and non-traditional learners.

God, grant me the forbearance to care for the needs of the whole child, nurturing them emotionally, intellectually, physically and socially.

God, grant me an attitude of gratitude for my teachers, and a mindset of service to my students.

God, grant me a spirit of humility in the midst of leadership,
and the confidence to always do the right thing.

God, grant me the faith to step out of the box and take risks that will benefit my students in the name of education.

God, grant me the strength to masterfully manage the tasks at hand, and the wisdom to appreciate those who carry them out.

God, grant me the courage to move forward toward the light,
and the sense to step aside to let others shine with me.

God, grant me the boldness to stand on my convictions, and the guts to welcome change with a smile.

God, grant me the understanding that my compensation comes not from a paycheck, but from the knowledge that I am making a difference.

God, grant me the power to combat problems with prayer, ignorance with love, and frustration with a good laugh.

God, grant me the capacity to live, walk and think by this philosophy in every aspect of my life, every day of my life.

Lesleigh C. Mausi, M.Ed. -2002

Wonderwoman tackles Spring Cleaning

I used to LOVE Wonderwoman. She was BAD. For Halloween one year (I was maybe 10 or 11), I had my new Wonderwoman UnderRoos (who didn't?) and my dad made a red cape for me. I put on my brown cowgirl boots and made a Wonderwoman tiara and cuffs out of yellow construction paper. My lasso was a long piece of painted rope my dad had used on one of his fishing trips. It was the best costume E-VER.

So recently I found myself trying to conjure up my bionic powers. Not to save the world or rescue a little lost cat from a tree, but to attack the one thing every woman must conquer at this time of year.

Spring Cleaning.

One of my favorite websites for years has been OrganizedHome.com. Author Cynthia Ewer has, thankfully, broken down the idea of annual spring cleaning into managable, room-by-room tasklists that enable even the most out-of-practice wonderwomen to tackle the entire house in about two weeks. The great thing about this time is that Easter break will allow most families to enlist all members, young and old, for help with this year's cleaning. We don't have to do it all ourselves, and it doesn't have to be flawless. we just have to get it done. Remember, we're Wonderwomen, not God.

http://organizedhome.com/cleaning-grand-plan/welcome

Thank you Cynthia.

So I'm calling all Wonderwomen. Forget the tiara and cuffs. Arm yourselves with a good plan and some bumping theme music. Spin around three times, and kick some serious butt.

Your mission is clear.

Over and out.

And She Looked Up

Ever had a problem you didn't know how you would ever make it through? Ever wondered if ANYBODY had ever lived through what you're experiencing right now? Ever been embarrassed, ashamed, or too proud to confide in someone, even when you knew they could help you?

Yeah. Me too.

And guess what? Every woman you know has too.

No matter the age. No matter the race. No matter the problem. SOMEBODY'S been there, baby.

And THIS is how you make it through.....

Written by Lesleigh Mausi
Read by Rita Teague
Performed by Oak Grove Liturgical Dance Ministry
April, 2007

Retail Therapy Month 2: Off the Wagon

I fell off the wagon.

But now that I think about it, is it really falling off the wagon if you got it for FREE????

You heard me.

Free.

Are you sitting down?

So, this flyer from DSW Shoe Warehouse comes in the mail announcing a FREE python print tote bag AND matching wallet, with a purchase of $24.95. I can feel my mouth begin to salivate....this might be worth a small break from the 64 days of self-imposed retail therapy. But if I am going to even consider breaking my shopping fast, I have to be smart about it, otherwise what was the point of it all, right?

So after checking my bank account and budgeting exactly how much I could afford to spend ($28.00 including tax), I suddenly remember the DSW gift card that I found in an old purse during our move to NC about 8 months ago. I had put it in a safe place, and though I had no clue what the balance was, I was sure that it would cover about half of the $24.95 I would need to spend in order to get my free tote.

So... armed with a mission, a coupon and a gift card, this sister made her move. (cue the James Bond music)

The next day, immediately after work (I almost PUSH the kids outta the classroom), I walk into DSW and head straight for the clearance section in the rear of the store. Not seeing anything that I could readily use or needed, I sit down to calculate my next move. Clearly I was going to have to pay a little more than $24.95, and if so, then I need to get something that would be worth every penny.

Now, what did I need?

Practical Black? Fresh new sneaks? OR...

Glancing down the rows of heels and stilettos, my eyes fall upon a pair of pearl taupe Michael Kors 3 1/2 in. slingbacks with a python print platform. I check the price...$59.99 (Hmmmm, maybe...just maybe). I slip them on (Fierce).

Head to the register. Manager shows me the tote (perfect match). Salesgirl rings up the shoes (heart thumping). I swipe the giftcard (palms sweating). Before I can pull out my debit card to pay the difference, she hands me a receipt and says, "Have a great day" (pull the needle off the FREAKING record).

Uh......(eyes bucked, mouth wide open)...WHAT?

I look at the receipt. There was about $80.00 on that giftcard! How does that even HAPPEN???? (Angels singing)

So I left that day, giddy as all get-out, with a free bag, a free wallet, some fabulous free shoes, and a feeling of such euphoria that for once, falling off the wagon had never....felt...so....good!

And yes, I'm back on the wagon, Ready to go another 64 days retail free!

Below the Surface

Young.
Black.
Male.

For many in this country, just those three words are enough to scare the living crap out of them. Add some uncombed hair, a pair of sagging jeans and a sleeveless undershirt and you have just about 65% of the boys that walk through my classroom door everyday. I wrote this poem for them, and for the nay-sayers who assume they will never amount to a hill of red beans....all because they don't take the time to look below the surface.

Lesleigh

For Those Who Never Considered What Lies Beneath the Surface, 2007

He didn't run a washrag between the crack of his behind.
Didn't bother to deodorize his armpits or wipe the crust from his eyes.
Hair unbraided, 'Fro pick stuck in the side of his head,
Doo-rag dragging from the back pocket of the same pants
he pulled off and dropped by the side of the bed the night before;
And at first glance he may appear to be one to ignore,
But consider looking a little longer. You may see much more.

He wears attire coined the "ghetto uniform"
the wife-beater and Dickies with no belt, both 3 sizes too big for him
and he walks down the sidewalk, pants just a-sagging.
It's way too early in the day for school to be out and
he's much too young to be holding down a 9 to 5 so
we assume he's a player in the game called the old 'shuck and jive'
and we shake our heads from side to side mumbling, "What a shame"
"Where is his pride?" But consider, just for a moment,
looking a little deeper inside.

You will notice his eyes, red
not from lack of sleep,
but glazed over from the blunt he blazed a half hour ago.
Eleven-fifteen, he comes out of the liquor store with a bag of Better Maids,
a honeybun, and a red Faygo...and that's just breakfast 'yo.
He spends the afternoon flipping channels, shooting 3 pointers on his xBox,
Emptying a swisher and rolling it up again,
ready to set his herbal refreshment aflame,
watching Rap City and sleeping through the local newscast.
Listen, I know it's easy to judge and generalize fast, but consider this
and keep an open heart as we journey below his surface.

Consider...how at work, Moms is pulling double shifts, and the fact that it was HER weed stash he was rolling that blunt with.

Consider...how son was "Student of the Month" in grades 2 and 3
and that in grade 4 his daddy pleaded the 5th and is now spending
6 minimum behind a metal door.

Consider...him going to 7 different schools 'till his 8th grade year and,
why bother sitting up in a class where
he can't read on that level so he knows as soon as he's
called on to finish the rest of the chapter,
the kids are gonna burst into laughter so
why should he have to go?
Now this young king is wondering why he's labeled LD
when he can add and multiply,
subtract and divide,
can compare and classify and can tell you why x equals 3,
but those words on that there page he
just....can't...read.

Did you consider another way for him to wash his butt off,
since the water in his crib's been shut off for a month?
Did you consider how it feels when his own people avoid
eye contact with him out of fear?
Did you consider how a "Keep your head up, Son?"
or a "How you doing Son?" is what he needs to hear?

Now, these ain't excuses, but we just can't
write the young brother off as useless,
which is what we tend to do when we don't speak up,
don't offer suggestions,
don't challenge
don't witness and
don't lead by example.

So let's lay down our gavels and
pick up some compassion
Let's give the young brother some time and
pay him a little attention,
Let's share a little wisdom and
show him how he's already equipped to make his life better.
Let him know it won't be easy, and that giving up isn't an option
even though he'll always be judged by those
who never consider what lies beneath his surface,
Not knowing that if they only look below
they just might find something....

Beautiful.

We Real Cool

Poet Gwendolyn Brooks

In 1959, Gwendolyn Brooks illustrated the ultimate fate of troubled teenagers with irresponsible behaviors and destructive thinking: DEATH. This poem speaks volumes, and has as much validity today as it did when it was composed, if not more. I have seen it everyday, every year for the last 15 years of my career in public education. Students who follow the crowd against their better judgement. Children who ditch class. Parents who run the streets. Mothers who attend their FIRST parent conference in MAY to curse every teacher for failing their child. Fathers reeking of liquor while dropping their kids off to school hours late. Teenagers screwing in the hidden corners of stairwells and behind bushes on the way home from school. Lunchroom fights and neighborhood brawls in the middle of the street at dismissal time. Yep, REAL cool.

To our young people, to the older people still trying to act young, to anybody not yet strong enough to break away from the WE mentality and be their own individual. Take heed of the plight of the seven pool players. Too bad they weren't cool enough to play for long.

THE POOL PLAYERS.
SEVEN AT THE GOLDEN SHOVEL.

We real cool. We
Left school. We
Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We
Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We
Jazz June. We
Die soon.

Thank You, Ms. Brooks. YOU were Cool.

Retail Therapy: Month 1

Hi, I'm Lesleigh....
(Hi Lesleigh)

So...yeah, um....It's been about.....32 days since my last hit....
(round of applause, nods, smiles)

...the last time I hit the mall that is.

I made a decision since taking a pay cut in August to get serious about simplifying my life... and saving my money. For me, that meant cutting down my weekly...yes weekly... shopping trips. Needless to say this has been EXTREMELY difficult for me. I'm used to going 2-3 times a week, always after a rough day of teaching, a perfect pit stop before picking up my kids from school, tutoring, daycare....the perfect ME time.

Trust me. I wasn't always out SPENDING money. I DO know how to window shop, and sometimes this would more than satisfy my taste for the new. Each shopping excursion is unique and purely sensual: Stepping through the gilded doors of The Somerset Collection, I breathe in the sounds of the classical pianist playing my welcome into the skylighted atrium. My kitten heels click-clack a determined rhythm as I head towards my first acquisition of the day; the grande White Chocolate Mint Mocha. Perusing the latest racks of Tahari and MaxAzria (take an additional 65% off??? Lord help me....), sampling the latest color of MAC Dazzleglass, layering the scents of about 7 different bath and body works lotions, inhaling the smell of deliciously supple leather in ColeHaan, running my fingers across the table of cashmere plaid scarves in Burberry. This is how I would unwind each week for years, and now unfortunately, it needed to come to an end.

This first month of my self-imposed retail therapy felt like punishment, and in my mind I began to question exactly what this deliberate torture was accomplishing. 'I work hard for my money, why can't I enjoy myself every once in a while? It seems crazy to work and work and never be able to reward myself when I want to! Why should I have to sacrifice something that isn't hurting anybody, is fun, is relaxing, is therapeutic, is my "me" time', blah, blah, blah.

Well right this minute, since I'm new to this therapy thing, I don't have an answer to my tirade. I am knee-deep in having an attitude. I have fresh, open wounds, and can only say that passing the mall exit everyday on my way home from work is a struggle. I roll my eyes, smack my teeth, grumble under my breath and turn my music on full blast, as if to drown out the banter in my head. It isn't until I get home and open the Wachovia bank statement resting on my kitchen counter that I smile, and remember why, why, why.

Money in the bank.

A balance in the black.

Enough to cover bills for the month. Period.

That's all I can really say for now. And for me, that's enough. For now.

Thank you all for listening.
(applause, back patting, smiles)