We interrupt our regularly scheduled blogging for Megan to locate her self-esteem. It's gotten lost somewhere in a world of people who try to keep her down. To do this, she will perform the amazing feat of writing her own reference letter.
To Whom It May Concern:
I write to you today to recommend Megan for a job with your company. She possesses a lengthy career in the field of public education. To some, touting a career in teaching may seem unimpressive, and it may cause you to wonder what she may have to offer your company... one that is far from the educational field.
Teachers, you see, play many roles. They are educators seeking to impart knowledge and thinking skills on an untrained set of people. They are organizers planning to brilliantly execute state and local objectives. They are team members working for the betterment of their organization, their students, and themselves. They are public relations specialists who must keep in constant contact with the parent and local community, keeping them informed of the positive happenings within their classroom. They perform data entry and data analysis every time they grade a paper and enter that grade into a database. They are social workers concerned with the well being of their students from a social, cognitive, mental, and health standpoint. They are leaders striving to be a model for what is expected from their underlings and working to show growth and gain in their organization.
Yes, the last twelve years of Megan's life have been working as a teacher, but consider what teaching involves. In addition to work experience, Megan's personal qualities could prove beneficial to her prospective employer. Megan is driven to succeed, is highly analytical, and is an independent worker. Circumstances of her life might have offered her an excuse to sit back and be taken care of, but she doesn't think that way. She believes in showing what you CAN do. Not in creating excuses. She is quite confident that whatever job requirements are offered to her, she can do them and do them well.
Thank you for your time.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Redemption
Late in 5th grade, it became apparent to my doctors that I would have to give up the leg brace in favor of crutches. The stunted growth in my right leg caused a pronounced limp. The brace would rub sores on sensitive skin. My lack of sensation in that leg made it impossible for me to even know when something hurt, indicating an issue. Often, a problem would have cropped up before I knew it. And people think that feeling pain is a bad thing. It isn't. Trust me.
I traded in the brace with trepidation. In my mind, somehow, walking with the crutches was less normal than walking with the brace. With coaxing and some encouragement from my parents and teachers, I did it. What choice did I have? I took it in stride.
I survived after that with the positive attitude instilled in me by my parents.
The power of positive thinking. I hate those words.
Growing up with a disability, my parents had let me try what I wanted and set my own limits. The glowing reviews I received from the grown-ups were enough to keep me going. Sunshine. A hero. Such a force of strength. Doesn't quit. Doctors, nurses, family members, church members... they all thought I was the bomb. And it kept me going. Up until the point when I realized what my peers really thought. That 5th grade year might have done me in, but then my saviors arrived.
The first one was Sara. I remember one of the early days of 6th grade, the teachers put us out on the black top for what they lovingly referred to as free time. There, Sara found me and quickly befriended me. I don't know why. I've never asked her. It never dawned on me to ask something like that. Nonetheless, Sara became my champion. She was a tough as nails girl who'd been through her own fair share of crap. The only difference was that no one could see her challenges. It didn't matter. She adopted me quickly as someone who needed a friend. And she took nothing off of anyone on my behalf. She carried my books for me between classes. If anyone gave me problems, she'd kick their ass. Plain and simple. Once or twice, she actually did. Sara and I had our own problems as friends during this turbulent time in our lives. We fought. We had issues. But in the end, we belonged to one another. She is still one of my best friends to this day.
The other was Kevin. He liked me in that private middle school sort of way. He respected me, but we couldn't let anyone know that. And he saw my need for a champion. His bravery when it came to me showed itself during gym class.
I always hated gym class. In elementary school, P.E. teachers were content to let me watch from the sidelines. They didn't know what to do with me, and when I didn't demand participation, they happily let me slide under the radar. I watched from the sidelines as they penned A's on my report card.
Mrs. Wilson, the middle school P.E. teacher, was different, though. She demanded that I do what I could. In retrospect, it should be appreciated. At the time, though, it didn't seem like it. It seemed like cruelty.
She took us out on that same black top one day early in 6th grade for a game of kickball. Teams were picked. I was one of the last ones, but not THE dreaded last one. Mrs. Wilson insisted that I step up to home plate and try to have my foot make contact with the ball, crutches and all. Then she asked who in class would be my runner when I kicked it. That's when Kevin stepped forward. I didn't know him before then. From that point on, he was my hero, though. For you see, there was no hesitation on his part. No awkward silence when no one wanted to be the one to run for the crip. It took him a split second to volunteer.
From that point on, kids in that class were no longer mean to me. Kevin, an all-American -- intelligent and athletic, had become my protector. He wasn't afraid to talk to me. We debated and argued, always in competition for who was going to make the best grade on something. We debated philosophies on evolution and history. He talked to me. It was his acceptance of me, I think, that got me to the point where people left me alone.
I wasn't enough hot stuff to be included in the popular group. However, that group of neanderthals from 5th grade never gave me another problem. Between Kevin and Sara and a few other kids, I found a niche where I fit comfortably, knowing I would be looked out for from a distance. Everyone else knew it, too. It gave me a confidence that I might otherwise never have found in that awful, cruel place called middle school. It carried me all the way through eighth grade. My handicap never felt like much of a burden until the end of eighth grade.
I traded in the brace with trepidation. In my mind, somehow, walking with the crutches was less normal than walking with the brace. With coaxing and some encouragement from my parents and teachers, I did it. What choice did I have? I took it in stride.
I survived after that with the positive attitude instilled in me by my parents.
The power of positive thinking. I hate those words.
Growing up with a disability, my parents had let me try what I wanted and set my own limits. The glowing reviews I received from the grown-ups were enough to keep me going. Sunshine. A hero. Such a force of strength. Doesn't quit. Doctors, nurses, family members, church members... they all thought I was the bomb. And it kept me going. Up until the point when I realized what my peers really thought. That 5th grade year might have done me in, but then my saviors arrived.
The first one was Sara. I remember one of the early days of 6th grade, the teachers put us out on the black top for what they lovingly referred to as free time. There, Sara found me and quickly befriended me. I don't know why. I've never asked her. It never dawned on me to ask something like that. Nonetheless, Sara became my champion. She was a tough as nails girl who'd been through her own fair share of crap. The only difference was that no one could see her challenges. It didn't matter. She adopted me quickly as someone who needed a friend. And she took nothing off of anyone on my behalf. She carried my books for me between classes. If anyone gave me problems, she'd kick their ass. Plain and simple. Once or twice, she actually did. Sara and I had our own problems as friends during this turbulent time in our lives. We fought. We had issues. But in the end, we belonged to one another. She is still one of my best friends to this day.
The other was Kevin. He liked me in that private middle school sort of way. He respected me, but we couldn't let anyone know that. And he saw my need for a champion. His bravery when it came to me showed itself during gym class.
I always hated gym class. In elementary school, P.E. teachers were content to let me watch from the sidelines. They didn't know what to do with me, and when I didn't demand participation, they happily let me slide under the radar. I watched from the sidelines as they penned A's on my report card.
Mrs. Wilson, the middle school P.E. teacher, was different, though. She demanded that I do what I could. In retrospect, it should be appreciated. At the time, though, it didn't seem like it. It seemed like cruelty.
She took us out on that same black top one day early in 6th grade for a game of kickball. Teams were picked. I was one of the last ones, but not THE dreaded last one. Mrs. Wilson insisted that I step up to home plate and try to have my foot make contact with the ball, crutches and all. Then she asked who in class would be my runner when I kicked it. That's when Kevin stepped forward. I didn't know him before then. From that point on, he was my hero, though. For you see, there was no hesitation on his part. No awkward silence when no one wanted to be the one to run for the crip. It took him a split second to volunteer.
From that point on, kids in that class were no longer mean to me. Kevin, an all-American -- intelligent and athletic, had become my protector. He wasn't afraid to talk to me. We debated and argued, always in competition for who was going to make the best grade on something. We debated philosophies on evolution and history. He talked to me. It was his acceptance of me, I think, that got me to the point where people left me alone.
I wasn't enough hot stuff to be included in the popular group. However, that group of neanderthals from 5th grade never gave me another problem. Between Kevin and Sara and a few other kids, I found a niche where I fit comfortably, knowing I would be looked out for from a distance. Everyone else knew it, too. It gave me a confidence that I might otherwise never have found in that awful, cruel place called middle school. It carried me all the way through eighth grade. My handicap never felt like much of a burden until the end of eighth grade.
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