The Cam Blog

The other night while I was doing Gym Night, Cam the Counselor came in to work out in the school's  weight room.  When he was finished, he came over, plopped himself down, and said, "I read your blog.  But there's nothing in there about me."  So here is the blog about Cam.

Cam is a 30-something Minnesotan who loves the Wild hockey team, knows enough to not get too invested in the Vikings and, like me, doesn't seem to care about basketball.  His facial hair changes with his mood, or so it seems because in a very consistent man, his face is always changing.  Clean shave, stubble, handlebar mustache, pornstache, full beard, it's all been there in the nine months I have known him.  With the exception of the pornstache (sorry buddy), all of them looked good on him, and it was kind of fun to play "I wonder what will be on Cam's face this week?"

Simply put, Cam is the best counselor I have ever seen (no disrespect to the one other counselor I have any respect for, Liz at Beverly Cleary).  All the kids know him and, while they may not know it, love him.  He takes the time to truly get to know these often highly troubled kids with home lives from hell.  He knows how to have the tough conversations (Look kid, you're twenty years old and never going to get enough credits for a diploma before we have to kick you out, by law.  Go for the GED instead and stop wasting your time around here.) to gently teasing my quiet student who says her lines in our play at barely more than a whisper, reminding her how loud she was in the gym during volleyball season.  He has fed these kids, clothed them and towed them behind a 4 wheeler.  He knows when to play and when to be serious.  His anti-tobacco campaign really sank it with my class-not one of them has been caught doing snuff at school.

Cam is a steady presence at all school functions: gym night, movie night, family night, dances, potlucks, you name it.  If he is not there, it is because he is out of town on school business or going to a conference learning how to serve us better.  And sometimes, he brings me apples!

Unfortunately, he won't get the chance anymore.  His position has been cut by the district, though for the life of me why they think a school of 200+ children and young adults don't need a counselor is beyond me.  A new position has been created, Dean of Students, who will take over some of Cam's duties but also be in charge of PBIS, discipline and who knows what else.  Tobe is taking that job next year and I am sure he'll be great at it.  But I really think a school our size with our population needs a full time on site counselor also. 

So, not only is the school losing a great educator, I am losing a new friend and one of only two others who really know what it is like to be the new teacher for school year 2015-16.  And that makes me a little sad.

The contract

For my birthday, I signed my contract for next year and delivered it to my principal.  This is the first time since I began working as an educator (let’s see, that was when Wendy was in first grade and now she’s in the 15^th grade so you do the math), that I have been asked to return to a school to do the same job before the current school year ended.  When I was an elementary “non-certified but doing the work of a certified” librarian (see, I’m not bitter), I had to wait every year until August to be rehired with only a vague promise from the Maplewood principal that the call would eventually come.  The call always did but it didn’t make up for a spring and summer of anxious waiting.  For three years I did this, for a part time job!  When I told the principal there that I was going to grad school and wouldn’t be back the next school year, he kind of grimaced and said, “Too bad, this was the year we were going to bump you up to full time.”  Just my luck.

This year, I did waver a little.  I made pro/con lists lying in bed listening to the wind gust, wondering if the power would go out.  I weighed the great paycheck against the unreliable internet.  I thought about my friends and family.  Seeing them had become a major endeavor, involving the thing I hate most in the world (see: little tiny planes) and if, god forbid, there was a major emergency I was at minimum ten hours away.

But one major thing was that I wasn’t offered a contract right away.  Colynn casually mentioned that she had signed hers one day during our daily chat in the morning.  I tried not to read too much into it, but as more and more of my colleagues got offers, and my neighbor was blatantly begged by the superintendent to stay (she isn’t), I started to panic.  The teacher who planned on leaving told me I should march right in and demand to know why I wasn’t given a contract.  But, after all these years pining away, I wasn’t going to grovel, or even question it.  If they didn’t want me, then so be it.  I would take it as a sign that this was meant to be a one year adventure of a lifetime.  I could walk away with my head held high, knowing I had done a good job, that I had made a positive impact on my students, putting aside the knowledge that they would go through the same abandonment issues that is part of living in the bush for them; teachers leave.  That is a fact of life.

The thing is, I did want to stay.  But I wanted to be asked to stay, not have to ask for it.  I have long known that I have too much pride for my own good but for once, I wanted to be courted a bit.  I wanted to be wooed.  I didn’t want to be cast aside for some unknown mystery teacher who would come in and take my place, and I didn’t think it was too much to want someone to say, “Hey, we would like you to return.”

In the end, I didn’t get exactly what I wanted.  There were no roses and champagne, just an email from the superintendent asking that I acknowledge the receipt of the offer enclosed.  I did but then waited over three weeks so I could give my answer on my birthday as the best gift I ever gave myself.  A job.