I've Got a Golden Ticket

It never happens to me: I am not the one who peels back the wrapper to find the golden ticket; I'm not the one who brings home the big cash prize from the weekend Vegas trip or the, “You just won two free tickets to the Super Bowl,” sweepstakes winner. It just isn't me. It's ok, don't get me wrong, I am super lucky in life: I have a great gig, an awesome family, and I have been around the globe like the paperboy around the block. I've got luck, mostly dumb luck, the kind that gives you what you need, just not the big prize on the billboard winner of life changing dreams. Heck, I'm not complaining, its just a look at how the chips fall. Until today.

Today, my luck has just changed. I just signed my pre-tour nondisclosure agreement from Willy Wonka. Yup, I am Augustus Gloop, giddy with my good fortune and getting ready for the gluttony that only a tour of the Wonka factory can provide!

A couple months back all the buzz on the Twittersphere was that it was time for all the Google minded tech educators to produce their Google Teacher Academy applications, send it in and wait to hear back from Wonka. Only 50 Google-Geeks from around the globe are picked to peek behind the curtain of the Google headquarters to receive training straight from the Oompa Loompas themselves.

Just like the kids that tore through the candy stores looking for that one golden ticket, the tech teachers couldn't sleep waiting to see if a goldenrod email arrived in their inbox, making their dreams come true. The time finally came, and just like Charlie, receiving his annual pittance of a single birthday Wonka Bar, it  was the day when the google teacher candidates were to check their inbox for that magic moment. Charlie peeled back the wrapper and found only chocolate while I opened my email to find only disappointment, my inbox was empty. Charlie lied to himself saying he never really thought there would be a ticket in his one bar per year, and I told myself the same. Everyone was all a buzz on Twitter announcing that the results were in and the emails had gone out.   

Twitter was broadcasting the news: There was a girl who loved to chew gum that got accepted and a kid who loved to watch TV...the results were in and I was out.

Then, sitting there convincing myself that it wasn't meant to be, I remembered someone mentioning something about a spam filter. It was like the sparkling coin in the gutter, the glimmer of hope, the eleventh hour second chance: and there it was!

Congratulations, you have been selected to attend the Google Teacher Academy in Chicago.

It is now just a few days from the tour of the factory, I have just signed my non-disclosure form: this is to protect Google in case I am contacted by Mr Slugworth promising me fortunes if I can only leave the offices with an Evaluating Gob Stopper App scripted by the Oompas in a beta lab.

I gladly signed the form, and next week, I will fly to Chicago, and although I would love to inherit the Google empire due to my pure heart and "aw shucks" demeanor, I figure I am more likely to fall into the chocolate river of Google greatness while lapping up all I can handle on the shore of Google's data stream. Since receiving my golden ticket I have done nothing but consume Google three meals a day. I now know how Agustus felt as he stood on the front steps staring at the chocolate factory.

Summer Fun

Summer! The season that  launched a thousand teen idol songs, the time of year to reunite with your family, and that time of year when the world thinks that educators are sitting by the pool with their collective feet up laughing about all the crazy antics that happened throughout the school year. I know that as a teacher I spent the summer regrouping, pre-planning and organizing my shtick for the coming year, and as a principal, I take two weeks to try not to answer the phone, then it is back to work five days after the fireworks on the Fourth of July!

The principal gig is funny: from the outside it looks like secretaries doing the heavy lifting and the guy in the tie is just pushing a pencil when it comes time to sign the checks, but after 7 years in the seat, I can paint you a little different picture.

As the principal, you are like the coach standing on top of the stadium press box: you can’t actually see what is happening in the huddle during the game, but you can see the whole field, so your job in the off season is to spend the summer drafting the big vision game plan for all the players who end up changing the plays in the huddle once the game starts.  Come July you brew up some coffee, surround yourself with whiteboards, markers and old dog-eared books on leadership: you hole up in the quiet summer office and begin big picture dreaming…

Here’s the deal: it is mid July, the 66 acre campus is void of kids, but bustling with maintenance crews that can’t get to what needs attention during the school year because every seat has a kid in it and every desktop is cluttered with learning. You can’t very well re-tile a ceiling or paint a wall during a school week – that is summer work.  As the principal, you spend a lot of time walking with this crew or that, pointing out why Mrs. Smith needs her projector screen remounted on another wall or how Mr. Jones’ door lock has been broken for two years, all the while making self serving small talk like, “Gee Whiz and Thanks for coming by Mr. Maintenance…while you are here, can you take a look at Mrs. Johnson’s leaky window?”

As the principal, you eventually make your way back to the office and try to settle in to the work neatly stacked on the desk, but this is inevitably when a head pops in the door, “Hey boss, got a minute?” If you had a minute, for every “got a minute” you'd be retired. Its July, it would take longer than a minute to explain why you don’t have a minute, so you say yes, because the head in the door belongs to a teacher who works their tail off all year, so of course you have a minute.

Thirty minutes later, because without a secretary pulling you away to a meeting, you fall into long conversations about instruction, assessment and curriculum, which is why you got into education, but since arriving you haven’t had time to talk about education because you have been chasing initiatives and remounting projector screens, the conversation comes to a close because the custodian walks in to tell you that the maintenance guy couldn’t get Mr. Jones’ door lock fixed but that he promises he will be back tomorrow and could you please come look at the paint in the PE Hallway?

Summer, the season that painted a thousand hallways, patched a hundred holes, and almost got a vision plan written before August.