Day Four: Sustenance

There are some forms of pay that are far more valuable than money. Sure, a check is nice (and in the case of Sontag, really nice), but I've become convinced that people could be offered pay in the following forms and it would be far more valuable (see footnote at the end):

1. Food and drink.

2. Swag (by this, I mean unique clothing in particular, but also high quality gadgets, trinkets, souvenirs, and other memorabilia all fall under this category).

3. Meaningful connections.

I am not saying that money is not necessary today for jobs like this one. Withhold the money for the Sontag Prize winners (or any employee in any capacity), and the deal is obviously off. What I think, though, is that it's not the money people remember. Money is transitory, fluid, fleeting. But the feeling of good food you didn't have to make yourself, drinks shared with good people over good conversation, and swag that you know no one else has, carry with them a value impossible to put into dollars and cents.

The story of my last two days of Sontag (possibly ever) focus on these three forms of sustenance.

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The dinner we look forward to every year didn't happen on Wednesday, but on Thursday. It felt like a huge vacuum and yet another wrench in an already insane week. The conversations on the van sounded a lot like "I survived, so that's something," and "it was still a struggle, but I'll take it". The week was not going well. It would not end well.

At five o'clock all of the out-of-towners piled into vans and head to Boston. This year, two vans. It's a tight squeeze. Mario, my driver two years running, drove in front, and a gentleman named Kyle, an older man with a thick Boston accent, drove behind. I was in his van.

The ride was going smoothly enough. We made it into downtown Boston with no trouble. Suddenly, after getting through Chelsea and Charlestown, we noticed that we were stuck in the middle of the roadway near the North End with no way to change lanes. The lights turned green, and we lurched forward, Kyle screaming at the top of his lungs: "Mario, what the hell are you doing?!"

Both blue Lawrence Public School vans cruise through the Callahan Tunnel into East Boston. Later in the evening, the folks riding in Mario's van would say that they had quite a laugh riding in Mario's van, leading a lost convoy that left us scratching our heads and screaming right along with Kyle. After a short visit to East Boston, we head into the Sumner Tunnel and back to the North End. At the end of the Sumner Tunnel is a fork, one end going to the North End, and the other going to I-93.

Mario drove straight into the middle of the fork, swerving into the left divergence at the last possible minute. We all screamed. Apparently, they all laughed.

As though that weren't enough, Mario and Kyle drove all over the North End looking for a place to park. We found it: a small lot with spaces two deep and a valet driver. Some strange negotiations took place, and we heard Kyle say, "Mario, this parking lot is going to cost a fortune. Francis is going to kill you." Along with the expense, Mario would attempt the impossible: to back into a parking spot barely wider than the van so that Kyle could box him in, freeing up the need for a valet. Mario wheeled it in perfectly, and we departed for the restaurant.

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Al Dente, right in the middle of Boston's North End, looks like the restaurant where Michael Corleone shoots The Turk and Officer McCluskey. It is small, smells amazing, and the food is delectable. It is tradition that I can always find Jeff Riley, but this year he is nowhere to be found. He is the new Commissioner of Education.

I sat with a group of Sontagers who have been there for multiple years, and we shared a table with a group of new educators from the other Sontag sites. Teachers from Indianapolis, Los Angeles, Chicago, Lawton, Oklahoma, teaching in Lynn, Chelsea, and Salem. It was an amazing moment. A group of veterans sharing a table and breaking bread with newbies. I saw myself in them. They're new, excited, enthusiastic. We shared stories about our experiences, and the old hands gave some good wisdom about what to do at Al Dente: order what you want, enjoy the communal plates, talk and make connections, reflect about the week and the next day.

Before I know it, I find myself telling a story about a friend who passed on the opportunity to teach in Lawrence, only to find herself getting an offer to teach in Salem. No sooner did I tell the story than the woman sitting next to me said the name of the friend. I confirmed, and she introduces herself as the Executive Director of the new non-profit. We talked for a while and then she left the table to arrange a toast to all of us. With prosecco in our hands, she announced to the restaurant that we're teachers doing some really hard work this week and celebrating our achievements.

It was in that moment that I was overcome by an overwhelming feeling of gratitude.

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It is an incredible privilege to be a Sontag winner. Maybe I can't put it into words, but I can try. For four weeks in four years, I've treated like royalty, regarded as the best. I've had the chance to earn perks and pay in exchange for my hard work that are exceedingly rare in education. And what's most important: I've earned the chance to change lives, lives in places where struggle takes on a new meaning.

I am grateful to every single kid I've met in these journeys who has pushed me to my furthest limits, testing even my basic ability to not quit. I am grateful to the administrators who led us because it is the assignment that was thrown on their desks, but also because they care about the kids just as much as we do. I am grateful to those who have inevitably started planning for next year, and who planned for all my next years.

I am grateful for those friends and family members who have supported me and believed in me.

I am grateful for my drivers, the ones who got me into school at an ungodly hour so I could pore over plans and diagrams and ideas and agendas. The people who are there to pick us up at the end of a rough day and make it happen as quick as possible. I am grateful for every Mario in every school district in our world.

I am so incredibly grateful.

After we departed the restaurant, I took Mario aside. It might have been the alcohol and it might have been the sentimental nature of the night, but I felt compelled to talk to him. I reminded him about the day two years ago when he took me out for empanadas at a small bodega in West Lawrence after I had given up my lunch to plan lessons. That day was the turning point of my second Sontag week, a week that would yield eleven new graduates of Lawrence High School out of one of the most motivated groups of kids I've ever met. I told him how much difference he made that day, in helping Lawrence kids be their best. He and I shook hands. He said one simple thing: "thank you, my friend."

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As I write this now, looking back on my defeatism and dejection, I realize how unfounded it is. I suddenly feel that strange guilt that comes from hindsight. Teaching is hard in the moment. But as a teacher, I've never been as alone as I've thought. There has always been this team of people sustaining me, helping give me the fortitude I need to move forward. To them, I am deeply grateful.

So here's to every kid demanding the best of their teachers, whether they know it or not. Here's to every school principal going the extra mile for their people. Here's to parents who want the best for their children. Here's to those who know how to run organizations capable of building effective experiences and amazing schools for our kids.

Here's hoping I've been worth all that.

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A footnote: two of the most valuable things I own are my two Sontag jackets. One is a blue jacket with 'Lawrence Public Schools' on the back, and one is a black jacket with 'Chelsea Public Schools' on the back, both with Sontag Prize logos. This year's Sontag recipients got jackets assigned to no school, but instead a jacket dedicated specifically to the Sontag Prize. Their jackets are new and unique, but it also means that I may own a unique relic: my Chelsea jacket, which may never be made again. Paychecks are nice, but the jackets last forever.