Making a Splash

There is a water park down the street from where I currently live, and an hour from where I grew up. When I was young, it was a rare treat to get to go, and my last memory there was a birthday party for a friend when I was in elementary school. Back then, parents didn’t go batshit over kids’ birthdays, so it was uncommon to pack up a Suburban and head 60 miles south, to what I had believed was the World’s Largest Water Park, just to have a party.

The best part of the water park was the wave pool. Unbeknownst to me at the time, wave pools are a staple in every water park around the world. But to me, I was having a rare and spectacular nautical experience. Spending all day in the waves, and then the sensation of my body still gently rolling in bed that night, was the feeling of youth. It was among the most memorable adventures of my simple childhood. Nothing I can remember was more fun.

My sister got passes to the water park last week and, until she called to ask if Lowery and I wanted to go, I completely forgot it was an option. How is it that 10 years ago, when I moved to the town with the World’s Largest Water Park and Only National Wave Pool, I never bothered to go?

So last Friday I picked up Lowery from school early and headed with my sister and my niece over to the park. I was thrilled to be back there and told my sister I planned on spending all afternoon in the wave pool.

But when we got there, my daughter’s reaction was more exciting than the Silver Bullet (that’s the World’s Tallest Water Slide, but man it suddenly looked small). Her eyes were wide and bright as she peered around the water park, which I am certain must have been downsized over the years.

Lowery delighted in the waterfall around the lazy river. Her excited squeals made me forget all about how cold the water beating down on us was. It always seemed the perfect temperature back then. She laughed maniacally while floating around in the big open swimming pool that, while still large, certainly seemed more crowded than I remembered. And her wet curls bounced adorably as she slid down all the slides in the kiddie area. Though I didn’t think the kiddie pool was that shallow when I came all those years ago.

When I was offered my first job out of college, I was fascinated at the idea of having a career. Moving up. Getting promoted. I assumed the working world functioned like baseball, and scouts would watch me work. They’d stand in the corner of my cubicle looking over their sunglasses, spitting dark fluid in a cup and pretending not to be impressed at my phone skills.

I assumed I would always be scouted.

For years I worked to perfect my professional craft, which at the time was planning and executing extremely large-scale events in the nonprofit sector. While in graduate school, I worked tirelessly in class and on my research to earn top marks and prove my scholastic ability. As an adjunct, I gave much of my time and late nights to creating lectures, grading papers and advising students, so that I could perfect the craft of teaching. When it came time to apply for the job I have now I understood my entire professional and academic career had been leading me to, and preparing me for, this role.

When I was offered the position, I felt an extreme sense of relief, and pride, and acid reflux. But what I didn’t realize was that all the work and effort I’d done to reach that point had also been conditioning me over time to be constantly working for the next big break. The next promotion. The next accomplishment.

Getting drafted to the major leagues.

This became clear to me a few weeks back when one of my bright female students came to my office and shut the door. She had been offered a job that was a truly unique and interesting opportunity, and she was conflicted about what to do. She liked her current job—and was good at it—but also was intrigued by the offer on the table.

We talked through the pros and cons of staying where she was, or taking the new position. She verbalized her fears and her aspirations. She was honest in her assessment of her own skills and of where she wanted to be in the next five years.

This student is driven, talented, bright and ambitious. I had no doubt that whatever decision she made it would be far from the last time she would have offers to mull over and tough choices to make. The reality is, she has a long and upward moving career that will take her places she never imagined. And I’m lucky enough to see her near the beginning of it.

But as she re-opened my office door, breathed a cathartic sigh, and waved good-bye, a thought hit me that had never hit me before: I would never again be in the predicament she’s in.

This isn’t to say that there aren’t opportunities to move upward in academics. Or that I, too, won’t have a career full of excitement I could never imagine. But, in general, I am somewhat in a job that is what it is. I am no longer the person going after an important job, and using all my energy to move up.

I am now the person advising those who are.

One of my greatest joys, and biggest stressors on the job, is planning a course. So many moving parts go into constructing a class that is rich, dynamic and valuable to all learning styles.

The topic must first be considered. Courses on budgeting and finance, or statistics, don’t lend themselves to class discussions or lively debates. But then courses on debatable topics, like policy or ethics, don’t lend themselves to quantifiable exams. One is harder to teach the knowledge, but easier to measure it. And vice versa.

For each course I try to have many different activities. I strive for a good balance between in-class projects, lively debates, thoughtful assignments, engaging lectures, student presentations and, when relevant, guest speakers.

A guest speaker can be one of the more challenging and rewarding endeavors. First, there is finding the right person who can not only speak authoritatively on the topic, but is also engaging for the students. Then the schedules have to align. Can the guest speaker come at a point in the class where it makes the most sense? Will the speaker be able to do an evening class? Saturday?

Recently, I had the privilege of bringing in the State’s Superintendent of Education for a graduate course I was teaching on Education Policy. Arranging her visit was a lengthy, though exciting, process. I worked out many details with her chief of staff. I arranged the time, sent maps of the campus, a list of desired topics for her to cover, and even spoke with the university’s PR team about alerting the media.

On the day she was set to arrive I was a bit nervous. Not to meet her, but because I wanted so badly for this experience to be great for the students. I understand intellectually these students are adults, and will therefore make up their own minds, but I still wanted this experience to be one they would appreciate and, if possible, consider the greatest moment of their lives.

On the day she was set to speak she showed up precisely on time. She was impeccably dressed. She was smiling, relaxed and warm. We spoke privately for a few minutes and she was funny, personable and seemed as excited to be with me as I was to be with her.

And I was pretty f*cking excited.

When we walked into the classroom the students began applauding her. She seemed surprised and appreciative. She went around the room to each student asking their name and occupation. She spoke about the current state of our education, her plans for the future and then she asked for questions from the students.

It was truly a unique and profound experience. Not just for the students, but for me as well. I learned aspects about our state I was unaware of. I learned a great deal about her as a person and as an elected official (one I had not voted for, but now support).

And I became acutely aware in that moment that my job was to provide these types of experiences to the students. Not to be the experience—I wasn’t the guest speaker. And not to be given the experience—I was no longer a student. My role now, it became quite obvious, is not to be or to have. But to provide.

This was humbling and sad and wonderful all at once.

Last week when Lowery laid eyes on the wave pool, I’d never seen her face so overcome with excitement. She watched as the waves rose to white crests and fell elegantly to the ground, and then she went sprinting out into them. She reached for my hand and told me to jump as they came close. We did this for what seemed like hours. Then she wanted to lie down on the shore of the pool. We stretched out, with arms and legs extended like starfish, holding hands. She squealed with delight as each waved seeped up under our bodies and flooded our ears.

Then she turned her head toward me and, over the sound of crashing waves, she screamed: “Have you ever done anything that was this much fun?!”

To which I replied:

“Not that I can remember.”











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