I won a teaching award, and I want to celebrate with you because much of how I teach today has come from things you taught me about this, our family craft. In this blog, I’m trying to make permanent the insights, the perspectives, the attitudes about students and teaching that you gave me. Those gifts led me to become the teacher that I am today, a teacher my school saw fit to recognize formally. I’m grateful. Good teachers work in anonymity everywhere, everyday. Most days, teaching well is its own reward, but for the days when Oprah gives some teacher in some small town a new car and I feel jealous, this recognition hits the spot.
In honor of this event in my life, I had a bracelet made with some of your words. I wanted a talisman I could see when I struggled for the right words with a student or thought about my answer in an interview setting. I wanted to create something my son would see as a natural part of my hand and ask me about as he grows older, “What’s that say, Mommy?” Also, I wanted something that said “KJ” on it; seven and a half years after your death I realize no one will call me that again. I miss it. I miss you.
I’ve joked with people that my father said lots of things that would not be appropriate to inscribe into a piece of jewelry, so I chose your ubiquitous “Only the names change to protect the innocent.”

Daddy, lots of people say “Only the names change,” but I don’t think I’ve heard anybody else use the “to protect the innocent” part. How could a crusty old guy who’d seen everything before still believe there are innocents?

Your thorough disgust for education’s repackaging of vocabulary without incorporating any genuine change never tainted your view of students. Students, the innocents, benefited from your belief that every kid deserves a chance to make a better choice each day. Your ability to see past a kid’s cumulative bad choices to a better version of him or herself touched hundreds of students in your lifetime and hundreds more through my sisters and me. When I look at this bracelet, I see your face, and I hear your voice telling me, “Forget the bullshit, KJ. Focus on the kids.” It comforts me to have it with me. Thank you, Daddy.
Love,
KJ