The Adventures of Supersub

 When I announced that I would no longer be writing my weekly newspaper column in the Boone County Journal nearly three months ago, I gave one simple reason for my decision: “I have nothing of value left to say.” The truth, of course, is not quite that simple.

After writing hundreds of opinion pieces, political commentaries, and personal essays over the course of a decade, it became increasingly difficult to come up with new material each week. My readers deserve original and compelling content, not repetition, and continuing my column risked wasting my readers’ valuable time.

So, for the last few months I have written nothing more than an occasional status update or photo caption on Facebook. Free from the pressure of delivering fresh, weekly content for my newspaper audience, I should have been doing some creative writing or at the very least compiling my most recent columns into a fourth volume of collected works. Instead, I have spent most of my summer trapped in a dark and difficult funk, and therefore I have written nothing—until today.

A few short weeks ago I was perusing help-wanted ads, looking for an excuse to get out of the house a few hours per week. After stepping away from substitute teaching last year in order to help look after my beautiful grandbaby Freya, I felt that nine years in the classroom was enough and that it was time to move on to something else. My career as an educator was over.

When my phone rang on July 12, I was surprised to see “Southern Boone Elementary School” on the caller ID. In nearly a decade of subbing, I had never taught in the elementary building, and it had been five years since my youngest child Truman had been a student there. Curious, I answered rather than sending the call to voicemail.

The voice on the other end of the line was that of Principal Amy James. Dr. James was calling with an intriguing offer. Due to increased enrollment, the decision was made to add a ninth fourth grade classroom for the coming school year, and Dr. James wanted to know if I would be interested in teaching the class.

The terms of my employment would be the same as they were when I accepted an offer to teach music next door at the primary school during the 2019-2020 school year. Because I possessed a valid substitute certificate, I would be allowed to teach full-time for one year under a provisional emergency certificate due to the fact that no candidates with a permanent certificate applied for the position.

Taken aback, I asked Dr. James to let me talk it over with my family before giving her an answer. Of course, my wife and kids were in total agreement that I should take the job. I consulted a few of my teacher friends who also, without hesitation, told me to go for it. And in my own heart, I knew that this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that I would be a fool to turn down. I called Dr. James the next day and accepted the position.

Soon thereafter, I had an epiphany. I could write about this unique experience, not in a weekly newspaper column, but in the form of a book. Would readers be interested in following the story of a 50-year-old, quasi-retired, substitute teacher as he takes on the challenge of becoming a full-time, fourth grade teacher?

Would you, dear reader, be interested in such a story? I hope so, because I am going all-in on this plan. Having never taught kids in grades 3-5, teaching fourth graders will be an eye-opening and brand-new challenge for me. And I guarantee it will be a year fraught with mistakes, foibles, folly, and hilarity. If I survive academic year 2022-2023, I promise to write all about it, and maybe I’ll even include some of my experiences as a music teacher and substitute as well.

Perhaps I do have something of value left to say after all.

Thank You and Farewell

 I began writing for the Boone County Journal in the summer of 2011. By my estimation, I’ve had over 500 original submissions published in the newspaper in that span of time. At roughly 700 words per piece, the total body of my work for the Journal amounts to around 350,000 words, the equivalent of four 300-page books.

After sharing so much of myself in the pages of the newspaper for so long, I have come to one inescapable conclusion: I have nothing of value left to say. Nothing at all, except for one final and very important message; thank you. 

Thank you, dear readers, for turning to Page 4 week after week, year after year, to read the rantings of a stay-at-home parent/ grandparent/ husband/ son/ grandson/ brother/ uncle/ substitute teacher/ wedding officiant/ public address announcer/ cigar box guitar builder/ collector car enthusiast/ recovering alcoholic/ mental health advocate/ LGBTQ+ ally/ world citizen/ writer.

It has been an incredible honor to serve my community as a columnist and reporter for our locally-owned and operated newspaper, the Boone County Journal. The Journal has a long and rich history and is one of the oldest independent newspapers in Missouri. I am proud that my words—all 350,000 of them—are permanently enshrined in the Journal’s archives. Today’s column will be my final contribution to that collection.

Fret not, loyal readers, for you will still be able to read virtually everything I have ever written thanks to the magic of self-publishing. I have self-published three volumes containing collections of my columns from the Journal (“Love & Fried Chicken”, “686 Words Per Week”, and “It’s All Chicken and Booze”), and I plan on releasing a fourth compilation soon. All of my books, including my novel “Naked Snow Angels” areavailable at Amazon.com.

Although I have exhausted my supply of opinions for the newspaper, I am not yet done with writing. In the future, I intend to create short stories, literary essays, a memoir, and perhaps another novel or two.

My career as a columnist began when I asked former Journal publisher Bruce Wallace if he would consider printing the musings of a stay-at-home dad getting ready to adopt a little girl in China. Eleven years later, that little girl, my daughter Tiana, is not so little anymore. In fact, she is finishing her junior year at Southern Boone High School this week. Her younger brother Truman, whom we adopted three years earlier in 2008, will be a sophomore next year, and their big brother Alex will be a senior at Mizzou next fall.

When my kids were younger, I wrote about them quite a bit, but out of respect for their privacy as they’ve grown older, I have opted to write about them less frequently in recent years. Naturally, I would love to write about my granddaughter Freya ad nauseum, but because she is not technically my baby, I can’t share everything about her life nor that of her baby brother Jude (due in August!) with the public. But who knows, maybe there will be a book called “The Adventures of Freya, Jude, and Pop” for you to read someday.

In addition to thanking you, my readers, for indulging me over the years, I would be remiss if I failed to say thank you to former Journal publisher Bruce Wallace and current publisher Gene Rhorer for allowing me to share my unsolicited opinions, personal stories, and community features for the last decade plus. I am deeply grateful to both of these gentlemen for allowing me to sully the pages of their respectable newspaper.

Finally, I would like to thank my family for selflessly allowing me to share accounts of their lives with you. A special thanks goes to my wife Bethany—the Voice of Reason and the Enabler—for putting up with all of my nonsense for nearly 30 years. I love you and our family, Dear, more than this sorry excuse for a writer could ever adequately express.

I hope I made you proud.

 

May is Mental Health Awareness Month

 Former Boone County Journal publisher Bruce Wallace, a good friend of mine, just called a minute ago to catch up and to make sure I’m doing okay. It was great to hear a friendly voice, and it was down right medicinal to laugh out loud as we swapped stories. His was the fourth or fifth phone call I received in the last week or two from a friend or family member who was concerned about me. I appreciate Bruce and everyone who has reached out to me recently. To them I would like to give my sincerest thanks. 

Mental Health Awareness Month is a great time to check in on loved ones who might be struggling with their emotional wellbeing. It’s also an opportunity for all of us to do mental health self-assessments. In the past, I have written extensively about navigating life as a recovering alcoholic and someone diagnosed with bipolar disorder. Those two issues are tough to handle on their own, but when I am forced to deal with other emotional crises as they come along, doing so as a bipolar alcoholic makes it incredibly daunting.

 

Over the last few weeks, my family has been dealing with some pretty heavy stuff. I can’t go into detail out of respect for everyone’s privacy, but suffice to say that families are messy and imperfect and as another great friend, Crystal Branch, said when she checked in on me recently, “Parenting is not for the faint of heart.”

While we were busy dealing with these issues, our family’s beloved miniature schnauzer died unexpectedly. Louie was only eight years old and in good health, and his sudden death came as a tremendous shock to all of us. The loss was particularly difficult for me. It is no secret that Louie was really MY dog, which I’m sure everyone in the family would agree. He was the sweetest dog I’ve ever had, and I miss him terribly.

You may have noticed that my column didn’t appear in last week’s paper. I usually write and submit my articles on Sundays, but last Sunday was Mother’s Day and I was in no mood whatsoever to write. While scrolling through social media that day, my newsfeed was full of photos of smiling mothers and children having fun and sharing warm embraces, but it brought me no joy at all because it was the 14th Mother’s Day that has come and gone since my mom died of cancer at the age of 61. My profound sadness last Sunday rendered me completely incapable of writing.

There have been so many times over the years that I have wished my mom was here to turn to for comfort or guidance. With everything our family has gone through over the last few weeks and months, I find myself still yearning for my mother, despite being 50 years old.

I don’t just miss Mom during the hard times. Oh, how I wish she would have been able to meet and enjoy spending time with all of her grandkids. Alex was eight when his Nonna (as Mom liked to be called instead of grandma) died. Truman was two and had only been with our family for a month, but at least Mom got to meet him and tell him “I love you.” She never met any of her three granddaughters or her great-granddaughter which is truly tragic because they would have benefitted greatly from having such a strong, positive female role model, such as she was, to help guide them through life.

Luckily, those kids have amazing mothers looking out for them. The mother of my children, my beautiful bride Bethany, has become the person I turn to in good times and in bad. I would be completely lost without her. I regret that I did not do more to make her Mother’s Day the best it could be, but I honestly had nothing but grief to give to the world that day.

I’m feeling a bit better today. A little more hopeful. I am at least able to write, though I fear that this is not my best work. But that’s sort of the point. When a person is struggling with their mental health, just getting out of bed in the morning can be difficult. At times like these, getting dressed and leaving the house might be considered big achievements. Mustering the strength to go to work or write or make music or paint a portrait can seem like an impossible challenge to someone who is emotionally unwell, but if that person does manage to complete such a task, then he or she might feel a small sense of accomplishment and hope for the future.

Baby steps.

For people like me with mental health issues, struggling on the path to happiness and contentment, the ability to take baby steps is crucial. Eventually, with the love and support of good friends and family members, I will get there. 

And you will, too.

Teachers Deserve to Feel Appreciated

 If you are a parent of school-aged children, then chances are good that at some point during the last two years you were forced to become your kids’ teacher/teacher’s aide when schools switched to virtual instruction as a result of the pandemic. If so, you likely gained an appreciation for how challenging it can sometimes be for a teacher to help a child grasp new concepts.

Now imagine trying to teach new concepts to over twenty or thirty students in a single classroom while simultaneously managing their behaviors, working one-on-one with students who are struggling, and challenging high-achievers. 

Classroom teachers are busy making lesson plans, assigning and grading classwork, reading rough drafts, administering tests, preparing for mandatory state assessments, attending meetings and professional development trainings, and completing countless other daily, weekly, monthly, and yearly tasks, too. 

Oh, and please don’t forget that your child’s gentle and nurturing kindergarten teacher is required by the state to undergo active shooter training every year so she can keep your child from being killed by a gun-wielding lunatic hellbent on slaughtering innocent children. 

During those early days of pandemic-necessitated alternate methods of instruction (AMI), I constantly heard parents making comments such as, “My kid’s math lesson nearly killed me. I don’t know how his teacher does this day in and day out with a room full of students.” Social media posts often referred to teachers as heroes, saints, or angels on Earth. And rightly so.

Gradually, as pandemic-fatigue took hold, teachers became the victims of parents’ frustrations. Scapegoats. Angry about mask mandates and quarantines, some parents began to blame teachers for district policies. I know teachers who have been yelled at or mocked by irate parents who disagreed with health measures put into place by district and government officials to keep students and staff safe. 

In the eyes of some parents, teachers went from heroes to villains in less than two years. Believe me, even if you have not personally treated your child’s teacher this way, someone else probably has, and our professional educators deserve much, much better.

Teachers ARE heroes. They deserve to be treated as such. They deserve our praise, our support, and our appreciation—not our scorn.

This is National Teacher Appreciation Week, and after everything teachers have endured over the last couple of years, each of us has a duty to tell our kids’ teachers how grateful we are to them for the work they do. 

You can give your child’s teacher a gift card as a token of your appreciation. Starbucks and Panera are great for coffee-drinking teachers. Target and Walmart gift cards are always welcome because teachers spend quite a bit of their own money buying school supplies for their students. And believe me, a brand-new pack of dry-erase markers or an electric pencil sharpener are gifts guaranteed to make a teacher feel appreciated.

Of course, the easiest and best way to make a teacher feel appreciated is to simply tell them, “Thank you for all that you do for my child. I know your job is not easy, and I just want you to know that I appreciate you.”

Although teachers are superheroes, they are also human. They feel the relentless pressure of meeting state standards, creating an engaging learning environment, and providing each of their students the best education possible. When school boards, administrators, and/or parents put undue pressure on them, teachers suffer. When teachers suffer, so do students, and so does society in general.

Please take a moment this week to let your child’s teachers know how much you appreciate them. In a chaotic world full of uncertainty, fear, intolerance, and hate, it is more important than ever to let educators know that they are valued. Without the contributions of dedicated educators such as the ones we have here at Southern Boone, what hope would there be for our children’s future?

 

I’m Still Here

 

I have a confession to make: I hold grudges. I hold grudges against sports teams such as the Kansas Jayhawks for stealing Mizzou’s spot in the 2008 Orange Bowl and the 1985 Kansas City Royals for stealing what should have been the Cardinals’ 10th World Series championship. I also hold grudges against individuals such as the inept members of the 2008 Bowl Championship Series selection committee and American League umpire Don Denkinger. 

I’ve held serious, long-term grudges against only a few people actually, and if I’m being honest, I no longer curse the ground Don Denkinger walks on. If Whitey Herzog can forgive the man, so can I. But there is one person with whom I have been angry for a long, long time. Historically, I have found it to be nearly impossible to forgive this repeat offender who has caused me to suffer again and again. His name? Travis Naughton.

I have always been, and always will be, my own worst enemy. No one has done more to sabotage my happiness and emotional wellbeing than I have. I’ve tried to deflect the blame towards other people, but doing so invariably leads to even more self-loathing.

Lately, I’ve been dealing with some pretty heavy stuff in my personal life. These challenges have driven me into a familiar, yet dark and lonely place. It’s a place where the only voice I can hear is my own negative self-talk and the only things I can see are replays of my most painful experiences. Sometimes, I feel like there is no escape from this darkness. That’s when the really bad thoughts start to kick in.

A new thought occurred to me just as I started writing today. It was born in the darkness, but quickly flooded my mind with a bright and hopeful light. “Travis Naughton, you have survived every single crisis and hardship you’ve ever faced in your 50 years of life. No matter how bad things have gotten, you have always managed to get through it. Despite everything, you’re still here. You should be proud of yourself.”

I’m still here. And considering everything I’ve been through, that’s pretty impressive. 

I think it’s time to let go of my grudges. I will always hate the Jayhawks and 99.9% of the state of Kansas in general, but perhaps it’s time to lighten up on myself a little. Maybe I could even forgive myself for all the stupid and careless mistakes I’ve made and for the dark thoughts I’ve harbored.

Through luck, stubbornness, and the help of my family and friends, I’m still here. Half a century of navigating life’s ups and downs, and I’m still here. Despite loss, trauma, bitter disappointments, mental illness, alcohol addiction, and family crises, I’m still here.

I could have thrown in the towel, but I didn’t. I kept fighting.

After all, being here sure beats the alternative. As an atheist, I have a hard time imagining any sort of afterlife. As Bob Marley sang, “Most people think great god will come from the skies, take away everything, and make everybody feel high. But if you know what life is worth, you will look for yours on earth.” Life—this life—is precious. Even though it can be difficult, painful, and utterly unfair, Life is a great gift, one that should never be squandered.

 

If you have been holding a grudge against yourself and undermining your chances for happiness, now is the time to let that grudge go. Forgive yourself for being human, and make an effort to love yourself. You are absolutely worthy of love. And give yourself a little credit. Despite all of the hardships you’ve encountered over the years, you’re still here. Nothing has beaten you yet.

You’re undefeated. You should be proud of that, and you should be proud of yourself.

Say it with me and rejoice, “I’m still here. I’m still here!”