A Reflection

            This semester I had the opportunity to explore the “art of the essay,” and I read and studied a diverse mix of personal essays and even a little poetry. Some of my favorite works were written by George Orwell, Gary Soto and Wallace Stegner.  I used the essays I read as models for my own writing, and over the course of the semester built up a repertoire of my own essays and poems. The benefit of my studies is not this final product though, but rather what I learned through the process.

            The best essays are not written overnight. When writing an essay, it needed to be written and shaped, and then changed again and rewritten until I was left with something that felt complete. I usually started an essay with an idea in my head, but when I was finished it often had gone somewhere that was much different from my original intention. And sometimes after I thought I had it right and published my work, I would go back a week later and find ten more things I wanted to change. I learned that the beauty of writing is that my words are never set in stone because there is always room for change.

            I also learned about myself as a writer. When I first started writing, I often found myself with nothing to say. In the essays I had been reading, the writers described life in exotic places, the thrills of working as a fighter pilot, or the moral dilemma behind shooting an elephant. I am just a small town kid who has had none these life experiences, so how could I possibly write something that compares? I had this idea stuck in my head until I started reading the novel Crossing to Safety, by Wallace Stenger. When talking about writers, Stenger wrote, “They don’t understand any more than other people. They invent only plots they can resolve. They ask the questions they can answer.” He is saying that writers don’t always have to say something that is wise and weighty. When I think of a writer, I always picture an intelligent, experienced person who has profound things to say about the world. But writers are just regular people, who write about the things they know. Just because I don’t know much more than anyone else, I can still write about the things I see, the things I know, and my writing can have meaning as well.

            Whether I chose to peruse a career as or writer, or I decide to simply write for my own enjoyment, I know writing will always be a part of my life. Some people say that a picture is worth a thousand words, but I think I would still rather have a thousand words. My friends express themselves through painting, drawing, or playing music, but for me, a blank word document is like a giant canvas, ready to be filled, colored and shaped with my thoughts. When I’m writing, I say things that would never come out of my mouth; it is much easier to be honest when I’m sitting at a computer because I know that there is always the option to delete what I said.

            What I learned this semester is just a start. Like I said before, writing is a process, and there is so much left for me to learn. I plan on continuing to explore and enhance my own writing for many years yet to come.

I Had a Dream

      

           I had a dream. I had a dream that I would be an athlete and a scholar. I had a dream that I would go to a school were I would not be judged by the lapses in my attention but by the content of my imagination. I had a dream, that one day I would rise up from my state as an obese catholic school child and show everyone my true potential.  

            For you to fully understand my dreams though, I have to go back a few years. This speech is supposed to be honest, and so even though this may be a little embarrassing, I have decided to tell you a bit about my childhood.

            I failed second grade. It was kind of a low point for me. As a kid I had this wandering mind that could never seem to concentrate on anything for more than a few minutes, and even though I loved going to school everyday to see my friends, things that went on in the classroom had little importance to me. Numbers were just a jumble and I always believed that as long as you could sound a word out, the spelling was optional. I did not want to count to thirty by three’s, and I didn’t care how many apples Paul had. At the end of the year I had failed several classes was asked to repeat second grade, but my parents didn’t want me to fall behind. Third grade was even worse. I was far behind in all my school work, and constantly in trouble for not paying attention during church, so my parents decided to move me to the public school.

           This was the first of my failures. I remember how it embarrassing it was to fall behind my classmates, how uncomfortable it was to be pointed out as “different,” but mostly how disheartening it was to disappoint my parents, because they had expected me to flourish in that Catholic school, and I had come up short.

           But I had this dream to rise up out of my low state and become a success, and slowly I learned to harness my wandering mind and put it to use. By middle school I was a good student with decent grades and the pressures of school were temporarily lifted. But then I started playing sports.

           As some of you may know, I was not gifted with the coordination or grace that is required to play sports. In addition to my clumsiness, I was short for my age and rather overweight. I was not cut out to be an athlete. This should have been clear to my parents from early on, but they still insisted that I play basketball, do gymnastics, play softball, and my father even made me play flag football with the boys. Each of my attempts at athletics was more embarrassing than the last. I scored baskets for the wrong team and fell off the balancing beam more times than I can count. I got nailed in the face by softballs and footballs and soccer balls and gym floors. Again I had come up wildly short of everyone’s expectations.

           I persisted though, because I had a dream that I would be the kind of athlete my parents would be proud of. After trying my hand at many sports, I finally found my niche—two activities that require no coordination at all. I can run in a straight line for long periods of time and I have fast reflexes, so I found some success running cross country and playing goalie. As happy as I was to find something I was good at, I realized that each sport came with expectations; I could always do better than I had. Fifth place was good but first place is better. I had seven nice saves but I still let in that one goal. Reaching a new level of skill just meant that I’d have to work even harder to get to the next step.

           I was continuously scrambling to catch up but always a step behind. This trend carried into high school, where grades were more important and sports were more intense. My new dream was to carry a perfect GPA and grades became my obsession. And not only did I feel like I had to get good grades—I felt like I had to look and act a certain way. My dream was perfection. With each semester the pressure amplified and I had to try even harder to keep up my record and almost every school day came with at least one quiz or test. It felt like people were always trying to evaluate me—that no matter how hard I worked on something, there was always going to be someone there to tell me what I did wrong and what I still didn’t know. Living up to people’s expectations was exhausting.

            These dreams I had for myself turned into my downfalls. Don’t get me wrong, I made lots of friends and had plenty of fun during high school—but sometimes I feel like I missed out things because I was so worried about making everyone else happy. I wasted my summer mornings in the weight room lifting for soccer, and on Saturday mornings when I was supposed to be sleeping in, I spent my time pouring over calculus homework with Cassie Quirt in her basement.          

            High school will be over in a few days and I accomplished what I set out to do. I got my perfect grade point—but I’m having a hard time validating to myself that it was really worth it. If it was truly my dream, I should be ecstatic, but I think the problem was that it was never my dream, just what I dreamed I could be for everyone else. 

          So this is my message to my classmates: Don’t live up to your full potential. Once and a while, give up and don’t persevere. Sure you can reach for the starts, but sometimes isn’t it enough to just reach for the top of the fridge?        

    One of the wisest men in the world, Dumbledore, once said, “If you’re holding out for universal popularity, I’m afraid you will be waiting for a very long time.” Instead of trying to be the best, be the happiest, and instead of trying to make people happy with you, find the people who are just happy to be around you. 

            Next year we have a fresh start and I challenge everyone to just have some fun. Work hard at the things you are passionate about, but let some of that small stuff go. Challenge yourself to learn and grow, not because you have to, but because you want to.

            I had a dream. For now though, I chose not to have a dream, but to simply be a dreamer.

The Art of Rivalry

            It’s a crazy thing that two goals, 8,000 square meters of grass, and a soccer ball can turn a group of sweet girls, into a team of ruthless fighters. I thought I would be different, that I would not become a part of the cruelties of the sport, but after my first season I realized that not even the most amiable girl is immune to the pressures of competition.

            As seen from the sidelines we play a pretty clean game. Sure, we knock into each other or throw the occasional elbow, but that is just the nature of the game. We leave the real physical stuff, like punching and tackling, for the boys. Girls like to get in each other’s heads. For instance, if a team has a girl on the field who likes to control the field and make the plays, we have someone stand just a step in front of her so she never is open. She will become easily frustrated and start screaming at her teammates for the ball. So then when her teammates try to force a pass to her, our team can easily intercept it and continue to frustrate her. If a team has a freshman wonder who is good but still unsure of her skill, we double team her the first ten minutes of the game, let her receive all of her passes but take them away right away. The freshman’s confidence will be shot before the first half is over, and she’ll be afraid of making any risky plays. This psychological warfare is so subtle that not much is noticed by outside observers, but it is extremely effective. We can pick apart the team leaders and turn a team against each other. This sounds really shallow, but you don’t understand the motives behind our dirty play until you actually get out on the field.

            My sophomore year I was just beginning to play goalie, and even though I was definitely not prepared, the varsity coach had found himself without a keeper, and I was the only option. My Sheboygan Falls varsity team dominated the first couple games of the season, usually winning by eight or nine goals, and I’d only had to block a few soft shots. But my teammates always reminded me that these games were just a warm up for the big game against Plymouth.

            Plymouth has been our town’s rival forever. Wearing orange and black, their team colors, was taboo even in middle school, even on Halloween. The rivalry between the girl’s soccer teams ran even deeper. Plymouth had beat Falls in every game over the past seven years, and losing to them again just didn’t seem like an option.

            On the day of the big Plymouth game I felt a change in attitude amongst my teammates. There was none of our usual friendly banter or laughing before the game, no smiles or jokes. Instead everyone was focused, and even the pep talk before the game was much more intense. My coach talked of “uniting against our common enemy,” and in closing told us, “When that first whistle blows, the war is on!”

            My teammates played hard and had some nice shots on goal early in the game, but there was one slip up by my defense, and a Plymouth girl got a nice shot on lower right corner of the goal. I dove after it, skidded across the grass and mud, and tipped the ball with the tips of my fingers. I’d stopped the shot, but I’d tipped the ball right to another Plymouth girl.

            I was down on the ground, the entirety of the goal left undefended. The Plymouth girl standing in front of me, number four, had an open shot at the goal, an open shot at my goal and at that moment she became my enemy.

            I was still sprawled out in the dirt, and looking up saw number four touch the ball out in front of her, glide across the box and set up her shot. In desperation I reached out, grabbed her ankle and pulled. It was enough to throw number four off balance an her shot angled off, just wide of my goal. The referee saw nothing, people on the sidelines were clueless, and even the girl who took the shot didn’t realize what happened. I had been overcome by the excitement of the game, by the strength of our rivalry, and me, the little Sophomore who always played by the rules had cheated the other team out of a goal. 

            Plymouth went on to score a goal on me anyway, and then another. My teammates commended me on my tough play and for all the saves I did make. But I will never forgive myself for stooping that low and playing so dirty.

            I guess the competition got to me, or maybe it was that feeling of devotion to my team, the feeling that I didn’t want to let my teammates down. I had thought I was immune to the intense rivalry the seniors on my team had felt, but I learned that I was not much different from everyone else.

            Later after that game, I started questioning the reasons behind the rivalry. Why did we hate those girls wearing black and orange so much? I think that if I would have met one of those girls off the soccer field and spent some time talking to her, we could actually get along, or even become friends. The Plymouth girls are not bad people, but they are fighting for their cause and I am fighting blindly for mine.  If I had known number four, known what music she listens to or known what her family was like, I don’t think I could have grabbed her ankle and ruined her shot.

            There is so much violence and war going on in the world today, and I wonder if people really know who they are fighting against. If we took the time to get to know people from other culture or understand their religions, it would be much harder to have a racial prejudice against them. And if we knew and understood the people we were at war with, it would be much harder call them enemies.    

            I still don’t know number four or any of the other Plymouth players, and in a few days when my team plays them again, there will be the same rivalry. But maybe instead of seeing the girls out there as my enemies, I will see them as girls who play hard and love soccer, just like me.

A Hole in the Wall

            Our seventh grade algebra class was divided into three groups. There were the smart kids, who raced through their problems, the slower kids, who asked a million questions, and then there were the hall kids, who liked to figure things out on their own. I was a proud hall kid, and I spent every day sitting in the hallway working out problems with my two best friends Abby and Kelly Jo. It was a perfect arrangement, because we were up on the third floor where there was never anyone around, and there was this little ledge in front of the long windows that was the perfect size for three. We always tried to work on our math, but there always seemed to be distractions. Our middle school building was very old, often mysterious, and across from where we sat there was this weird crawl space that looked like it hadn’t been used for decades. We were always puzzled by it, never sure if it was really a crawl space or just a hole that was never covered, and we often discussed what we would find if we crawled into it.

            One day, I was dared by my friends to crawl into the hole and, of course, I couldn’t disappoint. Then I had to fight through cobwebs that were thicker than cotton balls as I inched into the creepy hole. I kept looking back over my shoulder for reassurance, and my friends kept giving me encouraging nods. Once inside the crawlspace, I felt into the total darkness above my head and realized that I could fit my body into a chimney like structure and stand all the way up. I heard Kelly Jo laughing hysterically. I called through the wall and asked why there were laughing, and they said I looked funny because only my feet and the bottom of my legs were still showing.

            The joke was over and I was ready to get out, but I was having the hardest time trying to maneuver myself back out of the little hole. I started to get a little panicked, because I had no idea what was above my head and I realized that all the cob webs were probably owned by a couple of massive spiders. Abby and Kelly were getting a little panicky as well.

            After about ten minutes Abby yelled at me to stand back up, and I told her she was crazy. But in a strained whisper she explained that the school psychologist had just come out of his office and was walking down the hallway towards us. I jumped back up and stood perfectly still, holding my breath. The rest of the hall kids scurried back to work, and I was left there all alone, trapped in a wall with just my phantom feet visible in the crawlspace. The school psychologist walked past and I was almost in the clear, but then he did a double take and well… let’s just say that the next time I chose to do something that’s considered “strange behavior,” I remembered not to do it while the school shrink was watching.

Sestina

Ever since you have gone

and joined the army, you feel so far away,

so distant, and even though I love

our letters to one another, they don’t replace

our talks, those long walks; do you remember,

when we’d laugh till our cheeks were stained with tears?

I try to get rid of my sad thoughts and replace

them with  memories; like those afternoons away

at the lake when you taught me how to fish, and I loved

to catch them but made you throw them back. I didn’t want to tear

one fish away from her family. We’d be gone

all day and come back with no fish, but you didn’t mind. I remember

all those times I took for granted: now you’re away

and I’d give anything to get back those moments and replace

some of my harsh words for words of love,

but those moments are gone

and I’ll always just have to remember

the times I hurt you, every tear.

I hate it that you’re gone.

You told me to look up at the moon and remember

that even though we are far away

we’ll both see it every night; it doesn’t replace

anything. You said it’d make us feel close, and I’d love

to feel it but it’s hard to see the moon when my eyes are filled tears.

But I’m so proud of you. Proud that you’ve gone

to do great things, that you honor and love

your country enough to tear

yourself from the familiar life you remember

to go to such a scary place.

I’m so proud but the fear doesn’t go away.

I know I told you I would wait for you, and I remember

my promise but I never realized the war was so far away place.

I could miss you and cry every day waiting, but my tears

would be wasted. My world if filled people who are not gone

for four years, and filled with people to meet and people to love.

My life can’t be put on hold while you are away.

The war may have torn us apart, taken you away,

but whatever place you chose to go, always remember

that my love may feel lost but it will never be gone.

 

Wisconsin Spring

           The wonderful thing about Wisconsin is that you can find yourself outside on the first day of spring, looking at a half foot of freshly fallen snow. Earlier that day, snow was falling hard the on cornfield in my backyard, sparkling in the high sun. Between the thick falling flakes floating around me and the blue dome above me, I felt like I was in a wintery snow globe that someone had just grabbed and shook up.

            But later that day the snow had settled, the sun was dipping down below the tree line and the bright colors of the morning had faded to rich blues and purples. The wind had set some of the snow drifting, revealing brown peaks of the rows of dirt. The scene in front of me was so peaceful that I forgave the snow for postponing my spring weather.

            A familiar hum cut through my silence, followed by a harsh blinking light. There is an airport out of view, just beyond the tree line, and planes fly over my house several times a day. Even though I’d seen so many, I’ll never get used to those thunderous engines flying so close above my head, a feeling like the chills I get from a fly buzzing in my ears, and the blinking lights painted an afterimage in my retinas.

            The plane cut across my scene, overshadowing all the beautiful qualities of the night, and left me in a tense state. I realized how easy it was for this one small interruption to dominate my attention and take over my whole outlook on the things in front of me.

            I guess this happens a lot. One small problem can take over, worry me to no end, and put me in a negative mood. Insignificant setbacks can blind me from all the wonderful things I have in front of me.

            The plane landed, revealing my peaceful scene once again. And just like the plane, my everyday dilemmas were resolved and life went on. What I took from this night is that bad things happen, but behind the bad there is always plenty of good to be found. The snowy scene was much more pleasant when I could see around all the disturbances, just as my life will be more positive if I can see around the small problems and focus on the things that I’m grateful for.      

A Swimming Lesson

          One day at swimming lessons I was feeling ambitious, and I asked my students to swim the entire length of the pool—a huge undertaking for level two students. Each one of them set out into the pool determined, and each one lifted themselves out on the other side, beaming with pride and excited by the stunned looks on their parent’s faces. All of my students completed the challenge, except one little boy who watched from the edge of the pool. I was not surprised that he did not join his classmates, because was still afraid to put his face in the water. I was ready to move onto the next part of our lesson when the little boy tapped me on the shoulder. He told me he was ready to do it. My heart fluttered. In my mind I imagined the boy jumping in the water and swimming the entire length of the pool. 

            But he did something much different than that. He lowered his little body slowly into the pool, took a gulp of air, and plunged his face into the water. His mother started crying. Even though her son was the least talented of the swimmers, she was by far the most proud parent in the room.

            The boy lifted his face out of the water, wiped the water from his eyes, and gave me a big, toothless smile. His classmates looked at him, waiting for him to try swimming his lap. But I knew he was done for the day. He’d put his face in the water, and that was enough for one day.

            That boy made me stop and think about what it meant to be successful. He surely wasn’t the most skilled of my students, but he was the most satisfied with his accomplishments. Maybe it’s not the outstanding things you achieve, the gold metals, the shining awards, but rather the small things that add up that make you truly successful.

Up and to the Right

The trick to finding an answer

I was told

is to look up and to the right.

I try till my eyes hurt,

but the fog of my thoughts are in the way.

All the things I need to remember,

like where my car is parked, who’s mad

at whom, what kind of cake she wants for her birthday.

That one song we sang today

blares, shwee oot doot dot doo dot da

bad do bop dwee bah doo dah,

a cacophony of scatting,

my alto harmony singing out the loudest,

The things I try to forget.

My eyes keep wandering back

to the back wall, to behind

where a string of  posters scream inspiration

at me, to back on that day

when the man with no arms talked to us

about following our dreams and all of that.

Up and to the right,

to the right, to the right

take it back now ya’ll. Two hops this time

One-- STOP IT—two, three, four,

I declare a thumb war.

My mind is loud, without much sense,

like those modern paintings they call abstract.

Breaking through the wall of noise

is like breaking through a defensive line.

Maybe below all this noise are the real answers.

Like who we are or why we’re here.

Or maybe I will just find a few answers,

Like the formula for the inverse of cosine.

Up and to the right.

Or maybe it’s left.

I don’t know how she expects me to finish,

this test with all the noise in here.

The Lake

           And there we were, walking down a gravely road barefoot in bathing suits, swatting at mosquitoes and carrying our big red canoe. 

            We’d had perfect day. Sleeping in well past ten, we’d woken up to a big breakfast of pancakes and bacon. My cousin Sarah and I were on dish duty today, leaving my sister Meg and younger cousin Kalen to get the boats ready. The four of us were up at our family cabin, along with aunts, uncles, grandparents, and several other little cousins. As by tradition, and our little group spent the entire day proceeding the 4th of July out on the lake “fishing” on our red canoe, an escape from the hectic cabin.

Each year we did a little less fishing and a little more sunbathing, and by this year we didn’t even bother bringing along a tackle box. We packed a lunch, suntan lotion, and a few People magazines before we pushed off our boats off onto the lake.

            As planned, the day went beautifully. The four of us were draped out across the bottom of the boat, and as we lay out in the sun, my cousin Sarah told us about her big career plans and about her excitement for graduation. We gave advice to little Kalen, who was having some problems with her third grade love life, and my sister Meg entertained us with her silly stories and impersonations. I just took it all in. We were as far from our usual cares as we could get.

            Time had slipped away from us, the food was gone, the smell of banana suntan lotion only lingering, and the sun was setting just past its three o’clock glory, preparing itself for a vibrant twilight. The sun’s reflection off the lake was so bright that, for a moment, we lost our sense of direction, until a cool breeze sent ripples through the water, reminding us which was water and which sky.

            We opened our eyes to see massive clouds rolling in, the sky that had just been a lovely shade of pink turned a nasty dark blue, and our peaceful afternoon was gone. The sky evolved so quickly that I felt like we were on the ominous set of a horror film, the weather cueing the entrance of the bad guy. The waves and the wind became so forceful that are canoe was being pushed further and further away from our cabin, and even when paddling with all our effort, we couldn’t get any forward momentum.  After a brief and frazzled conversation we decided to land as soon as we could and walk the rest of the way back to the cabin.

           Great idea. It was about a two mile hike back to our cabin, and we had no phones, no shoes, and no bug spray. We were stuck walking down a gravely road barefoot in bathing suits, swatting at mosquitoes and carrying our big red canoe. Little Kalen started crying because her feet were hurting, so we took shifts, with two carrying the canoe and one giving a piggy back ride. We walked in bitter silence, all a little mad at each other for not thinking this through.

           At the wrong moment, the sky opened up and within seconds the downpour had turned the dusty road into mud. I braced myself for more tears, but instead all I heard is my sister Meg hysterically laughing. My cousin Sarah and I just stood there staring at her, failing to see the comedy in the situation. But Kalen’s pursed lips quavered, and curled into a smile, causing all of us to lose our angry composure and fall into a fit of giggles. By this time Meg was rolling around in the mud laughing, gasping for breath. We looked absolutely ridiculous, but the thought didn’t cross our minds.

            This is the true beauty of family. Sometimes we love each other, sometimes we drive each other crazy, but the end of the day we are always there for each other. Just for this moment I didn’t have to worry about anyone watching me, anyone judging me, because I knew I was with my family, the people who love me unconditionally. Even in the rain, even in the rain this is as close to happiness as I could ever get. We finished off the last half mile of our hike, singing and laughing the whole way.

Air Glory

I really wanted that i-pod.

         My sister and I were carelessly leaning up against a fencepost, anticipating the six o’clock drawing for an i-pod nano at the 2007 Lifest Christian Music Festival. I stared up at kids swinging through air on the “Air Glory”, a giant crane that harnessed in two riders at a time to free fall from high up, set up in the middle of a dusty horse arena. We listened to the screams of the fallers and the nervous giggles of those getting harnessed. It was an odd looking contraption that towered 100 feet above us, designed to give riders the thrill of a lifetime. As its metal beams reflected the glimmer of the setting sun onto my face, I had not a care in the world. But then a sudden scream filled the air, so potent that it grabbed the attention of everyone in the area. I waited for the harness to catch, for the girl to be swung back up into safety.

        But the rope never caught her.

        The terrifying thud left the entire arena silent. One second… two seconds… No one was moved. No one made a noise. I stood there in complete horror, my mouth gaping in disbelief. As the dust settled the crowd suddenly began to panic. Doctors quickly identified themselves and ran in to help, security ordered ambulances, and all I could do was stand there, numb.

        On that day, sixteen year old Elizabeth Mohl died, and I had to watch. I cried about it for days, not able to make sense of it. Why did this happen? How could someone so seemingly invincible be gone in an instant? That fall changed the way I view my life. It is not a burden, an obligation, or a responsibility, but rather it is a gift. I have been gifted with so many talents and opportunities. Every day I embrace what it means to be alive, and on those days where everything seems to be a chore, I remind myself how very fortunate I am to be living in this beautiful country, healthy and young. This experience has taught me to set goals and reach for my highest expectations, because I never know if today is going to be my last.

       Suddenly that i-pod didn’t seem all that important.

The Biggest Problem

           The citizens of today’s society should be extraordinary people. The genes we carry have been hand picked across thousands of years by natural selection, so that we have the traits of our most success ancestors. But what if success thousands of years ago and success today have completely different meanings? I do not think that there is one global issue that holds more importance than the rest, but I am proposing the idea that the instincts we’ve gained through evolution are actually the cause of the problems in our world today.    

            In ancient times, food was scarce and the individuals who were drawn to foods high in fat were the ones who survived food shortages and famine. Today some countries have an ample supply of food, but many people still carry genes that make them crave fatty foods. Instead of being a survival advantage, it is causing widespread obesity and health problems.

            It was also necessary for ancient people to form tight clans, to conform to the thinking of their group, and to be hostile towards opposing groups. Those who behaved in these ways were the most likely to survive, and we are now genetically inclined to think in similar ways. Adolescents are likely to conform for their friends and are influenced by popular media. Conflicting countries turn to war because it is a natural instinct to be violent against people outside of their clan. And some research even suggests that the ancient instinct to be threatened by people from other tribes has resulted in genes that spark racist thinking.  

            The bottom line is that humans have evolved to become very egocentric individuals, looking out for their own survival ahead of all others. But in today’s world, our problems are much more complicated than basic survival, and we need to start working together to solve them.  The biggest problem that faces us is debatable, but the solution to any problem will require a generation of individuals who are willing to fight their natural instincts, and put the needs of others before their own.

Money in the Classroom

         Governor Scott Walker has proposed a budget repair bill that will require government workers to contribute fifty percent more to their pensions, pay at least twelve percent of their annual health insurance premiums, and will take away all union bargaining rights, except for the right to negotiate wages. Essentially, the bill will save the state $300 million over the next two years, but on average, public workers will take a cut of about $3,000 take home pay annually.

            I feel sympathy for all of the public workers who will suffer from this bill, but I especially am concerned about the pay cuts for state educators. As a high school student and the daughter of a kindergarten teacher, I will see first hand the affects of this bill.

            It is common knowledge that teachers will not be getting rich anytime soon. They have very low salaries, especially considering that they have gone to college for four or more years, they are required to take additional classes for recertification every three to five years, and they put in many hours off the clock to grade papers and plan lessons. Many teachers say that they come to school every day for their students, but at the end of the day even the most selfless teacher needs to bring home an income to support themselves and their family. To take away another $3,000 take home pay from our state’s educators means that Scott Walker is taking away the value of teachers in Wisconsin, and taking away value from the people our state trusts its youth with for thirteen years of their lives.

            I am graduating this year, I have wonderful teachers, and I am not predicting that this bill will have any affect on my education. But I am scared of what this bill will mean for education in the near future. If the occupation of teaching is being devalued and there is no motivation for the future workforce to peruse a job as a teacher, where is the education system going to be in ten years? In twenty? I understand that in light of our current economic situation, budget cuts are necessary. What I don’t understand is the fact that so many cuts are being made in education, the thing that is most important for the future of our state. In recent news we have been hearing that the United States has been falling behind other countries in education, especially in math and science. Right now, education should be a top propriety if our country wants to remain competitive in the global economy. 

            In Scott Walker’s address to educators, he underlined the fact that the bill “will keep more money in the classroom,” but what he doesn’t understand is that the tangible is not the most important thing in a school system. New textbooks, shining facilities and fancy computers have no value to a student if there is not a motivated and inspiring teacher there to use them. I hope that in the next few days Governor Scott Walker sees the obvious flaws in his budget repair bill, because otherwise he will be seeing the affects of his bill in the education system for many years to come.