Teacher of the Week; Jason Heisserer

                                                            "Be safe. Be kind. Be true."
Lily and I had the absolute pleasure of interviewing Jason Heisserer on Friday, September 19th. Before we began the interview we were already aware Jason was a perfect fit for our school, but in the twenty five minutes we sat and talked, we became certain that Jason is Crossroads personified. His warm, positive and welcoming demeanor is something we should all strive to achieve.
 Growing up in Springfield, Illinois, Jason always knew he had a passion for education. He wanted to help “people feel good about themselves and to feel like they could influence their part of the world.” Jason wanted to make sure people could go through life and experience it being totally true to who they are, and he felt the best way to do so was to teach. He began his educational journey as an English teacher, feeling that he could get to know his students while helping them begin to understand themselves. There is no doubt that Jason is an extraordinary person with a passion for writing, reading, teaching, and helping other people realize their own potential. By encouraging self discovery he hopes to make his students feel comfortable and “joyous” with who they are.
 Jason came to Crossroads after leaving Hixson Middle School where he was the principle of 725 students. Coming to Crossroads, where he has a student body of 195, was quite a change. “It’s big and its challenging and its wonderful” was the response Jason gave when asked how he was liking his Crossroads lifestyle so far. While Hixson also was a close community Jason stressed that “the pace of the day is what really strikes [him], there is a rhythm at Crossroads that allows time for things and it doesn’t feel rushed."
 Along with his passion for education, Jason has many unique and interesting hobbies outside of work. We could have talked to Jason for hours discussing his various hobbies and his reasoning behind them. Every hobby has a deeper meaning and some sort of symbol tying it into his life, “ I love symbolism and I love metaphors.” One of the hobbies that really stuck out to us was Jason's operatic history. He began explaining this hobby telling us the story of his kindergarten teacher Mrs. Russell. “I did not know I was interested in music. Somehow she knew, I don’t know how she knew, but she said I was to be Hansel in Hansel and Gretel....and I just started singing from there.” He still takes voice lessons today, exemplifying his persistence and passion for opera. When Lily and I brought up his rumored “napping couch” he immediately asked us how we knew about his sleep philosophy. Really, Jason said, “the couch is part of my office for people to sit on and for us to have conversations on.” A secondary use of the couch is to take quick  nap to “clear [his] head” and allow him to focus more on the task of making Crossroads the best place it can be.
 Despite all these amazing things about Jason, our favorite characteristic is how easy it is to talk to him. Jason brings a sense of relativity, making students feel safe and compelled to have conversations with him. His approachable nature made the twenty five minutes we spent with him feel like five, and we were still eager to know more when we left. Jason is the fresh, new, and vital face of Crossroads, and we are more than eager to see where the school can go from here.

The Same Sky, by Lily Fitzsimmons

The Same Sky

Like ships on the cold, black sea,

feathery clouds drift over the twinkling sky.

We are alone,

but the same sky blinks one thousand miles away.

Feathery clouds drift over the twinkling sky.

The trickle of the outgoing tide sounds like a melody.

The same sky blinks one thousand miles away,

raising more questions than answers.

The trickle of the outgoing tide sounds like a melody,

and the salt of the sea settles on my skin.

Raising more questions than answers,

I can cover the universe with my thumb.

The salt of the sea settles on my skin

while feathery clouds drift over the twinkling sky.

I can cover the universe with my thumb,

but the same sky blinks one thousand miles away.

The Rose, by Esmé Call

The Rose, by Esmé Call

3:00 am: 

A rose bends back and forth in the violent bursts of wind that blow across a lonely field. 

A man sits up in bed and feels a rush of cold air, sending shivers down his spine. The window in his bedroom slams closed repeatedly, each sound like a gunshot in the silence of the night. The man is tired, weak, and slowly reaching the end. The storm outside is raging like a tiger strapped in a cage; about to explode. He pulls back the covers and swings his feet over the side of his bed, pulling on his faded and worn slippers. He welcomes the warmth they bring, and shuffles over to the window, pulling it closed and locking it tight. He slowly makes his way into the kitchen, and sets the tea kettle on the stove. As he leans against the counter breathing heavily, he closes his eyes. This was his third night in a row where he couldn’t sleep and had to get up and make some tea. The shrill whistle of the kettle blares in his ears, and he pours his water. As he holds the cup of hot tea, he thinks about how far he has come, and how little he has accomplished. The man is 80 years old. His wife had died earlier that year, and he has no children. His life is simple. He finishes his tea and climbs back under the covers of his bed.

9:00 am:

The rose’s first petal falls off.

The man gets out of bed for the second time that morning, this time hopefully for the rest of the day. He goes to his closet to get dressed, and discovers he cannot reach his hat shelf, for his back had become too weak. He walks down the hall to his living room and picks up yesterdays newspaper. There is an article about a girl who had won the National Spelling Bee, and she looks exactly like his niece had. When she was alive. He shakes his head and sets down the newspaper. His cabinets are almost completely empty, and he hasn’t been outside in a week. It is getting colder everyday, and everyday he is becoming more and more affected by the weather. Emotionally and physically. His lips are chapped and bleeding, partially from dehydration, and his mood becomes more pessimistic every day. As he prepares his breakfast of toast and coffee, he thinks about what he will do today. Perhaps he would call up that nice boy that sometimes brings him groceries. He walked towards the phone to call him, but his toast pops up. He butters it thoroughly and spreads on some strawberry jam. In the other room the T.V. blares. He munches on his toast thoughtfully, and when he is finished, he gets up to go call the boy.

10:30 am:

Snow falls lightly, covering the rose’s petals.

The man had called the boy and he had dropped off some groceries. When the boy had come over, he had looked around the small house and realized that the man actually had been living his life in this house for a long time. He told the man that he should should get out and do something, and hopefully, the man would listen to him. 

The man sits in his chair and thinks about what the boy had told him. He knows he will be dying soon, but he doesn’t want to. He thinks about all the things he had wants to do in life but never got around to. Ice skating was for sure his top one. Yes, he would go ice skating. 

12:00 pm:

The rose has small icicles dripping off the remaining petals.

The man opens his front door and steps out into the freezing cold, holding the skates at his side. As he steps off the front porch and walks towards the woods, he knows this is going to be something great. His journey to the frozen pond in the woods is filled with excitement. As he ducks under branches and steps over logs, he knows that this is the right decision. The pond comes into his view and he speeds up. As he slides on the skates and laces them up, his fingers shake and his breath comes in short bursts. 

12:15 pm: 

The rose feels its roots straining to stay in the ground as the wind grows stronger and stronger, but it resists with all of its willpower. 

The man takes his first step onto the ice, his skates gliding along the ice as he laughs out loud. Back at his house, the T.V. is still on. A reporter sits behind a desk on the screen, and warns people not to go out on the frozen ice, for it is too early in the winter, and the ice is not hard enough.

The man goes further out on the ice, holding his arms out to the sides to keep his balance. He hears something below him. The ice seems to be shifting. 

15 seconds.

More petals are torn away from the rose.

The man skates closer and closer to a weak spot in the ice.

10 seconds.

The wind howls, and snow swirls violently.

The man’s skate gets caught on a chink in the ice, and he loses his balance, falling onto the ice.

5 seconds.

The dirt around the rose is blown around.

The ice breaks, and the man feels freezing cold water seep into his whole body.

3 seconds.

The rose holds on.

The man claws at the edge of the hole he made, and desperately tries to pull himself out, but he is too weak.

2 seconds.

The rose gives up.

The man gives one last attempt to get out, but then realizes, he had done it. He had gone out in  the world and done something worthwhile. He was ready.

1 second.

The rose is torn up and out of the ground and blows around in the wind.

The man has reached his end. His eyes close, and as he slowly sinks, the rose, now blowing around, lands on him, and descends to the bottom of the pond.

Stage 4 Clare, by Julia Weinstock

Stage 4 Clare, by Julia Weinstock

I remember the day I found out Clare was dying, and there were no other options, no turning back, just waiting. I can recall all too well opening my eyes and instantly wondering if she was still breathing. We were all stuck in a place of limbo. The ending was inevitable, and we were aware of that, but we just couldn't pinpoint an exact day or time. I can still feel the burn in my stomach when I remember reading the deteriorating updates on her health, I think we all can. That isn’t very uncommon though, remembering the smallest of details down to a tee when something unusual happens. Life doesn’t change significantly day to day, so our senses are heightened when we are placed in an unordinary situation. Thats why we have all those documentaries where people recall where they were when two planes flew into the twin towers, or when President Kennedy was shot. And you can carefully observe their face and see every tiny muscle revert back to how it was when they were placed in that foreign situation.They remember it so well, because it was so out of the blue, and it feels like they are reliving it, even though it was years ago. But she wasn’t a decade ago, she was just a small 365 days in comparison.

We were staring mindlessly at the figures that appeared in the hollow box before our eyes. Something people do everyday for hours on end. We were sitting, just sitting, on an old couch. I hate myself for living that moment in such an everyday way. We could have been doing something productive and extraordinary with our time. We allowed the silence to be interrupted only be the background noise of reality tv, not our own voices. The stillness was broken by a friend’s phone, alerting her that someone was attempting to reach her. She excused herself to walk outside. We knew our two classmates were making the pilgrimage to St. Judes to visit Clare, and we knew they were going to call us, but we were blind to any possible outcome that was not positive. We should have known that after Nora was on the call for more than a minute, something was wrong, but we didn’t pause to consider the perilous thought that was somewhere in all of ours minds. A kid can’t die, or at least not a kid you know. That’s what everyone thinks, right? That “horrible things happen, but they never happen to me.” When she reentered the house, I heard what I thought was laughter but quickly realized was crying. As we all frantically asked what was wrong, trying to refuse the likelihood of what was about to be said next she choked out the words: “She has six months or less. There are so many tumors.”

It was like an electric shock, swift and numb at first, then a quiet lingering pain. We sat in a paralyzed silence as we watched the last portions of our childhoods swiftly crumple to ash. The world became bleaker before our eyes. The sky turned from a blazing blue, to a frigid dim grey. I began to think this is what happens when you grow up, you see the difficult reality instead of a fantasy. I began to look around the room and see that the colors weren’t so vibrant. I thought about daily interactions, and they didn’t present their usual appeal. I started coming to the realization that when you're younger you can’t tolerate the truth, so it is concealed behind a wall of lively stimulating diversions, and tales of wonder. I  was lost in my thoughts and started to remember the day the towers fell, and it felt clearer. Like a roadblock in my mind of how everything happened that fatal day, had fallen and I could connect the pieces. Before that life changing call, 9/11 was a day that my mom whispered with my preschool teachers, and katie came home from school early. It was day that Katie and I watched two big towers fall, and when we asked why our mother she clicked it off she told us it was a movie trailer. It was a day that “daddy was coming  home from his business trip early, and wasn’t that exciting?” It was a day that mommy came home with two industrialized sized barrels of peanut butter. But after that call, 9/11 was a day that everyone was sent into a frenzy, and the country was under attack. After that fatal call the peanut butter was in case of chemical warfare, not for eating or making cookies. After that news my dad came home early from his trip because he was going to be shot down if he didn't land immediately, not because he wanted to see his baby girls.

I was brought back into reality with a jolt by my friend’s mother entering the room to bring us tissues, and attempt comfort. I kept both hands on the shoulders of my friends, as I sat with my eyes plastered to the ground. I blurred my vision and saw nothing except my thoughts, accompanied by the noise of heavy tears. Quickly the crying had turned into the kind of wailing that only happens when incomprehensible grief strikes. They both were shaking violently, but with no noise escaping their mouths their complexion turned a feverish red. We tried desperately to comfort each other, but we were all foreign to this kind of tragedy. How do you comfort someone when they know this was the end of the road? How do you tell someone that a 14-year-old whose birthday was this month, and who was never going to her first kiss, get her license, graduate, get married, and achieve her numerous dreams will be in a better place? We came to the unspoken decision that it would benefit us more to sit silence. It was more comforting than the lies we all tell when we don't know what to say. I watched the clock closely, waiting until I could be isolated. It felt imperative that I avoid human contact immediately. I needed to wrap my mind around this situation, and comprehend it, before I could discuss it with anyone else. But there were other plans. I was in a funk and couldn't put together why my friend was texting my mom and why we had to drive around my block two times. I walked into my house and headed for the stairs, but fifteen of the last people I wanted to see jumped out and I was halted.

A surprise party. The surprise party I had desired for years was happening, but at the wrong time. But what was I supposed to do? I couldn’t keep looking like I had no faith in the world and hide from everyone. I had to jolt the minuscule amount of energy I had left, and spread it out over the course of three hours. I attempted to push out an “oh wow” that didn’t sound like I had been socked in the stomach, and gave everyone an artificial giggle. I was seized by classmates and friends asking if I was “so totally surprised?” I widened my eyes, shook my head and replied “oh ya.” My mother wrangled us all outside so I could see what she had done. Lights dangled from the trees and a large movie screen was set up, with blankets surrounding it. Once we were moved outside I began to feel an overwhelming sense of guilt. Not only did Clare enter my mind, but her mother, father, siblings and family. She was two hundred and eighty four miles away in a hospital room being read her last rites, while I ate cake and was handed gifts. My mother was throwing me a surprise party, while hers was grasping her hand whispering how much she loved her, trying to hold back the tears and be strong. I tried to shake this but sat comatose staring into oblivion until the movie ended. As everyone left and gave me warm hugs, only to receive cold ones from my limp body, my mother said “I tried to invite Clare, but I couldn’t get a hold of her family, and you friends said she probably wouldn't make it.” All I heard was she probably wouldn't make it. The phrase mocked me and tortured my mind. I knew my mother was not referring to her illness, and her impossible chance of survival, but that sentence wouldn't wash off. She probably wouldn’t make it, and I had to accept that.

That is what may have been the most terrifying. I had been handed information that made me think it was the ending to everything, not just her life. But everything wasn't ending. I had no control over what was going to happen next, and while I figured it out I expected the world to stop turning and wait for me, and it refused. Things were going to keep rolling forward, and the world would not wait to continue its cycle for me to heal. I had to put on a happy face and thank everyone for coming. I had to give my family the news that a 14 year old was going to die. I had to keep going without her.

Sitting Silently, by Maggie Fox

Sitting Silently, by Maggie Fox

I sit silently. The wind caresses my hair as I breathe in its musty scent. A fly soars lazily in and out of my line of vision. Absently I grasp a piece of wheat and twirl it between my fingers. I lay down, and my eyes close. I lay still until I feel the sun's warmth on my cheeks.

              He should be coming any minute now. I lift up my head just in time to see him sauntering over. He wears an empty expression, with his hands in his pockets. I return his stare as if I were looking at nothing more than the sun rising behind him. For a while he looks down at me in my overalls and dirty t-shirt, pondering the scene before him.

              I break the silence. "Why did you do it?" He looks away from me now, seeking truth in the sun's rays.

             "I wish I hadn't."

             "A lot of people wish that," I snap back. He turns back to look at me, a single tear glistening on his tan face.

             "I'd do anything to take it back, honest." Then it all comes out of him. The pointing, the rumors, the unbearable shameful silence. It all bursts out of him into one high-pitched sob. I watch him quietly, waiting for the horrifying sound to stop. Finally he speaks. "You'll still be my friend, won't you Suzie?" I look into his searching, desperate eyes, now rimmed with red. 

            "Yes, Bill. I'll still be your friend." He collapses on the ground next to me. I take his hand and he holds tightly. We sit silently. 

*This prompt was inspired by the photo above taken by Lily Fitzsimmons*