100 Day Project

On April 11, I posted this on Instagram:

Today is Day 100. I missed two days, so I should have finished this project on Tuesday. But I think only missing two days is pretty respectable, mostly because I’m not always the best at finishing things. 

I start a lot of projects, set a lot of goals, only to let them wither on the Vine of Good Intentions. Sometimes I think this is just who I am—someone unable to finish anything. Some days I think of this as a moral failing, others I think it’s just a personality trait. But I finished this, so maybe it’s neither. 

Because here’s what I learned the past 100 days:

  • Having a clear goal (write a six word story) with a clear end-date (100 days) kept me from giving up. 
  • Sometimes writing six-word stories is harder than writing a 1,000-word story.
  • I really like Adobe’s Creative Cloud Express, even though I know it’s just like Canva.
  • Every day, I can find something to write about.
  • Going public with this project helped keep me accountable.

I don’t plan to post to Instagram every day for a while, if ever again, as I have some other projects I’m figuring out how to make stick. But if you follow me on Instagram and you’ve been reading my six word stories the past 3-ish months, thank you! It means the world to any writer when even one person reads their work. So truly, thank you. 

The first six word story of my 100 day project in the spring of 2022.

I’m Thinking Tonight.

I’m thinking tonight about a lot of things.

How last year I was looking into teaching overseas. How people would ask where I’d want to teach.

Anywhere, really, I’d say.

Anywhere? Even the Middle East? They’d say.

Sure, why not? I’d say.

It’s just so…dangerous there. They’d say.

I’m thinking about how I teach in a public school and how we do lockdown drills where I lock the doors, turn off the lights, stuff kids in the safest spots in my classrooms, put desks in front of the door (because three desks deep, tipped forward, might be enough to stop bullets).

I’m thinking about a day in December when the power went out and no fewer than three kids looked at me in fear, begged me to lock the door and move desks in front of the door because their first—their FIRST THOUGHT—was that cutting the power would be an initial move in an active shooter situation.

I’m thinking about 18 families in Texas and 17 families in Florida and 26 families in Connecticut and thousands upon thousands of families across the country with empty chairs at the dinner table, empty seats in the car.

It’s just so…dangerous there, someone told me when I mentioned I was offered a job in Kuwait. 

Any more dangerous than when I go to school, or the grocery store, or the movie theater here? 

I’m thinking about the whispered conversations I’ve had with colleagues over the course of my 22-year teaching career: Not if, but when.

I’m thinking about a room full of men in the late 1700s who helped throw off the most powerful army in the world, men who wanted to make sure they could protect themselves from tyranny forever, so they codified the idea of a “well-regulated militia.”

I’m thinking about a room of 76 men and 24 women who have been sitting on a bill since March 3, 2021 that could be a first step to change. 

I’m thinking about grief so heavy that every American should be feeling tonight, including a grief at the realization that perhaps some Americans aren’t feeling a collective grief, at least not one that compels to action. 

I’m thinking about going back into my classroom tomorrow, on the last day of school, of seeing students who’ve allowed me to feel the full range of human emotions this semester, and how will I look at them and not burst into tears? 

I’m thinking about how this post is just more static noise, how I have no hope that anything will change in my lifetime. 

I’m thinking tonight about a lot of things.

Identity Crisis

If you follow me on Instagram, you know I’ve recently embarked on a 100 Day Project of writing six word stories. I’ve written six word stories before, but they’ve been exclusively about my school life, only written on school days. This time, I’m not sticking just to school, partly because of this piece I’ve been working on for nearly two years. I think it’s finally in a place where it can be published. I think.

I’m not entirely sure who I am anymore.

My social media bios and my website here succinctly declare: Teacher. Writer. Musician. Yet I am not sure that any of those monikers are correct.

Perhaps it’s a mid-life crisis I’m feeling, this unsettled mush of being unsure of what I want to be when I grow up. I fell into teaching a bit by accident, and it’s worked out wonderfully. But the times they are a-changin’, and I don’t know how many more years I have left in me. So while I’m still teaching, my most recent attempt at a book has stalled out multiple times and I no longer teach piano lessons. One out of three ain’t bad?

I’m left with this dilemma: if I’m not a teacher, writer, or musician, what am I?

And I’m not talking about how will I pay for my lifestyle–I’m fairly resourceful and I think I know enough people who could help me figure out private sector options if needed. No, I’m talking about who am I, if not a teacher?

This is a question I’ve been wrestling with, and most of time, I shove it to the far corner of my brain. But then I read a piece from the Harvard Business Review about the relationship between careers and identity.

Some of the article doesn’t apply to teaching because, well, no matter how many hours I work or service I provide to the school and district, I’m not ever bringing in a six-figure salary. But then, near the end of the article, these questions:

How much do you think about your job outside of the office?
Is your mind frequently consumed with work-related thoughts?
Is it difficult to participate in conversations with others that are not about your work?

How do you describe yourself?
How much of this description is tied up in your job, title, or company?
Are there any other ways you would describe yourself? How quickly do you tell people you’ve just met about your job?

Where do you spend most of your time?
Has anyone ever complained to you that you are in the office too much?

Do you have hobbies outside of work that do not directly involve your work-related skills and abilities? Are you able to consistently spend your time exercising other parts of your brain?

How would you feel if you could no longer continue in your profession?
How distressing would this be to you?

Reading these questions, I realized my identity is 100% wrapped up in “teacher,” and I don’t think that’s a good thing. Because I think I am–and I want to be–more than my job. And there’s never been a more acute time where figuring out what that entails.

I very well might keep teaching at my current school until I meet the Rule of 85 (nine more years) and can retire. I enjoy the content I teach, I enjoy my colleagues, and I enjoy my students. But what happens if one of those legs falls out from under me, and it’s time for something new?

A friend asked me the other day what my summer plans were. Other than a quick trip to D.C., I have no concrete plans, and usually I do. I’ve been thinking about summer ever since, and the beginnings of a plan are taking shape. Rest and read–obviously–and find one or two activities that I like to do, that I want to do. My summer’s goal is to start creating a life that doesn’t fall apart when I’m no longer teaching, and might actually grow into something far beyond the limitations that come with creating a life based on a career.

Will writing and music be part of that? I’m sure it will be; I don’t think those parts of me will ever go away. But I’m feeling a pull toward looking for more, and I think I’m ready to figure out what “more” looks like.

“How does this change how you see yourself?”

“Friendly reminder: we are Ukrainian. Our great-grandparents left Ukraine in 1906.”

I sent that text to my sisters the night that the Russian military invaded Ukraine, and I’ve felt heavy ever since.

As a child of the Cold War, I always lumped the citizens of the entire Soviet bloc into one category: Russians. While I always referred to our great-grandparents as Russian Jews, the far recesses of my brain would simultaneously process “Kiev” when I would say it.

I double checked a couple of nights ago, looked again at my great-grandfather’s naturalization record. His place of birth listed on the form? Kiev, Russia.

Except not Russia. Ukraine. 

I know so many scattered stories and histories of the various branches of my family tree, but a lifetime of conflating Russia and its collection of now-sovereign states as one has created a giant hole in that narrative.

I do not descend from Russian Jews, I descend from Ukrainian Jews.

I watch Finding Your Roots every week, and when the host, Henry Louis Gates, Jr. shares his findings with the celebrity guests, he often asks them, “how does this change how you see yourself?”

I’m feeling that question this week, deeply. How does it change how I see myself, how I feel about current events, to remember my great-grandfather was a Ukrainian Jew, not a Russian Jew? 

From what I’ve seen on the news this past week, it makes me feel a deep sense of solidarity with the Ukrainians in part because of my love of democracy. But I also feel deep sadness and fear, because they are, in part, my people. 


In times of crisis, people often want to find ways to help. Here’s a couple of ways to help, if you’re feeling so inclined:

World Central Kitchen: Jose Andres is at the Ukraine-Poland border, providing meals to refugees.

UN Refugee Agency: Ryan Reynolds and Blake Lively are matching up to $1 million in donations.

International Committee of the Red Cross: Always a reliable group to send funds to.

January 26

113 years ago today, my great grandparents Joseph James Reginald Rowse and Jetta Butterfield married.

88 years ago today, my Gramps, Jack Rowse, married my Nana, Doris Wangsgaard.

And 50 years ago today, my dad and mom got married.

For the few guys who broached the topic of marriage with me, the one non-negotiable was a January 26 wedding date. I didn’t care if it was a Wednesday, that was the date I wanted. Because, you know…

I remember my Nana and Gramps’ 50th anniversary—we drove from Omaha to Phoenix for a huge reception, and as long as we were that far west, I am pretty sure we snuck in a trip to Disneyland too. 

When the coronavirus pandemic started in March 2020, I’m not sure any of my siblings imagined that we wouldn’t be able to do some kind of equal celebration for my parents’ 50th. Surely things would be back to normal in time for us to plan a reception for them.

Oh, the hubris of the young.

But here we are, coming off a surge from the latest variant of a virus that is definitely showing the world who’s boss, and tomorrow (and the weekend) will come and go without much fanfare about my parents’ marriage.

Sometimes it’s hard for me to fathom that my parents have been married for 50 years, because I sure don’t feel old enough to have parents who’ve been married for 50 years. I can’t imagine every day was a picnic, between moving all over the U.S. for the first 25 years, raising two fairly difficult children (at least the two Angel Children made up for it), cancer, demanding jobs and church responsibilities, and just the demands of everyday life. 

For good measure, toss in a broken neck and spinal cord injury. You know, just to keep things interesting.

My parents’ marriage taught me the importance of showing up for people you love. Showing up when tired, when sick, when irritated, when happy, when fulfilled. They taught me about the importance of the small details that lead to a longer game, and how to “enjoy the journey.”

I wish we could throw them a huge party, or at the very least take them to dinner tonight. But I’m sure they know, as a couple that have been married for 50 years, that most things can actually wait. We’ll grab dinner soon. My treat.

Happy Anniversary, mom and dad. I love you both.