An Open Letter to LeBron James

Dear LeBron,

I hope you don't mind me calling you that.  Right now, I feel like you are part of a huge tribe of people who get what you get, and Mr. James sounds too formal to me.

I teach/taught students like you.  Students who, for whatever reason, missed an enormous amount of school at influential grade levels.  Kids who have dreams, but a society who has no investment in them.  Kids whose parents did not attend/finish college, being raised by parents whose income can barely get food on the table, much less consider saving for or finding the available funds for a college education.

LeBron, I have to be transparent.  I judged you. When you went to the NBA without college, I was ticked.  I felt you saw the dollar signs, but were not thinking what would happen if, one day, you physically could not play and had no form of income through basketball.  You were giving my students an example I did not need, I told myself.  I was afraid you were setting a precedent for African American males that devalued education over stardom, while I was trying to develop their minds and praying that they made it through high school.

My distorted view of you started to crumble this spring when I was researching the use of edTPA at various colleges across the United States.  I took a look at the University of Akron, and did  a double take.  There it was: The LeBron James Family Foundation College of Education.  At first, I thought, "This dude funds the entire College of Education at the University of Akron?!"  Then I went to your Foundation site.  Holy cow.  So here and now: I apologize for my judgment.

You have just opened your IPromise school.  So what?  Lots of people open schools, right? Well, sort of.  Yours is a public school, connected to a university, specifically to help disadvantaged kids who are one or two years deficient in reading in third and fourth grades.  The students I have been giving my emotional life to for the last 10 years of teaching are the kids your foundation recognized needed a boost.

The school looks beautiful, and is on my list to visit. The students will be proud to be a part of this.  You are using your money to do something amazing, and I hope that this endeavor changes the outlook of the students you are targeting.  So often, the schools that house students with this description are not upheld as a district's "pride and joy." I see this as a step toward a paradigm shift for school boards and superintendents across the United States, as well as university lab schools.  We will all be watching to see what happens in Akron.  I, personally, cannot wait to watch the students work toward living their promises.

From this teacher to you, THANK YOU!

JoLynn Plato

Fatherless Father's Days

Twenty-five years ago this Father's Day was the last earthly conversation I had with my father.

We had just seen him that spring as my parents came out to celebrate Scott's Confirmation into the Church on Easter Vigil.  I called to wish him a Happy Father's Day that June, and we enjoyed what I shall call the most conversant conversation we had ever had.  My father was typically a man of few words with me.  It's just how our relationship was.  We had 15 hour car rides to Illinois and back to PA that were pretty quiet, but not in an uncomfortable way. Little did I know I was being prepared for my relatively quiet husband.

So, having an extensive conversation (I could not tell you what we discussed) was pretty cool.  "I have arrived at adulthood," was my thought. This was what the next stage of life would be like.

My father, I am told, had low expectations for the length of time he and I would have together.  He was 42 when I was born, and my mother tells the story that he remarked he would never see me graduate from high school.  And yet, he did.  And he was at my college graduation.  And he walked me down the aisle at my wedding.  Despite his heart attack at age 50, he persevered and was there for these important days in my life.

He was also there for the seemingly ordinary.  The man loved Valentine's Day.  He would always bring me some sort of surprise on that day.  Despite his challenges with being on time, he was quite a chauffeur for my busy school extracurricular schedule (or, I learned the BARTA route home quite well). There were always day trips during his summer vacation times, including lots of AAA Trip Tix (the ultimate GPS precursor) for Washington, D.C. (let's be honest...the Air and Space Museum) and the Jersey shore, with an occasional Philles game in there, too. 

When I received a series of phone calls at the end of July 1993, the earth stopped turning.  I learned what an aortic aneurysm was and what it did if it blew.  I learned what it was like to go from telling him to fight like hell to telling him it was OK to let go (and rely on my acting props to sound like I meant it).  Letting go of the dreams of my future children having a grandfather, their PopPop, on this earth, as Scott's dad also passed a month before our wedding.

It was also, I did not realize, the beginning of the road for my depression.  Like a trooper, I buried the despair because I felt my strength was needed for others.  Like a volcano's lava, depression does not stay buried.  It waits until there's enough pressure to blow.  For me, it was the ASD diagnosis of my boys.

I have had two fairly severe bouts with my depression.  Both times, I was able to ask for my dad to help me.  Literally, those were my words through the insanity of tears, not being able to catch my breath, feeling like "normal" was gone from my vocabulary forever.  Both times, he helped me find peace.  Because, whether he's here or elsewhere, he is still my Daddy and he is able to give me comfort when my heart is being ripped out of my chest.

It's time for me to reframe my deficit model of thinking about the loss of my dad.  It's time for me to reflect more heavily on what I was blessed to have when he was on earth, and ways he helps me in present day. For those reading this on the first Father's Day without their dads, I offer hope.  I am still crying as I write this, but that pain is no longer an every day feeling.  You will get numb on the daily.  Then this day will come.  And you will be sad.  And you have permission to stare at a wall, cry, lock yourself in a room for a little while.  Because it sucks.  Embrace that. Allow the scar to form.

I talk with my dad almost every day.  If I had a belief deficit that his soul was nonexistent, I would not be able to overcome my grief. I thank God for my faith that I will, indeed, see him again, and that he is guarding me right now.