“Siiiiix. Seven.”
I bite back my groan at the nonsense statement that has inundated my classroom for the last few months, having long given up on trying to distract and divert…and understand the intricacies of seventh graders’ minds.
This too will pass.
But why does history—and the time period of history I teach in particular (Constantinople to discovering new continents, and all the interesting things in between) have so many sixes?
I go on through the giggles, focusing on the lesson.
It’s Story Time.
Because instead of reciting facts and having my students summarize PowerPoint slides, fill in the blanks on handouts with dates they’ll never remember, I try to weave history into an exciting story with villains and heroes and plenty of intrigue (and a dash of love for those with romantic souls—namely me).
Thankfully, history provides plenty of fodder for my stories.
And, also thankfully, my fellow teachers in the department are all as enthusiastic as I am about transforming history from the lame, boring subject that was my middle and high school years into something far more interesting.
It took until college for me to discover how multi-faceted, how captivating, how much history impacts our present…
In more ways than one.
But I’m not thinking about my personal history, filled with one of the worst of villains and a morally gray hero (at least on the surface, because my brother, my hero, has never been anything but pure).
I’m thinking about Troy.
A story that’s fictional yet fits in perfectly with the time period I’m teaching—beautiful, sorrowful—and yes—romantic.
So, I focus and get down to Story Time.
Though, while I do it, I try my best to avoid all mentions of sixes…
And sevens.
“What time are you coming over?” my brother, Damon, asks, his confident—and finally after all the years of darkness, happy—voice coming through the speakers of my car as I navigate the twisting roads.
Pine trees rise up on either side of me, and soon enough snow will cover the ground, hiding the fallen and dried-brown needles.
Skiers and snowboarders will descend—or maybe ascend, driving up from the Bay Area, whiling away their time on the slopes.
And the traffic.
Well, that will be hell.
But it’s the price I pay for living in paradise.
And the clear air, the beautiful, deep blue lake, the snow and the trees and the valley surrounded by imposing granite mountains is my definition of paradise.
The beach is nice—though, sand getting in all the places is not my idea of a good time.
A bustling European city is a great change of pace—if I ignore the traffic and noise and people.
It’s just that…Tahoe feeds my soul.
No therapy has been better for me than walking along the quiet trails, sitting by the lake, its cold but gentle waves lapping at my toes, standing on the balcony at my apartment or in Damon’s back yard, staring up at the sky, seeing so many stars it’s like someone has thrown a bag of glitter into the heavens.
But all that beauty doesn’t hold a candle to the love I have for my brother.
Even when he’s being an overprotective lug.
