Like many teachers,

every year on the first day of school,

I lead a sort of icebreaker activity
with my students.

I teach at Lincoln High School
in Lincoln, Nebraska,

and we are one of the oldest
and most diverse high schools

in our state.

Also, to our knowledge,

we're the only high school in the world
whose mascot is the Links.

Like, a chain.

(Laughter)

And with that being our mascot,

we have a statue out front of our building

of four links connected like a chain.

And each link means something.

Our links stand for tradition,

excellence, unity and diversity.

So on the first day of school,

I teach my new ninth-graders
about the meaning behind those links,

and I give them each a slip of paper.

On that paper, I ask them
to write something about themselves.

It can be something that they love,

something that they hope for --

anything that describes their identity.

And then I go around
the room with a stapler,

and I staple each of those slips together

to make a chain.

And we hang that chain up in our classroom
as a decoration, sure,

but also as a reminder
that we are all connected.

We are all links.

So what happens when one
of those links feels weak?

And what happens when that weakness

is in the person holding the stapler?

The person who's supposed
to make those connections.

The teacher.

As teachers, we work every day

to provide support socially,
emotionally and academically

to our students who come to us
with diverse and tough circumstances.

Like most teachers,

I have students who go home every day,

and they sit around the kitchen table

while one or both parents makes a healthy,
well-rounded meal for them.

They spend suppertime summarizing
the story they read

in ninth-grade English that day,

or explaining how Newton's
laws of motion work.

But I also have students
who go to the homeless shelter

or to the group home.

They go to the car that their family
is sleeping in right now.

They come to school with trauma,

and when I go home every day,
that goes home with me.

And see, that's the hard part
about teaching.

It's not the grading,
the lesson-planning, the meetings,

though sure, those things do occupy
a great deal of teachers' time and energy.

The tough part about teaching

is all the things
you can't control for your kids,

all the things you can't change for them
once they walk out your door.

And so I wonder
if it's always been this way.

I think back to my undergraduate training
at the University of Georgia,

where we were taught
in our methods classes

that the concept
of good teaching has changed.

We're not developing learners

who are going to go out into a workforce

where they'll stand
on a line in a factory.

Rather, we're sending our kids
out into a workforce

where they need to be able to communicate,

collaborate and problem-solve.

And that has caused
teacher-student relationships

to morph into something stronger

than the giver of content
and the receiver of knowledge.

Lectures and sitting in silent rows
just doesn't cut it anymore.

We have to be able to build relationships
with and among our students

to help them feel connected

in a world that depends on it.

I think back to my second year teaching.

I had a student who I'll call "David."

And I remember feeling like
I'd done a pretty good job

at teaching that year:

"Hey, I ain't no first-year teacher.

I know what I'm doing."

And it was on the last day of school,

I told David to have a great summer.

And I watched him walk down the hall,

and I thought to myself,

I don't even know
what his voice sounds like.

And that's when I realized
I wasn't doing it right.

So I changed almost everything
about my teaching.

I built in plenty of opportunities
for my students to talk to me

and to talk to each other,

to share their writing
and to verbalize their learning.

And it was through those conversations
I began not only to know their voice

but to know their pain.

I had David in class again that next year,

and I learned that his father
was undocumented

and had been deported.

He started acting out in school

because all he wanted
was for his family to be together again.

In so many ways, I felt his pain.

And I needed someone to listen,

somebody to provide support for me

so that I could support him in this thing
that I could not even comprehend.

And we recognize that need

for police officers who've witnessed
a gruesome crime scene

and nurses who have lost a patient.

But when it comes
to teaching professionals,

that urgency is lagging.

I believe it's paramount

that students and teachers,

administrators, paraprofessionals
and all other support staff

have convenient and affordable access
to mental wellness supports.

When we are constantly serving others,

often between 25
and 125 students each day,

our emotional piggy banks
are constantly being drawn upon.

After a while, it can become so depleted,

that we just can't bear it anymore.

They call it "secondary trauma"
and "compassion fatigue,"

the concept that we absorb the traumas
our students share with us each day.

And after a while,

our souls become weighed down
by the heaviness of it all.

The Buffett Institute
at the University of Nebraska

recently found that most teachers --

86 percent across
early childhood settings --

experienced some depressive symptoms
during the prior week.

They found that approximately one in 10

reported clinically significant
depressive symptoms.

My interactions with colleagues
and my own experiences

make me feel like
this is a universal struggle

across all grade levels.

So what are we missing?

What are we allowing to break the chain
and how do we repair it?

In my career,

I've experienced the death
by suicide of two students

and one amazing teacher

who loved his kids;

countless students
experiencing homelessness;

and kids entering and exiting
the justice system.

When these events happen,

protocol is to say, "If you need
someone to talk to, then ..."

And I say that's not enough.

I am so lucky.

I work in an amazing school
with great leadership.

I serve a large district

with so many healthy partnerships
with community agencies.

They have provided steadily
increasing numbers

of school counselors and therapists

and support staff to help our students.

They even provide staff members
with access to free counseling

as part of our employment plan.

But many small districts
and even some large ones

simply cannot foot the bill without aid.

(Exhales)

Not only does every school need
social and emotional support staff,

trained professionals who can navigate
the needs of the building --

not just the students,
not just the teachers, but both --

we also need these trained professionals

to intentionally seek out
those closest to the trauma

and check in with them.

Many schools are doing what they can

to fill in the gaps,

starting with acknowledging
that the work that we do

is downright hard.

Another school in Lincoln,
Schoo Middle School,

has what they call "Wellness Wednesdays."

They invite in community yoga teachers,

they sponsor walks around
the neighborhood during lunch

and organize social events

that are all meant
to bring people together.

Zachary Elementary School
in Zachary, Louisiana,

has something they call
a "Midweek Meetup,"

where they invite teachers to share lunch

and to talk about the things
that are going well

and the things that are weighing
heavy on their hearts.

These schools are making space
for conversations that matter.

Finally, my friend
and colleague Jen Highstreet

takes five minutes out of each day

to write an encouraging
note to a colleague,

letting them know
that she sees their hard work

and the heart that they share with others.

She knows that those five minutes

can have an invaluable
and powerful ripple effect

across our school.

The chain that hangs in my classroom
is more than just a decoration.

Those links hang over our heads

for the entire four years
that our students walk our halls.

And every year,

I have seniors come back
to my classroom, room 340,

and they can still point out
where their link hangs.

They remember what they wrote on it.

They feel connected and supported.

And they have hope.

Isn't that what we all need?

Somebody to reach out
and make sure that we're OK.

To check in with us

and remind us that we are a link.

Every now and then,
we all just need a little help

holding the stapler.

Thank you.

(Applause)