![]() I have used the term cohort in education for years. I divide my world language groups into rotating cohorts of French and Spanish. In the past, I have only heard it at academic meetings or read the term in voluminous reports about testing and special initiatives. It might have been considered one of those terms that separated a regular conversation from a fancy one. 2020 changed that too. Suddenly, even my littlest of students throw around cohort like it is just another sight word. How did we get here? How could the term cohort so easily replace table group or study buddy? You ought to hear those kids: He’s not in my blue cohort. He can’t sit with me. She’s in our green cohort, but she is absent today. Not Covid-related though. When can I change my cohort to red? I like red better than yellow. Señora, what color is your cohort? I am always amazed at how easily young kids adapt. I started to think about all the wonderful cohorts I belong to these days. I quickly settle on my first one. The Powers Cohort- my simple, precious unit of four that has defined my life for nearly (sigh) fifty years. Mama, Daddy, my sister Amy and me. Orginaly, the term cohort represented a Roman military unit. That sounds about right. My father is the one in charge. Now, it can be defined as a group of people banded together or treated as a group. I agree. We naturally seek each other out wherever we go. We protect and care for one another, even if we are fussing as we do it. Or it’s a group of people with common statistical characteristics. Actually one could put Powers fam together from a mile away. We all look alike and act alike. And there is my favorite definition of cohort: a supporter or companion. Isn’t this the way family should cherish one another? Always and forever. As my fifth graders finished our lesson on how to say “I am grateful” in Spanish, I caught a cohort talking about this Thanksgiving assignment. One girl said something about her Daddy, and another girl asked why she didn’t just say Dad. In fact, she thought Daddy was what rich girls called their father because they spoiled them. She heard it on T.V. Well, I guess that is one way of saying it. I was quick and happy to explain that it is also a Southern tradition, a term of endearment for the man who means everything to his daughter. If fact, if it is pronounced as “Diddy,” South Georgia folks will also understand. Money has nothing to do with it. So, here’s to the leader of my first cohort- the one who teaches me to have a million dreams and then talks to me each morning as I drive to school. He patiently listens and counsels me about whatever my day holds. He is the one who takes care of all of us all the time- especially Mama. Happy birthday to my Daddy, Sam Powers. I am grateful for each hug and smile he gives me when he sees me. I never quit wanting them. I am grateful for how he models how to work hard, work smart, and "make an A"! I wouldn’t want it any other way. Daddy, Thank you for always believing in me or at least acting like you do when I tell you where I am headed and why. I crave your words of wisdom on how to handle life. I love your whistles, duck pond fires, and cups of coffee. I am blessed to be your daughter. I absolutely respect you. Most importantly, I listen. I’m always listening, hugging the child in front of me, and trying my best to honor what we have as a family. Love, Jo
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JoAnna Arnold
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