Education has been my formal career for the last twenty-seven years—but teaching? That’s something I’ve been doing since.. geez I can’t even remember.

Coaching, community art classes, day camps… if there was a group of people and a semi-organized activity, I was probably in charge of it. Not officially, of course. Just… spiritually.

Looking back, I realize something now that I didn’t fully understand then: I wasn’t just a teacher.

I was a pirate.

Not the swashbuckling, sword-fighting type—although I like to think I could’ve handled a foam saber if necessary—but the kind that sailed the unpredictable waters of public education, dodging mandates instead of cannon fire, and navigating “standards” that read more like ancient scrolls than actual guidance.

Early in my formal career—around year ten—I found myself at odds with the system. The requirements, the pacing guides, the endless list of “thou shalt teach this by Tuesday at 10:15 a.m.”—they felt less like support and more like shackles. 

Important? Sure. 

Necessary? Probably. 

But they had all the charm of being locked below deck with no fresh air. And possibly rats. Definitely metaphorical rats.

But here’s the thing about pirates—we adapt.

I wanted this life. I chose this ship. And if I was going to survive it, I had to learn the rules of the sea before I could bend them without getting thrown overboard. So I did. Years of it. Studying the maps, memorizing the routes, pretending to enjoy the canned curriculum like it was some kind of gourmet meal instead of educational hardtack. Spoiler alert: it was hardtack.

And when no one was looking?

I supplemented. Heavily.

I smuggled in creativity like contraband. Snuck in humor between objectives. Added flavor where there was none. Because if I was going to sail these waters, I wasn’t a lifeless deckhand—I was captain of my own slightly off-script vessel.

Which, in hindsight, explains why Pirates of the Caribbean always felt less like entertainment… and more like professional development.

And somewhere along the way, I found my treasure.

Not gold. Not glory.

But something far more valuable:

Pieces of Eight. (If you know, you know).

Not the kind you spend… the kind you spark.

Why “Pieces of Eight”? Because teaching—at least the way I’ve always done it—is a lot like piracy. Not the “plunder villages and swing from ropes” kind, although sometimes it feels that dramatic. No, I’m talking about the careful, sneaky, clever kind: the pirate who sails through regulations, dodges endless mandates, and hides treasure where no one expects it.

Each movie quote I dropped into class. Each tiny research assignment I slipped in. Each question that got kids talking. Those were my coins—my pieces of eight. Small, shareable, valuable—and capable, if handled right, of turning a quiet, rule-bound classroom into a lively ship full of curious minds.

Like any good pirate, I collected them, shared them, and waited to see what would grow. Alone, one coin isn’t much. But eight of them? Now you’ve got a treasure hoard. And in my classroom, that hoard wasn’t gold—it was conversation, insight, and the kind of energy no standard could ever capture.

Pieces of Eight—or, as the Spaniards originally called them, the peso de ocho—were silver coins minted in the 1500s and 1600s. Eight reales to a coin, which could literally be cut into eight smaller pieces to make change. 

Clever, right? A pirate’s treasure, divisible and shareable, each fragment still valuable on its own. And yes, before you ask, I did briefly consider cutting my grading rubrics into eighths to make them more “authentic.” Spoiler alert: I didn’t.

In my classroom, I stole a page from that old Spanish treasury manual. Each “piece” became a micro-moment of engagement: a movie quote, a tiny research assignment, a question that sparked conversation. 

Alone, each piece might seem small… but together, they added up to real treasure. And unlike real pirates, I wasn’t after gold—I was after voices, curiosity, and those tiny flashes of insight that make students light up.

And just like those silver coins, some of my classroom treasures were sliced, shared, and circulated—each student taking a piece, and each piece creating a little wealth of its own.

Once I fully embraced this ideal, my classroom became a space for discovery. For real learning. The three things I valued most were curiosity, communication, and effort. Everything else flowed from there.

These kids—often labeled troublemakers, low achievers, or “difficult”—were misunderstood. Oh, it took a great deal of work to engage them, to get them to buy into this philosophy. They had knowledge. They just needed the language skills to communicate it, and the courage to do it.

I tried to create a learning space that gave them that, while still allowing them to be themselves—fractured, unruly, weird as they were. They were valued simply because they were there. Little humans in progress, imperfect but interesting as hell. And like those pieces of eight, they took what we created in that learning space and grew. They became something more than even they thought possible—but they also left something of themselves behind.

That was the goal. That was the expectation. And once they bought in, there was no stopping them. Not even themselves.

They became a crew of their own making—sometimes unruly, sometimes loud, always unpredictable—but brilliant in ways no curriculum could ever measure. Each discussion a cannonball, each insight a treasure chest unlocked. And just like any good pirate crew, they left a mark on the ship… and on me.

I didn’t just teach them; they taught me how to navigate the waters differently, how to see value in the fragments, the imperfect, the unpolished. And in the end, that’s what those Pieces of Eight really were: tiny sparks of curiosity, courage, and connection that multiplied when shared.

So I keep collecting them, sharing them, and watching them grow—my own hoard of riches that isn’t mine to spend, only mine to steward. 

And if you ask me, that’s the only treasure worth hunting.

There’s more waiting at https://xinkblotz.com. Telling stories, sharing thoughts, and drinking coffee. A blend of fiction, reflection, and whatever’s brewing – one post at a time.