Today, there's a beautiful fall wind blowing fallen leaves around my driveway and lawn. Colors are fantastic, and the weather is turning cold.
It is already Columbus Day. What happened to writing and keeping this thing up? Where did the time go?
I don't think that I anticipated how much work this year would be. Three preps (physics, calculus, and my ninth graders) has been involved so much more than I ever thought it would: grading, curriculum writing, preparing lecture notes and trying to jazz things up and keep the work fresh, not only for the kids, but for me. It was very quickly starting to feel like last year, with full preps (I never imagined TWO prep periods not feeling like enough time), having to get used to advisory (again, with seniors), and the sheer volume of student need.
And oh, this year, are they needy. On the ninth grade, they are needy. If they aren't severely lacking in skills of ANY kind, they are sharp students who need an insane amount of reassurance and structure.
In fact, I'd say this year is almost no different from last year, save for one thing:
I decided to coach cross country this year.
After losing 75 pounds and building up my legs over the summer, I got the lucky break of respite I have been looking for. I've been looking for something ELSE to do with kids, something constructive, yet different from the things I've done with the Drama Club and with the half-hearted attempt at enrichment that was the Chess Club. This year, interest for cross country suddenly flared up, and I took the job. I now coach 8 or 9 kids, all juniors or lower, who are forming the basis for a new team. We run near the school and get a lot of exposure. Kids and teachers alike cheer us on as we run around our city. P even calls me 'Coach', an honor I take to be rare.
It has kept the daily grind fresh. I look forward to practices and to running with the kids. A bunch of my runners have started from nothing, going from short runs in no time (1.5 miles or less) to some long, tough distances (in one case, 6 miles). And while I've lost the kids a couple of times and I've worked through the troubles of two canceled meets, it has really helped to make this year go by.
And go by fast.
Now, this article is one of two updates I need to do. The other is on a movie I saw recently and some research (yes! research!) that I have done about teacher longevity. I will write that tomorrow.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Monday, September 6, 2010
Week One: Sharing My Bunker
Week one is in the books, and there are already some bumps in the road. I am teaching the ninth grade with C, one of my two fabulous department heads. We really had our stuff together: we got together for a day during the summer to plan and lay out the course for the first semester, made the course documents to start the year, and got on the same page about lab safety and course expectations. We really were off to a great start. I even ordered the course textbooks and workbooks, thinking we were going to have our normal freshman class: 75.
On the Friday before school started, we found out that we would have the largest freshman class in the history of the school, to exceed 90.
Ninety freshmen. Four sections. That comes out to 22 to 23 students per section.
I know I should not be complaining, as there are teachers in our country that are dealing with sections of classes with upwards of 30 students. But, at what point do you start sacrificing effective teaching and learning for individual students in exchange for what works well enough for the group, knowing that you've only got 'x' minutes in a day? This becomes a harder question in an Essential School, which demands each teacher take on a student load of NO GREATER THAN 80 students. Essential Schools live and breathe on the idea that what truly makes a difference in moving student achievement is knowing them well. How can you know a hundred kids well, let alone more?
The key to this has been working with another teacher again. C and I have around 13 years of experience between us, and we have been spot on about planning and sticking to routines and setting reasonable objectives. Working with another teacher lightens the load and keeps you accountable to the work. This week, I've been less stressed and more organized. My plans feel more solid because another mind has been present to hash them out. We split the load of maintaining our homework site and we write our assessments and rubrics together. We even (for the moment) have a planning period together. It's fantastic.
I often wonder what the impact would be if teachers worked in pairs like this, splitting their main course when the course falls squarely within the core curriculum, and when the enrollment simply becomes unsustainable should it be handled by one person. Teaching is often an insular, lonely profession, and I have been hiding in my own little cave for two years at my school. Sharing that cave with another teacher sheds light on the way I've been teaching and working for most of my career: like a hermit scared to let others in for fear of what they might see. Now, C watches my first period class and I watch her second. There aren't any secrets anymore. It's so good, because our mistakes must be addressed by us both, and our moments of brilliance (come on, you teachers, we all have them!) can be truly shared.
This has kept me sane in the wake of overcrowded classes (our school's classrooms were designed to seat no more than 12, and mine, no more than 18) and the overbearing pressure to do well from NCLB (we are only four years away from 2014). I also feel like my teaching is just, well, better. I think we all do better when someone else, who's got just as much experience and just as much knowledge (or more, in some cases) is there, watching you and depending on you, for better or worse.
Maybe this is why no one stands watch alone.
On the Friday before school started, we found out that we would have the largest freshman class in the history of the school, to exceed 90.
Ninety freshmen. Four sections. That comes out to 22 to 23 students per section.
I know I should not be complaining, as there are teachers in our country that are dealing with sections of classes with upwards of 30 students. But, at what point do you start sacrificing effective teaching and learning for individual students in exchange for what works well enough for the group, knowing that you've only got 'x' minutes in a day? This becomes a harder question in an Essential School, which demands each teacher take on a student load of NO GREATER THAN 80 students. Essential Schools live and breathe on the idea that what truly makes a difference in moving student achievement is knowing them well. How can you know a hundred kids well, let alone more?
The key to this has been working with another teacher again. C and I have around 13 years of experience between us, and we have been spot on about planning and sticking to routines and setting reasonable objectives. Working with another teacher lightens the load and keeps you accountable to the work. This week, I've been less stressed and more organized. My plans feel more solid because another mind has been present to hash them out. We split the load of maintaining our homework site and we write our assessments and rubrics together. We even (for the moment) have a planning period together. It's fantastic.
I often wonder what the impact would be if teachers worked in pairs like this, splitting their main course when the course falls squarely within the core curriculum, and when the enrollment simply becomes unsustainable should it be handled by one person. Teaching is often an insular, lonely profession, and I have been hiding in my own little cave for two years at my school. Sharing that cave with another teacher sheds light on the way I've been teaching and working for most of my career: like a hermit scared to let others in for fear of what they might see. Now, C watches my first period class and I watch her second. There aren't any secrets anymore. It's so good, because our mistakes must be addressed by us both, and our moments of brilliance (come on, you teachers, we all have them!) can be truly shared.
This has kept me sane in the wake of overcrowded classes (our school's classrooms were designed to seat no more than 12, and mine, no more than 18) and the overbearing pressure to do well from NCLB (we are only four years away from 2014). I also feel like my teaching is just, well, better. I think we all do better when someone else, who's got just as much experience and just as much knowledge (or more, in some cases) is there, watching you and depending on you, for better or worse.
Maybe this is why no one stands watch alone.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Man in the Mirror
Yes, this entry is named after a Michael Jackson song. Read on, you'll see why. ;)
Thursday and Friday were phenomenal days, and after one week of training, meetings, and all this other stuff, it was time to see kids.
In our school, we have advisories of anywhere from 10 to 15 kids, and we work toward fostering their academic and personal growth here. We also guide them through our end-of-year requirements in advisory; from grades 7-11, students must complete a portfolio of work aligned to certain grade-wide learning goals. Seniors must successfully complete a capstone project in order to graduate (in addition to their final coursework). This makes it a stressful, yet powerful year, as students frequently choose projects pertinent to the path they want to take after graduation.
I find it hard to counsel seniors when they have no clue what they want to do with their lives. In the case of these seniors, the high school diploma becomes their end more often than not. After that, it's joining the workforce and leaving their fates to the wind, which is a scary prospect in today's world/economy/whatever. And when students don't have a goal, the incentive to succeed is less likely to exist: if a high school diploma is good enough for a basic, 40-hour-a-week job, why should they do well? Why should they aspire to the greatness we expect?
This is not the case for my advisory. Every single one of my advisees has a purpose for their lives; something to shoot for and achieve. And, I saw in their parents' eyes and in their eyes that they want to succeed badly. From careers on the stage to work in customizing cars, every one of my advisees has a dream and a possible path to get there. And it was so fantastic to hear that they were genuinely excited to have me as an advisor. I don't mean to toot my own horn, but that was feedback I got in nearly every meeting.
So, now, in my fifth year, I have one more thing to fight for. I can feel that this will be so much different from advising ninth graders, because their aspirations are immediately on the line. What I read in the feedback of 'I can't wait to have you as an advisor' was 'I know you can help me achieve what I want to achieve', and while this is flattering and empowering, this feedback implies obligation. They are telling me to help them.
I made two simple statements in every meeting: that senior year was about making sure each student was in good position to do what they want with their lives when they are done. If that requires success, I go to see that they make it happen, even if that requires prodding and insistence and annoying the crap out of them. I made that perfectly clear. I also said that this will require accountability: that each advisee be accountable to me and that I be accountable to them. These statements went really well, with both parents and advisees.
So, why the Michael Jackson reference? I won't subject you to more reading by posting the lyrics (save for one line at the end), but the song makes reference to making change happen by changing yourself. I know, I know, it's a cliché message set to 80s synthbeat, but it connected. I said last entry that I didn't know how negativity I was bringing to my own profession, and it has become more clear that I must do my part here; I must bring some of my own positive into school every day. It started with these meetings Thursday.
-----------------//---------------
Riding that positive wave, Friday was a day of planning and preparation, but it also was interrupted by a meeting with ninth- and tenth-grade teachers and P about issues relating to student safety and classroom boundaries on those grades (sorry, can't talk about them as a result). At these meetings last year, it got really easy to turn negative. It always felt like an us-versus-them, can-or-can't, admin-versus-teacher-versus-student arrangement. This year was so different; all of these teachers were on the same page, and so was P. It was time for me to get there, too.
In the middle of the meeting, P had to leave and deal with an 'urgent' issue. P was our facilitator, and a meeting without a facilitator turns into a clusterbleep, usually. So, after noticing that our notetaker was trying to facilitate and scribe, without much success, I just started facilitating. It was what the discussion required, and I just did it. I could feel that we were all on the same page when talking about the well-being and safety of 160 students. I didn't want the meeting to slip.
I am a trained facilitator; I got that training from the National School Reform Faculty last year, and so far, I've been terrible at it. This time, people followed and respected protocol. Discussion was positive. I didn't do much straight contributing, but more leading and transitioning, which is what a good meeting facilitator should do. I led the group through to a final agreement on uniform non-negotiable rules, moving the discussion when it got stale. We got done what we needed to, and in good time.
I knew, though, that it wasn't my facilitating strength getting us through. It was knowing that we ALL were right on purpose, myself included, with an understanding that the goal is essential to our success this year. And it felt GOOD. VERY GOOD.
School starts Monday.
-----------------//----------------
You've gotta get it right, while you've got the time, cause when you close your heart, then you close your mind...
Thursday and Friday were phenomenal days, and after one week of training, meetings, and all this other stuff, it was time to see kids.
In our school, we have advisories of anywhere from 10 to 15 kids, and we work toward fostering their academic and personal growth here. We also guide them through our end-of-year requirements in advisory; from grades 7-11, students must complete a portfolio of work aligned to certain grade-wide learning goals. Seniors must successfully complete a capstone project in order to graduate (in addition to their final coursework). This makes it a stressful, yet powerful year, as students frequently choose projects pertinent to the path they want to take after graduation.
I find it hard to counsel seniors when they have no clue what they want to do with their lives. In the case of these seniors, the high school diploma becomes their end more often than not. After that, it's joining the workforce and leaving their fates to the wind, which is a scary prospect in today's world/economy/whatever. And when students don't have a goal, the incentive to succeed is less likely to exist: if a high school diploma is good enough for a basic, 40-hour-a-week job, why should they do well? Why should they aspire to the greatness we expect?
This is not the case for my advisory. Every single one of my advisees has a purpose for their lives; something to shoot for and achieve. And, I saw in their parents' eyes and in their eyes that they want to succeed badly. From careers on the stage to work in customizing cars, every one of my advisees has a dream and a possible path to get there. And it was so fantastic to hear that they were genuinely excited to have me as an advisor. I don't mean to toot my own horn, but that was feedback I got in nearly every meeting.
So, now, in my fifth year, I have one more thing to fight for. I can feel that this will be so much different from advising ninth graders, because their aspirations are immediately on the line. What I read in the feedback of 'I can't wait to have you as an advisor' was 'I know you can help me achieve what I want to achieve', and while this is flattering and empowering, this feedback implies obligation. They are telling me to help them.
I made two simple statements in every meeting: that senior year was about making sure each student was in good position to do what they want with their lives when they are done. If that requires success, I go to see that they make it happen, even if that requires prodding and insistence and annoying the crap out of them. I made that perfectly clear. I also said that this will require accountability: that each advisee be accountable to me and that I be accountable to them. These statements went really well, with both parents and advisees.
So, why the Michael Jackson reference? I won't subject you to more reading by posting the lyrics (save for one line at the end), but the song makes reference to making change happen by changing yourself. I know, I know, it's a cliché message set to 80s synthbeat, but it connected. I said last entry that I didn't know how negativity I was bringing to my own profession, and it has become more clear that I must do my part here; I must bring some of my own positive into school every day. It started with these meetings Thursday.
-----------------//---------------
Riding that positive wave, Friday was a day of planning and preparation, but it also was interrupted by a meeting with ninth- and tenth-grade teachers and P about issues relating to student safety and classroom boundaries on those grades (sorry, can't talk about them as a result). At these meetings last year, it got really easy to turn negative. It always felt like an us-versus-them, can-or-can't, admin-versus-teacher-versus-student arrangement. This year was so different; all of these teachers were on the same page, and so was P. It was time for me to get there, too.
In the middle of the meeting, P had to leave and deal with an 'urgent' issue. P was our facilitator, and a meeting without a facilitator turns into a clusterbleep, usually. So, after noticing that our notetaker was trying to facilitate and scribe, without much success, I just started facilitating. It was what the discussion required, and I just did it. I could feel that we were all on the same page when talking about the well-being and safety of 160 students. I didn't want the meeting to slip.
I am a trained facilitator; I got that training from the National School Reform Faculty last year, and so far, I've been terrible at it. This time, people followed and respected protocol. Discussion was positive. I didn't do much straight contributing, but more leading and transitioning, which is what a good meeting facilitator should do. I led the group through to a final agreement on uniform non-negotiable rules, moving the discussion when it got stale. We got done what we needed to, and in good time.
I knew, though, that it wasn't my facilitating strength getting us through. It was knowing that we ALL were right on purpose, myself included, with an understanding that the goal is essential to our success this year. And it felt GOOD. VERY GOOD.
School starts Monday.
-----------------//----------------
You've gotta get it right, while you've got the time, cause when you close your heart, then you close your mind...
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Bystanders
Today was a very, very hard day. It doesn't help that I had a dream about losing my wife to cancer in an instant, and that same dream jolted me from a dead sleep at 12:30 AM. Any time a teacher's sleep cycles are thrown for a loop, that teacher knows they're in for a doozy. My rule proves to be true today.
Our training was called Training Active Bystanders. Basically, this training meant to make staff more aware and empowered around rooting out harmdoing in our schools, by working to encourage everyone to be 'active bystanders': people who feel an obligation to look out for others and help to maintain a sense of decency in the behavior of the school's population. I should note that means not JUST the students. This training wasn't focused on student behavior; it was focused on the entire school, from student to school culture. This was good, and I was pleased to see that our school was employing a whole-school strategy to inform how we diffuse conflict and harm every day.
But, my skepticism of it all remained really high.
Throughout the training, I couldn't help but think or notice that our schools are still full of adults and students who are bystanders: people who do not have (or feel they have) the power or the courage to address these sorts of conflicts when they involve others, and often, students AND teachers get caught in the crossfire of these conflicts, with others simply watching, or disavowing the existence of any harm.
Mind you, I can tell the difference between simple, playful jokes and something truly hurtful. I think we all can, and if that doesn't happen, I think teachers and students with decent social awareness can diffuse those situations with time and conversation (and a good support system: adults and peers they can trust). But, I have heard hateful things escape the mouths of every student, of every teacher (including me) and every administrator (and outside of school, many people). I have received those hateful gestures, and I have let them go on several occasions. And when I am on the receiving end (called a 'target' in this training), I remember feeling like bystanders in those situations were no better than those who meant to do me harm on purpose.
I am leaving the details out of the training, and therefore not doing it justice, I know. The training really was good, and I learned a lot from it. But, I think the most telling thing about me was what I noticed about how I view the people I work with. After the training, I found myself looking at a person and deciding: active bystander (someone standing up against harm)... passive bystander (complacent or complicit to harm)... harmdoer... target...
I know this isn't fair. I know it deep in my heart. I want to assume that every person in the school is a force for good for our kids, really, but my gut told me something else. The training gave me labels and I was using them shamelessly, applying them everywhere I saw potential. And if I was doing that, had the training really helped me? Did I trust in its purpose, or in the fact that the decision to bring it was an acknowledgment of a negative culture in our school that needed to end? Was I going to leave school doing this to others, seeing a friend or a loved one and, because of one harm they had done, say in my own mind, 'harmdoer'?
I was scared, because I know me: I don't let these things go. I think if I am going to be an active bystander in life, let alone my own community of learners, I have to forgive those I am labeling as 'harmdoer', make a commitment to those I have labeled as 'target' to look out for their well-being, no matter who they are, and empower the 'bystanders' by believing in them.
Where do I start? The 'harmdoers' I pointed out are mostly administrators: P and E, and others who I have felt silenced by. How can I have that conversation when they have the conversation about my employment? What's the good way to tell them that I felt like they had really done me harm for no reason at all, without sounding vindictive or accusatory? Could I trust that they could mend bridges with me? With others? Could I trust them after we had?
I don't know. Last year, by the end of the year, I had lost my trust in just about everyone, save for two 'active bystanders' that happen to be my department chairs...let's call them 'C' and 'L'. C and L have been wonderful to me, and I feel like they are two of my only allies now. They were my active bystanders. Other than them and a few others, I still have a distrust of, well, just about everyone. Do targets maintain this distrust for a year? Two years? Forever? How do we heal when we are targets of harm?
I feel like the lesson for me is that in order to make headway in our schools, to truly help our kids grow, we in schools (not teachers, mind you, but administrators, parents, teachers, and students, and anyone else there to fulfill the school's mission) need to be committed to one another, regardless of our job title or who we are in the school. We all need to be worried about the well-being of ourselves and all others first, and when we are reckoning with wrongdoing, we must forgive. And I can't give my school a second chance, I can't give this profession a second chance, if I can't forgive.
Forgive...it's hard, when I still think of those people and a small, scared voice says, 'Harmdoer. Go back to your classroom; it's safe there.'
It's no accident that, when asked, students identify classrooms as the one safe place in a school. Shouldn't you be safe anywhere in a school? In the presence of anyone? No matter who you are?
Our training was called Training Active Bystanders. Basically, this training meant to make staff more aware and empowered around rooting out harmdoing in our schools, by working to encourage everyone to be 'active bystanders': people who feel an obligation to look out for others and help to maintain a sense of decency in the behavior of the school's population. I should note that means not JUST the students. This training wasn't focused on student behavior; it was focused on the entire school, from student to school culture. This was good, and I was pleased to see that our school was employing a whole-school strategy to inform how we diffuse conflict and harm every day.
But, my skepticism of it all remained really high.
Throughout the training, I couldn't help but think or notice that our schools are still full of adults and students who are bystanders: people who do not have (or feel they have) the power or the courage to address these sorts of conflicts when they involve others, and often, students AND teachers get caught in the crossfire of these conflicts, with others simply watching, or disavowing the existence of any harm.
Mind you, I can tell the difference between simple, playful jokes and something truly hurtful. I think we all can, and if that doesn't happen, I think teachers and students with decent social awareness can diffuse those situations with time and conversation (and a good support system: adults and peers they can trust). But, I have heard hateful things escape the mouths of every student, of every teacher (including me) and every administrator (and outside of school, many people). I have received those hateful gestures, and I have let them go on several occasions. And when I am on the receiving end (called a 'target' in this training), I remember feeling like bystanders in those situations were no better than those who meant to do me harm on purpose.
I am leaving the details out of the training, and therefore not doing it justice, I know. The training really was good, and I learned a lot from it. But, I think the most telling thing about me was what I noticed about how I view the people I work with. After the training, I found myself looking at a person and deciding: active bystander (someone standing up against harm)... passive bystander (complacent or complicit to harm)... harmdoer... target...
I know this isn't fair. I know it deep in my heart. I want to assume that every person in the school is a force for good for our kids, really, but my gut told me something else. The training gave me labels and I was using them shamelessly, applying them everywhere I saw potential. And if I was doing that, had the training really helped me? Did I trust in its purpose, or in the fact that the decision to bring it was an acknowledgment of a negative culture in our school that needed to end? Was I going to leave school doing this to others, seeing a friend or a loved one and, because of one harm they had done, say in my own mind, 'harmdoer'?
I was scared, because I know me: I don't let these things go. I think if I am going to be an active bystander in life, let alone my own community of learners, I have to forgive those I am labeling as 'harmdoer', make a commitment to those I have labeled as 'target' to look out for their well-being, no matter who they are, and empower the 'bystanders' by believing in them.
Where do I start? The 'harmdoers' I pointed out are mostly administrators: P and E, and others who I have felt silenced by. How can I have that conversation when they have the conversation about my employment? What's the good way to tell them that I felt like they had really done me harm for no reason at all, without sounding vindictive or accusatory? Could I trust that they could mend bridges with me? With others? Could I trust them after we had?
I don't know. Last year, by the end of the year, I had lost my trust in just about everyone, save for two 'active bystanders' that happen to be my department chairs...let's call them 'C' and 'L'. C and L have been wonderful to me, and I feel like they are two of my only allies now. They were my active bystanders. Other than them and a few others, I still have a distrust of, well, just about everyone. Do targets maintain this distrust for a year? Two years? Forever? How do we heal when we are targets of harm?
I feel like the lesson for me is that in order to make headway in our schools, to truly help our kids grow, we in schools (not teachers, mind you, but administrators, parents, teachers, and students, and anyone else there to fulfill the school's mission) need to be committed to one another, regardless of our job title or who we are in the school. We all need to be worried about the well-being of ourselves and all others first, and when we are reckoning with wrongdoing, we must forgive. And I can't give my school a second chance, I can't give this profession a second chance, if I can't forgive.
Forgive...it's hard, when I still think of those people and a small, scared voice says, 'Harmdoer. Go back to your classroom; it's safe there.'
It's no accident that, when asked, students identify classrooms as the one safe place in a school. Shouldn't you be safe anywhere in a school? In the presence of anyone? No matter who you are?
Monday, August 23, 2010
Patches and Plaid?
If my day simply consisted of the work we did at the end of the day, where we set senior project dates, and the beginning of the day, where we did all of our chest-beating about why we do this work, today really would have been average. We got all the standard start-of-year amenities: coffee, pastries I shouldn't eat because I don't know how many points they were, lunch from our PTO, the chance to socialize with people I haven't seen since June. We got pats on the back for our standardized test scores, from 'P' and 'E' (our Executive Director), and a new, more organized vision of where our school needs to go to achieve great things.
These are things I have heard before, every year, in school districts and in my school, a charter school. As I said in my last entry, we do this dance every year and it always sounds good at the time, but this year I have come to realize that these things just sound the same.
This year, however, we had a guest speaker: the founding principal of our school, who has come back to serve on the Board of Directors. She was a consultant reviewing and studying charter schools all over the country, and she came in to share what she had found regarding how successful charter schools run.
According to her, successful charter schools:
She said that all of the outstanding charter schools she visited wore uniforms, observing that they helped give students a tangible representation of the sense of pride, community, and accomplishment that went with their special charter school. It meant they belonged to something, to a community, greater than the sum of its parts, and had a chance to succeed in bleak places like Detroit or the hard, tough parts of New York City. She talked about how families near some of these schools were attracted at once by the uniforms alone. She mentioned that not adopting uniforms is a regret she had regarding our school's founding.
I remember looking around the room at that moment, judging the reaction of the rest of the staff. Here, we had a crew that I was sure would scoff, sigh, and shake their heads at this idea. Our staff stands up so frequently for student individualism and right to express; we tend to lump this under student 'voice'. But, at this moment, I saw some tilt their heads back and close their eyes, others slowly nodding in agreement. I found myself doing the same thing.
Now, I'm not saying that school uniforms are the one solution to the problems plaguing our schools, and I do think there are equity issues that come with such a requirement (especially if they are totally prescribed, or if families are required to buy them). The point is really irrelevant; I felt more refreshed by the out-of-the-blue nature of the idea (which, decades ago, would not have been true).
It was something that had me fired up. I wanted to talk to this woman, who had founded my school nine years ago. I wanted to shake her hand and ask for her time, and ask if she felt like the girls should get an option of wearing pants or skirts, or if she'd commission a special plaid to emphasize the uniqueness of the school, or if we would have weird patches or initiation ceremonies; I wanted to ask her what her vision for this idea would be. I wanted to engage in a conversation about education that WASN'T philosophical, one that rubbed against the grain that we are stuck in in so many schools, the grain of comfort and complacency.
I think that was the moment I was really looking for. I needed to find affirmation of our work in something completely unique, something that challenged what we had otherwise taken for granted. Teaching should be about pushing the envelope, about challenging the status quo, because the status quo is saying right now that not every student succeeds. This inspiring woman at the front of our common was saying that good schools DEMAND student success, rather than 'teach, test, and pray for the best'; the fact that they wore uniforms simply reinforced a community of learners and a culture devoted to success and achievement. (After all, she said, in the 'real world', you dress: for fun, for friends, for work, for school.)
My last thought, as I walked out the door at 3:15, was this: if one person who founded this school had the courage to get up and push our envelopes, why were the rest of us passing around cliches? Why is it that, when asked what words should greet our students every day, I saw everyday phrases like 'success starts here', or 'your journey to success starts here', or 'you CAN succeed today'? Why did it feel so strange, so taboo, to say 'you MUST succeed today', 'I DEMAND that you give your all today'?
What if we had the courage to tell our students that success is not a choice in our school? That it is who we are, part of our culture? How much different would the job be?
If success were a thread in our uniform, and it were required, would our students wear it? Would they walk in the door? Would they be proud to wear those patches, wear that plaid?
Would I?
These are things I have heard before, every year, in school districts and in my school, a charter school. As I said in my last entry, we do this dance every year and it always sounds good at the time, but this year I have come to realize that these things just sound the same.
This year, however, we had a guest speaker: the founding principal of our school, who has come back to serve on the Board of Directors. She was a consultant reviewing and studying charter schools all over the country, and she came in to share what she had found regarding how successful charter schools run.
According to her, successful charter schools:
- Successfully bear a strong culture through their students, faculty, and staff;
- Have one defining characteristic (or more) in practice in ALL classrooms;
- Are data-driven (and she acknowledged the overused nature of the term);
- Have a staff completely 'on the same page', with no renegade behavior that separates them from the school (she said: 'you can't be in private practice with public dollars');
- Reinforce a strong sense of belonging and pride in the school;
- Expect that students EXCEED expectations, as opposed to meeting them.
She said that all of the outstanding charter schools she visited wore uniforms, observing that they helped give students a tangible representation of the sense of pride, community, and accomplishment that went with their special charter school. It meant they belonged to something, to a community, greater than the sum of its parts, and had a chance to succeed in bleak places like Detroit or the hard, tough parts of New York City. She talked about how families near some of these schools were attracted at once by the uniforms alone. She mentioned that not adopting uniforms is a regret she had regarding our school's founding.
I remember looking around the room at that moment, judging the reaction of the rest of the staff. Here, we had a crew that I was sure would scoff, sigh, and shake their heads at this idea. Our staff stands up so frequently for student individualism and right to express; we tend to lump this under student 'voice'. But, at this moment, I saw some tilt their heads back and close their eyes, others slowly nodding in agreement. I found myself doing the same thing.
Now, I'm not saying that school uniforms are the one solution to the problems plaguing our schools, and I do think there are equity issues that come with such a requirement (especially if they are totally prescribed, or if families are required to buy them). The point is really irrelevant; I felt more refreshed by the out-of-the-blue nature of the idea (which, decades ago, would not have been true).
It was something that had me fired up. I wanted to talk to this woman, who had founded my school nine years ago. I wanted to shake her hand and ask for her time, and ask if she felt like the girls should get an option of wearing pants or skirts, or if she'd commission a special plaid to emphasize the uniqueness of the school, or if we would have weird patches or initiation ceremonies; I wanted to ask her what her vision for this idea would be. I wanted to engage in a conversation about education that WASN'T philosophical, one that rubbed against the grain that we are stuck in in so many schools, the grain of comfort and complacency.
I think that was the moment I was really looking for. I needed to find affirmation of our work in something completely unique, something that challenged what we had otherwise taken for granted. Teaching should be about pushing the envelope, about challenging the status quo, because the status quo is saying right now that not every student succeeds. This inspiring woman at the front of our common was saying that good schools DEMAND student success, rather than 'teach, test, and pray for the best'; the fact that they wore uniforms simply reinforced a community of learners and a culture devoted to success and achievement. (After all, she said, in the 'real world', you dress: for fun, for friends, for work, for school.)
My last thought, as I walked out the door at 3:15, was this: if one person who founded this school had the courage to get up and push our envelopes, why were the rest of us passing around cliches? Why is it that, when asked what words should greet our students every day, I saw everyday phrases like 'success starts here', or 'your journey to success starts here', or 'you CAN succeed today'? Why did it feel so strange, so taboo, to say 'you MUST succeed today', 'I DEMAND that you give your all today'?
What if we had the courage to tell our students that success is not a choice in our school? That it is who we are, part of our culture? How much different would the job be?
If success were a thread in our uniform, and it were required, would our students wear it? Would they walk in the door? Would they be proud to wear those patches, wear that plaid?
Would I?
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Beating Our Own Chests
Tomorrow, all teachers report to school for a week of 'professional development' and meetings with parents. Thus, I start another school year with about 40 faculty, a handful of administrators, and others who help the gears of our school turn.
I have never understood why we do this until this year. We come into school early, and the first two days, outside of the logistics, is a song-and-dance about 'best practice', and 'serving kids well', and all of those educational buzzwords. I got a packet in the mail from my principal (who I will shorten to 'P') with much of the same type of stuff: readings that talk about how to teach well in lofty, philosophical terms. Preaching to the choir, all of it.
This used to be the part of the year that fired me up and got me off to a 'good start'. I always felt good after this pep talk, after a summer's rest and the high of seeing seniors graduate. I never saw its purpose beyond that, as I was blinded by the surface importance of talking about 'issues of equity', 'teaching and learning'...the buzzwords go on.
This time, I am simply reminded of The Ghost and the Darkness, where Michael Douglas is Charles Remington dancing with the Maasai before the hunt of a killer lion, and the other members of his cohort are talking about how he came to be there: veteran of the Civil War (a Confederate), roaming the world in exile, hunting all over. He says that he's going to join the Maasai in their dance, and 'convince each other that [they]'re still brave.'
How is meeting for a week as a faculty any different? We are simply there to reaffirm that we do this work for a reason, and that we might just do it well. If you know the movie, you know that they haven't actually hunted down the lion yet, and they don't. They are not successful. Who's to say that they don't convince themselves every time that they're still brave, only to come up short a quarter, a third, half the time? All the time? Who says we're good at what we do, really?
I think in years past, I felt like a member of the Maasai, taking pride in doing the dance around the fire, getting the rush and the urge to hunt. Now I feel like Remington, who cynically sees through the pomp and circumstance of the dance to what it is, purely: an act of beating on our own chests, convincing ourselves we are brave.
--------------------------------------------------------
I think what I am most scared of this year is just knowing that what I love to do is on the line in my heart every day. If you're a teacher, you know that you can reach out and almost touch the purity of teaching. It's a rush like no other, because you simply feel that you've made an impact, however slight. It's crazy, I know, to describe it as spiritual, and some might not feel that way, but I do. Why can't that purity be present in all aspects of our work? It's not, but it should be.
--------------------------------------------------------
Hawthorne: I wouldn't have thought bravery would be a problem for you.
Charles Remington: Well, you hope each time it won't be... But you never really know.
-----------//-----------
I have never understood why we do this until this year. We come into school early, and the first two days, outside of the logistics, is a song-and-dance about 'best practice', and 'serving kids well', and all of those educational buzzwords. I got a packet in the mail from my principal (who I will shorten to 'P') with much of the same type of stuff: readings that talk about how to teach well in lofty, philosophical terms. Preaching to the choir, all of it.
This used to be the part of the year that fired me up and got me off to a 'good start'. I always felt good after this pep talk, after a summer's rest and the high of seeing seniors graduate. I never saw its purpose beyond that, as I was blinded by the surface importance of talking about 'issues of equity', 'teaching and learning'...the buzzwords go on.
This time, I am simply reminded of The Ghost and the Darkness, where Michael Douglas is Charles Remington dancing with the Maasai before the hunt of a killer lion, and the other members of his cohort are talking about how he came to be there: veteran of the Civil War (a Confederate), roaming the world in exile, hunting all over. He says that he's going to join the Maasai in their dance, and 'convince each other that [they]'re still brave.'
How is meeting for a week as a faculty any different? We are simply there to reaffirm that we do this work for a reason, and that we might just do it well. If you know the movie, you know that they haven't actually hunted down the lion yet, and they don't. They are not successful. Who's to say that they don't convince themselves every time that they're still brave, only to come up short a quarter, a third, half the time? All the time? Who says we're good at what we do, really?
I think in years past, I felt like a member of the Maasai, taking pride in doing the dance around the fire, getting the rush and the urge to hunt. Now I feel like Remington, who cynically sees through the pomp and circumstance of the dance to what it is, purely: an act of beating on our own chests, convincing ourselves we are brave.
--------------------------------------------------------
I think what I am most scared of this year is just knowing that what I love to do is on the line in my heart every day. If you're a teacher, you know that you can reach out and almost touch the purity of teaching. It's a rush like no other, because you simply feel that you've made an impact, however slight. It's crazy, I know, to describe it as spiritual, and some might not feel that way, but I do. Why can't that purity be present in all aspects of our work? It's not, but it should be.
--------------------------------------------------------
Hawthorne: I wouldn't have thought bravery would be a problem for you.
Charles Remington: Well, you hope each time it won't be... But you never really know.
-----------//-----------
Friday, August 20, 2010
Year Five: An Introduction
Well, this is it.
I am currently in my fifth year of teaching, and according to everything I have heard about teacher longevity (this Washington Post article is an example of these relics), I should be done next year, plain and simple.
And, you know, I'm surprised I haven't jumped ship sooner. I've been fired, screamed at by one principal and guilt-tripped by another, worked 14- and 16- hour days, only to wake up and realize it's a Tuesday and my grading still wasn't done. I've written curriculum that sucked, or was told it sucked before it even hit the ground. I've sat through more ineffective professional development than I can quantify through simple mathematics and I've railed against those that provide it to ill effect. And, last but not least, I have seen teachers, through teachers' unions, fight this battle through the same political muckraking that corrupts other causes I once thought were noble.
This should be it, but here I am, writing and thinking about it on August 20th, 2010, on a beautiful evening.
Why am I thinking about this?
I am not entirely sure. I think it is because I do really love teaching. It is an identity thing for me, part of who I am, and in Years Two and Three, I thought there was no way I'd ever do anything else. Sure, it got tough, but what job doesn't? Aside from that, kids love you, kids learn with you, kids find value in your classes. No big deal, right?
Well, that's just it. I've entertained the thought of leaving this job. I came close to sending my resume out the door last year, and I came closer this summer. And while it would be heartbreaking to depart teaching, I feel like sometimes it might be necessary to preserve my sanity, my soul, and my heart.
The bottom line is that I feel at once redeemed, enlightened, abused, neglected, and alone in this work, distrustful in others who are supposed to be helping us do it well (read: administrators, parents, students, and yes, other teachers). I desperately wish teaching could happen just in the classroom, but it doesn't. The truth of the matter is that the 'trenches' teachers talk about involve some ugly parts of schools in America that others rarely see, and that, according to the Washington Post, 1 in 2 teachers survive.
I think I started this blog for two reasons: first is that my other educational blogs failed miserably, because they were just on the 'state of education' in general in America. Too broad, too unfocused, too hard to write about. I needed one with a goal, with a specific purpose and a learning objective.
The second reason is that learning objective: I need to understand why people leave this profession, and I need to understand why they leave it and say that they love it at its core: guiding students to an education that empowers them to succeed. I need to get what else is out there; what teachers find when they do leave, and leave forever. Finally, I need to reaffirm the purpose of this work, beyond the 'meager' pay and 'horrendous' working conditions that so many teachers complain about.
I need to know why that lady in New Jersey was so fired about Governor Christie's tax cuts, really.
I need to know why two teachers I know left the profession for industry last year.
I need to know precisely why I come home from an average day feeling like I've had the emotional shit beaten out of me, and why I didn't feel better after seeing the pomp and circumstance that followed the graduating class of 2010 out the door.
I need to know why I do this, and why it is so likely that I will leave this year.
If you are reading this, thank you. I just want to let you know in advance that I don't expect you to; this is more for me than anything else. But, comments and insights are welcome; who knows...you might even be a teacher in my shoes, or past them. Either way, I will conclude this blog at the end of this, my fifth year of teaching, and you'll know exactly what I chose to do.
For my purposes, you will never know where I teach or who I teach with, unless you know who I am in the first place. If that is the case, I beg you to hold this in strict confidence, because the things I am likely to say here could get me fired. It is just that simple.
I am currently in my fifth year of teaching, and according to everything I have heard about teacher longevity (this Washington Post article is an example of these relics), I should be done next year, plain and simple.
And, you know, I'm surprised I haven't jumped ship sooner. I've been fired, screamed at by one principal and guilt-tripped by another, worked 14- and 16- hour days, only to wake up and realize it's a Tuesday and my grading still wasn't done. I've written curriculum that sucked, or was told it sucked before it even hit the ground. I've sat through more ineffective professional development than I can quantify through simple mathematics and I've railed against those that provide it to ill effect. And, last but not least, I have seen teachers, through teachers' unions, fight this battle through the same political muckraking that corrupts other causes I once thought were noble.
This should be it, but here I am, writing and thinking about it on August 20th, 2010, on a beautiful evening.
Why am I thinking about this?
I am not entirely sure. I think it is because I do really love teaching. It is an identity thing for me, part of who I am, and in Years Two and Three, I thought there was no way I'd ever do anything else. Sure, it got tough, but what job doesn't? Aside from that, kids love you, kids learn with you, kids find value in your classes. No big deal, right?
Well, that's just it. I've entertained the thought of leaving this job. I came close to sending my resume out the door last year, and I came closer this summer. And while it would be heartbreaking to depart teaching, I feel like sometimes it might be necessary to preserve my sanity, my soul, and my heart.
The bottom line is that I feel at once redeemed, enlightened, abused, neglected, and alone in this work, distrustful in others who are supposed to be helping us do it well (read: administrators, parents, students, and yes, other teachers). I desperately wish teaching could happen just in the classroom, but it doesn't. The truth of the matter is that the 'trenches' teachers talk about involve some ugly parts of schools in America that others rarely see, and that, according to the Washington Post, 1 in 2 teachers survive.
I think I started this blog for two reasons: first is that my other educational blogs failed miserably, because they were just on the 'state of education' in general in America. Too broad, too unfocused, too hard to write about. I needed one with a goal, with a specific purpose and a learning objective.
The second reason is that learning objective: I need to understand why people leave this profession, and I need to understand why they leave it and say that they love it at its core: guiding students to an education that empowers them to succeed. I need to get what else is out there; what teachers find when they do leave, and leave forever. Finally, I need to reaffirm the purpose of this work, beyond the 'meager' pay and 'horrendous' working conditions that so many teachers complain about.
I need to know why that lady in New Jersey was so fired about Governor Christie's tax cuts, really.
I need to know why two teachers I know left the profession for industry last year.
I need to know precisely why I come home from an average day feeling like I've had the emotional shit beaten out of me, and why I didn't feel better after seeing the pomp and circumstance that followed the graduating class of 2010 out the door.
I need to know why I do this, and why it is so likely that I will leave this year.
If you are reading this, thank you. I just want to let you know in advance that I don't expect you to; this is more for me than anything else. But, comments and insights are welcome; who knows...you might even be a teacher in my shoes, or past them. Either way, I will conclude this blog at the end of this, my fifth year of teaching, and you'll know exactly what I chose to do.
For my purposes, you will never know where I teach or who I teach with, unless you know who I am in the first place. If that is the case, I beg you to hold this in strict confidence, because the things I am likely to say here could get me fired. It is just that simple.
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