Tag Archives: Teacher

Building Bridges Instead of Burning Them–EdTechRI

Posted on by
1

Shawn and HeatherI was teaching a unit that was boring. But it’s in the curriculum so I had no choice. I tried to chug it down and get on to something better. I gave the test. They bombed.  I don’t even like tests–In a few years, I bet we won’t even need tests–they’ll wear a Yankee Hat that will suck out their collective knowledge and send me a report.  I won’t even have to teach them because there will be an app for that too. Oh, how much money the tax payer will save!

All these apps are very cool–it’s what I’m trying to do–get these things into the classroom.  But sometimes looking around at the old and the new in classrooms makes me wonder if I’ll ever get to the Yankee Hat stage.

Yesterday, all that faded into the background. I was in the middle of an event designed to change the world. An event filled with rock stars, creating rock star vision. It was the EdTechRI Shark Tank Smackdown. Actually, I think there was a better name than that, but it was really the culmination of a year or so of work where we sat down and got key players together at the table to discuss the issues faced by educators and entrepreneurs system-wide. The bottom line, educators and entrepreneurs need a constant dialogue. By opening the lines of communication, we solve problems and get those solutions where they need to be most–to the teachers and the students who need them.

Last night’s event was beautiful. It was sponsored by the Highlander Institute, which brings blended learning (teachers using tech and traditional methods) and EdTech accelerator Socratic Labs, (they help ed tech startups develop so they can be successful) and housed at the very classy Rhode Island Foundation, which supports pretty much every good mission in the state.

photoThis event was special for me. When I started my tech journey approximately one year ago, simply by making a few Learnist boards and beginning to use them in my classroom, I never imagined it would end in my involvement with Learnist, EdTechRI, and the EdUnderground–in getting to work with some of the world’s best and brightest in the field of teaching and educational technology–in seeing both sides come together.

It seemed there was a disconnect–education on one side, and entrepreneurs on the other. School systems didn’t always get the best technology, and entrepreneurs certainly wanted to build it, but they sometimes lacked access to the feedback they needed from the classroom end. Teachers would say, “Oh, you’re a vendor.” Vendors sell stuff. Entrepreneurs and visionaries create stuff. Totally different. We don’t have vendors. We have visionaries creating critical solutions with cutting-edge technology.

In getting the sides together, Rhode Island is solving problems in education.  Some of the best platforms in the world need one or two simple tweaks to rock the education world. Teachers give that feedback. I’ve seen this first hand. It’s magic.  By getting the educators and the entrepreneurs together, we eliminate about seven layers of bureaucracy. We have the tough conversations we need to have about our commitment to engaging students and making education real–and better. By involving visionaries, creating bridges and partnerships with the best and brightest the teaching and technology worlds have to offer, everyone wins.

I looked around the room, and saw the picture.  My friend Heather Gilchrist, who mentors startups and has personally yanked me off a cliff on my own entrepreneurial journey. Shawn Rubin, who, though he doesn’t know it yet, is pretty much the face of EdTech in Rhode Island and will be on the forefront of this momentum nationally. My EdUnderground friends and antagonists. A room full of startups and entrepreneurs in various stages of development pitching their creations to smiling teachers and educational leaders, all  tweeting feedback on the board. A food spread that reminded me of classy seminars when I was in Corporate America. People laughing and having a good time. Business cards exchanging, entrepreneurs and teachers lighting up when they found the right match to discuss needs and solutions, and in general magic in the air.

And I got to come along for the ride.

To be continued…

 

Sloooowwww Down! And Do Not Delete

Posted on by
4

Screen Shot 2013-05-08 at 6.14.27 AM“No!!” I said as I watched my finger click “Don’t save.”

I was multitasking–talking, thinking, and typing, laptop balanced on my knee. My finger headed for the wrong square. Microsoft Word gave me the a courtesy reminder.

“Are you SURE you want to push the left-hand button, you absolute idiot, given the fact that you’ve transcribed each conversation, pre-written three articles, and put down all your ideas in this one Word document which you haven’t named or saved all day? ARE YOU QUITE CERTAIN YOU WANT TO DELETE ‘DOCUMENT 1′?”

And yet my finger could not change course. It was a little like watching a horror movie, where I know the killer’s in the closet but can’t warn the hero. Click. Fear washed over my body. The document was gone.

“Why didn’t you write it in Google Docs?” said Helpful Friend. The network isn’t reliable at school, usually frozen while Google “searches for the network.” I’ve been programmed to use other things. But thank you for the tip–maybe next time suggest that I save my docs every four days or so.

I’d have issued the “sucks to be you” look if this had been a student.

I was at EdCamp Boston. That’s what EdCamps do–generate eighty ideas at a time. EdCamps are “unconferences.” People get together and share ideas. They present what they want, they move around, when things interest them, and they fall into a million conversations at once–this is just the type of thing a multitasking-probably ADHD-individual loves. I did my thing–I started a discussion about blogging in the classroom, showed how I use Learnist, Twitter and my blog to engage students, but really what I went to do was steal ideas.  ”So, does anyone else out there do this? What do you suggest?” It’s a beautiful thing.

I took all my ideas, and typed them neatly into a million-paged document, entitled “Document 1.”

I met some great educators. I went to my favorite presentation of the day, “How to be a badass teacher” which discussed how to maintain a positive outlook in the face of educational challenges, how to give oneself permission to move on to bigger and better things, and how to take back the climate and culture of a school. The discussion was crammed with innovative teachers in a small space in the Microsoft facilities second floor lounge–teachers sprawled on chairs, carpets, corners… all taking notes. “Document 1″ was filling rapidly.

“What do I do? I think differently and every time I come up with an innovation, I get put down,” said one teacher.

“We can’t seem to make any changes at my school,” said another.

“All the teachers at my school are old and cranky. And they hang out in the teacher’s lounge.” Everyone nodded.

“How do we create good mentoring situations so new teachers don’t get assaulted by well-meaning but cranky teachers?”  That question got a great answer. I typed it into Document 1.

“Let’s consider that these teachers have a lot of experience,” person suggested. “Maybe they’ve become tired. Been beaten down by the system. Really want to help you not experience the same thing,” he continued, “How do we get these nuggets of information from these experienced educators? Reinvigorate them? Approach them correctly to recognize their experience?” This was a critical comment for me.  I’ll admit I get frustrated–by the roadblocks–testing, standardization, data, data, data…

It’s important to have these conversations. To laugh. To brainstorm. To connect.

I learned so much. I typed away, I quoted, I reflected, introduced, exchanged business cards, ate a sandwich, made a Learnist board, wrote article outlines.

Then pressed delete.

Time to slow down. Pause. Think. Reflect. Consider. Do…not…delete.

All is not lost. The ideas sunk in. And maybe I shouldn’t have been typing all day in Document 1 anyway. It’s important, sometimes, to savor the experience of creating. “Experiences are everything,” says my good friend constantly.  Like when I used to do a lot of photography and spent more time hiding behind the lens than living. It’s like that.

Slow down. Breathe. Consider. Don’t push the button too fast. You’ll miss the essence of what’s behind it all. Life will pass you by.

Heroes

Posted on by
2

The boy slept on the desk. I woke him again. I wasn’t that boring. Maybe I was–am I qualified to make that determination? That was a minute of his life he would never get back. I asked him after class.

“Was I that boring?”

“No, Miss, I had to work.” He worked in his family business–a restaurant–until one or two o’clock in the morning most nights outside of soccer season.  We agreed that he would do his classwork on weekends.

Another girl was failing. She was absent all the time. She never came after school to make up her work. “Redo that test with me,” I said.

“I can’t stay after school. I’m not allowed.” She had to babysit. Her mom worked multiple shifts. Food and rent were important. We got up early and met in the mornings. Some days she stayed home. She emailed me. I sent her work.

Another boy disappeared for months at time. His family moved for work–migrants. I gave him an assignment to be done on the road, not really sure if he’d return.

Still another paid the rent for his whole family–as a sophomore. The parents couldn’t. He was told, “You can’t work that much. It’s now allowed.” Sometimes life doesn’t give us nice  choices. I bet he learned more about life than if he learned my questions one through three.

I have had emancipated students, young parents, students shouldering the family finances, students who were undocumented and hiding. One student couldn’t go back to see his mom before she died of cancer in their country–months before graduation. Another was the caretaker for her terminally ill mother. She put off college for her family. One year, I gave my September Survey, “What do you do for fun?” A freshman girl answered, “Not much–I play with my son.”

It’s easy to be judgmental–to look at the problems students face as they strive to make it through high school and into the world. Honestly, we all have problems, kid. Someday your boss will fire you if you don’t get the work done. But I’m here to help. Not to cram my material down your throat, because truth is–standards be damned–that might not be the biggest mountain you climb today. Just getting to the sunset might be the goal.

What’s the right approach? How can I serve you?

How can I make sure that even though you have nearly insurmountable issues,  you understand you can control the outcome? We all face mountains in our own way. You determine what you need to be successful and you make it happen with your grit and tenacity. You use these insurmountable issues to make yourself a better person; a better adult. Sometimes they become a blessing, a benefit to you in the future rather than something that kept you down. Realize that you have the skills, the dedication, and the desire to succeed. How can I give you that guarantee?

Judgmentalism. “She can’t stay home to translate.” “It’s illegal for him work that late.” “Going to your country for vacation for three weeks at Christmas is not an excused absence.” “How can they have kids so young?”

Families often fight to survive. Somewhere in between, that kid tries to do your math, my critical questions, and read a text that doesn’t seem to apply to his crisis. Sometimes they do it just because they like me. Then it’s up to me to provide the justification. The value.  In the midst of all this chaos–where each day crumbles into a survival mechanism in the outside world…I teach that education is the only lifelong friend–that no matter where you are,  education makes you better, equalizes the playing field. Education is not just the stuff in the books. The desire to learn more and the curiosity to refuse to let the flame extinguish is the single factor that gets you ahead.

Education must be flexible, personalized, and human–I say this even as I watch class plan after class plan be filled with standardized tests, post tests, high-stakes tests and entire credit classes that prepare students for tests.

Each student who comes through my door again and again is a hero. Especially the ones facing challenges so big they’d cripple adults. Yet they come, and they bring it every day, and they smile.  Someday soon, they will be great–no, they already are. Someday soon, they will be monumental. The biggest success. More successful than me.

That…is why…I teach.

 

The Reason for Low Test Scores is Teacher Clothes

Posted on by
6

Screen Shot 2012-12-05 at 6.09.31 AM

If you have followed my writings, you know that I struggle with fashion. I hate it, as a matter of fact, though with proper guidance I clean up well.  But I think I’m in a better place now than I was in September when I prayed for Carson Kressley to come and take me to 5th Avenue even if it meant that someone on reality TV got to laugh at my transformation.

I’m grateful, in part, to the lady at Banana Republic who took my coupons and came back with clothes. I’m not saying this was easy—I refused to let her put me in the size that she said fit, if only because it gave me an atomic wedgie of the proportion reserved for 80’s movies where the nerd got skewered on the flagpole. We don’t allow atomic wedgies these days—zero tolerance for bullying. As such, I refuse to be bullied by my own clothes—I’ll wear them slightly oversized.

I have improved in my ability to look at fashion. I’m in a place where I can now look in the mirror and determine if an outfit works or not even though I really don’t match colors well. I can’t, on a good day, place salmon in the color wheel and when called upon to choose colors for my bathroom, I redecorated using the colors of nature—yellow and green. It looked nothing like nature—it looked like it was a hangover job done by the marketing guy from Sprite.

So, I plagiarize a lot.  I’m not above looking at someone’s well put together purple sweater, realizing that I have a purple sweater sitting in a bin that could well see the light of day.  In fact, that’s how I chose my outfit today. And I seem to be getting by.

But there’s a larger disruption going on in the field of education today, something very wrong indeed. It’s lowering test scores and distracting students…It might be too late to save us, in which case we should just pack it up and declare Finland the winner in all things education. The problem, in my mind, isn’t the achievement gap. It’s…

Teacher clothes.

They’re horrible. If I think teacher clothes are an issue–zero fashion me–then there must be a disturbance in the force. When fashion is so…unique…that even I am distracted, I can say with data correlation that it most definitely affects student achievement. I couldn’t do a math paper if I had the opportunity to stare at my instructor’s Rudolph Christmas tie with the LED blinking nose.

I went to a conference recently. My favorite thing to do at teacher conferences is to look at teacher clothes.  It makes it tough to learn about, say, vocabulary or classroom management when there are so many bright and shiny things to capture my attention.

Teacher clothes have been the subject of jokes for 50 years.  The schoolmarm in the a-line skirt brandishing a ruler over the cowering students image that won’t go away. Every time I look around a room full of teachers, I see the following:

  • Power suits.  These are cool.  I suspect teachers with power suits came over from Corporate America seeking to change the world or work fewer hours. Since teaching is actually a 24/7 job, they probably suspect they made a mistake, but still believe in world-changing, so they hang on. That is, until their first second-grader sneaks his second chocolate milk and barfs all over the power suit. That’s $800 down the drain.
  • Cardigans.  These can be done well, but more often than not, they represent the repeat syndrome.  Most teachers have one or two sweaters that they drape over the back of their chairs for the three coldest months of the year when the heating system malfunctions.  It’s like hiking Everest. You have to have layers.
  • Vintage clothes.  I respect teachers with experience, and I, too, have been guilty of wearing vintage clothes. I tried to rebrand it as Zen. I don’t need to be materialistic and buy hundreds of dollars worth of new clothing just because the runway season changed. But there’s something to be said for ditching the powder blue leisure suit, too. “Vintage,” only goes so far.
  • Holiday-themed sweaters.  Yes, the dreaded embroidered Christmas sweater. The only excuse EVER for wearing such an item is for making fun of someone who wears such items. In the case of humor, satire, and practical jokes, a holiday sweater can be worn if the wearer can keep a straight face. Holiday socks are okay, however.
  • Clothes that don’t match with the decade in which the wearer was born. This one is tough. I’m 41. There is no reason on earth that I should be stuffing myself in things from the Junior section. Even though it would fit, it would be wrong. Not allowed.
  • Bangles.  This is a personal issue—I don’t own or wear a lot of jewelry. Some people wear it in style.  But in any case, it shouldn’t be worn all at once like a Mr. T revival.  At many teacher conventions, I see so many layers of beads, bangles, and bracelets, I wonder if I’m in the wind chime aisle at my local garden superstore.
  •  The scarves—oh, the scarves!!  Teachers love scarves. They wear them indoors. I wear scarves, too, but usually just when my heat doesn’t work or when I go hiking.  I can’t figure out scarves. Too close to macrame or hojojitsu (the samurai art of knot tying).  For the brief time I lived in Russia, I associated scarves with old ladies. The word for scarf in Russian is, in fact, babushka, which also means “grandmother.” I don’t want to be an old lady. No scarf for me.

As I get older and confront my own mortality, I have to address the subject of teacher clothes in my own life. In 20 years if I’m still in the classroom, I think I’ll be the hippie crunchy teacher—the one with the silver braid, hiking boots, and Irish cable knit sweater playing music from two decades ago.  But that’s a long way off. In the mean time, I’ll keep bringing my coupon to the girl at the store that tells me what to wear. And I won’t wear teacher clothes.

 

[image: nothingbutdollsonstrings.com]

How to Scare Students on Parent Teacher Night

Posted on by
8

image: nohomers.net

Last night was parent teacher night.  I love parent teacher night, but I don’t really love the format–basically, a million parents line up for ten seconds of my time. I feel somewhat like a cross between really, really rude, and a rock star.

We put out appointment sheets, but they never work for me, because they contain five-minute slots over the course of two hours, and I have 252 students this year.  That math just doesn’t hold up.  But, I do the best I can. I smile, thank them for coming, tell them I’ll be quick and that next year I’ll move the Keurig out in the hall with snacks. They smile and nobody yells at me to get moving. Many times the students come along, and often there are brothers and sisters who have been dragged out into the night to see me, too.  For them, I have a supply of crayons and my awesome fish tank to keep for entertainment and I say that I look forward to teaching them in seven years.

Holding parent conferences is a fine art–I’ve been on both sides of this aisle–the receiving end of conferences you know aren’t going to go well, and the facilitating end of thousands of conferences that I insist bring some modicum of joy to the adult who is seeing me at the end of a long day and who is entrusting me with their child.

But the students are always terrified. “What will she say?” That, I don’t mind, because it buys me at least two days of good behavior in advance. The quickest way to put the fear of God into a student who dares to brave the conference with their families is—to be really, really nice.

It starts out like this: The day before the conferences, I ask, “Hey, anyone coming to see me or am I going to be sitting here drinking coffee pondering the meaning of life by myself.”

A kid will approach, “I might come. What are you gonna say?”

“You know, the usual.” I say.

“What’s ‘the usual’?” usually the Student in Question has some inner conflict–did I do my homework? Did I fail to shut up in a timely manner? Did I forget my watch at home while meandering to her class? Do I come prepared? What will she SAY?

That’s the beauty. I never, ever say anything but nice things. No parent wants to drive from three towns away to see me for five minutes after working all day. They probably rushed home to have a quick dinner and collect kids–they don’t want to hear bad things. Parents hear bad things all the time. “Your son didn’t do his homework.” “Your daughter talks while I’m teaching.” “I think your child will be on the news someday, and it won’t be good.” You’ll never hear that from me. It’s not that I don’t express concerns–I do. I just find the greatness in each student and state it in caps with an exclamation point.

Sometimes, when a family member is clearly expecting to hear bad things I’ll come right out and speak to the question, “Listen, your son has amazing creativity–he organizes a little differently, but heck, so do I, and I’ve been successful in life. We all have our styles–I’ll help keep him on task.”

When I state things like that, I can see the hesitation leave their faces.  I see that years of negative meetings are opening up to the possibility that parent-teacher dialogue can be productive and positive.

Last night I said things like, “I can help you (student) to focus better, but honestly, your boss won’t fire your dad. He’ll fire you. It’s my job to prepare you so that doesn’t happen and you call the shots in your career. Can we achieve that goal?”

“Your daughter is respectful and has a great group of friends. You should be proud.”

“Your son hates school–let’s be honest. But that’s okay. [To student:] I daresay you’ve missed some skills–we’ll catch you up on the side, if you come at these times. No one will ever know.”

“Your daughter is very intelligent–she will always get A’s. But I don’t want her to get an A from me, I want her to imagine that scholarship in four years–I’d like her to work on college-level writing and research–we’re going to shoot for that goal instead. Here’s how…”

and the granddaddy of them all…

“Your son should consider performance. He is talented beyond measure.”  I know–where’d that come from? It’s something I’ve said only one other time in my entire career teaching. But when I see it, I have to acknowledge it.  ”Consider researching the greats, reading about the greats, finding local people to mentor you, and starting small.  You should be very busy practicing and improving your craft if you’re serious.”  Basically, I sentenced that boy to four years of extra work if he does it right. Which I hope he does.

What does every adult want to hear at a parent-teacher conference? They want to hear that their student has potential. That their student is kind and respectful. That their student will not be stuck living at home playing video games them forever.  Families have different values–certain cultures value academics so much that I always include “always works hard in class.”  Others value respect above all.

“Well, your daughter has a 110% in all classes, and she found the cure for cancer yesterday,” I will say.

“Yes, but is she respectful?”

Parents want to know that their children have good friends. While I’ll never talk about someone else’s student with another family, I might say, “Your son is getting involved in school and making a lot of good friends–I hope you’re proud of him and that you have a chance to meet his friends.”  That puts families at ease.

Setting up those relationships is always, always important.  I wish I had tons of time to just sit and converse with families, and thank them for lending me their students for a year or in some cases more.  I now see families where I’ve had multiple members. I’m not old enough to start having children of students–when that happens, I’ll probably be that old hippie-looking teacher with the silver braid talking about how in my day MTV was just invented and we only had one pair of sneakers, and computers hadn’t been invented so we had to read books. And when we communicated with friends, we had to pass notes on paper–and we liked it.

Today, I’ll go to school and thank everyone for bringing their families–it’s an honor that they did, because I like to assume that people have much better things to do than traipsing out to see me for such a small time. And then I’ll laugh and say, “What did you think I was going to say? Did I scare you?”

They will laugh with uncertainty–always keep them guessing–it’s the key to performing, to teaching, and to life–and then we will have a great class.

[Note: Please see my board on Learnist about having a successful parent-teacher night. This should be a time we look forward to on both sides, never a time of dread. Hope it helps!]

ADHD and Me: Tales of a “Different” Thinker

Posted on by
18

In my day, we didn’t have “ADHD.” We had “Shut the hell up and do your homework!” and “WHAT is your PROBLEM?”  They were both a valid educational diagnoses entered into the DSM Negative 5, the book of guidelines on such things. They were reinforced and treated by a backhand, in the case of some families, or eternal isolation in solitary confinement by others–being confined to The Room to miss out on all the three-channel major networks had to offer.

I think I have ADHD.  Nobody’s ever really diagnosed it except for my family and all my friends, but I know I think differently.  I consider this a blessing, but being around linear thinkers is often a challenge.  I am not permitted to rake leaves or mow the lawn, for instance. I go from pile to pile raking or mow in pretty designs, when my husband, the approved mower goes straight in rows as if a scout from Yankee Stadium is about to come by our yard.  I clean like a waitress, always having my hands full, bringing things to their place and picking up something else for my return trip back. I say this is efficiency. He says it’s chaos.  ”Can’t you just finish cleaning in one damned area?”  No, because who would put back this glass?

There are many other things I do differently–my mom tried to alphabetize my spice cabinet.  Even though each jar was uniformly labeled in Martha Stewart blue, something bothered her and she started to move jars around. I had to stop her. “Mom, the amchoor does not go by the adobo. It goes by the garam masala, hind, and kalonji.  The adobo goes by the guajillo and chipotle. Cinnamon and cloves go in the middle, because they’re for curries AND baking. Understood?  No, they don’t understand. Nobody does; it’s my cross to bear.  Thoughts are not linear–they are a spider web, reaching out in many directions.

I say perfectly logical things that connect all parts of the universe.  One thing reminds me of a thousand different things–strings connected to frequencies that all join together.  ”What do you mean you don’t understand the link between that cappuccino and coffee farming in general which led me to think about fair trade and a project I can do with my class? It makes perfect sense to me.” Admittedly, few close people in my life have been able to follow these connections, and they probably have ADHD worse than me.  One is now finishing up a Ph.D in something to do with the brain that I sometimes understand. I’m want her to switch gears just a little bit and study me so I can go to my husband and say, “SEE!  I told you I was awesome. And now it’s been proven by medical science!”

Thinking differently is not a curse–I get a flash of an idea, and I stop, write it down and make connections. The fact that no one sees those connections immediately only makes them more valuable to me.  Eventually, I’ll convert them to something, but even if I don’t, they didn’t hurt anything but a small section of a rainforest by taking up a page in a notebook. This makes me wonder why schools–and life–always seek to put thinkers in a box, make them conform, and make them bow to The System.

In school, I always carried one notebook–a marble composition book. I could not have a separate notebook for each class.  If I did, would have had the wrong notebook constantly.  Instead (this worked for high school, college, and 1.5 grad schools) I dated each entry by class and subject, creating a time capsule of sorts.  I dreamed, doodled, thought, and connected away never taking “the notes,” only making connections with the world around me–books on the topic, comments the instructor made, independent thoughts that filtered through.

The notes weren’t in English per se–they were a combination of symboled shorthand and the shortest word for the concept in any language I happened to know, all floating through in lines and patterns on the page. No one dared to ask to borrow my notes so they were perfectly safe with me.  The notebook had to be a black marble composition notebook, because otherwise I’d rip out pages for other things, leaving me with an anorexic tattered notebook full of holes.

Years later, I have a row of these things on my shelves, and I can pick up every single one and use the contents inside–I’ve used them to teach even 10 or 15 years after the notes were taken.

That’s effective!  Again, why do we, as educators, shove every kid in The Box? Why won’t ed reform break us out of The Box instead of building new ones?

I show these notebooks to my students to tell them individuality is a beautiful thing–a gift–and when combined with dedication, motivation, and passion, it does breed success.   My failure has been predicted by no fewer than the following:  An elementary teacher.  I’m told I  was a “gifted underachiever” as early as second grade.  My physics teacher. I liked him, but apparently I didn’t take notes using “the system.”   One of my undergraduate advisors.  He assessed that I didn’t “have what it takes” rather than finding out I worked full time (and often overtime) off campus during college to eat all while taking a double-overload. “You’ll never make it in grad school.”  Finally, my student teaching supervisor who told me I couldn’t teach on crutches, must come back to the program later, and shouldn’t expect to get a job like that.

People just think differently than me. And I’m glad.  I spent enough time listening to the voices of failure and reason in my own head, as do we all.  Writer Neil Gaiman gave a commencement address this past year, advising the graduates that he was grateful he never knew what was impossible, because then he never would have done it.  How many things have I failed to do or not done to the best of my ability because of the voices of “reason”, or because I “think differently?” How many times has that affected us all?

I’m not sure–but when I see a ninth grader with books barfing out of his backpack pull out a little marble composition book for my class with papers filed in a system only he can understand, I always smile.

Don’t NECAP me, I’m SLO

Posted on by
11

[image: joyhog.com]

I’m having writer’s block–It’s ironic to make that statement as I’m writing, but I’m sitting here looking at a copy of the Common Core State Standards for inspiration.  That, in and of itself is a problem. You see, I need to come up with some SLOs in order to keep my job teaching.  For all those who are not teachers, I’ll explain.  SLOs, or Student Learning Objectives, are a key part of the new teacher evaluation system. If I can’t measure “student growth” using these SLOs, I will be asking if you want fries with that. The NECAP is the old test we used to use to measure growth, but now we’re going to have a new one now, the PARCC.  As in, “It’s a walk in the…”

I’m still trying to understand all the acronyms.  I’ve formally studied five languages and can swear in two or three more.  Still, I’m having a tough time keeping up. In addition, I have an advanced education. One would think I’d be intelligent enough to comprehend. It appears not. I’m staring at these walls of data and acronyms that were surely created by The Daily Show–come on, what educator wants to hear “SLO” in the same sentence with “student?”  I want “quick” at the minimum. And NECAP is what my Irish ancestors did to people they didn’t like during the Troubles. PARCC is where I want to go to drink a beverage until I can wrap my head around some of the elements of ed reform.

At heart is the issue of “rigor.”  In the Old Days, I had to take three masters’ classes to prove I was smart and continuing to learn. Learning was the measure of the professionalism we had to exhibit as teachers.  I had to have a masters’ degree, then I had to learn more. It was expensive, but I love learning. So, I learned and learned.

But teachers with advanced degrees are expensive, so someone found a study that said that advanced degrees might not correlate with educational success and they found another way to measure me.

It was decided that we should be able to design our own plans, that they should be individualized. The problem was that nobody would commit to what actually counted on that plan when I called for help, so I did twice the amount of hours required and finished a year and a half early. I guess it wasn’t “rigorous” enough. As luck would have it, it was determined that that whole system was, in fact, not “rigorous” and it was defeated like every bad guy who dares to oppose Chuck Norris.  Mine didn’t count. It is currently being used as a doorstop because I’m afraid to throw it away.

I asked the question, “So, you’re saying that for exceeding expectations set by my bosses, and by coming in far in advance of the deadline, my work is not going to count? That doesn’t make sense. What makes sense doesn’t matter, because once it has been established that rigor is missing, rigor must be found. End of subject.

Now, we have a new system.  On the surface, it looks okay–originally, we were supposed to have a ton of evaluations and conferences a year.  I was rather looking forward to seeing my evaluator get a new pair of track shoes and run marathons, because that’s the distance that would be mathematically necessary to finish that number of evals.  And since the new system barely gives him time to eat Easy Mac, I think the running might do him good.  The final system is better, but still so filled with rubrics and matrices that my mind is exploding.

I’m looking forward to honest feedback from an evaluator I truly trust–that part’s exciting, but I’m still having writer’s block when it comes to translating the 101 paged instructional manual into documentation.

In the mean time, I’m witnessing the following unintended consequences in the field of education:

1. Inconsistencies.  On one hand, I have to do a ton to be evaluated and certified, but other pathways like Teach For America can bring educators along a different path with far fewer hours of regulations. It’s creating a lot of hard feelings systemically.

2. Resentment. Good people are leaving the field and taking advantage of other opportunities.  Many who have options, because they are good, are taking those options. We are losing good teachers.

3. Difficulty training new teachers. Student teachers report teacher reluctant to accept them because teachers are afraid a student teacher will ruin “their numbers.”  This is a real fear–the numbers effect evaluations.  ”Reluctantly” is no way to train the next generation of teachers.

4. People deciding against teaching. One new teacher reported to me that four of her original cohort of a dozen or so decided not to teach because they “didn’t like the bureaucracy.”  Again–we are losing good teachers. These people had other options.

5. Out of touch programs.  I witnessed an excellent potential teacher released from a teacher prep program for his essay response to “What is your philosophy of teaching?” He said that his philosophy was inconsequential until the basic needs of the student were met. It was a brilliant, albeit political essay about meeting the needs of the underserved in society first. Once that is done, we can proceed to teach. I wished I had written that essay myself. I have watched him teach, and honestly, he’s going to be a rock star in teaching, IF he can get through the red tape.  And certainly once he learns to write SLOs.

These are scary trends. I love teaching, but I don’t like the constant reinforcement of my peers and friends saying, “Why are YOU teaching?  You could be so successful.” Because by the definition of society, I must not be successful, since I teach.  Heck, I had one person ask me if I had proper university credentials and another say I probably taught at some charter school teaching my students to march in lock step and pass rote tests because I dared to refer to my kids as my “scholars.”  No wonder we can’t reform education.  We have a bunch of SLO people NECAPing each other.

Oh well.  My new boss is awesome.  He’s not an administrator in my mind, he’s an “educational leader.” The semantics matter.  I’m looking forward to great things from him.  But today, he wants some SLOs, and I still have writer’s block.

So, I’ll go PARCC myself on the couch for a bit longer and see if I can come up with something I can spend the year measuring.  This will determine whether I will be asking all of you if you want fries with that.  Follow me on Twitter, and I’ll be able to tell you which register I’ll be on when the time comes.  Maybe I’ll supersize that for you.

What is that moment where I change someone’s life forever?

Posted on by
8

Later today, I will look at the faces of my students and I will try to predict the future. They are a mystery shrouded in wonder.  What will they become? Will she be an achiever, the next big entrepreneur, a great parent, loyal citizen, or inspirational speaker?  Will he die in a car crash speeding along the road? Will I visit them in prison? Will I write him a recommendation for acting school? I have taught all these students. Which one will this be?

I can’t know.

What is the exact moment where I change someone’s life forever? Where, if I had not been there, he would have gone in an entirely different direction, made a bad choice, or even failed to live out his life? And what are the moments where someone has done this for me?

It’s difficult to know. Often I don’t know until years later. The kid who stared me down from the back corner shooting daggers came back and said, “When you said that to me in class, it changed my life. And now I’m doing…”

Another kid said, “Yeah, Miss…nothing personal.  History and Shakespeare just aren’t for me. But you’re cool.” Thanks, kid.  Nothing personal, teach—you’re cool, but everything you do sucks.

“Okay, Luke. What’s your plan?”  This is the point in the conversation where I usually get a ton of blank stares and give the “put some thought into making a plan I can get behind” speech.

“My dad owns six tow trucks. I’ve got contracts. I’m going to run that business and make it bigger.” Nicely done—spike the ball in my face. You have a plan. Let’s get busy.

“Listen, kid,” I said, “Don’t worry. I’ll teach you what you really need to know.” Lesson learned. Take the time to listen, and you’ll uncover the moment where you really influence a life. And it matters. In education, it’s easy to dictate instead of listen—especially now when numbers and targets measure the effectiveness of a teacher more than lives changed—how do we measure a life changed? There’s no data and targets for that.  There should be.

One scholar returned from two tours in Iraq, and called me to meet him at the airport. He quoted back a speech I gave at graduation five years earlier.  I had said that the world allows people to be mediocre, but I do not.

I said I am tired of asking scholars, “How are you doing this year?” only to hear, “Oh, I’m passing.”  Passing is not good enough.  I don’t want a doctor who “passed.” If I have a doctor who “passed” it means that seven out of ten times, I’ll should come out healthy and the remaining three visits—just run the math—I will not. I will look at his diploma on the wall as I fade out of this world, and hear the echoing phrase, “But I passed.”

If I go to my mechanic, I want my car to work 100% of the time, not 65-70%. I will hear, “But I passed,” as I am trying to avoid the devastating effects of Newton’s law about an object in motion staying in motion unless you get a mechanic who “just passed” and you are his lucky tenth customer.  And so forth and so on.

This boy-turned-man–who had spent years defending my freedom feeling blessed because he only lost three of his friends in the process–came back and told me that he would not be mediocre. He would be excellent.  And he is. What a humbling feeling.

So, by the numbers—because education is all about math—I know that I may only affect a small percent of students. Even if that number is one, I have no way of knowing which one that will be, and it is never the one I suspect. I must be constantly vigilant. I must get to know each person in front of me as an individual and serve his or her needs—especially the ones that aren’t apparent at first glance. Then, I can I plant the seed of knowledge, water it with inspiration, pick out the weeds of despair, and hope and pray that seed will grow.

It’s easy to be desensitized to the importance of this mission when looking at the numbers. The numbers promote fear in educators, which means we keep our noses to the grindstone to meet changing targets and we don’t always veer off the path to do what’s right. Education, in the name of reform, has become big data, small data, stats and evaluations. As such, I am watching good, good teachers make their exit plans because something is being lost in the quantification. You can’t measure the lives they have changed.

When I feel like we’ve lost our way, I take a moment and I leave the math behind and think again about the questions. What is the moment where I change a life forever? And who has done so for me?

I lived overseas in a large city.  There were homeless, indigent, drunk, and stumbling people.  In the beginning, I gave out small bills to these people.  After a while, they became invisible. Obstacles to avoid on the way to my destination.

One day, I stepped over a man lying in the street.  He could have been drunk. But he looked different—dead.  I looked back. Yes, dead, indeed. And I walked by.  Everyone else in a city of eleven million people walked by.  Street venders, gypsies playing tunes, businessmen, mobsters. We all walked by.

We do this all the time.

We step over people who are dying or dead—spiritually dead, emotionally dead, morally dead, intellectually dead. We continue along our straight-line path and never veer from that course—never fulfilling our own incredible power to change a life, if we had just reached out and done the simplest thing. It’s as simple as listening. And occasionally taking action. Figuring out, one by one, who my students are—and what they need.  Because math and history aren’t enough, tests be damned.

I am truly humbled by this power.  I think of that man often, and I apologize to him through my daily interactions with others.

There is an old story that a man came upon a child at the beach. It was low tide and thousands of starfish had been washed up. The child was picking up each one and throwing it back into the ocean, saving its life.  The man told the child he’d never get them all. The child said that they needed to go back in the water or they’d die.

“But you’ll never get them all.  It’s pointless,” shrugged the man.

The child replied, “But I can get this one. It matters to this one.”

That is why I teach. To repay the people who have done this for me—who have changed my life at moments where I would have made poor choices, failed to fulfill my destiny, or made the decision to pass through the revolving door of life before my time. In teaching, I repay them and complete the cycle–the cycle that others have started, and people far better than me will continue, hopefully because of some effect I have had.