Tag Archives: teaching

Coffee is Teacher Crack

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English: Cute coffee.

English: Cute coffee. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Coffee is teacher crack. I’m about to make 30 cups and line them up on the back of my desk. I don’t only double-fist cups of coffee, I “quad” them. This is a technique I saw once in college, where the individual rehydrating himself carried four cups, two in the left hand, two in the right hand, drinking from the front two while the liquid from the back ones cascaded into the front. It works nicely for coffee.

 

Some days, I wish I could come into school with a flask, but even if I could, there’s no point. I don’t really drink. If I filled it with coffee, I’d just get mocked. It’s not really gangsta or effective.

 

I can’t be a drug addict. I know crack’s bad for you; I don’t even like the plumber crack I endure as a result of tall students busting a sag. So, since drugs and alcohol aren’t a possibility, coffee’s the only thing left.

 

Coffee’s a drug, I guess. When we were little, my sister discovered that in her health program. Caffeine is a drug. She loved to help educate others, “My mom’s a drug addict!” she’d scream in all public places. Mom loves coffee, too.

 

I get half my calories from coffee. That’s no joke. I used to drink it black when I worked in restaurants, but now, I enjoy a little cream and agave to provide that “Calgon, take me a way,” moment. The American Medical Association, the New England Journal of Medicine, or some publication with a ton of doctors, at any rate, recently said I could drink as much coffee as I could physically consume.  That’s good, because I drink way too much. I’ve got a fair-trade farmer at the ready with a beeper.  On a normal day, I drink a lot, but lately all this testing, grading, benchmarking, and evaluating is making me drink even more. When I’m actually teaching, I’m never at my desk–I’m moving around, so I don’t drink as much. When I’m dealing data and numbers and piles, I’ve started to vacuum it in. I feel like a kamakaze pilot on his last mission, “BONZAIIIIIII” Another cup of coffee hits the deck. I sure hope Mayor Bloomberg doesn’t walk in and take away the big mug. That’d be a disaster.

 

I’m not here to talk about testing, I’m here to reflect upon whether I have a problem–an addiction even–or whether, in fact, my coffee consumption might be beneficial to my students. Some days I drink so much coffee that I can actually teach two weeks of lessons in fifteen minutes,  giving the test before the activity is complete. That’s speed. Efficiency. The mark of a good educator. Other days I hear my inner voice, and know I should slow down a bit. Pause. Breathe. Drink more water or something. Then I rationalize that water is in coffee and I make…just…one….more…cup. Tomorrow I’ll have less. I promise.

 

That’s the mark of an addict.

 

“It’s good coffee though,” I think. An addict would have that three-dollar bag cut down with the cheap stuff. Reuse the grinds. I never do that. I spring for the best. An addict would steal, rob, and lie to get his coffee. I don’t do that either–I just walk over to the Keurig station I’ve set up in my room and push the button. Simple.

 

I think coffee might be good–it’s the only time we see each other as faculty. We see each other so seldom sometimes that I introduced myself to someone I actually worked with at a conference. If we didn’t have museum tags on our doors, “Mrs. So and So,” we probably wouldn’t even know some of the exhibits in the rooms.

 

Drink More CoffeeCoffee makes people talk. They pilgrimage to the Keurig and make coffee while I teach. I like when people do this–I like to be social and see my coworkers. Coffee helps me do that. I don’t mind keeping the place stocked up for that reason. I put coffee under my “friendship and happiness budget.” Sometimes I wish I could sit down and actually have coffee and talk, but I can’t because there are 25 kids behind me who say otherwise about me concentrating on one coherent thought at a time.

Today I’m on cup two. That’s not enough. I’ll make one for the drive, and restock the Keurig for the TGIF caffeine extravaganza. If you work with me, come in. There’s cream in the fridge, and agave and sugar on the table. Even some honey for you teetotalers. Because when you have “coffee” with someone, you don’t always have to drink coffee. But I always do–seems a waste to do otherwise. Smile and say hi on your way out. It’s probably the only time we’ll get to converse. I want to remember your name.

 

[image: squidoo.com/cafetieres]

 

 

 

Learning the Vowels

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I was doing hallway duty. That’s where I stand at the top of the stairs and greet everyone as they come in–ask them about their weekend, compliment the new hair-do. Really, I’m supervising, but I don’t like to feel like bad cop when kids clearly haven’t finished their energy drink and I’m only into my third cup of coffee, which is getting cold in the front office.

There are a bunch of rules I have to attend to–taking off of headphones unless you are a member of the CIA, removing hats as one enters the building–the roof leak has been fixed and we have no  outdoor classrooms, and please pull up your pants–the full moon is next week, and “say no to crack” covers sagging.

Today, I heard the “Ohhhhhh!” chorus. That’s when one person says “Ohhhhh,” and everyone follows suit because they have nothing better to do. Usually this is just teen behavior, but at times it precipitates a larger event, so I attend to this religiously.

I walk over. I give “the eye.”  I don’t have “the eye.” They said I’d get it as a teacher, but I don’t. I just can’t pull off mean. I was listening to peer this weekend at the Ed Camp Boston session on “How to be a Badass Teacher.” More on that in another post. But suffice to say, he couldn’t pull off being mean either, “Mr.” his students said, “You just don’t look right when you’re mean.” Neither do I.

But I can pull off annoying. Screen Shot 2013-05-06 at 8.02.43 AMI go to the circle of “Ohhhhhhh!”s and I stand. I invade the space. Now no one can secretly check a message or put on a hat. They can’t say the “f” word or be rude. And the “Ohhhhhh”s stop.

“What’s going on here?” I inquire. “I’m reasonably sure this isn’t Vinnie Barbarino training school.”

Blank stares. No one knows who Vinnie Barbarino is. I am old.

“So?”

More blank stares.

Then, the perfect answer.

“Miss. We’re practicing our vowels. Reading skills.” Suddenly the chorus re-erupts. This time, it’s a little different.

“Aaaaaaaaa, eeeeeee, iiiiiiiiii, oooooooo uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu!” I stare. I turn. I leave. I am clearly defeated. Game, point, match, circle of Ohhhhh-shouting guys. Time to go.

But not before someone adds in, “AND SOMETIMES YYYYYYYYYY!”

Literacy Common Core achieved.

The bell rings.

I am saved.

Pulling Weeds

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Screen Shot 2013-05-04 at 5.47.58 AMI’m pulling weeds in the garden and planting new flowers.  The garden is full. It’s huge. Truth be told, it could have been a little bigger–I’d have filled it. A million things poke through the soil–some in rows, more in random places where I stuffed them when I ran out of room–overzealousness. I can’t wait for things to grow–I plant more daily.

I am installing marigolds along the fence, one by one, a million of them–the best defense against rabbits, I’m told. I dig holes, and stuff flowers in holes. Dig more, shove more in the ground. A line is forming.  Shovel and flower hovering, next flower ready… Two leaves rise up from the back of the hole.

“Hey!” they say, “What’s the big idea?”

“Sorry. Just planting the marigolds. Didn’t mean to disturb.”

“Well, watch yourself! You just planted here last week. I’m trying to grow. Do you MIND?”

“True,” I tell the zinnia seedling, and pat the dirt back around her.  ”I forgot. I’ll try to remember.” I stuff the marigold row an inch forward and leave the zinnia be.

Screen Shot 2013-05-04 at 5.48.31 AMI get so excited watching new life pop up and grow, that I don’t wait for things to take root. I plant on top of plants, I accidentally rip things up, mistake things for weeds…never really knowing if the first plant was growing the way it should.  Sort of reminds me of school.

We have all these measures, initiatives, and changes–some are necessary, but others  never really get a chance to take root, because there’s always another thing to plant, hole to dig, things to disturb. Sometimes, we just need to wait–if we do, beautiful seedlings will emerge. If we encourage them, remain steadfast and patient, and allow them to be nurtured by the sun, they will flower. It is magic.

In management and business, it takes time to assess the effectiveness of change. There are mathematical equations for this. I’ve worked for corporations that made major change upon major change, putting the organization in chaos, never really knowing which initiative drove business. In education, it often feels the same way. Sometimes we demand effectiveness immediately–it’s important. We behave as if there’s a pedagogical magic wand putting us back at the top of the mountain for all the world to see. “If we just do this…we’ll be number one. In every category. Again.” That causes chaos. It pulls the zinnias out by the roots. They never get their chance to flower.

Change takes time. Assessing change requires patience. Growth cannot be rushed. It’s science. Nature. Cyclical. To expect anything other than what is truth in nature to be true in education would be absurd.

Wait for the growth.

Wait for the growth.

Sorry, little zinnia. Thank you for the reminder. I won’t disturb you with a big flashy marigold just because it has a big orange swirly flower right now. Honestly, marigolds smell terrible. They’re a bit ostentatious. I’ll wait for you to bloom–it’ll be spectacular. Even if it does take a little bit longer.

 

 

[images: blog.cameronleger.com and flowerscape.blogspot.com]

A Good Lesson…A Bad Poem

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I am in the middle of class.

A good class. They listen.

A hand goes up.

I say, “Yes.”

I am waiting for the genius, the home run, the reply–the question of the year.

“I have to go to the lav.”

Deflated.

I try again. The class smiles.

I reengage.

The class leans forward.

Attention is in the air. The discussion gains momentum.

A hand is raised.

I say, “Yes.”

I am waiting for the genius, the home run, the reply. The question of the year.

“I have to sharpen my pencil.”

I start again.

I recover.

I finish the tale, give a preview of tomorrow. Someone stands. Raises out of his seat at the pinnacle of the lesson.

I say, “Yes!”

This is the genius, the home run, the reply. The question of the year!

“Just getting a tissue.”

Bell rings. Everyone leaves.

Sigh.

Maybe tomorrow.

Write Less. Be Right More. A Top 10 List.

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Screen Shot 2013-04-16 at 8.27.18 PMEverywhere I go, there’s a top ten list. “Top 10 Ways to Make Your Sneakers Smell Fresh,” “Top 10 Ways to Declutter.” As an stodgy history writer, I decried the top ten list for the longest time.  Now I write them.

“What? People have such short attention spans they can’t even read a paragraph?” I’d say in my former life, imaging historian James McPherson’s Civil War epic as a top ten.

I was wrong about brevity. Completely wrong. I stand beaten down and corrected. I now strive for brevity and clarity. I’m honored by your reading this, and do not want you to suffer, ever. “If you need a priest, get a priest,” said my friend who got me into this mess.  He advised me never to torture my reader. I love that line–a real writer’s slap in the face.

As I stood between several worlds, each with a different writing style and view on the quantity and quality of the written world, I transformed. The worlds of research, teaching, and Corporate America overuse words. The world of tech does not. Once I stopped having cold sweats encountering sentence fragments, I liked the world of tech; it became freeing. Zen.

Brevity has value. There is a reason six people in the world want to read anything historians write.  Historians are too obscure–and too darned long.  This year, I’ve taken a lesson from the tech people. I try to be brief, interesting, fun, and informative. I hope I have been succeeding.

Here, in honor of my 100th post, I’ll make my recompense complete by employing the Top 10 list, sharing some of my favorite posts about life, happiness, education–things that matter to me.

Failing at Music–Succeeding at Life, Part Two: This is a story of how I fell flat on my face in college.

A Formal Apology to Henri Matisse: I apologize to a dead artist for being so ignorant as to disrespect his work.

The Frankenstorm of the Century–Storm Prep, Rhode Island Style: Rhode Islanders are crazy. This proves it.

Teach Like a Soviet: In order to navigate the education system, I ask “How would a Soviet do this?”

What Is That Moment Where I Change Someone’s LIfe Forever?: We never know how we affect the lives of others. Sometimes we never find out. But that moment has the potential to exist every day.

Don’t Ban Dodgeball: Ban Life: Society’s propensity to restrict everything is silly. Beyond silly; it has crossed the line into stupid.

Carrying People through the Sand: Lifting each other up makes a difference–may we never fail to see the significance of our actions even to those our lives touch in slight measure.

Crumpled Paper Airplanes: Taking My Own Advice: Declan crumples airplanes. I tell him we must try in life without being afraid which turns out to be a giant hypocritical moment in parenting.

Separating Out the Geniuses: Traditional education values one kind of genius. Everyone is a genius. It would be great if schools would notice this.

Loser for Life: Tales of a Girl without Klout: In the beginning of this journey, I discovered the concept that Silicon Valley could, indeed, brand me a loser. Mathematically.

I am deeply honored have enough content to make this list, and even more honored that you read my stories. Nothing is more meaningful to me than the relationships I have made through writing. I am grateful I kept my promise to create–I’ve made friends, and my life has changed direction forever. Friends are the treasure we receive if we open our heart and mind to the experience; experiences are what make up the essence of life. I thank you, not only for reading, but becoming part of that essence, teaching me so much this year, and inspiring me to strive to improve each day.

[image: thisoldhouse.com]

Don’t Piss Off The Voices in Your Head

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Moses heard The Voice, too.

Moses heard The Voice, too.

My students often ask me why I left a corporate job with a decent salary and the potential for more–things like bonuses, promotions–for teaching. I tell them, “It was The Voice.”

No one ever believes me, but this is a true story–I was sitting in my cube. A ray of light came through the window and hit my desk. Next, I heard a voice–an audible voice, a deep male voice saying, “You have to quit and teach.” I turned, looked for the source , a little taken off guard, as most people who hear The Voice tend to be. I simply said, “Oh.”

I wondered if Moses felt the same way talking to a flaming bush. In either case, he obeyed. So did I.

The next day, I applied to graduate school.

This was not my only encounter with The Voice.  I was driving the highway in Connecticut. I had transferred to an office down to the area where I was originally born. I kept meaning to spend more time with my aunts and uncles. I looked over to a billboard about diamonds–I don’t even own diamonds. The Voice spoke, “You should visit your family more. You haven’t used your time down here wisely.” The next day, I was in the process of being transferred across the state.

I often felt I should get the opinion of a well-trained professional on the issue of hearing voices that remind me of God in Monty Python. I’ve tried a hundred times to explain it away, but someone else told me a similar story once, “I was a Broadway actor. I became a doctor because I heard The Voice.” I felt a little less insane after that.

I’m sure there are some cognitive science people lurking in the background who can give  better insights behind this. The ray of sun that hit my window–that was because I was sitting by a window. It was sunny. Any moron can explain this. But “The Voice,” and the message–they’re too specific for me to explain away without a smart friend or a good priest/mystic. I’ve learned to just listen. It could be God. Maybe it’s my subconscious. Or perhaps I am, indeed, certifiable.

I think it’s common to fight with the messages that the subconscious gives. It’s an interesting phenomena. If I’m talking with a trusted friend, I almost always listen.  Yet I fail to obey the logic and reason of my own mind. It takes The Voice to snap me out and force me to tune in again. When it gets to that level of subconscious, I’ve ignored myself for far too long.

Listening is the biggest part of leadership, relationship building, teaching, policy…people charged with doing are the ones who must listen most. It’s one of the harder skills to learn, certainly for me. Sometimes, being aware can be the difference between making a critical decision correctly or missing the flags. It can also make the key difference in the lives of other people. I notice this in my relationships with my students. Sometimes, they’ll only be ready to tell me something important once. And if I’m not listening correctly, or if I miss the cues, the opportunity to make a big difference is gone.

So, I listen to The Voice, which is audible and clear. But more important, I listen to the whisper, which is often hard to hear.

 

[image: bible.phillipmartin.info]

“Only Savants Have the Right Answer All the Time” (Chess: Part Two)

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Chess Story Two: Chess and Improv

A student of mine, Karim, called to tell me some things about his acting career. Karim is not a student, technically. He’s three years away from 30. If he were still a student, he’d be in deep trouble. He called to tell me he had just conversed with a famous actor from my generation.

“I called you because you know who that is,” he said. I wasn’t sure how to interpret that. “Know who that is” because I know tons of stuff, or because I’m ancient, just like this legend.

Either way, I’m honored. When students include me on their short list for communicating major life events, I’ve succeeded in my job as a mentor. When someone makes me Call Numero Uno, that’s more than a metric–it’s beyond compare. I never take it for granted.

It's lonely up thereKarim told me about his improv class.  I’d tried my hand at acting. I was terrible. I couldn’t project or transform. At least I’m spontaneous. It’s a gift in teaching.  In fact, the reason I wanted Karim to be a famous actor to begin with, advice I have given exactly once in my teaching career, was because he always had that spontaneous wit. I wondered why he’d need an improv class.

“Let me ask you this. You always have wit. Creativity. Something to say. Do you need improv class? Is it helpful, or a situation where you’ve either got the ideas or you don’t?”

I recorded his reply in my book of life’s lessons. This is what he said:  ”Studying improv helps me to develop two or three scenarios for everything. It’s kind of like this–in life you have to have the moves ready before anyone else,” he explained.

“So, it’s like chess? Where if you don’t have the moves for every situation well in advance, you get slaughtered.” Chess has been coming up a lot lately.

“That’s exactly what it is. That’s the only perfect analogy,” he said. “I always think ten times faster than everyone, but this class helped me think twenty times faster than that. By the time you have something in mind, I’ve already planned what I’m going to say to that. Then when you actually say your piece, I have two or three more things on top of that. The first response I created is already old. I’ve already moved on.”

He took it one step further, making the connection to life–that’s what good teaching does. “Everyone should take an improv class. It helps you. It helps you plan strategy. It helps you think. It helps you have something to say. Let’s say a client throws you a curveball. Your mind is ready for it. You’ve got an answer,” he said.

“The answer doesn’t have to be right. You’d have to be some kind of savant genius to always have an answer that’s right. But you have to have an answer. If you’re able to have some sort of retort, you’re good. Then you throw the ball back at them and they have to say something back to you. It buys you time.  And by the time they answer, you got three more things to say. That’s what the improv class does for you. It helps in business. It helps in marketing. It helps in life. It would help you in the classroom.”

Plan three things ahead. The answer doesn’t have to be right. Be spontaneous. These are the things that help in business. In marketing. In life. 

I got off the phone inspired. Ready to go find an improv class so I, too, could be perfect in life. I might even apologize to the kid who was the lead in the play I wrecked in high school  because I was a sucky actor. Either way, I’m thinking deeply about those things that make learning real. Karim is right.

And that is why I teach. To have my lessons paid back in spades.

Carnegie Hall--the most coveted stage in the world

Carnegie Hall–the most coveted stage in the world

Incidentally, a school field trip to the theatre ignited the fire in Karim. The type that is being cut all over America in a tragic turn of testing over talent, where we’re losing our ability to recognize that the answer doesn’t always have to be right–that the ability to be flexible, spontaneous, focused, and apply what we’ve learned is the key to success.

Karim said he wouldn’t have attended the theatre without that school trip. “Seeing the lights, the stage, the people creating themselves into something else. It’s what we all try to do in life…in our little realms, our jobs, our identities, we’re all trying to create something of ourselves. This stage is just more formal.” For him, just as real.
 
[Here's Karim Léon's website. Any readers who are in The Biz? You should hire him.]

Glitter, Garbage and Gratitude

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Yesterday I made a strategic error in lesson planning.  I wanted some old-school fun that disguised learning. Some “edutainment.”  I needed the quickest of projects that showed mastery of the Bill of Rights, synthesized some research, and didn’t look like it sucked. Since the next item on the agenda is Midterm Review–which isn’t a trip to Disneyland even in Casey’s World–I wanted a lesson guaranteed to make us smile.

I got an idea–I would use glitter.

I haven’t really done any of these old-school crayon, glue, glitter projects lately since I got all tech-drunk. Instead, we do blogs and infographics and tweets and comments.  Certainly technology is productive and fun, but in my day we used glue. I am a history teacher, not to mention a relic thereof, so I decided to take off the tech-gloves and unleash some good old-fashioned old-school paper and glue fun. With glitter.

What a disaster.  First off, I remembered why I love tech in the first place.  You don’t have to say a million times to high-schoolers “Scissor safety! Do NOT pretend to cut her hair.”

This isn’t their fault. Despite my decrees and rules that materials should be used appropriately, kids don’t really get enough art time in schools, so hands on supplies become a novelty. They’re excited. I don’t blame them.

When teaching with technology, you don’t have to say, “You are using the glue on your project. Not making hand gloves.” Secretly, I smile at this one, remembering with nostalgia how many times have I slathered Elmer’s glue on my hand, let it dry, and peeled it off saying, “LOOK, I’m MELTING!”  Maybe that’s a bit of an elementary school thing, but when you break out the glue, we’re all kids at heart.

When using technology in the classroom, you certainly do NOT have to say, “Please don’t waste the paper and supplies. I have to buy these myself and they have to last for eight classes. Use them wisely,” as five thousand confetti pieces of various colors and sizes fly through the air because someone needs red.

But the GLITTER.  That was just a Jeff Foxworthy “Here’s your sign!” teaching moment.  At first, it seemed great. Tons of kids passing around bottles and cups of shiny stuff, gluing words like “Freedom of speech” onto little holiday ornaments, synthesizing their  research into holiday decorations.

But then, the mess crept in.

And I remembered why I don’t use glitter.  Probably half of the educational technology out there was inspired by people who used glitter in class. They said, “I’m gonna make an app for that because I am NOT getting glitter all over my clothes again!” And thus, Silicon Valley ed tech was born.

After about five minutes, the hypnotic spell of the glitter wore off, and a kid got the idea that it would look great in the hair of a girl he probably wanted to date. Guys in the 14 to 16-year-old range aren’t smart enough to realize that chucking stuff in the perfectly arranged hair of a girl they like gets them farther from the end goal of her being impressed with him.  So, I had a couple of cases of “misuse of classroom resources,” to deal with followed up by a student “my bad,” the universally accepted apology.

Behavior corrected, I got the projects I wanted.  Things went well for a couple of classes. Then I got a case of the human  .

“Are you out of your MIND? What possessed you to throw that glitter up in the air?”

“Miss, it’s snowing!” Okay, so it hasn’t snowed here. Truth is, I’m getting worried, though I’m enjoying the pink roses in my front yard. I think the Mayas or Al Gore might be right–this weather is freakish.  I decided to be forgiving. In true Arlo Guthrie style, I made him pick up the garbage and get back to work.  And I managed to get a nice project once again.

By the end of the day, however, the room was destroyed. I had swept, straightened, and arranged all day. My idea of a peaceful holiday-music craft session with kids who never get to do crafts turned into an energetic “constructive chaos” free for all.  Highly productive, tons of fun, but zero of the holiday zen for which I had hoped.

And the glitter.  Glitter, you may not know, is the only inanimate substance capable of reproducing when let out of the container. I bought one container of gold glitter.  It reproduced like a virus until my room was covered three feet thick. It really did look like a snow globe.  I stepped back. I snapped a picture. I froze the moment in my mind and decided if I couldn’t have snow on the ground for December, this would do just fine.

In the end, I was blessed with a senior who came in and took charge of the cleanup. I don’t think she was very happy, because, although she thinks she wants to be a pharmacist, she seems to be headed down the road of becoming a professional organizer.  We have a deal–I help her get into college and look at papers, and she tells me to clean my desk.  She took charge of that cleanup so efficiently that I felt a pang of guilt.  She then issued a proclamation that I will probably obey:

“Mrs. Casey-Rowe,” she said, “There will be no more glitter in this room.” For a moment in time, she held the authority of Commissioner Gist herself. I’m pretty sure I will obey.

But by the time I left school, I was truly overwhelmed, not by the glitter and mess, but by the tragic news feeds from my home state which had been coming in steadily.

I picked up my son from school, and we ran laps around the gazebo, which we do together if he stays “in the green” and has a good day. He did.

“Look, Mommy. It’s your flower.” On the ground, there was a single newly blossomed dandelion. That’s my university’s flower, and Declan knows that. He became a Rochester fan watching the YellowJackets rock “The Singoff.”

He picked the flower and handed it to me. “It’s for you.”

It matched the gold glitter all over my body. At that moment, I knew that my lesson was good. And that life is good, too. I hope that someone went home and told their parents that they got glitter in their hair, or that they got to glue stuff together. I hope it’s one of those lessons that we don’t do often enough but that they never forget.

I’ll clean up the rest on Monday.

This is the single dandelion Declan found.

This is the single dandelion Declan found.

 

 

How to Scare Students on Parent Teacher Night

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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!]

Spreading Goodness: Thanks for the Award

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I got an award–this one’s special because it came from someone who herself has a beautiful blog. Thank you, Allie! Part of the rules were that I have to divulge seven things about myself, then pass on the nomination to fifteen deserving writers.  Fun! It’s like chain mail but with something nice attached instead of a curse.  I generally try to delete chain mail before the curse scrolls up and reveals itself–just in case it has power. I always felt if I didn’t read the curse, I’d be safe.  Today’s honor comes with love, and will be passed on in the same manner. So, in honor of the first “chain award” I’ve ever received, I’ll start.

Seven Things I Probably Shouldn’t Share about Myself:

1. I was the lowest scoring starting varsity player ever on my high school basketball team.  Who knows, maybe someone sucks worse than I did by now, but it was a longstanding record. I was proud. I kept the trophy. People used to bring signs and give me standing ovations if I scored. The only reason I got to play at all is because of my level of dedication–I emerged as a great defensive player.  It’s a lesson I never forget–defense is as important as offense in life. Only no one sees it. It’s important to remember that some of the best influencers often go under the radar, but are game changers no less. I want to be one.

2. I am a history nerd. I love local research, research on social justice, and research on things overlooked in society. I’ve delved into issues like New England mills, gravestones, racism in the North, sports and equality, religion in Colonial era, a bunch of Russian and Soviet stuff, Cold War civil rights, and the origins of very old Japanese martial art that made its way to the United States during World War II. And sneezed in a lot of dusty archives.

3. I appreciate the people who were unkind to me in high school.  They made me into the witty, fun, compassionate person I am today. Today, we take a zero tolerance policy toward bullying. I never tolerate it in my presence, but in my life, negative experiences often have had positive influence–I just have to look a little harder. They always teach a positive lesson. I’m grateful for that ability to see that.

4. I started this blog as a promise to a friend. And he had to beat me up to do it. I’m eternally grateful, because I’ve met many people who are truly amazing, and through them, I have chosen to try to reach that bar myself.

5. I have changed my views on life as a teacher.  I was lucky to have had a top quality education, both in and out of the classroom. I never take that for granted. I want my students to have incredible lives. I want them to use their inner genius to be game-changers and innovators. And when they do, I hope that they’ll come back and give me free copies of their books or tickets to their TEDx talks.

6. I fired myself from my own business.  This sounds harsh, but my husband is an entrepreneurial rock star–a true visionary.  I had to learn to stomach the risk. I’m grateful to my many entrepreneurial friends who have taught me this lesson–your $5 copay is on the way. I am now truly enjoying the business he created and proud of its growth.  Even though I have a career of my own, I think I’ll take him up on his requests to “employ” me as a staff writer. Everyone needs a staff writer. Even if it’s a writer who never shuts up.

7. I often pull posts so I won’t get myself into too much trouble. Sometimes, I’d like to talk about education and ed reform but it’s always safer to write about green beans, sustainability, or the silly musings of a five-year old and not fight windmills. Truth is, I should probably post more things that matter–the deep stuff. It’s not easy. More than once, a serious writer has told me to release a post–”You’ve got to bleed on the paper.”  And maybe one day, I will. It’s that important to be real.

Fifteen people I nominate for this award:   I read lots of blogs.  Please consider reading these yourself.  Some are touching, some are fiery, some are stepping-stones to books or other projects, but contain brilliant writing just the same.

My Nominees: 

The Green Study tells simple stories about everyday life. And I love every one.

The Outdoor Canvas “Motorcycles, Hiking, Nature Photography, and Thoughts” is a blog about living the way life should be lived–outdoors, simply, and enjoying the gifts in the natural world.

Wonderful Buddha is serious and lighthearted at the same time. It contains some of my favorite poet-philosophers–Rumi, Kabir, Hafiz–swirled around with striking photography and a section of good, clean zen jokes.

BeeBee’s World is full of beautiful imagery that I read when I need a smile. My favorite post on this blog is still a short family history called “Legacy.” 

The Altucher Confidential is by recovered economist James Altucher, currently writing on the topic of making life wonderful. He is indirectly responsible for the existence of this blog. I remember James’ writings from the old days, and quite honestly–though I’m a sucker for a political or economic pundit, I like the zen James better. James is also an author whose books you should read if you need to be lifted up just a bit.

Kamal Ravikant is an author, entrepreneur, and direct reason this blog exists. His blog Founder Zen has some amazing short pieces on it–the type that make me wish I wrote like that. Truth be told, however, you’ll really want to read his first book. The reason I say “first” is because I’m rooting for the many more I hope will follow. 

Lesley Carter’s The Bucket List is a serious blog about adventure, family, and culture. She posts quite often, and through her I feel like I’ve done some living vicariously.

Pat Wood is a fiction writer extraordinaire. I love to read her stories, both mystical and realistic.

Simple Tangles–Benedicte’s blog about the her family, life, and her unwaverable spirit humbles me each time I read it.

The Room Mom–Caitlyn is a teacher, mom, and thoughtful crafty person whose ideas I love to steal for my class and life.

Elle’s blog Living with Passion has the theme “Forty Things to Do Before Forty.”  It’s witty and energetic, and well worth a read.

A beautiful blog about life and the humor of the everyday–http://shelbur10.wordpress.com/about/

Kat B’s travel blog, Travel, Garden, Eat has stunning pictures and experiences we all long to have.

Anna Boll’s blog, Creative Chaos tells about the life of a writer, mom, teacher, and illustrator. She is one of the most talented illustrators I know. You’ll be seeing a lot from her! She already won this award, but I’d pick her again.

Cool Cat Teacher Blog–Vicki Davis is a rock star.  Anyone interested in education should be reading her blog.

The Rules:  1. Thank your nominator (done). 2. Add the badge (done) 3. Share 7 things (done) 4. Pass on award to 15 nominees (done) 5. Inform nominees by commenting on their wall (almost done).