As I look back on the trail that now fades behind me as I come to the end of this year’s 180 journey, I feel the above graphic reflects my pursuit of, if not constant, then–at least–consistent improvement. Fortunately, I have improved, progressed a lot over the past two decades, but even so, I feel as if I have a long ways to go to get to where I want to be as a teacher.

I tried a lot of “stuff” this year, and as I failed with that stuff, I learned from that stuff. Consequently, my biggest try was perhaps my biggest fail–for some. As I have already stated in previous posts, I never intended to continue the give-em-all-an-A approach. I did it to jump from the edge, a radical first step to take grades off the table. And while for many of my kids this was a liberating, largely successful move, for others it was a leap too far. The move was too radical, the new was too unfamiliar. For them, the absence of grades was not liberating; it was debilitating, for they did not know how to fully function without the compliance-creating conditions of traditional grading. And so, consequently, their experience with 180 was less than I hoped it would be. And while I cannot go back and change the past, I can shape the future. And so, with this particular fail, I have, indeed, learned. And, as such, I have already made major changes to my approach next year, which I believe will not only continue to produce the proficiency levels we achieved this year but will also provide a better structure for individual growth. I have high hopes for the select-and-defend a grade approach next year. Looking back, this, I believe, would have better served those who never really embraced their gifted A’s this year. We live. We learn.

Importantly, this new approach is an approach, not the approach. I have not arrived. Many roads to travel. Many tries and many fails lie ahead. Thank goodness, else I wouldn’t know how to progress. Keep trying. Keep failing. Keep moving.

Happy Tuesday, all.

Came across this checklist in the Twitterverse and decided to do a quick self-assessment, looking through the lens of my 180 year.

1. Treat students as individuals? Yes. Evidence: choice in nearly everything they did, one-on-one conferences every chance I got, focusing on individual growth.
2. Recognize the strengths and needs of each student? Yes. Evidence: conference, conference, conference. This is the most important thing I do for learning.
3. Provide students with VOICE and CHOICE in their learning? Yes. Evidence:  Project after project, I would give kids freedom in the form of flexible guidelines and parameters, allowing them to take greater ownership of their learning.
4. Encourage students to make mistakes as part of the learning process? Always. Evidence: spent a lot of time establishing, supporting, and sustaining growth mindsets. The word “yet” was in the air all year long.
5. Give opportunities to reflect on mistakes in order to improve? Certainly. Evidence: Reflection was a part of our learning all year long, both formally and informally.
6. Let students take chances? Absolutely. Pushed them to. Evidence: every project was a chance to push the limits and grow. With grades off the table, risks were less-risky.
7. Provide opportunities for students to make, create, invent, and tinker? Yep. Evidence: most recently their cartoons.
8. Take time to learn with your students? As often as I could. Evidence: wrote nearly every assignment along with them. Love writing with my kids.
9. Model empathy for your students? To a fault. Evidence: Connor came to me, shaking, letting me know that he could not muster the courage to deliver his speech. I patted him on the back and said, “Okay.” He handed me his speech, and we called it square.
10. Inspire your students to be better people? I tried. I really tried. Evidence: Most recently our Change the World projects. I shared my own, real, try-to-be-a-better person projects with them. Project Feed Forward. Project You Matter. 
11. Teach students to ask questions? All the time. Evidence: the What? So What? Now What? approach has been central to our work all year long. Learning begins with questions. We have to ask questions. I also try to reinforce the idea that “Why?” may be the most important question of all.
12. Provide feedback to students? It’s all I had. Evidence: I no longer called it grading; I came to call it “feedbacking.” With grades gone, it’s all I had. Turns out, it was all I needed.
13. Give students the chance to provide feedback to each other? Yes. Evidence: peer feedback on writing, but also process feedback opportunities in their collaborative experiences.
14. Empower students to take control of their learning? They had no choice. Evidence: literally handed them a wooden A on the first day, telling them that they were in charge of their learning for the year. Grades were truly off the table.
15. Provide authentic learning experiences? As best I could. Evidence: always tried to link what we were doing with the real world.
16. Do everything you could? No. Sadly no. Evidence: too much to do for too many kids, and it turns out–despite my many Superman shirts–I am only human. Some days, I just simply did not have the strength. Do better next year.

In all, I am proud of how I did this year. But as evidenced by the last item, I have to do better. Always have to do better.

Happy last Monday, all.

Failing them teaches them a lesson. If we don’t fail them, they will never learn, so we have to fail them…so the traditional narrative goes in education. But does it work? Does it really teach them a lesson? I’m not sure. For many of the kids who fail in high school, it is not a new phenomenon, and many become our frequent “failers,” apparently not “learning the lesson” from past-failed classes. And sadly, for many, in high school, they are set on a track from which it is difficult to deviate, and they struggle to learn from the tough-love lessons that we provide. Some simply give up and disappear. I wonder, then, if we shouldn’t consider a new course of action, a new track, a new narrative. What if we didn’t fail kids?

Did the kid fail the class, or did we fail the kid?

Learning isn’t simple. It is complex, and as we’ve learned, it is different–distinctly different–for each kid, and certainly, one size does not fit all. At least that is what our talk suggests. But a look around suggests that we still walk the same old walk, forcing kids to wear a universal shoe as they make their way through our system. To be fair, perhaps we have made some progress in regards to differentiating learning in recent years, but for the most part, it is still the same old approach, a factory model still stuck on the same default settings from the beginning. And while I think there are a lot of dedicated, passionate educators who champion change and promote progressive practices that move us away from such a model, the slope is steep and the mission may be impossible.

I, like most high school teachers, have roughly 150 students per semester. I see them for roughly one hour a day, 180 days per year. Sounds like a lot of time. It’s not. I feel like my presence is barely a perceptible blip on the radar of their educational experience. Truly. Even so, I, as most, work hard in that precious space of time to do the best I possibly can for each student. Think about that. One hundred and fifty souls, all with different needs, for whom I am charged with an enormous task that I take beyond seriously. And I fail every year. I fail every day. I fail every period. No really. I am not trying to heap on the pathos here. I am simply stating the truth. I cannot possibly meet the needs of every kid, and so, I just try hard each day to help more than I hurt, getting by and succeeding where I can.And that’s the reality.  For my average and above kids, this generally works, and I fail less. In short, we do the best we can. But what about my kids who don’t fit into the average-and-above category, my kids who are disinterested, distrustful, and disenfranchised? Sadly, it doesn’t work, and I, hand-on-heart, am not so sure that when these kids fail, it is not I who failed  instead of they.  And it is my terrible, guilty burden.

Sadly, the same saga plays out every year, and not enough is being done to change it. And while I am not certain if we can or even know how to re-pen the story, I think we have to find a way. It’s too dark a tale to continue, for students and teachers alike. There has to be a way. The mission cannot be impossible.

A New Chapter

I wrote this over a year ago, before embarking on Project 180, before learning what a gradeless classroom can do to make the mission possible. And now a year later, with the first year of Project 180 behind me, and some timely and sage advice from Aaron Blackwelder, I am poised to present, along with my Grade -10 team at CHS, a unified grading approach that does not fail kids. To earn credit in our courses, kids have to demonstrate proficiency with our “Must-Meet” standards. If they do not, they will be given an “Incomplete” until they do (see specifics here http://www.letschangeeducation.com/?p=1854 ).

This new narrative tells our kids that learning isn’t something that they fail at in a push-them-through, one-size-fits-all time frame. Rather it is something that requires flexible circumstances for each of them as they make their way through their own learning journeys. It is something that never ends; it continues. It always continues. I used to subscribe to the former. I had to. It was all I knew. But in that “knowing,” I knew, too, that something wasn’t right. And so I sought to change it, and after a lot of trial and tribulation, I feel as if I have arrived at a new important chapter that I can contribute to the narrative. And though it is far from being ready to push through the printing press, I feel with each edit, it gets a little better.

We have the power to re-pen the story, and after connecting with more like-minded people at Teachers Going Gradeless ( https://www.facebook.com/groups/277181926058422/?ref=bookmarks ), I believe it more than ever. The mission is possible.

When I ran the 800 in high school, I ran with guts. I would get outta the gate quick and run till I couldn’t. Turns out guts don’t replace gas, for the piano would often jump on my back around the last bend.

When I raced mountain bikes in college, I would do the same. And though my tactics did yield some success, even wins; it still turned out that guts aren’t gas, and too often, my efforts would fall short, especially in races over 2 hours.

And so, though one would think I would have gained some wisdom from my former follies, I entered the teaching profession with the same go-for-it gusto 21 years ago. And, as one might guess, I have encountered the same, crawl-to -the-finish-line reality that I faced as a racer long ago.

And here I am again. The end in sight. The needle on E. And the promise–formed from my pain–that I will not do it again. I will pace myself next year. I will pace myself next year. I will pace myself next year. No I won’t.

I will jump outta the gate. I will bury the needle deep, thinking I can keep it in the red, believing I have finally gained the endurance to sustain the gutsy pace I like to set, but then, near the end, the engine will sputter, the legs will falter, and I will begin the “I-will-never-do-this-again” crawl to the line.

Of course, teaching isn’t exactly an individual sport. I was alone in my lane on the track. I was alone on my bike on the trail. But I have passengers now. I no longer cross the line alone. I have a 150 in tow. And while we all are generally moving in the same direction all year long, there are lots of side trips, lots a rest stops, lots a circle-backs to pick up the stragglers, and all sorts of other did-not-necessarily-account-for’s along the way. But we make it. We always do. And usually it’s a crawl.

And now after 21 years, though I’d like to boast that I will eventually find a way to pace myself. I can’t put much weight behind it. I am who I am. And I will no doubt live in the stuck-on-repeat history of my past, crawling to the end, eager to step to the line again, believing I can do it this time. On my mark. Set. GO!

Happy Friday, all.

Today, we change the world. Well, at least we will present our ideas for changing the world. That was the final this year in my LA 10 Honors classes: come up with plan for making a difference in our world.

And, of course, there will be no grade, which, then, takes us back to the central question that’s loomed large in room 211 this year: will there be any learning? Depends, I suppose. What is learning?

Is it cramming for hours the night before?

Is it a 2-hour comprehensive final?

Is it something that can be run through a Scantron machine?

Is it the accumulation of scores in a gradebook?

Is it the fear of failure?

Is it knowing something long enough for the test?

OR

Is it the opportunity to create something?

Is it the collaboration among peers?

Is it the ownership of the outcome?

Is it the accountability of peer review?

Is it the power of autonomy?

Is it the freedom of choice?

Is it an experiential anchor to remember and build on?

More questions than answers. And though I am no expert on learning, I have been  a learner all my life. And as I recall those lifelong experiences, I am hard-pressed to point to any final test that contributed significantly to my enduring understanding. Learning, then, for me, has come from anchor experiences not my final tests. I know because the former are still with me, the connections remain; the latter faded away after the transaction was complete.

I am not giving my kids a grade. I, instead, gave them freedom. Wonder what they will remember years from now. Wonder if they will learn anything.

Happy Thursday, all.

Though I will try to explain, not all will understand. But my kids would understand, and maybe, for this, that is all that matters. I call my kids losers. Every day. Every day, as they leave, I throw them a “Later, losers!” as we shuffle off to the next segment of our day. Many of them, return the sentiment. And I accept it warmly. Takes one to know one, and I am the lead loser in the room.

Okay. I know that some are raising a brow by now, “What kind of teacher calls his kids losers?” I get it. My job is to build them up, not beat them down. It runs counter to the idea of creating a nurturing, safe environment for our young learners. So, then, Mr. Syrie, what gives? It’s a test. One I have used for years. I call it the “loser test.”

Nothing I do is more important than build relationships–real relationships–with my kids. Everything follows from there. And in that building, comes a fond familiarity, the same fond familiarity that exists in most real relationships. When I call my lifelong friend Josh a jackass, he knows I mean, “I love you, man.” When I tell my two grade-level collaborators Jenna and Maddie that “I have better things to do than sit around and talk to you two all day,” they know I mean, “I cannot do what I do without you.” And so, when I dismiss my kids with a “Later, Losers,” they know I mean, “I value you, I will miss you.” Ask them.

Here’s my thinking around this unconventional approach. If I can call my kids losers without their thinking they’re losers, then I have established a real relationship with them. Of course, I do not begin the year by calling my kids losers. I don’t know them, and they don’t know me. But in my concerted efforts to forge relationships with them, it doesn’t take me very long. And, too, there are some kids I would never call “loser” individually, for the depth is not there. And that’s the reality of it. Try as I might–and I try hard–there are some kids with whom I never achieve that fond familiarity. But there are many with whom I do, and I let them know, as I often as I can, how much I value our connection. And, thus, I pay them the highest of compliments. I call them losers.

Today, I will pay my last compliment to my seniors as they walk into the next stages of their lives. I had many of them as sophomores, so after two full years with them, the familiarity, the fondness flows deeply. They are losers to the “nth” degree. And so, with a heavy heart, a warm smile, and a handshake or a hug, I will do today what I have done for so long, I will call them losers–one last time.

Later, Losers.

Next week, my grade-10 team and I are going to pitch our unified grading approach to administrators and counselors. We are not seeking their permission. We are seeking to raise their awareness. We anticipate that over the course of the year they may have to field questions from parents, so we want them to be informed when that happens. But we also want them to be cognizant of the fact that there are teachers in the building who are innovating their practice to better meet the learning needs of kids. And so, when the perennial problems present themselves (Why are so many kids failing?), they have the opportunity to consider, if not point to, alternative approaches to age-old issues.

In education we have an affinity for the status quo. We cling to it. Desperately. But I believe that we embrace its comfort, not its wisdom. Change is messy. Change is work. Change is scary. So we avoid it, we stick to smooth sidewalks and see-the-bottom pools with shallow ends. To that end, we rarely point to problems of practice when it comes to understanding and addressing issues like too many F’s. Year after year, time after time, this problem persists, and year after year, time after time, we cast up the same excuses, all of which point fingers everywhere and anywhere but where the problem likely exists: traditional, it-has-to-be-done-this-way-because-it-has-always-been-done-this-way grading practices, practices that frequently perpetuate failing.

This has to change, and it can, but it requires approaching learning differently; it requires the willingness to step off the pave, to wade into the deep. It requires courage. I am pleased and proud that I have found two young ladies who are willing to go on a walkabout with me next year, braving new horizons and vast frontiers. No sidewalks. No shallow pools.

Happy Tuesday, all.

I hear voices. They haunt me. They inspire me. They weigh me down. They lift me up.  They hurt me. They help me. Their sound deafens. Their silence resonates. They get lost in the harmony. They emerge from the dissonance. They are there. Always there.

And at the end of things, their presence looms largest as they whisper screams in my ears, reminding me of the burden I carry on my shoulders, of the responsibility I bear for the young whom I serve. And so, it is at the end of things that I listen, but even when I listen, I do not always hear as the signal comes in stereo: left speaker doubt, right speaker certainty–or in my maddest moments, Dolby surround. And so I listen harder, but that does not always help either, for the messages mix, made no more clear through the filter of my reflection.  Of course, I could simply unplug the cord, silence the voices by avoiding feedback, but I will not, cannot. For when I reach that point, it is a sign that I will grow no more, and it will be time to retire, time to slip sadly into my cave. But for now, I am still ready to grow. I am still willing to bear the burden, to carry the ghosts of whispers dancing among my ears.

And now at the end of 180, I have new voices visiting me, muddling my mind, as I seek to process all that I have learned this year, as I seek to make better the learning experiences for all my kids moving forward. Last week I asked my kids for some feedback on their year with me.

Left Speaker:  “We haven’t learned anything useful or applicable this year.”

Right Speaker: “I personally feel like I learned and grew quite a bit this year, definitely more than I thought I would. At the beginning I wasn’t sure if I’d really learn as much as possible with your project; however, I feel like I learned more in this class than any prior LA class. I had an incredible experience in your class this year.”

What do I do with that? Though the vast majority of the feedback I received came blasting out of the right speaker boosting my confidence, I cannot ignore the lingering  uncertainty boomed by the deep bass of the left. Funny how despite its brief moment in the choir, the strength of its reverberating solo seeps deeply into my consciousness, stuck on eternal replay, more pronounced with each repeat. But with each repeat, something stirred, a vague familiarity, a visitor not new, an old acquaintance. Doubt. Hello, old friend. I know you. I need you. I am sorry that I forget that at times. Thank you for always being there. Thank you for keeping me grounded. Thank you for making me grow. Could not do this without you.

I have to remember this. But, alas, I am doomed to repeat my past. I will assuredly let your discord again disrupt the harmony, but then I will remember that you are ultimately necessary for harmony, that you, too, serve a purpose. I hear you. Please keep talking. I am listening. I always will. We are bound.

Happy Monday, all. Cannot believe we are down to 10 days. Crazy.