Morning, all. Wanted to share the link to the podcast I did last night with the guys from Human Restoration Project. It was a great opportunity to sit down and discuss–in depth and at length–something that is near and dear to my heart: the importance of relationships. I admire the work that Chris and Michael are doing to restore humanity in education. We speak the same language, and I am honored to have crossed their path. Here’s the Link.

Back on track today. Testing, for the most part, is done, and now we can reconnect and resettle back into our routine. It’ll take us a day or two to get back our momentum, but we will find it again and move forward with our learning. Finally.

Friday, most of the kids were done testing, but as others finished up, kids hung out in my room. I walked in to discover that Parker had taken care of writing the day’s agenda on the board. I am so proud of him for a few reasons. One, he is so in tune with my way of doing things. He pays more attention than I ever imagined, catching not only the words but the tone. Two, he took the liberty to do what he believed needed to be done. I am proud of his initiative and ownership. Could not have done it better myself, Parker. Thank you.

Today’s Trail

Along today’s trail we will…

…begin with Smiles and Frowns. Lots a catching up to do.

…resume work with our “Be A Voice” speeches and debates.

…dust off our Passion Papers.

…end with a Sappy Sy Rhyme.

Happy Monday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

And this year now

We play again

Some will lose

And some will win

Minus a few stragglers, we will cross the state-testing, finish line today. And Monday we will get back to a place of normalcy. Finally. Been a long two weeks of stressed, mind-numbing silence as kids have worked diligently on something that will mean little to them in the end. Oh, kids with 3’s and 4’s will be labeled “Career and College Ready,” with the caveat of bypassing placement tests and landing in credit-bearing English courses in state colleges. And kids who meet the state’s minimum cut score will be able to graduate in two years, but beyond these baby carrots, there is little to be gained from this biggest of sticks in their educational experience.

And for me? I don’t know. It gets my attention. It is the most public of measures in my world as scores appear not only in the paper but also on the “State Report Card,” not to mention taking center stage in our district’s PLC work. So, yeah. It gets my attention. I will be judged regardless of where folks fall on the standardized-testing issue. If I succeed, it either doesn’t mean much–because it’s just standardized data, or it means much–because it is standardized data: the data that is disregarded, or the data that is embraced. If I win, I lose. If I lose, I win.

But beyond that minor irritation, I find little that is useful to me in my classroom. I will never have these kids again. So, the data are not useful. Yes, I know the “look-for-and-and-respond-to-trends” argument made by those who defend the data, but each kid, each group is different, and when I get the data back, the kids will have already moved on. They’re gone. And I have found little benefit from making generalized decisions about generalized data from standardized tests. I wonder what the cost-benefit analysis of state testing would reveal. Is education really benefiting from the huge cost of state testing? I don’t think so, not if most educators regard–or disregard–the data we get back as I do. I know no one–in the classroom, who uses the data as a primary source for making learning decisions in his or her classroom. They do, as I do; they look to the real primary source for guidance: their students, who are in their classrooms right now. I think we are wasting a lot of money, and while I hate to make this about money, I am not convinced it’s really about anything else. Lots of money is being spent, and someone is winning, but it’s not education.

Sorry, not sorry, for the mini-rant this morning. That aside, happy Friday, all. Have a great weekend.

Do. Reflect. Do Better. 

“and for every person
the body glowing inside the clothes
like a light.”

Words don’t always come, especially on a sleepy, slept-in-a-bit morning like this one. So, this morning, I will turn instead to a favorite poem and an image that reflects what I see when I see my kids. Bright, brilliant lights on the horizon. It’s a wonder I am not blind after so many years of exposure to such light. But I can’t help but look into the light. It is what I seek. It is what I see. And that matters. For when I think of the power I possess in my perceptions of my kids, they become, at least in my 55-minutes-at-a-time world, what I regard. And I think, then, this carries implications for all teachers. Kids will be what we see. If we see them as dull, empty canvases to be filled, then that is what they are. If we see them as brilliant, unique works to be appreciated, then that is what they are. Perception matters. The next time you are in front of your kids-this morning–pause for a moment. What do you see? It matters. Every day.

Next Time

Next time what I’d do is look at
the earth before saying anything. I’d stop
just before going into a house
and be an emperor for a minute
and listen better to the wind
or to the air being still.

When anyone talked to me, whether
blame or praise or just passing time,
I’d watch the face, how the mouth
has to work, and see any strain, any
sign of what lifted the voice.

And for all, I’d know more—the earth
bracing itself and soaring, the air
finding every leaf and feather over
forest and water, and for every person
the body glowing inside the clothes
like a light.

~William Stafford

Happy Thursday, all. May you be blinded by brilliance today.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

It was only a dream. It was only a dream. It was only a dream.

Last night I dreamt. Last night my subconscious fears broke through, haunting and taunting.

Testing was over (that will be a dream come true). The kids and I were back together, relieved and ready to resume. But as we started our first Smiles and Frowns, after nearly two weeks, things were different. Things were unkind. Things were chaotic. Things were uncomfortable. Things were broken. Kids weren’t listening. Kids weren’t speaking. Kids weren’t empathizing. Kids weren’t kind. Things had fallen apart. I was not I. They were not they. We were not we. We were lost. Lost.

But it was only a dream. Thank goodness it was only a dream. I’m not sure I could handle such a reality as that.

Of course, I think the kids have planted the seeds in my subconscious mind as they daily lament our loss of routine, our absence of normalcy. They miss us. I miss us. And I do what I can. I tell them I am sorry. I tell them that things will be back to normal soon. And they will be, but, then, they will soon be over. At the outset of our journey, 180 days seemed a lifetime. But now that we are here, a short 35 days away, it seems but a blip on the radar.  And I am not ready. I am not ready to say goodbye to the people I have learned this year. And I have learned them. I meant to. It was no accidental, incidental outcome. It was intentional. I worked on it every day. Every day. And I will continue this commitment until the days run out.

We are going to learn a lot this year. A lot. I am going to push you to make the most of our opportunity together. And while the content of the course will occupy the majority of our learning experiences, it is not the most important thing we will learn together. Yes, syntax and rhetoric are important, and, yes, we will treat them as such, but they are secondary to what matters most: the people around us. Our worlds will always be full of important stuff, but they will also be full of people. And it is my belief that if we want to learn about the world and to learn about ourselves, we first have to focus on the people around us. So we, my young friends, will spend time each day learning about each other.

This is from my Relationships are not Accidents post back in July. This is how I introduced Smiles and Frowns to my kids this year. And now that the end is near, and I reflect–and dream–about our experiences, I am proud and pleased of what we have learned this year. We have learned each other, and through each other we have learned our world, we have learned ourselves. I am not sure there is anything more important to learn. It is the stuff of dreams. And dreams can become realities. If we can dream it, we can make it. I have long dreamed of more-humanized and less-standardized experiences in education. And years like this, kids like this, make me believe. And it all started from a dream.

It was only a dream. It was only a dream. It was only a dream.

Dream. Reflect. Dream Bigger. 

“Handing me my copy on her way to  the podium, she refused to give me a high-five, muttering “no” as she walked by. Here we go. If she bombs, she will hate me for the rest of my life. What have I done?”

Yesterday, I was transported back in time, back to June 1, 2016. I found myself sitting back in 219 (my old room) among now-seniors, reminiscing on an experience that elevated my life and the lives of those around me. And it all happened because one young lady stood up, faced her fears, and grew before our eyes. Avery.

Caught up in the nostalgia of the moment, I went digging through the archives of my blog and found record of Avery’s moment that meant something then and everything now. A Rough Start Here’s an excerpt from that long-ago post.

Last Friday, Avery–some of you will remember her as the girl who needed a steady stream of “you-can-do-this pep talks–came to me and said that she didn’t think she could do her speech, that it was too personal, and that speaking in front of people was too hard. I told her she could. I told her she had to. Having worked with her on her speech, I knew she had a powerful message that others needed to hear, a message that would/could make for a truly momentous moment for this young lady and her peers. Her topic dealt with self-image/esteem and her own personal struggles and successes with this difficult issue.

Worried that she had become resolute in her decision not to share her speech, I told her that she had created a gift that she had to share with the world. I told her that when her peers looked at her, they assumed that she had her act together, and for her to share that she had struggled with the same issues as everyone in the room, could be as transformative for us as it was for her. She had to share. It was bigger than her. She couldn’t keep it to herself. We left it at that.

Yesterday, as third period began, she would barely make eye-contact with me, shaking her head when she did. So I acted quickly, and she reluctantly agreed to go  fourth out of the six for the day. Still, I wasn’t sure, but we moved on, and then it was Avery’s turn. Handing me my copy on her way to  the podium, she refused to give me a high-five, muttering “no” as she walked by. Here we go. If she bombs, she will hate me for the rest of my life. What have I done?

And she began. She and her voice shook for four-and-a-half minutes, she barely held back tears, and more than once I thought she was going to step off the stage, but she saw it through to the end, and we all knew by then that we had witnessed something special. Truly.

As she walked back by me, she gave me a weak high five as I looked to her for some reassurance that she was okay. And we moved on. Fortunately, Alan, true to form, gave us some much-needed comic relief with his speech after the heavy moment from Avery’s. At the end of the period, I gave Avery a shout out for her bravery, letting her and the class know that she had made my year. I was so proud of her, proud of all of them for seizing this opportunity to grow.

At some point during the day, Doubt excused himself, passing quietly from my mind as kids nailed speech after speech after speech. The day, despite two tense moments, was everything I hoped it would be. Of course, it was made so even more, when Avery came to thank me a few periods later for making her go, for making her grow.

Digging a little deeper into the archives I also found record of my “pep talks” toughLOVE.

I began “hell week” by saying to each class, “We can do this.” And I’ve said it every day since. Yesterday, required additional assurance, as Avery in third period informed me that I would have to remind her several times over the period that she could do it. So, every five minutes or so, I cheered her on, telling her she could do it. Of course, I’d like to believe that my cheers fell on more ears than just Avery’s.

I pushed. She flew. She found her wings. And though she will soon soar into the great expanse come graduation, I am glad she came back to roost for a moment yesterday, radiating sunlight, reanimating my memories as shadows of now-gone students cast as the gifts they are. Gifts. Thank you for the gift, Avery.

Meanwhile…

Still testing.

If I am honest, which is generally not an issue for me, I am a bit anxious about my upcoming opportunities to take Project 180 and my work to a wider audience. As an introvert, it always surprises me to find myself in these “public positions,” for I prefer the quiet of private. But here I am again, outside my room, outside my comfort zone. So, why do I do it, then? Why do I put myself in these positions? Why can’t I stay tucked in my private quiet? I don’t know. Maybe it’s my aversion to the status quo. Maybe it’s my acquired taste for attention (being honest). Maybe it’s my restless spirit trapped inside my introverted shell, seeking to escape. Maybe it’s a silly sense of destiny that I have developed from looking back to my humble, hard beginnings through poverty that have led me to believe I have a duty, a responsibility to give back to that which gave so much to me, to that which may have literally saved my life: school. Maybe.

Maybe that’s it. Maybe these moments create anxiety for me, for I fear I will let fall that which I imagine I carry upon my shoulders: a debt to pay back and forward. I have to give back. I took much. In fact I took so much that I cannot pay it all back, so I seek to pay it forward to my kids for whom I try to make school that place that may give them much, that place that matters now, that place that matters later. That place that matters. So, when I have the opportunity to share my journey with the outside world, I wonder and worry about getting it right for them and those to come, even those outside my room, and for that I cannot hide in my private quiet. I am here. Private no more. And I am still getting used to that.

Meanwhile in room 211…

Still testing. Missing my kids. Missing their noise. Missing their smiles–and frowns. Missing their messes. Missing their brilliance. Missing their spirits. Missing them.

Do. Reflect. Do Better. 

Morning, all. Got nothing today. Tried in vain, but nothing showed up on my “inspiradar.” So, I am just going to wish everyone a great weekend and accept that sometimes the inspiration well runs dry.

Have a splendid weekend.

Do. Reflect. Do Better. 

“Sy, something’s missing.”

This sentiment, uttered more than once by more than one this week, tugs. It pulls. It vexes. It delights. It breaks and fills my heart.

We are at last creatures of habit, “reliers” on routine, and when that gets disrupted, we notice. Something’s amiss in room 211 this week. And they, I, we have taken note. Yes, state testing is here, and it has certainly jounced our journey, but there is something else, something more. A hole in our fabric. A gap in our connection. And though it may sound strange to some, I think we miss each other. Oh, we’re still in a room together, but it’s not our room; it’s not our culture; it’s not our community. It’s not us. This is not us.

And “us” has become a beautiful thing. Of all the things we have learned this year, we have learned each other. And in that I think there is a certain, simple beauty. We have painted our canvas with our lives, a sea of smiles mixed with a forest of frowns, our daily palette both bursting and blotted with the brilliant colors of humanity. This is us. It is beautiful. But things of beauty do not last. And that is a darker shade of our humanity. And this week, an omen on the wind whispers, making it clear that this, too, shall come to an end.

Something is missing. As someone–Parker, I think–remarked yesterday, in response to one of his peer’s comments about what’s missing, “What are we gonna do next year?”

Next year.

What are we gonna do next year?

Don’t wanna think about it. This “missing” is hard enough. Gonna just enjoy the beauty of “us” for now.

On an another note…

Exciting Opportunity

Wanted to share an upcoming opportunity with you all. I was contacted by the guys from Human Restoration Project in Ohio to do a podcast with them around building relationships with students. I am thrilled to have this opportunity to talk about what I think is my best and most important work. Thrilled. Will keep you updated.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

All or none.  Actually it’s more like all and none.  All of the performances (assessments) and none of the assignments.  This is the biggest change we decided to make to our grading policy this semester.  Last semester we reported both practice and performances in our online grade book, but we found that some students were still concerned about the points and the percentage rather than their learning.  As the start of the new semester approached, we thought about making the change to only report performances online. I have to admit I was a little hesitant to agree to do this.

In the past, as a student and teacher, I was not comfortable with grades based only on tests.  I wasn’t convinced that it was what was best for students. But as with any idea that comes up during our team meeting each morning, we talked it through, and I started to realize something.  That mindset was rooted in the traditional field. The one where it was all about the points, all about the percentage, and not all about the learning. Then one morning my mindset changed. I realized this might be worth trying because it had the potential for students to focus more on their learning throughout the semester.  But with any change comes considerations.

The consideration on the top of the list was the number of performances we would actually give during the semester.  If we wanted the focus to only be on performances, then we needed to ask kids to perform more than the five times we did last semester.  Because of the way we structure our week, we committed to doing a performance once a week. To our students, in the beginning, it sounded like a lot, but they quickly realized that it wasn’t that bad.  Each performance is simply an opportunity to demonstrate their knowledge, their progress, and their learning. Kids have started to voice excitement in earning a 2 because that’s simply a near miss, and they can always do better.  And now, more than last semester, I have more kids seeking additional performance opportunities.

As we’ve continued to move through the semester, many of my students frequently ask to retake performances.  They want to learn, to grow, and to do better the next time. I don’t force them. I don’t make it a requirement.  It’s their choice. If they want to redo one more than once, they can. Why not give them unlimited opportunities to demonstrate their learning?  I would rather have a tray full of retakes every week because that is what is best for my students. It’s all about them.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Tired and uninspired. Had a great night with my college kids last night, but by golly Tuesdays are long days for me. Takes it outta me. Trying to be less grumpy about state testing today. So, I am gonna put on a happy face and just be there for my kids. This too shall pass, and most likely, so will they.

Hard to believe that we are down to 40 days. Sorry for the lame post this morning. I’ll get my groove back.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.