Last day before spring break. Still under the weather, but gonna limp through the day anyway. And the kids will help me. They always do.

I was so proud of how hard they worked yesterday, despite my being at half-power. Kids will rise, higher than we sometimes imagine, and they’ll do it without our forcing it. We just have to trust them. I trust them implicitly. Choose to. Have to, for I seek their commitment, not their compliance. And that means I have to let go. And that is not always easy–well, was not easy at first, for it feels, looks, and sounds far different than the compliance-creating classroom. But it’s gotten easier. Heck, on some level, it feels as natural as breathing. And I attribute that to two things. Connections and feedback.

Humans in the Room

As those who are my regular readers know, I value kids over content. As I have said, and as I tell my kids, regarding our purpose for Smiles and Frowns, “There is nothing more important than the people in the room, so we start with the people in the room.” Every day. No exceptions. If we do nothing else, we will do Smiles and Frowns. It is the center of the universe in room 206. Of course, as I often share, I do many other things to connect and sustain human life in my room, things that neglect, even ignore, some of the elements that may be found in more traditional settings. It is the environment I choose to create, for I find it creates the necessary conditions for human growth. Kids will rise in such an environment.

Don’t Please Feed the Humans

When we provide nurturing environments, we create ideal conditions for growth, and this means we end up with hungry humans. So, we have to feed them. With their basic human needs provided for, kids are set to learn, are eager to grow. It, I believe, is natural for humans to learn. But, when we create artificial experiences for kids in environments that ignore or fail to address their most basic needs and we feed them a fast-food, empty-calorie diet, centered on covering content, we stunt their growth.

So what does the alternative look like? What experiences do we then provide for kids to rise? I am not going to suggest that I have found the answer, but I have found that the most nutritional diet we can give our learners is feedback. Of course, that is not my discovery and I certainly have not found all the perfect ingredients yet, but with each batch, I get closer to building a recipe that kids readily eat. Such experimentation has led me to restrict nearly all experiences to feedback-creating opportunities. If it does not lead to a “meal,” then we don’t do it, and if it doesn’t result in kids being able to come back for seconds, even thirds (retakes), then what’s the point? If a kid cannot apply her new learning via feedback to another shot, are we really letting her learn? I don’t believe so. So, I give it the time. Does that result in covering less content? Unavoidably. Does it lead to more growth? How could it not? And that’s what I seek. Growth. My little humans, reaching, rising, in an environment built just for them.

Yesterday, they rose–without me. And when that happens, it gives me hope that when our tomorrows eventually carry them away, they will continue to rise.

Today’s Trail

Along today’s trail we will experience…

…connecting through Smiles and Frowns.

…wrapping up essay drafts.

…reflecting in our Journey Journals.

…hearing a Sappy Sy Rhyme.

Happy Friday, all. No posts during spring break next week. Have a great weekend. Thank you for being here.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Ugh. Feeling pretty shcrappy this morning. Darn spring cold, doesn’t it know I don’t have time for such nonsense? Kind of that place where I can function, so I don’t think I’m bad enough to stay home. But, of course, by 2:00 this afternoon I will likely feel quite differently about that. Should stay home. Rest. Recover. But I won’t. I can’t. The job calls. I’m needed. At least that’s what I tell myself. I have to be there.

What if “C” needs a place to cry? She might forget where the tissue is. Maybe three boxes at convenient locations in the room is not enough. Maybe I should place a fourth.

“N” might need water. You know what they say, “Hydrate or die.” Can’t have kids keeling over from thirst.

Maybe the sub won’t let “E” draw. She has to draw, even when I am talking. It, as I’ve shared before, is her oxygen.

“C” might need me to read her paper for the sixth time, ’cause, well five is probably not enough, and ending on an odd number is bad luck, right? Don’t they say that?

How will I know if “M” smiles, “My boys are here”? You know, the if-a-tree-falls-in-the-forest thing. Wonder if when I am gone, he frowns, “My boy’s not here.”

What if “A” has another breakthrough moment as writer? That’s like missing your kid’s birthday party. Can I miss that?

Okay, I’m done. Truth is, I don’t have to be there. I want to be there. I want to believe that they need me to be there. And maybe, on some level, I am worried that they’ll discover they don’t need me there if I am not. They’d be fine. They’ll be fine.

Fifty days from now they’re leaving anyway. Maybe that’s it. Maybe separation anxiety is beginning to creep into my being, and I am caught up in the mixed blessing of being connected. Silly human. Nothing lasts forever. Threads wear thin, and eventually, things come undone, but still, we cling while we can.

Alas, all, silly humans.

Today’s Trail

Along today’s trail we will experience…

…connecting through Smiles and Frowns.

…completing the body of our argumentative letters.

…reflecting in our Journey Journals.

…hearing a Sappy Sy Rhyme.

Happy Thursday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

“Smile. My boys are here.”

Mike doesn’t enjoy the game of school. I suspect he could play it well if he wanted to, but he doesn’t want to. He understands the game, I think; he just finds little interest in it, so he doesn’t play. Oh, he’s affable enough; in fact, I rather enjoy his gentle spirit and whimsical wit, both suggesting that if he more readily allowed it, one would discover just how amazing this iceberg of a young man is, as he tends to hide in the open, leaving much below the surface. But of late he’s come to hide less. And his presence is bringing out some of the other “hiders” around him, “his “boys,” as he calls them.

They sit in the northwest corner of the room, all quiet inhabitants of their space, all of whom are as likely to pass as they are to share, except Mike, whose smile or frown is always based on the presence or absence of his boys. Yesterday, as it came around to A.C., we suspected something was up when he said, “Smile. My boys are here,” and Mike (sitting to his right) cracked a smile, and then, he himself, of course shared,–twirling his hand around as he does–that his boys were there.

Next, Caleb, the quietest and least likely to share of the foursome, drew some anticipation as we wondered if he would follow the lead. “Smile. My boys are here,” he offered to Mike’s growing delight, his smile threatening to crack his face, as all eyes turned next to Jackson, who joined the chorus of the quartet, sending us into a roar of applause, as we reveled in the moment. Even Tyler (next but not part of the quartet). who nearly always passes, barely muttering “pass” each day, smiled in word and deed, as he, too, was caught up in the moment. The moment lived on.

Of course, it may either be coincidence or the approaching deadline for their essays, but the boys played school for a bit yesterday, all of them more productive than normal. And whether it was merely coincidental or simply some afterglow from the moment, the lights were on yesterday in the northwest corner of the room. The boys were there. Smile, indeed.

Today’s Trail

Along today’s trail we will experience…

…connecting through Smiles and Frowns.

…honoring community with “Share Some Care” (formerly, Choose a Champ).

…integrating text evidence.

…reflecting in our Journey Journals.

…hearing a Sappy Sy Rhyme.

Happy Wednesday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Five come to mind. I think about them more than I’d like. Hard to get away from the weight, for I carry them with me. I cannot ignore them. But it seems I cannot help them either. I have failed to reach some kids this year.

If I am honest, there have been a handful for each of my twenty-three–sometimes, two handfuls. And it has never sat well with me. Sometimes, I cannot reach them academically. Sometimes, I cannot reach them emotionally. Sometimes, it’s both. All times, it registers as a failure, as the year closes and they move on. I never reached them.

This year is quickly closing; with a mere fifty-two days ahead, it seems a mission impossible for a few of my five. Oh, it’s not that I won’t try. I will. I do. Even at this moment, I am filled with “I-can” enthusiasm, but I know this daily dose of dynamism is fleeting, and it may only be the caffeine, as my sails soon lose wind to the reality of the sea on which we float. And though I try to cast a lifeline in their direction each day–some days more diligently than others, they haven’t grabbed it yet, and they are drowning before my eyes.

In this, I have to imagine that I am not alone. I have to believe that all teachers experience these rougher waters, too, as they make their way through their year, through their career. We cannot reach all kids, all of the time–a truth despite some of the rah-rah rhetoric that seems pervasive in our profession: All kids can learn! Yes. But maybe not in the box we place them. And even for those of us who try to “break the box,” there still remain circumstances outside our control. Some kids we will never reach. And that weighs–even saying it seems blasphemous, a defilement of our sacred oath to help all kids. But if I am saying it, I must on some level believe it, accept it. And how do I reconcile that? How do sit down next to “John” today and encourage him if I don’t believe I can reach him? Am I the reason he is out of reach? Maybe. And that’s scary. How do I fix that? Will I ever have that banner year in which I reach all kids?

I don’t know. But I will try. Guess, really, it’s all I can do as an imperfect being in an imperfect world. All any of us can do, as we find our ships listing at times in these troubling waters of our paradoxically impossible voyage to reach all kids.

Today’s Trail

Along today’s trail we will experience…

…connecting through Smiles and Frowns.

…integrating quotes.

…conferencing about writing.

…reflecting in our Journey Journals.

…hearing a Sappy Sy Rhyme.

Happy Tuesday, all. For all the teachers out there who find yourselves listing in troubled waters, I understand, and you are not alone. Thank you for sharing the waters with me.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Learning takes time. Learning a skill takes a lot of time. Writing is a skill. Writing is a process. Writing is an art. And learning to write does not happen overnight.

And yet, in the fast-forward, get-it-done-so-it-can-be-scored, follow-the-formula situations we place our kids, we seem to either be unaware of or not care about these truths, which then leads me to believe, we don’t honor perhaps a bigger truth: nothing is harder than teaching writing.

Okay, I am biased. I get it. I teach writing and so my lenses lean to this truth, and as such, I could not possibly know if it’s harder than anything else. So, fair enough. I don’t know that. But I do know this. Teaching writers is hard. Really hard. And here’s why.

It’s Personal

Writing, even academic writing, is a personal investment. It is from us; it is of us. It is ours. I used to tell kids that they were not their writing, and while there may be some truth to that, it undersells the investment. A writer is her writing. But it is not a static self; it is a dynamic self, changing and growing with each experience, but because it is personal, such growing often presents pain, for growth necessitates feedback, and humans tend–with any creative investment–to react emotionally to critiques of their work. It’s theirs. It’s personal.

So, then, writing is not so different from the other creative work that students do? Well, yes and no. In my experience the large difference is, that unlike most other creative endeavors, there looms not the contrived, artificial, high-stakes experience that portends fate and pretends divinity over writers, publishing their results, holding their diplomas. And though I reject such nonsense. I cannot deny that such nonsense has not seeped into my classroom, its nefarious presence taking hold as I struggle with the dilemma of time, the necessity of feedback, and the personal aspect on the eve of the test, which sullies the experience, transforming learning an art into playing a game. And I resent that, for I feel it forces me to move away from a being a writing teacher to playing a BS artist. It’s wrong, and it needs to be righted. But as we continue to develop technology for the sake of convenience (computers scoring essays so they can be returned to school in a timely manner so kids who fail have time to fail again) we are only moving deeper into madness.

Today’s Trail

Along today’s trail we will experience…

…connecting through Smiles and Frowns.

…the game craft (sorry, feeling a bit, snarky) of writing.

…reflecting in our Journey Journals.

…hearing a Sappy Sy Rhyme.

Happy Thursday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

It was easy. And I prided myself on being able to do it so well. I could keep a class quiet, even silent. I was good at it. But that was long ago, in a classroom far different, as a teacher I now barely recognize.

Today, I live in noise, a constant buzz of energy, both productive and not-always-so-productive. I embrace both, for it’s a room alive, it’s a place of human learning. And young humans are noisy, vessels of restless, “angsty” energy who need release. And since I give them freedom, their freedom inevitably finds that release. They’re human. They need it.

But noise is not chaos. Chaos disrupts, dismantles, and destroys a culture, and the only thing I protect more than the humans in the room is the culture in the room. My kids have the freedom to make noise but they do not have the freedom to create chaos. So, I keep them in check, which in the noise-is-needed classroom takes some creativity sometimes, especially later in the year. So, yesterday, I tried something different.

Right now, most of my time in class is spent making my way around the room conferencing with my kiddos about their writing. Such engagements become engrossing, and it is easy to lose focus on the rest of the room as I zoom in on the kid in front of me. As one might imagine, this grants even more “freedom” to my other kids as my attention is elsewhere and my gentle, occasional reminders of volume control are too few and too far between, and noise tempts chaos as one speaker’s increased volume increases the other speakers in the room, and we soon have a full-blown rock concert in room 206. And something has to be done. Something that honors both the kids and the culture. So, with that in mind, I turned to my old friends respect and responsibility.

“Okay, chicos, we gotta do this differently. The volume is getting too high in here, and while I don’t want silence, I do want to make sure we are not disrupting others to the point where they can’t do their best work, so I need your help.

Please choose a partner. You have 30 seconds. Okay, congratulations, you now have an accountability partner. They will help you keep your volume in check, and, in turn, they will do the same for you.

We all have a responsibility to be mindful and respectful of our neighbors’ needs to learn, so let’s all hold each other accountable. Okay?

Let’s work.”

And…it worked. Wasn’t perfect, but it was significantly better. I could focus better on my conferencing, kids kept their volume in check–without being babysat, and we all made progress with our work. I needed something. I leaned on my kids. They responded. That’s the culture I work to cultivate–with my humans.

Today’s Trail…

Along today’s trail we will experience…

…connecting through Smiles and Frowns.

…crafting introductions

…reflecting in our Journey Journals

…hearing a Sappy Sy Rhyme.

Happy Wednesday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Not finding the words this morning. They’re there. I can feel them. But they hide. And though I can sense them on the edge of my being and I earnestly call them forth, they hesitate, they wait. It’s a game we sometimes play. They will not come. They will make me come to them, as if to say, “If you raise us from the shadows, you must own what you say, reap what you sow. We will not come.” So, I must go to them. But this morning I pause, for I have learned a pen too eager for words not ready can be trouble. So I will wait. But I don’t want to.

I want to share my deepening dilemma with allowing the stranger that is standardized testing into our room as it disrupts and defiles our sacred space, my fight-or-flight teetering on a precipice offering danger with either step.

If I fight (and I want to), I risk raising the storm outside my room, an invitation to more stranger danger as I call attention to my reason and resolve and a battle’s begun, from which I will not back down but of which I cannot win. Can I afford a pyrrhic victory?

If I flee (and I won’t) and hide inside my room, the stranger will come anyway. And in its coming, it will not care a whit for the names and the stories behind them, as it seeks to name them numbers, winners and losers. And I, I cannot readily reconcile such an uninvited violation of the humans I harbor in this space made sacred, this home we occupy. Can I just stand by?

I don’t know. The answer waits. Words for another day.

Today’s Trail

Along today’s trail we will experience…

…connecting through Smiles and Frowns.

…crafting an introduction.

…reflecting in our Journey Journals.

…discussing Why with Sy.

…hearing a Sappy Sy Rhyme.

Happy Tuesday, all. Sorry for the “strange” post this morning. Struggling with this. Thank you for letting me try to find my words this morning.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

kids:
they dance before they learn
there is anything that isn’t music.

from “Keepsakes,” William Stafford

I have done it at least a hundred times. Sat in a circle with kids, sharing, listening, and building community. Long before I began Smiles and Frowns, I did Community Circle with my kiddos. And though each session was itself gold, last week was my most golden yet.

But first, here are the basics of Community Circle. As the name suggests, we sit in a circle around the room. We used to move all the desks and sit on the floor, which added a comfortable intimacy to the activity, but it was…well, the floor. Now, we just arrange the desks.

We establish, re-establish our simple guidelines: be great listeners (no talking while others are sharing, and making a visual connection with the speaker), snap or clap agreement, share appropriate answers, ask for a “comeback” if you are not ready, and pass if you choose. The right to pass is imperative. This should be something kids want to do, not something they have to do. Some kids pass. Most don’t. In my experience, they are eager to share.

And, then, we get started. I pose a question/prompt, and we go around the room until everyone has a turn, and we move on to the next topic. We do it for roughly forty minutes on the first Friday of each month.

This month, we moved it to last Wednesday because of the three-day week created by conferences. It started as any other Community Circle: kids shared; we listened; we built community. But then, on a whim, during third period (my second class of the day), I pushed the kids. And they responded.

“Would you rather sing or dance in public?” I have used this “Would you rather” dozens of times with past classes, and kids have simply responded, “sing” or “dance.” But, this time, finding myself seated next to Marlena, an accomplished ballerina, I said, “Okay, do it,” when she said “dance.” Her mouth dropped open; she looked to her peers whose own expressions revealed their wide-eyed knowing of what was about to go down: they would actually have to sing or dance.

All eyes were on Marlena. She moved her desk, went to the middle, and danced–beautifully. The ball was rolling. And it didn’t stop. Kid after kid sang or danced, or both–and not always beautifully, but my gosh we had a blast. Of course, the kids didn’t have to. I never make them do something they do not want to, and the right to pass is sacred in room 206, and some kids certainly–understandably–used it in later periods. After all, who wants to sing or dance in public?

Turns out, most of my kids did, some completely shocking me. I could not believe they stepped out of their closely-guarded comfort zones. From there we settled into more serious topics, ending with, “When is the last time you cried and why?” From the frivolity of dance to the vulnerability of tears, we learned each other last Wednesday, creating community, building bonds.

Of course, some might suggest that we were wasting valuable instruction time with such nonsense as singing and dancing. But once, before we taught them differently, kids moved and sang without apprehension, without prodding, with joy–because they found it natural, normal, necessary. And then, we showed them the “sense” of things, and they stopped dancing. Wish we hadn’t.

Today’s Trail

Along today’s trail we will experience…

…reconnecting through Smiles and Frowns.

…writing introductions for argumentative letters.

…reflecting in our Journey Journals.

…discussing Why with Sy.

…hearing a Sappy Sy Rhyme.

Happy Monday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.