Always a Better around the Bend

Though I have been gradeless for three years now, in my earnest attempt to emphasize learning by de-emphasizing grading, I am still not satisfied with my approach, for it still relies on numbers which impact how my students “see” their feedback during their learning experiences. It seems, regardless of what I write or say, the number speaks first and most. I want to get away from this. (I know Ruth Butler speaks to and there exists a body of work to support this, but I have yet to read any of her work–I will, but it makes sense to me without her work. I mean that most respectfully.)

Over the past two years, I have used an approach I call “Performance Learning.” Essentially, “performances” are assessments, the only thing I “grade.” I use a 3 point system to mark performance: 3 = Met Standard  2 = Near Miss 1 = Far Miss. With each number I also provide feedback. For 2’s and 1’s, the feedback, indicates why they missed and what they need to do next time. “Next time” is key. With this “assessment-as-learning” approach, retakes are encouraged. Really, they are expected. My kids go into all performances knowing that for most of them it’s a matter of when not if there’s a next time. In general, this approach has been a positive, productive step for me as I have distanced myself from traditional grading. Even so, the approach is lacking. So, this is one of the reasons, I am seeking better.

There are other reasons.

Data, Data, Who’s Got the Data?

I have come to see learning as a story, a complex, idiosyncratic tale that is hard to pen, especially when we try to put it into standard numbers and letters. This is yet another compelling reason for my venturing into the gradeless realm three years ago. A grade never–I repeat never— felt sufficient; in truth, even more, it never really felt accurate. So, unsettled by this, I sought better. Still seeking better. That’s why I am writing this, but at some point betters meet and it then becomes a question of whose better is better.

Things happen differently in the gradeless classroom. They have to. Nearly all teachers I know who’ve gone “gradeless,” are doing it in response to the inadequacy of traditional grading practices. It’s the nature of the journey. We have to do things differently. And while things have changed–for the better most of us believe–within our rooms, the rest of the world remains largely unchanged without. And that interface between worlds presents challenges. Many of us have found ways to overcome these challenges, and we do so willingly because we believe in what we are doing. The extra effort is worth it. From explaining our work to parents to finding clever ways to manipulate our online grade books, we have found ways to make our “different” work–within our walls, but what about outside our walls? What happens when these worlds collide?

As many of you know, I am no fan of standardized testing. I find it a false narrative, at times deeply at odds with the stories we pen in our room all year long. Of late, as I have begun to more publicly and purposefully resist, the chances for these at-odds moments are likely to increase as I shrug the test and embrace instead the experiences in my classroom. I imagine there will be a disconnect, a discrepancy in the data. The outside data and the inside data will tell different tales. Such is the risk of different. Such is the risk that discourages many to do differently in the first place. I have risked much in the past, and I will risk much in the future, but risk is not without preparation. I was “prepared” when I went gradeless three years ago. I will be prepared with this next phase, evolution of Project 180.

A Tale of Two Experiences

The initial genesis of this most recent plan to do differently actually occurred during a recent PLC meeting where my team and I were discussing our findings from a common assessment, an argumentative letter (yes, I’m a sellout. It was test prep). And we arrived at this place where we were wondering about what our data revealed vs. what the SBA data might reveal. What if the two told different tales?  And it got me to thinking about the value of qualitative data in telling kids’ learning stories, thinking if the day ever came where we had to reconcile the difference in data, how could we relate, how could the kids relate their learning experiences in a way that could/would stand up to the inquiry? We would have to have our act together. And I, in particular, for I do far differently than they, would really have to have it together. So, I started thinking.

Kids would have to present a compelling tale to stand up the to “truth” of standardized data. My kids already collect a portfolio of evidence all semester long, but I am not sure it is truly compelling, particularly to outside eyes.But that is a secondary, reactionary concern. More to the point, how can I create an experience where we can capture growth moments? That’s the primary, for me. That’s the tale I want my kids to write, that’s the tale I want them to tell. But as I wrestled with how that manifests itself in kids’ learning experiences, I always hit a snag. And then, finally it dawned. It’s the numbers. It’s the damn numbers. They tell the tale too short; they end the tale too soon. I have to get rid of the numbers. I have known for a long time that the sweet spot in learning is the feedback cycle, but I have also known, experienced, bemoaned that feedback gets tainted by numbers. So yesterday, I decided to devise a way to get rid of the numbers. But I am not fully ready to share that yet, for I have a lot of processing to do. This is going to be a BIG different.

I wanted to share this to create some context for my change, to share my why before my what and how. I know holes exist in my thinking, that’s the nature of chasing better–there are always holes, but this is what I have for now. My thinking moving forward is hovering around these questions/ideas.

What is learning?

We learn from experiences.

Experiences provide feedback opportunities.

Feedback opportunities promote growth.

Growth is evidence of learning.

Learning is the goal.

So, our goal is to provide meaningful growth experiences so each student may learn.

What makes a “Growth Experience” meaningful?

Relevance

Choice

Agency

Standards

Criteria

Feedback

Support

Reflection

Self-Assessment

That’s my rough shove of my idea into the world. Any questions or feedback would be welcomed and appreciated.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Silence has a sound. I heard it yesterday. I leaned into listen to its eerie presence in room 206 as my kids sat silently taking the state test in a room where silence is strange.

And in its strangeness, I found the muted voices of my little humans whose silence was not consent, but rather resignation. And it is that resignation that screams at me in its silent compliance, for it is not us. I knew it. The kids knew it. And I think on some level they thought maybe I could save the day, smite the stranger, but alas I was silent, too.

Oh, I tried to rebel a bit. We did Smiles and Frowns on sticky notes, posting them on the front board as I handed out test tickets–“wasting” valuable testing time–but even this was a muted moment, not the rousing rebellion I had imagined in my head.

No just silence. An administrator walking in may have lauded the absence of sound and marveled at the diligence of students. It was an ideal testing environment, but in their perceived assessment, they would have been deaf to the silent screams of “why?” reverberating around the room, deeply etching guilt into my being. For I know not why. Of course, I know the attempts to explain the why of testing; I have heard them all before, but they fall woefully short of reassuring me there is any real purpose or value to standardized testing.

Yet they persist. They talk the talk. And in their talk they make just enough noise to drown out those who would resist. And we are left in silence. But that silence is not empty, that silence is not dead. There is sound in that silence, and once that silence finds its ear, it will be the tree that falls in the forest. But that day is yet to come. For now, the silence lingers; it waits. And while it waits, it grows. It grows in me, waiting for an opening, waiting for a moment. And that moment may be sooner than later, for I am not sure I can bear the guilt of silence much longer as my kids look to me with “why” in their eye.

Happy Tuesday, all. Please bear with me. I swear it’s a near-schizophrenic experience to be a teacher during state testing.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Gonna be a weird week. No Smiles. No Frowns. Desks in rows. Silence. I will frequently wonder if I am in the right room.

We start testing today. My sophomores will take the Smarter Balanced Assessment this week. In Washington, passing the SBA is a graduation requirement. Of course, this has been the reality for some time now: graduation has been tied to state testing for a number of years. And over those years, it has taken different forms with different names, as I indicated in last Friday’s post “Wearing Guilt” http://www.letschangeeducation.com/wearing-guilt-project-180-day-136/ .

This current form claims to be more valid, more reliable, “more smarter,” but so did each new iteration before it. In the end, it’s still just a standardized test, and it’s still a stranger come to claim domain over students’ learning, sorting kids into winners and losers. Here is a Twitter thread from this weekend, which shares my enduring concerns for this enduring reality, by any name.

But despite my resistance and revulsion to this stranger non grata, I will not let my negativity set the tone this week with my kiddos. I will encourage and assure, much as I did in my conversation with “J” on Friday.

And, that is just what we will do today as we find ourselves in a weird world: continue our journey. All we can do.

Happy Monday, all. Sorry for my tone of late. Hard time of year, but this too shall pass. Of course, I have been saying that for years.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

I used to wear a cape. I used to paint my face. I used to write and sing songs. I used to assemble a group of kiddos from the previous year to inspire and encourage my current kids before state testing. We called ourselves the WASL (Washington Assessment of Student Learning) Wonders, and then when the test changed to the High School Proficiency Exam, we called ourselves the HSPE heroes.

I used to.

I no longer don a cape and tights. I no longer write and sing songs with my last year’s kids to rah-rah my this year’s kids to and through the state test.

I used to.

See, I thought I had to. I thought I had to be the “hero” to see them through the rough reality of standardized testing, and whether I believed in it or not, it was my job to get the kids there in mind and spirit. And I did this for ten years.

And then one day, I stopped. And not because the test went away. It’s now called the SBA (Smarter Balanced Assessment) and that will change with the next test. Not because the reality is any less real for my kids. They have to pass to graduate. Not because it’s no longer my job to prepare them for the test. I teach tenth-grade English in Washington State. It’s because…

Because I can no longer sell what I myself would not buy. I cannot, will not buy that standardized testing is the measure of my kids. In my stronger moments, I would bravely stand and wear that on a t-shirt for all the world to see, smiting standardization’s nefarious nature. But in my weaker, wonder-and-worry moments (like now, with the testing starting Monday), I fear I have not done my job; I fear I have let my kids down; I fear I have let my profession down, and I want to hide. But that is fear talking. It is not truth. It’s the narrative of nonsense.

I have let no one down. I know this. My kids know this. Come to my room if you want the real story. Let’s talk about learning, let’s talk about humanity. We have much to tell, and we would readily share. After all, it’s our story.

I no longer wear my cape, for I will no longer pretend to fly a false fiction. It was only an old, red sheet anyway. And the paint just washed off. And the songs were never really that good either.

I used to care. Used to. But I no longer do. I will play the pawn no more. So point your fingers. I will wear my guilt out in the open. Guess I already am.

Today’s Trail

Along today’s trail we will experience…

…connecting through Smiles and Frowns.

…responding to feedback and wrapping up essays.

…reflecting in our Journey Journals.

…hearing a Sappy Sy Rhyme.

Happy Friday, all. Sorry for the feisty post this morning. This time of year gets to me. Have a great weekend.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

“Deficient. Never used that word in my writing before.”

“Yeah, I just used the word anathema for the first time in my blog post this morning, means something or someone that is strongly disliked.”

“Anathema, that word just sounds like it means something bad.”

We laughed, as he said the word aloud again.

We laughed. He laughed. That’s a big deal.

He doesn’t laugh. He barely, rarely smiles, and he certainly never does when schoolwork is the topic.

I want to describe him, but I can’t describe him. Oh, I have the words. That’s not problem. It’s just that the words break my heart, for I believe if you ever imagined all the things that a kid could have stacked against him, he would materialize before your eyes.

I see him every day, and my heart breaks for him every day. I do what I can to help, and he’s come to let me more as the year has passed, but yesterday, he let me in, and I stayed as long as I could, maybe longer than I should have, for I never did get to the other kids who needed my help. But, as they no doubt sat and watched and listened to his and my moment, they, too, witnessed some beauty in the human connection I shared with this young man. It was understood, I think by all, that there was nothing more important than that moment. And they, with grace, let us be.

And so, for the better part of twenty minutes, I sat with him and patiently, painstakingly–for working with writers at times requires Herculean efforts–on his essay. I wrote. He wrote. We scribbled. Backspaced. Laughed at his huge–I mean huge–fingers fumbling around on the keyboard, as he muttered, “I don’t type so good.”

At some point, feeling like he could manage the rest on his own, I left him to wrap up the quickly closing period with the rest of my kiddos. And as the bell rang and the room cleared, he was there at my desk, shifting his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other.

“Just wanna say thank you for your help. No one could do what you do. So, thanks.”

Plenty of others could and do, do what I do. But yesterday, I did what I did because I had to. I had a million other things to do, but I had to let the moment dictate, and I did. We stopped the world and melted into the moment. I may never get another moment with him quite the same, so I stayed. I lingered, finding myself fully present in a moment while the world waited.

Today’s Trail

Along today’s trail we will experience…

…connecting through Smiles and Frowns.

…(with reluctance) an interim SBA practice.

…wrapping up essays.

…reflecting in our Journey Journals.

…hearing a Sappy Sy Rhyme.

Happy Thursday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better. (and stop the world every once in a while)

Somewhere along the way we got lost. We veered from the path and ended up in a place where “help” became anathema in education.

Maybe it’s rugged American individualism. Maybe it’s a hyper-competitive culture. Maybe it’s a hide-weakness-at-all-costs attitude. Regardless, our kids tend to hide from help, and the farther they get into their journeys, the more they hide.

But why? And how? How did we get to a place where our job is to help only to find ourselves operating in a space where kids are afraid to ask us to perform our primary function? If we are not helping, are we teaching? If kids aren’t asking for help, are they learning?

Of course this is nothing new. I, too, remember hiding from help for the entirety of my experiences in school. And the only times I did ask for help was when I had reached a point of desperation and shouldered the shame, or I had a teacher who invited us to ask questions, who made “help” an accepted, expected part of the deal, but the latter was few and far between. Seeking help was never comfortable. Never.

Nothing new. Nothing has changed. Yesterday, I encountered a troubling experience with a young lady during fourth period. Troubling on two levels. One, she told me that asking for help made her feel stupid, Two–and this is most troubling, she was afraid to ask me for help. Me? Dang. And I work really hard–or so I thought–to make questions, to make help a necessary, a welcomed dynamic in our classroom. Here was the gist of our exchange.

She came out of hiding. She sought help. She got help. A lot. And I loved every minute of it. IT’S WHY I AM IN THE ROOM! No, it wasn’t easy for either of us. Learning is work, work that requires help. So, it was deeply gratifying for me to be that for her. I hope she turned a corner yesterday. I hope she is less-afraid to ask for help. I hope all my kids are, and I plan to make a point–again–of telling them that they must ask me for help. Must.

I dream of a new place in education, a place where help is the currency, where kids ask for help as not a sign of weakness but as a sign of power, expecting no less from their teachers. Help should be an expectation, a living, breathing entity in every classroom. Of this I dream.

Today’s Trail

Along today’s trail we will experience…

…connecting through Smiles and Frowns.

…responding to feedback.

…finishing our essays.

…reflecting in our Journey Journals.

…hearing a Sappy Sy Rhyme.

Happy Wednesday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

It’s a bit of madness, I think. There seems, at times, a disconnect between what should be and what is on any given day, in any given classroom, during any given year. And amidst the madness, between the ends, dwells the teacher.

It should be as simple as teachers teach and students learn. Should be. And though even teachers are generally wise to the mirage of “should be,” we, too, are drawn to this false oasis, as we set about our journey, each year, each day. We can’t help it, for most of us are eternal optimists, even if only for our kids. We owe them that. So each year, each morning, we put on our face-the-world smiles and hope–just hope–that today, that this year, everything will go, will be as it should. If only. For as the mirage fades into the horizon so does our smile as we face what is.

And what is, is never simple. It’s crazily complex, and maddeningly messy in its raw reality. And each day “what is” is rarely what should be. And though I do not know which “is” is in store for me today, this is what was yesterday.

• He got suspended again.
• Half the classes were gone on the biology field trip.
• Admin asked me to do a practice run of the Smarter Balanced Assessment with my kids before Monday.
• I can only get the Chrome Books two days this week.
• The wi-fi was not working.
• She needed me to remember that “great advice” I gave her on her essay ten days ago before break. And so did all her neighbors.
• There were sixteen hands up needing help, with five minutes left in class.
• Many kids indicated they will be gone to FBLA state Wednesday through Friday.
• Most kids reported they have games in various sports all week and will miss class in the afternoon.
• He won’t do it if I don’t sit down and do it with him.
• He won’t do it–no matter what I do,
• She can do it all, and more, without me.
• His ego was on the other end of my feedback. And so was everyone else’s as I gave them feedback, too.
• I was stressed about my own life.
• She needed food and water. I needed food and water.
• They didn’t understand why they had to take the SBA again. I neither had the time nor a good answer. I don’t understand, either.
• Speaking of the SBA, should I have done more prep? Should I try to squeeze some in? Do I care? (madness)
• I had to use the restroom. There were thirty minutes left in class.

Okay, enough (sorry for the TMI), but the list goes on. It always does. And though what should be and what is rarely agree, we do our best to meet the day ahead. And as we look out on our kids with needs bigger than we, we find again our fading smile and live in the reality of teaching, chasing the next mirage, embracing our place of madness. It’s what we do. It’s who we have to be in this mad, mad world. We are teachers, all of us. Mad, every one.

Today’s Trail

Along today’s trail we will experience…

…connecting through Smiles and Frowns.

…writing conclusions.

…wrapping up essays.

…reflecting in our Journey Journals.

…hearing a Sappy Sy Rhyme.

Happy Tuesday, all. Hope no one took my post as my complaining. I love my job. It’s just really tough sometimes. Still love it though, even on the toughest of days.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.