Payday today. Suppose we don’t get paid enough. Maybe just enough. My family and I are comfortable. Of course, we could always use more, but that’s true for all of us. Life takes money–often more than we have. But living requires something more. It goes beyond the paycheck at the end of the month. Living needs more than the promise of pay; Living needs the power of purpose. And, even though our purpose fills us, it also drains us. For teachers, our purpose is both a blessing and a curse.
First the curse. It’s for the kids. And just like that we are emotionally exploited. And our purpose is used to manipulate us as our institution and society cling to this notion that we should want to do what we do for kids. The extra hours and responsibilities are just part of our obligation, and if we dare balk, we are seen as selfish and somehow less for kids.
Next the blessing. It’s for the kids. Damn right it is. It’s all for the kids. It’s what drives us, feeds us, fills us. And when we find ourselves in the bliss of our blessing, nothing matters more than the satisfaction of helping kids. And in those moments we care not about pay, only purpose. It’s not about paying for life. It’s about living life. It’s about purpose. Yesterday, I felt blessed.
Yesterday, I–for a moment–felt a king. I felt proudly purposeful. Noble. No paycheck has ever made me feel this way. Kids have only ever made me feel this way, which is why I know “it’s for the kids.” But, noble fades, life happens, and purpose gets blurred and we live out the paradox of our purpose as we show up day after day, cursed and blessed. Of course, we do. We’re teachers. We have to. And, yes, it’s for the kids.
Just a smile to share this morning. Last week one of my students from last year stopped by at the end of the day, but I was in a meeting, so she said she’d catch up with me later. Yesterday, was the later.
“You ready?” she asked, walking up to my desk, a bit of twinkle in her eye.
I was sitting with a few colleagues, but I said sure. And she started singing.
“It’s a beautiful day for Smiles and Frowns…”
And I joined.
We then exchanged Smiles and Frowns.
That’s all she wanted. Just to check in and share a Smile and Frown with me.
Pretty cool that a former student can walk into a room like she belongs there, start singing a silly song in front of other adults, and lead her own “round” of Smiles and Frowns. Pretty cool, indeed. Made my day. Wanted to share.
There’s a strange moment in the assessment of writing. It’s that place where formative becomes summative. I used to explain it to my kids as my being a coach through the process (formative) and my being a judge for the product (summative). And though I thought that sufficiently settled the strangeness between, and even if my kids accepted my teacher-speak explanation of the phenomenon, it was never not strange. I was reminded of this recently by a former student who shared a story of the strangeness that I have been a part of too many times.
“They grade hard. I asked if I needed to do anything else for the final draft, and they said, ‘No, it’s great,’ and then I got a ‘B. I don’t understand.”
I never really did either. It’s tricky. And I am not throwing any of my ELA colleagues under the bus. It’s hard to know where the line is between coaching and judging. If we help too much (is that a thing?), then we worry about tainting the grade at the end, so we tend to withhold or temper our help to prevent this from happening. And in that place, we often find ourselves facing the “good now” v. “good later” dilemma. I even remember trying to explain away the dilemma to my kids–mostly myself–with the idea of my looking through more critical lenses at the end, as if I would somehow develop a super sense for judging writing that could only happen at that time and place, away from the kid, into the grade unknown, where strange things happen to papers and teachers and ultimately students as the marking happens. The marking. The ranking. The sorting. The grading. It’s the grading.
As most know, I have left “grade unknown” for feedback. And as I have recently begun coaching my kids through their first major piece this year, and as I have been reflecting on my former student’s story, I have had a major aha. I am no longer stuck in the strangeness. Oh, I am still shaking off some of the holds of old, but I am mostly free from that place of…weirdness. Now, my helping kids is only about making it better for their audience, not a grade. My helping kids is about giving them a chance to grow by considering and responding to my feedback; it’s not about getting a grade. My helping kids is only in the now, there where we are together: writer and reader. It’s not about later where a grade appears–sometimes, seemingly, out of nowhere.
With my feedback-only approach this year, I have come to learn that two things are key. One, the summative has to be a “publishing” opportunity. The kids have to read their work to us, and/or we have to create classroom anthologies of our work. Of course, there’s more to it than that, but that’s the basic premise: kids have to publish. Two, the formative has to be a response to feedback, and more, the kids have to explain that part of their growth story. It’s not about just making changes; it’s about why and how, too.
No, these are not new ideas. In fact, I suspect many ELA classrooms strive for authentic audiences and encourage “meta-cognitive meaning making” as part of the process. These are nothing new. But for me, the “new” of being beyond grades has created a place of clarity and liberty when it comes to engaging my young writers. My interactions with them have never felt more genuine, more real, more…normal.
I still have a lot to learn out here, away from the grade unknown, but so far, I am encouraged by my discoveries as I venture deeper into the realm of feedback.
Had our first Community Circle of the year. Normally we do it on the first Friday of each month, which is next Friday, but I switched days–for a couple of reasons. One, selfishly, I was tired, and as I looked at my long list of writing conferences ahead of me, I knew I was not in the right frame of mind to give it my all. Two, instinctively, I knew it was time to deepen our community connections. So, we did.
Community Circle is basically Smiles and Frowns on steroids. Instead of only sharing a Smile and/or Frown, we share things in response to various prompts, ranging from the candy we like to the last time we cried and all points between. Same guidelines as Smiles and Frowns, and of course kids may pass. I did Community Circle for years before I started with the daily Smiles and Frowns. In their own ways, both are powerful community building activities. With CC, I find we learn more about each other, creating stronger connections. The kids love it, many of them sharing their appreciation of going beyond Smiles and Frowns, specifically pointing to the value of more serious prompts.
And so, for roughly an hour, we learn each other–the most important “content” in the room. Daily Smiles and Frowns and a monthly Community Circle are the perfect ingredients to building and sustaining a classroom community. Two of the best things I have ever done.
Made a change. Listened to my son, my student teacher, and my gut, for all pointed to one truth: kids needed more time to write.
“Dad, we only get like 30 minutes twice a week.”
“When I am writing I need to focus on just that.”
“The most important work we do is writing.”
Yes. Yes. And Yes.
So, I had to find a better.
Currently, our week, mostly due to our having to share Chromebooks, consists of two days of reading and two days of writing. My writing days–my Chromebook days–are Wednesday and Thursday. And as my son, who is my class, pointed out, that’s just not enough time. He’s right. My student teacher recently engaged me about the two-day approach, saying that would be hard for her to go nearly a week before coming back to her work. She’s right. My gut reminded me that we have to put our time where are priorities are. It’s right. Something had to change.
Yesterday, I approached my grade-level and Chromebook partner about finding a better. We put our heads together, and came up with the plan to alternate weeks between reading and writing. Now we will have more sustained time and focus. We didn’t get more time; we just organized our time differently. Best way? Best is a myth, so I doubt it. Better way? Maybe. All we can do is give it a go. I feel good about it. My student teacher and colleague feel good about it. And, importantly, most of the kids feel good about it. We’ll see how it goes.
There’s a place between. Sometimes it’s easy to find. Sometimes–the saddest times–it’s never found. Most times it’s in the middle. Other times it’s closer to one edge than the other. But there, somewhere between, we come together. We have to, else our work’s for naught. Teaching becomes teaching when learning becomes learning, each side gives meaning to the other there in the between, where comes to life learning, a symbiotic organism mutually dependent on the sides which meet. There, between.
Two questions hold me. What is teaching? What is learning? I mean, really, what are they? Yes, I know there are plenty of answers out there. But it’s that there are plenty of answers–some of them even for sale–which gives me pause. And while some claim the corner, I am wary of corners, leery of ends, for those places are distant, insular. They are too far removed from the between. So, I tend to the center of the room where things are not so isolated, not so certain. And there where I stand in the middle, I find my kids in as many spots as there are individuals, each place a different truth, a circle with no corners, a place with no ends, only meeting points. There, between.
Today, I will seek the between with my young writers as I try to meet them in middle as we talk about their writing. And, I will have company. I have my first formal observation of the year, roughly my fiftieth time in my twenty-four years to “prove” I can teach. As I considered my observation this year and what I would do to prove, I found myself considering the between, for it is the only time I really feel like I am teaching. I don’t feel like it when I am talking (used to–oh boy! did I used to think that talking was teaching, and so I talked and talked and talked). And I don’t feel like it when the kids are silently working. Those are ends in their own ways, broadening the between. I feel like I am teaching when I am sitting with kids, talking with kids, giving feedback to kids. So, that is what I will do today. The kids determine if I am teaching, for teaching–to me, at least–is responding. So in essence, I wait for them to bring me to life. There, between.
I knew. They knew. We knew. They hadn’t read the story in preparation for yesterday’s activity. Of course, this is not a new phenomenon in the ELA classroom, even before “technology,” kids didn’t read. Yes, many do, but many don’t as well. It’s a longstanding tradition. And as such, at least in my experience, it puts an elephant in the room, and we can either fight it, ignore it, or accept it.
For years, I fought it with threats of grades, but now that grades are no longer a weapon or a tool, I have lost my “fight,” which has been reduced to sometimes more impassioned than impactful pep talks about the importance of reading, as I “wah, wah, wah” to my kids.
For a time–too long, in truth–I ignored it. I met apathy with apathy. And though it did not sit comfortably on my English teacher shoulder, my fight was gone. I wasn’t even sure I believed my “wah, wah” anymore.
At last–right or wrong (see “Somewhere Between” from yesterday http://www.letschangeeducation.com/somewhere-between-project-180-day-33/)–I have come to accept the reality that no matter what I do, some kids won’t read–even “good kids.” In fact, many “good kids” are really just “good” at the game, and “reading it” really means (from their mouths) “I started the book, but I ran out of time and I read the Cliff’s or Sparknotes, so I wouldn’t fail the test.”
Do I want the kids to read everything I put in front of them? Of course I do. Do I try to pick things that are relevant? Of course I do. Do I try to inspire them to dig into the marrow of life that they’ll find in literature? Of course I do. Do they then all read? Of course they don’t.
Yesterday, for the first–and not the last–time this year, I addressed the elephant in the room. I let kids know that I knew. I knew some had not read. I knew some had not finished. I let them know I knew, and I also let them know I was mildly disappointed, but more, I let them know that I had no desire to make believe with them. Some didn’t read. Some will never read. It’s what it is. It’s what it’s been. It’s what it will be. Pretending doesn’t make it so. So I asked them not to pretend. I asked them to own it.
Here’s how it played out. The planned activity was a “silent discussion” on Amy Tan’s short story, “Two Kinds.” The room was arranged into seven table groups. At each table there was a sheet of butcher paper with a question in the middle. The kids had a minute-and-a-half to silently write a response before rotating around the room, getting to each table before returning to their own.
Wondering and worrying what they would look like for my kids who did not read or finish and not wanting them to fake it, I provided an alternate set of questions, so they could participate and contribute. Of course, we couldn’t perfectly match question for question, but my student teacher came up with five general questions in the context of the story which dealt with parent-child relationships. So, for example, instead of asking how Jing-mei and her mother were similar and different, we asked kids how they were similar and different to their own parents. Again, not the perfect match but an opportunity. I offered a window, instead of a door. We asked the kids who did not read or finish to code their responses DNR (did not read) or DNF (did not finish). And we also asked them to sign their names, just as the “readers” did. We asked them to own it. And they did.
At the end, wondering how they felt about my accepting the elephant, I asked them if I was a fool for my approach. Most said, no and that they appreciated the “grace” and my being “real.” A few, however, suggested that I was maybe a little foolish in letting the DNR’s and the DNF’s know that it was okay, that I had just invited them to not read in the future. Not to read in the future. And while there is wisdom in the honesty of my little humans, and I may indeed have perpetuated what they claimed, I think it’s a little less-simple than that. For who created the DNR’s in the past? And how did they do it? Fighting it, ignoring it? More, who created my present reality with DNR’s? Were all my kids faithful readers when they walked in my door this fall? Or were the DNR’s already DNR’s? Seems a complicated set of questions to a simple reality: kids aren’t reading.
At present, my response to this reality is to accept and work with the elephant. He’s there. Always has been. I can no longer fight or ignore him, so I accept him. Just being honest.
Today’s Trail
Along today’s trail we will experience…
…connecting through Smiles and Frowns.
…growing with grammar.
…wrapping up intros and beginning the bodies of our personal narratives.
Sometimes I worry, if there is such a place, and the ed fundamentalists have their way, I am probably going to Teacher Hell. And while my sins have added up over the years (especially lately), they’ve always been from a place of good intentions.
And I had those same good intentions in mind yesterday as I sat down to begin brokering a deal with the devil between two of my students and me. But something had to give–even if it means eternal damnation.
They aren’t doing the work. They haven’t done the work (likely for years). They won’t do the work. Oh, they’re pleasant enough about it, but they’re only pushing the work around their plates, taking cautionary, only-when-Sy-is-looking bites–and even then, they are nibbles at best. And changing the menu doesn’t seem to matter. Something had to be done. Can’t have kids starving at the table. So, I asked them to bring their own meals to the table.
“Okay, guys, this isn’t working. I know it. You know it.
Sheepish shrugs from them.
“So, I think we need to find a middle, somewhere that will work for both of us. I won’t bullshit you and tell this stuff is essential to your futures. It is unlikely you will sit around reading literature looking for themes when you leave school. I won’t do that. But I will shoot you straight and tell you that your ability to access and deliver information will have some impact on future opportunities. So, let’s find somewhere in between. At this point, I don’t really care what you read or write as long as you are growing as readers and writers. Please go home tonight and think about where we can find a suitable medium.”
They nodded. I collected their stared-at, pushed-around, basically-untouched Learning Checks. And the period ended.
Just make ’em do it. Sorry, can’t. Quit the compliance model some time ago. Might have been the first step in my descent to the nether. I am interested only in their commitment, not their compliance.
What about the other kids? You mean the other kids who are doing and benefiting from the work for their own future opportunities? I am talking about these two kids who are doing nothing. Pretty sure the other kids don’t really care. And if I needed to, I would meet them somewhere in between, too.
But they’re not getting the same education as all the other kids. No, they aren’t–with or without my deal. Maybe the notion that they all have to have the same education, in the same way, at the same time is the problem. Maybe the common, just-give-them-more-of-the-same response in ed is what has failed kids who need something beyond our pat response to deficiency. Some, here, might even suggest they need another language arts class to get them caught up. Not buying it.
So, today, as my feet feel, but not fear, the fire from below, I will touch base with these two as we work to find somewhere between. And if that’s damnable, then I will accept my fate. I already have.
Today’s Trail
Along today’s trail we will experience…
…connecting through Smiles and Frowns.
…growing with grammar.
…engaging in a silent-discussion activity with “Two Kinds”
…reflecting in our Journey Journals.
…hearing a Sappy Sy Rhyme.
Happy Tuesday, all. Sorry if my post was a little feisty this morning. Sometimes, to change things, we have to get a little edgy.
Not much on my mind this Monday morning . Eager to be back with my kids after my absence on Friday. It was nice to have a three-day weekend. Feel much more rested and ready to go than I do after a two-day weekend. Wish we could make the three-day happen more for all of us. It makes Monday much more manageable.
But, I’m gonna keep it short this morning. I have lots of prep for our days ahead. Really excited to begin Part Two of our Wisdom Writers Project this week. The kids will start writing the “diary section” of their narratives. Can’t wait to see how it all comes together on this inaugural edition.
Today’s Trail
Along today’s trail we will experience…
…reconnecting through Smiles and Frowns.
…checking our learning (Learning Check #5, “By Any Other Name”)
“Sy, what do I have to do to get on to your blog?”
“Well, Simone, it looks like you just have to wear a Minecraft costume.”
It’s spirit week at CHS for Homecoming. Yesterday, Simone wore her awesome Minecraft outfit. But even “awesomer” is her typing in the position you see her in the photo for the entire period. She couldn’t see well enough through her mask, so she had to hold her Chromebook as you see it and type with one finger. Of course, we all encouraged her to “just take off your mask.” But she stubbornly resisted and entertained us with her spirited antics. And it is that very spirit, which she brings to class every day, that makes us love her so. Thank you, Simone, for your spirit. We dig it.
Day away for me. I have an appointment, so I won’t be at school. Have a great weekend, all.
