The shoes don’t fit. Some are too big. Some are too small. Some don’t fit the person at all. For years, I tried to force a fit with the standard issue, and while I stuck them on the feet in front of me, I knew they didn’t fit, and worse, the kids knew, too. But I had no choice. They were the shoes I was given, and if I was going to be good at my job, I would make them fit. I had no choice. Until I did.

But that discovery was a longtime coming and too-long delayed in my practice. Too many years I forced the fit. Kids were kids. Ages were ages. Levels were levels. And so the shoes had to fit. But that changed. I am not sure when, but one day, I noticed the kids were all wearing shoes already. They all had shoes. New. Old. Big. Small. Flashy. Plain. Comfortable. Clumsy. Shoes, every one. And for the first time, clearly, I saw each, not all. More, I saw myself. I was not the fitter. I was the “fittee.” All that time, I was trying to make them fit me, when I should have been fitting them.

And as I have learned to fit, I have discovered paths never before imagined for my kids to walk. They are not all the same, despite the labels we tend to attach to them. They each require a unique fit that I try to find.

But isn’t that hard? Impossibly. Believing each kid has a glass slipper out there has not made my job easier. In truth, because this isn’t a fairytale and because I am not a fairy godmother, and because the clock’s at 11:59, it has made it, at times, a desperate dance at the ending ball to find the fit. And for some, sadly, the clock strikes midnight, and I never find their slipper, but, even so, I keep believing there is a Cinderella story for each kid out there. And I know I am not alone. I am among a great many who believe for each kid. We believe so they all may live happily ever after.

Happy Monday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Morning, all. Tired and not terribly inspired this morning. Conferences went well yesterday. Notably, most conversations focused on the human side of things, but I guess I nudged us in that direction with my opening question, “How are you doing as a human?” Interestingly, it often led to our discussing how we are doing as humans. Yes, we talked about teaching, and yes we talked about learning, but we did so within the context of our human struggles right now. And I think that was the place we needed to be, for that is where we settled ourselves. And maybe, even though we are essentially strangers in a strange time, we just needed the assurance that there is a human on the other side of our screen. There is. I am. And will continue to be. Seems to be what we need.

Happy Tuesday, all. Have a wonderful Thanksgiving. See you back here on Monday.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

No kids today. Well, in person. Well, in class. Maybe I should say no class today. We have conferences today and tomorrow.

They are optional parent-student-teacher conferences via Zoom. And for those who take the option, I will begin the conferences with three questions–in the order that follows.

How are you doing as a human?

How am I doing as a teacher?

How are you doing as a learner?

Human. This matters most to me. And though I think I create opportunities daily through Smiles and Frowns to connect with kids on a human level, I want to make sure that I stick to my vow to always begin our work with the humans in the room. So, we will start with the human.

Teacher. If these conferences are progress checks on our work, then my progress has to be considered as well. Learning is a partnership, and we can’t assess the progress of our shared work, if we aren’t looking at the teacher in the partnership. How I am doing matters, especially now.

Learner. Last week, the kids wrote a Check-in Chapter for their Learning Stories, and I will ask them to reference this as they talk about how they are doing as learners. I have read them and responded, but I want them to be a source for discussing their learning journeys with their parents present.

And that will be the thread we follow during our conferences. Of course, we will explore different paths, unique to each kid. But these questions will guide us through this stage of our shared journey of putting the pieces together.

Happy Monday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Learning is a shared responsibility between the teacher and the student. It is a place of mutual accountability. Seems true. Sounds simple. Anything but, for words like responsibility and accountability are sharp, edgy words that can be harmful in the wrong hands.

In too many cases, too many hands hold forth the transactional reality of the traditional approach to classroom learning. Teacher gives work. Student does work. Teacher grades work. Teacher gives more work. Student does more work. And, before long and before we know it, responsibility and accountability become about work done/not done and roles become separate parts played, not shared acts choreographed as the story unfolds.

Yes, again, with the “story.” Learning is a story that unfolds from the shared acts between teacher and learner. And though I suppose we can regard the “traditional tale” a story, it lacks the rich interaction found in the pages of the response routine of the feedback process. And it is those pages, those moments that I seek to capture for many reasons, and one of them is accountability.

Accountability

What did I do? This seems an important consideration in one’s learning story as one puts pen to paper at term’s end to make sense of the journey behind. But one, here, is two. “I” is both, teacher and student. And it is the teacher “I” that I have in mind as I think about being accountable to an experience shared. What did I do?

It has to be more than I gave and graded work. If my contribution was simply completing transactions with my learners, then I wonder about the writers of the script. Could not they have given me a richer supporting role? Could not the director have interpreted and imagined my role differently for the sake of the story?

Okay, enough fancy thinking for a moment. When I posed the question, which began this series of posts, “What if I have them keep a feedback journal?” my role was foremost in my mind, and in my mind, I wondered about what I do or don’t do to support my kids. Yes, I know that I make and take time to give them feedback, and some of them make reference to those shared interactions from the feedback process in their Learning Stories, but not enough of them do, and even when they do, it’s perfunctory and sparse. But there is richness there to be found, to be considered, to be captured before it vanishes. The shared feedback/response process never gets recorded, and we lose a primary source for their learning stories, and they are mostly left to consult the secondary source, the scores in Skyward. And even though I have made Herculean efforts to mitigate the power of points, they still creep onto the page. That has to change in principle and practice. And that is why I want them to keep a feedback journal. We are leaving a powerful primary resource behind on our journey. And in this I see a better to chase, and that is more of the “why” behind my wonder of keeping a feedback journal.

Well, time tells me I must stop for this morning. I promise I will cut to the chase here soon with this and get to the “what.” Thank you for your patience.

Happy Thursday.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Yesterday, I began with the question, What if I have them keep a feedback journal? But way led to way, and while I wasn’t completely off topic (I did talk about feedback), I never ventured down my intended path, so today, I will circle back. Of course, it’s not fully formulated, but I will stumble-step through some of my thinking with you this morning.

First, a little context. As my regular readers know, I am in the process of trying to imagine and create learning experiences that de-emphasize grading and emphasize learning. As such, I am many steps into a “gradeless,” “feedback-focused” journey. And it is the latter that has my attention right now–in principle and in practice. Yesterday, my attention caught a notion, the question I posed. What if I have them keep a feedback journal?

This morning, as time allows, I will explore what I am chasing here.

Evidence

If learning is the journey as we move ahead, then we have to leave a trail behind. I believe that trail is marked by experiential evidence: from tASKs, to Learning Checks to Journey Journals to collaboration and communication. Theses and more are all part of my students’ learning journey in my classroom. I call it their story. And at the end, as is reflective of their gradeless experience, my students select and support their final grades in what I call their, “My Learning, My Story” letters. In their latest letter, my students presented experiential evidence from three places: Skyward, Google Classroom, and Experience to support their selection of a final grade. And while feedback was generally a part of their collections, it wasn’t something that got the attention it deserved, and it was this that caught my attention yesterday.

Yesterday, I mentioned the sweet spot that’s created in the feedback/response process. It is the teaching. It is the learning. I believe this with my being. So why, Sy? Why is not a more central part of the story at journey’s end? Why are you not asking kids to present the experiential evidence from the collaborative feedback/response process? I don’t know. I mean, they do. But not to the degree they could/should. I mean, if we are not focusing on the feedback/response process, which is the learning, are we focusing on their learning in their stories? Are we focusing on the teaching in my story? Yesterday, these questions gave me pause. And as I paused, I wondered. What if I have them keep a feedback journal?

That is part of my why. Tomorrow, I will present more of the what and how. I am out of time this morning. Sorry.

Happy Wednesday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

What if I have them keep a feedback journal?

Been reflecting on feedback. Actually, it is something I spend a lot of my “reflection reserves” on, for I think it is the sweet spot between teacher and student, so I think about it a lot. It is the place where growth can happen. Can? Yes, can. Why not does? Because it depends. On the response. They respond to my tASK (I call assignments “asks”). I respond to their work. They respond to my response. I respond to the response of my response. And they respond to the response of my response to their response of my response. And I respond…okay, I’ll stop.

My point? It’s about response. Teaching is responding. Learning is responding. That’s the process at its simplest. It’s a shared experience of back and forth between teacher and learner. But, as we know, simple is not simple. Feedback and the response process is nuanced, messy, complicated…it’s human. And it is with this humanness in mind that I approach my work and my students, focusing on the “how” of my say as much as the “what” of my say. I figure I have about 3 seconds to get and keep their attention, not in the compliant, pay-attention-to-me sense but rather in the committed, trust-my-intention sense. So, I watch my words.

But doesn’t that take too much time? Yes and no. Yes, practicing the pause before I write to consider the human on the other side and pausing again to consider the same before I send, takes time. But no, there are ways to streamline common comments and hand them off with a simple “please” to begin and a sincere “thank you” to end. Generic, then? Yes, when I can be. But we can still be sincere, and I find that most people young and old respond to please and thank you. But it still takes time? Yes, of course it does, and the time it takes is largely guided by the learner. For some kids, respond⁴ is sufficient. But for others it can be respond¹⁰. But regardless what “power” it takes, response fatigue can occur, because kids don’t have much response fitness, they are conditioned for completing transactions for grades, not responding for learning. I spoke to this a bit yesterday, as I felt their fatigue setting in.

We are learning to live with each other in the learning process. In person, I can help the human side of it more easily with constant reassurance, but at a distance, this “help” comes a little harder. And I have to find ways to encourage and reassure as we find our feedback fitness.

Okay, so I began with the question, “What if I have them keep a feedback journal?” but I never got there, and now I am out of time, so I will pick it up tomorrow. Sorry. That’s the problem sometimes with early AM reflections. Tomorrow the journal. Promise.

Happy Tuesday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

3, 2, 1…Gooooooood morning, class!

I’d like to say it’s my nature (it’s not). I’d even offer it’s the coffee (not enough coffee in the world). I might guess it’s the Zoom screen (I’ve long forgotten about the camera). In truth, it’s none of these things that bring me to life in front of the kids. It’s the kids–always and only the kids. They pull the magic from the hat.

I am an inhibited introvert. I don’t love gatherings. I don’t love eyes on me. I don’t love noise. But that all changes when the kids enter the room. I am transformed. It has taken me years to get used to my daily metamorphosis, and even now, after 25 years, it still feels…well, otherworldly. It feels like magic.

Has to be. It has to be magic, for I swear it was not there just moments ago. But when the kids enter the room (actual or virtual), it’s like, presto! And I come to life. And I think for those who have witnessed my animation from kids’ conjuring, they would find my above admissions of introversion a fiction. But, alas, I speak truly, and I, too, find the fantasy unbelievable. But it’s there. The magic–if I may call it that–is there. Every day. Oh, sometimes it’s not enough to fully transform me (I am decidedly human after all), but even on those days when my belief in magic falters, it is there. And it draws me forth, even when I don’t want it to. But it does, and I respond to and revel and rejoice in what must be the magic: kids.

Happy Monday, all. May you find some magic in your day.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Just a heads up. This is a bit of a feel-sorry-for-myself post.

Others’ shoes will wear us out, even if we only walk around in them for a short while. But we must wear them, mustn’t we? Isn’t that the path we walk as teachers? If empathy and compassion aren’t our way, then surely we are lost. So we wear their shoes. But with such wearing comes a cost.

Our own shoes become unfamiliar and want for wear. But we wear them so seldomly they fit funny, they feel foreign. And if we feel the feel too long, we fret and regret our selfish side, for we serve. We serve. Proudly. Humbly. Confidently. Doubtfully. Selflessly. Selfishly. We walk it seems a paradoxical path, with one foot always in the other shoe. And some days, the walk is too much, and we want the cushion of others’ other souls to carry us along our path.

Today, for me, (a guilty shoe on my left foot) is one of those days. Sorry, but today that’s the shoe that fits.

Happy Friday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Relationships matter.

Kids over content.

Students over standards.

We “talk” this a lot in education. And, I believe, we generally walk it a lot, too (though I’d like more specific talk and walk). And while such talking and walking gives me heart and hope for kids’ experiences in our classrooms, I find it funny that we have to talk it at all.

Seems I talk it, too. But, of late, I’ve begun to wonder why we have to talk it. Whom are we trying to convince? Why do we have to convince them? Maybe I should wonder if we even have to convince them? Is it already a given? Are we just talking because it’s the “good talk?” Are there still classrooms without fountains? Are there still classrooms where kids are dying from our human thirst for connection? Sadly–seemingly, for we feel compelled to continue the call.

There aren’t fountains in every room from which kids drink daily. As I have written before, relationships aren’t one-time, opening events to break the ice. We can’t give kids a water bottle on day one (ice-breaker, get-to-know activities) and expect that to quench them for the duration. Our kids need to be and stay hydrated for the distance. They need a fountain to drink from.

Okay, big talk, Sy. Where’s your walk? Smiles and Frowns. That’s the fountain. Kids have a chance to drink daily. Some drink deeply. Others sip. Others don’t drink at all. But the fountain flows. Every day. No matter what. That’s my walk. Not bragging. Certainly not putting on airs. I committed my practice to my preaching a long time ago. And I would like to see others do the same. Oh, it doesn’t have to be Smiles and Frowns, but I do believe it has to be something that honors and supports the humans in the room. Every single day. Don’t tell others about the importance of relationships. Show them the fountain flows and flows and flows.

Happy Thursday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.