Monte – Some of my classes love Pros and Cons and participate great. Others seem to not want to have any human contact inside of a class. The vast majority instantly pass and it is a chore to get through Pros and Cons. Have you ever experienced this kind of dislike for sharing of anything personal?

One of my Twitter connections reached out to me yesterday with this question about Smiles and Frowns, which he calls Pros and Cons.

This was my response.

All the time. It used to really bug me. It was hard not to take personally, but I have a different view of it now. I remind myself of my why. I want the kids to know that every single day, regardless of how they respond, someone wants to know about their lives, that someone wants to say their names, that someone wants to listen. This has really helped me see this opportunity differently, especially with where we are right now. Hope this helps.

It still bugs me a bit, at least in the sense that I miss out on getting to know my kids better. But my new view has really changed how I respond to the “Pass,” which I have always said is key to the success of Smiles and Frowns–that, and doing it every single day, no matter what. And it’s the latter that becomes a bit hard when kids perpetually pass, but I believe we have to see it through and see it for what it really is, which is a daily invitation to connection.

As for the shying away from human contact, I believe the general lack of an emphasis on human connection in school and society is to blame. I started doing Smiles and Frowns in response to this, in response to the reality that we were largely content with being strangers in the room for 180 days. Not okay. I knew we could do better. So, we did. I wanted my kids to see that connections are not only possible but also important. I love introducing Smiles and Frowns to a new group, telling them that by the end of the year we will be strangers no more, that we will be a community. Of course, every year the kids prove me wrong when they correct me, “We’re not just a community; we are a family.”

I know a lot of my readers do their own versions of Smiles and Frowns, and I suspect some have abandoned it for the very reason my friend from Twitter raised, but I would encourage you to go back to it with a new view of the “Pass.”

Happy Friday, all. Have a wonderful weekend.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Skyward is not my grade book.

Skyward is not my grade book.

Skyward is not my grade book.

This has become a mantra in the 180 classroom. I keep saying it, but for some reason kids–and parents–aren’t hearing it.

Formally and informally, I have shared this statement and the sentiment behind numerous times this year, but for some reason, it keeps getting lost in translation.

Some reason. As if I don’t know.

Trouble is, I do know. It is my grade book. It says so. I click on “My Gradebook” every day.

And so do kids and parents most days. Year after year after year.

It is the condition of their conditioning. School, learning–everything–is the grade book.

And I think I am gonna change that with a mantra?

I do. Some day. I got lots of talk in my mouth and lots of walk in my feet. The journey’s not over. It’s only begun. And I will reach my some day. Some day.

But today is in front of me first, so I will face the day. And for me that always begins early, and in my early I wonder about my betters ahead, and I think I found one this morning.

I wonder if I could get them to view the “book” differently. I already tell them it’s simply a tool for recording and reporting learning, but that still’s not enough to get past the wall of their conditioning. And it’s the damn percentage that creates the block.

I have tried for years now to manipulate it with no-counts, “ghost grades,” fewer points, etc., but it’s still there, and it still sticks. I thought maybe this year’s manipulation might have finally “mastered the mark” with a 1 for done, a .7 for “please revise,” and a 0 for missing, but I’m still not there and the percentage is. So, this, then, will be my next better.

Next semester, I will keep my 1, .7, and 0, but I am going to try to sell Skyward differently. Skyward is a gas tank.

Well, a learning tank. It’s a place we fill with learning experiences. It comes with a gauge, so you can check your learning levels at any time. It also comes with 24 hour service, allowing you to add to the tank at all hours of the day. It also comes with a recommendation of keeping your tank at 70% full for optimum performance (Remember, a .7 means they have gotten feedback–fuel–for the next learning experience–revision.)

Will it work? I don’t know. But I hope they come to see the “point” of the fuel to be the means to manage their learning tanks as they drive towards the end, where they get to select and support their grades, which is really the only time I want the “g-word” to enter the conversation.

I want the conversation to steer towards learning. I want them to think about filling their tanks. I want their parents to ask about their tanks, and I want them to share that it’s at F. Full of feedback.

Happy Thursday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

I expect it. I accept it. It seems as natural as taking attendance every day. It happens every year, every semester–without fail. The rush to get work in. I expect it. I accept it. It’s part of the learning process.

But, once upon a classroom, I didn’t so readily accept it. I expected it (no avoiding it), but I did not always accept it–in word or deed. In deed, I have responded by not accepting it at all to only accepting it with a penalty attached (makes me cringe now). In word, I have shamed with guilt kids who would play the late game for not respecting me or my time (beyond cringe). Ick.

But now, here in this space, I have found “better” in my acceptance of the rush. I have to accept it. No, it’s not convenient. At all. But it is not my convenience that matters. What matters is that there’s movement among my kids–they are finally pursuing their own better, and whether it’s early, on time, or late, I will not block them when they arrive. They are awake. They are moving, flooding my inbox. And while I wish it didn’t always take the end to stir some of my sleepers, I am not going to worry about my wishes. I am going to embrace the rush. It’s here. They are here. I am here. It’s as if it were the plan all along.

Happy Wednesday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Eh, got a few things stuck in my craw this morning. Trying not to let it seep and settle into my being. Trying not to let it disrupt the internal work I am doing to resist the battle with forces outside my room, outside my control. Trying to stay true the “better journey” of working within myself, my room, my control. Trying.

The details don’t matter, and to be honest, I am not even entirely sure why I decided to venture here this morning. Maybe I needed to just write it out. Maybe I needed to know that others, too, are trying. Maybe I just needed to get my grump out this morning.

Of course, it–as is almost always the case–has nothing to do with kids. Never with kids. It has to do with adults. Always with adults. Working with adults has been the toughest part of the job for me as I look back over the years. It is they who make the job “trying” at times.

Oh, but I am not just pointing fingers. I, too, am an adult, and I, too, can be “trying” to work with as well. I know this. I own this. And I have tried to better this. And that “better” has led me to saying less outside and doing more inside. I left the battle for the journey. I traded my sword for my walking stick. I am trying to be less-trying. But it’s hard.

But it’s also better. I have learned the work that matters happens in my room with my kids. And that is where I turn when things get noisy from the outside. But it’s not an apathetic response. It’s not resignation. No, it’s resolve. The noise outside is just a distraction. So, I center myself in my journey and better begins again.

And with that, I feel better already. Thank you.

Happy Tuesday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

I suppose we cannot know. We reach each differently. So, to know would be difficult. But what if we could? What if we could decide what kids carry forward from our time with us? What would we choose?

A turn to content seems inscrutable. What would we choose from such a stuffed bag? So much stuff to choose from. And in our choosing, would we choose what matters now in the short term or would we choose something that matters later in the long? And, how exactly might we make that decision? Everything we teach is “important,” but what really matters? Oh, I suppose we might suggest that they carry it all. But we know they won’t. Some of them–many of them–cannot even carry it beyond the test. So it seems content may not be the choice after all.

So, then, maybe the skills. Seems a more suitable selection. Kids will likely carry something in their muscle memory, which we’ve reinforced through repetition (oftentimes year after year). Surely, they might carry forward the ability to organize an essay. We hope. And I say hope intentionally, for from my own experience of having kids two years in a row, I have discovered that the skills I taught aren’t always the skills they carry. “I taught you that last year.” It seems much of what we teach remains more hope than know after they leave–or sometimes remain–in our rooms.

Maybe, then, it’s something else. Or maybe it’s something entirely out of our control. Or maybe it is entirely within our control. Hard to know. But this, we do know. Kids will remember forever and always our interactions with them and how we made them feel. And while it may be a bit inaccurate and unfair to say that’s entirely within our control (for their perception has a say in the matter), it is something that will have a lasting impact, whether we want it or not. So, though, we cannot know definitively what kids will carry, we must know–must know–that there’s a compartment–a space for us–where they will keep how we made them feel. They will carry us with them. Maybe that’s the “know” we need to know.

Happy Monday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Morning, all. A bit tired and uninspired this morning, so I am not going to force it. Thought maybe I’d take a moment to update you on the progress of the Project 180 book.

It’s coming along–slowly, but it’s coming along. To date, I have written the preface, and I’m halfway through the introduction. I have also roughed out an outline of chapters. At present, I am writing on weekend mornings. Not sure if it’s because of my early-morning blogging habits but I am discovering that I can only write in the mornings. It’s the only time I can capture my thinking, which presents a bit of a problem because I have a lot of thinking to catch, and I need more time than the mornings allow, especially when I only have two days a week.

Why not write during the week? Well, I am committed to finishing out year five with the blog, so that time is already taken. But, I think I have come up with a compromise, and I want to share it with you because it’s going to impact my blogging a bit. Starting this coming Monday, I am going to limit myself to 45 minutes on my blog posts so I can spend 30 minutes each morning with the book. I will start with the book, and then I will transition to the blog. That said, my posts may be a little shorter, and I will likely need to use the “out-of-time” tag more frequently. And for that, I am sorry. I will do my “better” to stay true to my daily posts and Project 180, but I have to devote more time to the book. It’s the better that I have to build right now. Thank you for understanding.

Happy Friday, all. Have a wonderful weekend.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

“Yeah, I feel like I supported my theme statement. I hope I made the reader think I had a happy life and I hope they realize that I set a goal in life based on my happiness.”

There’s a messy middle. It can’t be written in a rubric. It can’t be named by a number or labeled by a letter. It can’t be leveraged by a level. It’s a mess, and it’s messy because it exists there between reader-writer, teacher-learner, person-person.

Once upon a classroom, when I found myself in the messy middle, I tried to master the mess, relying on rubrics, naming with numbers, labeling with letters, leveraging with levels, but I never mastered the mess; I just masked the mess, hoping my kids wouldn’t challenge my charade.

But I have begun to move away from the masquerade. I no longer attempt to master or mask the mess when I find myself in the middle. I reach out to the other side. In this case, I reached out to the writer.

I imagine, at some point, we’ve all found ourselves there in the messy middle, where we know, but we don’t know, and the masks (rubrics, letters, etc.) just don’t quite cover it. Yesterday, I found myself mired in the middle.

I was responding to his diary entries from our Wisdom Writers Project, and I was stuck. Sure but unsure. It wasn’t exactly what I was looking for based on the requirements and criteria. But it wasn’t exactly not what I was looking for either. It wasn’t a yes. It wasn’t a no. And while that may sound off to some who rely on rubrics, I think those who have really reflected on their responses to student writing know that there is a space that exists between, a messy middle, made more so by the human on the other end of the work: the student writer. The other person in the person-person.

So, I reached out to him.

Do you think you supported your theme statement? I am not saying you did or didn’t. I just want to know your thoughts.

And today, I will respond back to him.

Okay, thank you. I find myself in agreement. Thank you for sharing your perspective. It helped me. Let’s call this good.

It’s still a maybe in the strictest sense, I suppose. But I am not editing a bestseller here. I am responding to the work of a developing writer. And when things come to meet in the messy middle, I am going to rely on my human instincts rather than my rubric to make sense of the mess in the middle.

Happy Thursday, all. Out of time this morning.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

I can be apathetic. I can be quixotic. I can be realistic.

He won’t do anything. There’s nothing I can do for him.

He won’t do anything. I will show him the promise of education.

He won’t do anything. I have to try something different.

It’s the last, the realistic, that prompted yesterday’s post about finding paths of possibility for him.

To be sure, I have fallen to apathy over the course of my career and turned my back on him. There was nothing I could do.

To be sure, I have risen to the romantic over the course of my career and tilted at windmills. I can make him see the light.

To be sure, I have dared different over the course of my career and sought ways to help outside the bounds, off the path. He’s not working because this ain’t working.

It ain’t working for him. And I have had him–many hims–for the past 25 years. I have him right now. And I will have him next year. And while there are still times that apathetic and overly-idealistic urges pull me from the path, I committed to pursuing a more realistic path for him, by which I mean, really, going off the path when things ain’t working. That’s the path of possibility of which I speak and seek–for him.

And so I dare different with a statement and a question to help me find my way.

I believe kids are learning with or without us.

How can I help kids find value in ELA beyond the academic? 

The idea of the “C” from yesterday isn’t intended to be a gift. It’s intended to shed pretense. For him, these halls aren’t hallowed. It’s intended to push away the fear of failing and deficit dealing. For him, there is no more fear and deficit has too long been the destination. He knows “F” and he knows “D.” But what if we introduced him to “C” as his new companion? And more, what if we also paved the path with only the possibility of adding to, instead of taking away?

But if you give him a C, he won’t do anything. Maybe. But he wasn’t doing anything before. And turning away or exulting education weren’t working, so I have to dare different. Seems little to lose in such a venture.

But what about all the things he has to learn? What about the priority standards? Well, I don’t know–yet. But I want to imagine if they’re truly priorities, there has to be a way. And if there’s not, then maybe they aren’t really priorities after all. Take the learning target below.

I can make, support, and clarify claims.

I believe these are priorities, for I believe they have value beyond academics. But my belief alone is not enough–I have learned and relearned this truth many times. I have to help him find the value, but that may mean different content, different contexts, different conversations. But it will also likely mean that what works for one him may not work for another him. It will be different. Seems there is something to different. Seems realistic if something’s not working. And so, I will dare different. For him.

Happy Wednesday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Been thinking a lot about grades again. Maybe it’s due to my stroll down memory lane as I work through old 180 posts for the book (Wow. What a journey. Why did I write so many posts?). Maybe it’s due to the end of semester being right around the corner (time for kids to write their stories). Maybe it’s due to grades being the antithesis of learning (Really, it’s that I think about learning a lot and grading comes along for the ride, an ever-annoying tag-along) . Whatever the reason, grades occupy space–too much space–in my mind.

And so, I reflect. About my do’s as I seek my do-better’s. This weekend, such a reflection yielded these tweets.

I believe kids are learning with or without us. The trick, the art, is finding ways to create opportunities that bring us together to create the “with.” But that may mean we have to venture off the traditional path, for one path, which is often the academic, does not fit all. And it seems for those whom it fits the least (the at-risk kiddos) we resolve to remediate them in the one realm that doesn’t suit them–may never suit them: academics.

How can I help kids find value in ELA beyond the academic? And if that value strays beyond, how far can we let it stray? I believe, earnestly, that there is value beyond the academic when it comes to what ELA should really be about–communication (accessing and delivering information). In a nutshell, for time is short this morning, each kid can learn something of value from their experiences with ELA. That’s not the problem. The problem is when we try to grade it, which inevitably makes the academic lens the “look-through.” I think, though, we need to look beyond. And to that end we need to see each, which leads to my wonders about my next “better.”

It is not fully-formed–it’s just a seed at this point. And I have no time to explain it, but my early thinking on this–to address the grading dilemma–is that I make a C the lowest possible grade in my class in an effort to “C” each in their learning experience, to provide a path of possibility.

I will share more thinking in the coming days. Out of time. Sorry.

Happy Tuesday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.