Morning, all. Due to high winds and power outages, we ended up not having school yesterday, and apparently, we may not have it again today with power not fully restored throughout the area. Not a big deal, but this will throw off my day count for Project 180, but I am just going to roll with it and amend it at the end. I think something like this happened last year, too.

In years past, I used to lament the loss of instructional time from “snow days,” especially since they were days that we could not get back before state testing. And now, I cringe at such consideration. Yes, once–and for longer than I’d like to admit–I worried about such nonsense as state testing. But I have since learned, and I worry about more important things like loss of connection time. More, I celebrate the break for my kids. And I have learned to celebrate the break for myself, too. I used to use the extra time to get less-behind on work, but now I use the extra time to get less-behind on life, on myself. The work will be there when we get back. And the best thing we can do is let it be there and let ourselves be here–away. We all need a day away sometimes, and when those days come, we should heed the call. Let’s call them “okay days.” It’s okay.

Happy Thursday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Yesterday, I broke the rules. Today, I will break the rules. Tomorrow, I will break the rules.

Which rules?

You know, “those rules.”

Those rules. Those largely imagined and widely accepted, unwritten, but nonetheless binding, rules in education. Everybody knows the rules.

Of course, we don’t know the rules. But we sure pretend as if we do as they manifest themselves in things we can/can’t, should/shouldn’t do in the classroom. I talk about these things in my Disruptor Series (http://www.letschangeeducation.com/disruptor-series-stepaway180/).

You can’t give full points on retakes and corrections.

You can’t give kids 50% if they haven’t done anything.

You can’t accept late work without penalty.

You can’t expect kids to do practice if you don’t assign points.

You can’t afford to lose any instructional time.

You can’t let kids use resources on tests.

You can’t let kids grade themselves.

Sure you can. Sure you should.

I have been breaking these and other “rules” for some time now. And from the responses I have gotten from folks on Twitter and elsewhere, I am not alone. Lots of us are breaking the rules.

And as I think about my company, I wonder if they, too, are otherwise rule followers in the other areas of their lives. I am a rule follower, much to my wife’s chagrin at times. But, then, why is it so different in the context of my classroom? Why do I so freely and frequently break the norms, the rules?

Two reasons, I think. One, they don’t make sense–at least not in the rules of learning sense. They seem to be more concerned with the rules of schooling, so when they run counter to learning, I bend and break them. Two, and this is perhaps the greater influence: humans. Humans change everything. I am human. My kids are humans. And when we enter the mix, we become the mix. And thus the mix is a mess. Not a messy mess. A complex mess, which in its complexity strains the ability to adhere to rules too simple, too severe, too “schooly.”

But your work is school. No, my work is kids. The humans in the room. And when I see fit, I will bend and break the rules for them. I will not bend and break them with the rules–at least not anymore. I have in the past, and I still regret it deeply. And sadly, I thought, at the time, I had the right of it; the rules were on my side. But now, I see it differently; I see it better. And in my better, I have become a breaker and a bender.

Yesterday, I broke the rules for a kid in an otherwise hopeless situation. I made her a deal that excused all former assignments, a deal that provided a path, a deal that dealt some hope. But what about…? I don’t care about the “what abouts.” I care about kids. Each kid. In her own place. In her own time. And for the brief moment that I am in that place and time, I am obligated to her, not some restrictive rules.

Yesterday, I broke the rules. Today, I will break the rules. Tomorrow, I will break the rules. I have given into my human weakness.

Happy Wednesday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

“Pass.”

More than a Smile. More than a Frown. The “Pass,” I believe is key to the success of Smiles and Frowns. Without it, it becomes about compliance and that is not the key to a community. Community requires commitment. And commitment comes from choice. And passing is the choice that makes the difference.

From the get go, I let kids know that they always have the right to pass. I only want them to share if they choose to share, and while I sincerely want all my kids to share all the time (for that’s how we all learn each other), I honor the Pass as much as the Smile and Frown.

Me: “Hi, John. What do you have for us today?”

John: “Pass.”

Me: “Okay, John. Thank you. I am glad you’re here.”

And I say it with the same earnest enthusiasm as when kids share a Smile or a Frown. I have to. So, are you encouraging them to pass? Yes. No. Maybe. Of course, as I said, I want them to share. I need them to share, but it’s not only about my needs. They have needs too, and I have come to learn that they need the freedom to pass, the freedom to choose. But they also need, I believe, to know that I want them to share, that I speak their names each day, that I seek to know to understand them. Their response in that light becomes secondary, making the primary purpose the “ask.”

So, I ask. Every day. Yes, some kids are perpetual passers, but I am also a perpetual “asker,” and as such, we do our daily dance, partners in commitment, come smile, come frown, come pass. All important steps to building community.

Happy Tuesday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

This ain’t workin’.

Yesterday, I finally sat down to some serious book work (August is closer than it seems, and I have vowed to avoid my habits of procrastination). Hoping to find a flow, I stumbled into a stop. And just like that, forty minutes in, I was lost, and a mini-crisis crept into my being, as I confronted doubt for the first time, realizing my plan wasn’t going to work. August got closer.

But as I stopped, I remembered. And I turned to my old companions, Do, Reflect, and Do Better (my three amigos), and they pointed the way. And a bit abashedly, I set to reflecting, asking myself two questions:

What do I know?

What do I need to figure out?

And, after a time, what was lost was found. A better idea, more motivation, and a settled spirit. I found my way once again, and–once again–it was reflection who saved me.

But this isn’t supposed to be a post about the progress of the Project 180 book; it’s supposed to shine a light on the creative process, illuminating the necessity of time and reflection, two resources that are scarce in our classrooms. I

think about the creative work (not only in the “artistic” sense) we ask our kids to do, and then I think about the “hurry-them-along” reality of their experiences, and I can’t help but think of how diminished their experiences are because we cannot, do not, (will not?) give them time to learn.

I would suggest that if there’s no real reflection, there’s no real learning. But that takes time, and that runs counter to the educational experience we give our kids. We seem to be content–and confident–that grades in the grade book are sufficient sign posts of learning, but I wonder if they aren’t but bread crumbs that disappear, for there is rarely a way back or time to travel if there is. And that’s learning’s loss. That’s our kids’ loss.

I am lucky. I have time to reflect. I have time to learn. And, importantly, I have a publisher who understands and supports the creative process, so I have time to find what’s working when it’s not. And this is in the real world. Yes, I have a deadline (that can change), and yes, I have a lot of work to do, but, I want to do the work, for I find the work worthy because I am learning. And that is what I want for our kids. Work not to be graded, but work to be worked out, wrestled with, reflected upon. I want our kids to learn–for the rest of their lives. I want them to carry the company of the learner’s constant companions: Do. Reflect. Do Better. That is the company I want them to keep.

Happy Monday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

I am going to ask you a question. But as I ask it (as you read it), I want you to focus on the feeling from the question instead of the answer to the question. Here’s the question.

Who are you?

I can only imagine–literally, I can only imagine–but I like to imagine you felt the question. It digs in. It takes hold. It stays, for it is a sticky question. It’s awkward to ask; it’s awkward to answer–even for ourselves. And it tends to stick around for the entirety of our lives. Who Am I?

But I think between the two (Who are you? and Who Am I?), there’s an important difference to be discovered.

Though they are basically the same, and though we generally explore the same spaces to discover an answer, there’s a difference. “Am I” comes from the inside, and “Are you” comes from the outside. Yes, I know, obviously. But when it does–if it does–come from the outside, what is the asker really asking? Our name? Our occupation? Our gender? Our background? Does the asker even know? Is it a superficial question, or is it a deeper question? Either, both, neither? Maybe it’s just superficial small talk. But what if it was deeper? What if when we asked someone, “Who are you?” we really, actually wanted to know. And, in turn, when we are asked this question what could we, would we, should we actually share?

Yesterday, I asked my kids the question, for I really, actually want to know. And, I really, actually want them to think about what they could/would/should share. Here’s the assignment.

I have given many “Who Am I?” assignments to kids over the years, but yesterday, I decided to change it a bit and asked instead, “Who are you?”

And I asked them to imagine the answer as a t-shirt for the world to see. And this is why. The question needs to be asked; the answer needs to be known. I imagine a lot of what’s wrong in the world stems from our not knowing because we are not asking. We don’t really know ourselves. And we don’t really seem to care about knowing others. But what if we did know?

If school is just a microcosm of and a springboard to society, then when is there a better time to begin asking and knowing? When I dreamt up the t-shirt idea, this is what I imagined. Crowded hallways with kids in their “who shirts.” As kids approach each other from the front, they see the “who” in the shirt. As kids follow from behind, they consider the “who” in their own shirts. I imagine a connected cosmos of constant “whoness.”

And while it may well be that this is simply a conjuring from over-caffeination, I believe sincerely that who matters–now, later, ever. So, I asked the question because I want to know.

I haven’t looked at the kids’ answers from yesterday, but I am eager to see where they began. I am more eager to see where they continue. I wish I had thought of this earlier in the semester. Next semester, we will start on day one.

What’s the deal with the “Biggest-Ever Writing Assignment.” Oh, I was mostly messing with the kids, seeking to get their attention. Many of them dread the work of writing, so I thought I would “scare” them a bit. But I also had something else in mind with “big.” One, it’s big because it’s them. Two, it’s big because it’s less. It’s only one sentence. But it’s so much more than that. Some kids will simply write, “I am Ben.” But others will really wrestle with this. And as we continue with it each day, they–I believe–will grapple a great deal with “who.” And that’s just what I want them to do.

Happy Thursday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

“If you read the professional literature, you quickly get the impression that the well-being of the forest is only of interest insofar as it is necessary for optimizing the lumber industry… Because it was my job to look at the hundreds of trees every day–spruce, beeches, oaks, and pines–to assess the their suitability for the lumber mill and their market value, my appreciation of trees was also restricted to this narrow point of view.”

Peter Wholleben, The Hidden Life of Trees

“If you read the professional literature you quickly get the impression that the well-being of education is only of interest insofar as it is necessary for optimizing the testing industry… Because it was my job to look at hundreds of students every day–high, low, in-between–to assess their suitability for the testing mill and their academic value, my appreciation of students was also restricted to this narrow point of view.”

Monte Syrie, the Hidden Life of Students.

I am reading the Hidden Life of Trees right now , and as I am, I am finding many parallels between trees and students, forests and education. And while I don’t have time to fully formulate my thinking on this this morning, I was struck again by this parallel as I sat in the dark with cup of coffee number one, wondering about John and how I was going to find the right feedback for him. For him. Not for Sally or Jimmy or Susie, but John. His tree and the necessary nutrients for him to grow. And I found it. Not in the rubric. In him. I had to see him in the forest, and I did.

“Life as a forester became exciting once again. Every day in the forest was a day of discovery. This led me to unusual ways of managing the forest. When you know that trees experience pain and have memories and that tree parents live together with their children, then you can no longer just chop them down and disrupt their lives with large machines.”

Peter Wholleben, The Hidden Life of Trees

“Life as a teacher became exciting again. Every day in the classroom was a day of discovery. This led me to unusual ways of teaching the classroom. When you know that students experience pain and have memories and that parents live together with their children, then you can no longer just rank and sort them and disrupt their lives with large tests.”

Monte Syrie, The Hidden Life of Students

John needs me to see him and what lies hidden. But he also needs me to see the rest of the trees in the forest, the Sallys, the Jimmys, and the Susies. For there are roots there that feel, that connect, that remember.

“I will never stop learning from them, but even what I have learned so far under their leafy canopy exceeds anything I could have ever dreamed of. I invite you to share with me the joy trees can bring us. And, who knows, perhaps on your next walk in the forest, you will discover for yourself wonders great and small.”

Peter Wholleben, The Hidden Life of Trees

“I will never stop learning from them, but even what I have learned so far under their lofty spirits exceeds anything I could ever have dreamed of. I invite you to share with me the joy students can bring us. And, who knows, perhaps during your next lesson in the classroom, you will discover for yourself wonders great and small.”

Monte Syrie, The Hidden Life of Students.

I will never stop learning from them.

Happy Wednesday, all. Sorry for the odd post.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Many are viewing this time as “The Great Deficit.” Gaps are gaping. Scores are slipping. We will have a generation lost. Will we? Academically speaking, was this view any less true than it is now? Hasn’t this been the battle cry–and even the sales pitch–for some time now, the call to follow the achievement scores and the rally behind the rise of the standardized mechanism in modern education? If so, then maybe we’ve been living in The Great Deficit for decades.

Interestingly, I am not sure this time is affecting academics as much as we fear. Oh, there are certainly new challenges, and yes there’s less, but we have met many of those challenges (in some rather innovative and effective ways), and maybe–just maybe–less is more. Academically speaking.

More interestingly, there’s a fevered pitch to promote and support social-emotional learning, as if finally some are waking to the idea that there’s more at play than academics when it comes to educating humans. I am not suggesting it wasn’t a push before the pandemic, but my observations, both near and fear, have revealed a more pronounced push than ever before.

Most interestingly, at least to me, this shines a bright light on the real deficit in American public education: the lack of humanization in our kids’ experiences. And our remote reality has revealed this in ways heretofore unseen. Yes, we cry content loss, but kids can learn content online, and we can teach content online. And if we had to stay at it, we’d get more efficient at the content trade. That we can address, that we can adapt to, that we can accomplish, but we can’t reach kids. Well, certainly not as we could in person. Some may argue that the same is true for content, and while I get that, and I don’t necessarily disagree, I’d point out that the difference is the human connection, not the instruction that makes the difference. But, then, isn’t that what we had before? Humans sharing space? Yes, but that does not necessitate connection. Kids can quickly become blank screens with names in person if we are just simply the audio at the front of the room. Connection transcends occupancy.

Okay, so where’s the “deficit,” what’s the point? This. For years a focus on content and achievement has led us away from the humans in the room. And the lamentations of lost learning during this time–I fear–will overshadow what we are discovering about human connection when we return. Importantly, I think more are seeing the human side than ever before, but I worry they will assign the need to the pandemic and forget about it when we return. And if that happens, we lose. Kids lose. Generations lost.

Wow. Serious topic to tackle at 4:30 AM. I am sure contradictions abound above, but this was in craw this morning, and I had to get it out. Sorry. Happy Tuesday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

“I know I haven’t been doing any work, at all. But do you think you could send me like a list of things to do to get caught up at least a little bit?”

Once upon a classroom, I might have pointed out that there is already a list.

Once upon a classroom, I might have pointed out the inconvenience of such a request.

Once upon a classroom, I might have pointed out that we only have 18 days left in the semester.

But I no longer teach in that classroom.

In today’s classroom, I will reconsider the list and his situation, focusing on a path of possibility for him.

In today’s classroom, I will consider the courage it took for him to own his situation, focusing on his needs, not my convenience.

In today’s classroom, I will consider the illusory effect of time on our blip of an experience, focusing on what’s left rather than what’s lost.

Now, in simple speak. I have a kiddo who finally faced his situation. I have a kiddo who needs a lifeline. I have a kiddo who needs my empathy.

In simpler speak. I have a kiddo who needs help.

In simplest speak. I have a kiddo.

Kiddo. Kiddos, that’s the work. No one the same. No path perfect. I teach each. And each is as different as my responses have to be.

That’s the room, the space I find myself in these days. I teach kids. That’s the plain path I follow, the simple in my step.

Happy Monday, all. Glad to be back. Hope all are healthy and happy.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.