Had an unsettling experience at the end of the day yesterday. Have had similar before–many times before, but yesterday’s felt different. And maybe it was so because of my reaction. Enough.

At the end of my last Zoom meeting yesterday, one of my kids stayed behind.

“Sy, I am going to be completely honest with you. I have not started my essay. I have been really depressed. There are things going on at home. All my other classes (begins to cry), and…”

“Kiddo, stop. It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s just an essay. We have plenty of time ahead of us. I didn’t think you were slacking. I just figured there were other things going on. Take care of your other–take care you–and your other classes, and do what you can, when you can for mine.”

As soon as she “Zoomed out,” I tweeted this.

It felt like a confessional. Her screen was off. Her anxiety was up. Her voice was faltering. She started crying. And I felt like I had to free her from sin. It was unsettling, terribly unsettling. I am still unsettled by it this morning. Kids are carrying the guilt not of their but our sins. We never should have put them in this place to begin with. And though it has been amplified during this strange time, it has been a longstanding, enduring tragedy in ed–this guilt we’ve built.

It’s just school. They’re just kids. We’re just teachers. And this is just life.

That is not a short sell. That is not an “undermine” of us or them. Our work and experience with them is greatly important. We are helping them through perhaps one of the toughest times of their lives as they learn about themselves and the world around them. But it should also be one of the most exhilarating times of their lives–there is an existence to explore, a world to watch, mistakes to make, connections to create, truths to tell, lessons to learn, and the list goes on.

School does not need to suck. Kids don’t need to be overly anxious or burdened with guilt–for late work. It’s late work. It’s not a deadly sin. It’s a construct on someone else’s timeline. I am not suggesting that kids avoid responsibility. They can’t. Responsibility is life’s lesson to teach, not ours. And when we have caused kids to feel excessive anxiety and guilt for a late assignment, we have crossed a line. It’s an assignment. It’s just school. They’re just kids.

And we’re all just trying to make our way. It’s just life.

Sorry for the rant this morning. I will get back to No Grade November next week.

Happy Friday, all. Have a great weekend.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Kids won’t do anything.

These were once my “impossible” words. I, too, believed–rather earnestly, I suppose–that without grades attached to work, kids wouldn’t do the work. I remember, back when I was finishing up my master’s, sharing this conclusion in my ed psych class during my presentation on grading.

We had to complete a small, independent action-research project, and I decided to dig into grading a bit. And in my digging, though I have now forgotten the names, I came across a number of “measurement specialists'” works claiming that grades were inadequate measures of learning, that grades were a hodgepodge collection of arbitrary approaches, lacking any objectivity (blah, blah, blah--how I heard it at the time). And I dismissed it as, “They don’t understand the reality of the classroom. If we don’t hold them accountable with points (ick, compliance), then they won’t do anything. We have to have points and grades.” Who was I?

Now, looking back, though I did not know it at the time, this, I believe, is when I started distancing myself from grading. Turns out, the “blah, blah, blah” continued to echo long after I dismissed it, a telltale heart of sorts that continued to reverberate as I wondered and worried about grading’s impact on my teaching and their learning.

Such a memory now makes me cringe. As you know, I loathe practices of compliance, seeking instead kids’ commitment to their learning. And though it is cringey, it’s a part of the journey that led me to here. And from here, when I hear, “The kids won’t do anything,” I get it. I was once there, and I, too, once believed this the reality in the classroom. But as my journey continued from there to here, I now know differently. Kids will do. Kids will learn. The last five years of Project 180 have taught me that. Three weeks in to the new semester and not a single point has entered into the experience, and nearly all of my kids are doing everything that I have asked them to do. Of course, my approach is significantly different than it was years ago when I still relied on the carrot-and-stick of compliance, and it didn’t happen overnight (it took years), but kids are choosing, kids are committing. They have revised my reality.

Even so, I am not sure, back then, that my current self could have convinced my former self that such an approach would work. I would have told my current self that he simply did not understand the reality of the classroom.

“Kids won’t do anything” will present a hill for us to climb come November, but from the climb we may learn that reality isn’t always as real as we imagine it. In truth, we don’t know. We don’t know if the kids will or won’t. And in our not knowing, we should give the kids the benefit of the doubt. They might just surprise us. It is their learning after all, and maybe when we give them the room to own and explore what’s theirs, they may be better stewards than we ever imagined. #NoGradeNovember21

Happy Thursday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Dear (Blank),

I recently came across an idea on Twitter called No Grade November. It got my attention because in my work with students, I have always wondered–and worried–about grading’s impact on learning in my classroom. And so, when I came across the idea, it called to me, and I became intrigued and inspired to try something new, even if it meant taking a big scary step away from the norm. And that is why I am writing to you. I want to take that step. I want to temporarily take grading off the table so I can learn more about learning. I want to participate in No Grade November.

Here’s what it will look like…

Sincerely,

A Teacher

Yesterday, the first “won’t” I presented called attention to those who wouldn’t support No Grade November. And to be honest, they’ve been much on my mind in my efforts to anticipate and answer the impossibles with possibles. There will be a number of folks at all levels who won’t support it–understandably. It is a “big scary step.” It seeks to call into question all that we have come to accept as sacred in education.

But maybe it’s only that they won’t support it initially. Maybe we can, if not get them to support it, get them to not obstruct it, get them to give us an opportunity to learn. It’s a big ask. But we can ask. Asking is sometimes the first step towards turning impossible to possible.

So, I am planning to help people ask. Above is just a draft for how we might approach it. It can be tweaked to fit different contexts. It can be from a principal to her superintendent. It can be from a department chair to his principal, etc. My goal is to provide a template that helps people ask by addressing the what, why, and how. And it will all come from a place of learning–learning about learning.

More to come. Please know it was a little awkward to write the letter draft this morning. I know it sounds a little sensational “intrigued and inspired,” but I suppose I do hope that’s how some will feel about this. And I guess if they aren’t feeling this way, it would be hard to sell.

Happy Wednesday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

I have begun to anticipate the reasons people will offer for why we can’t do something like No Grade November, why it’s not possible to take such a big step, and why it just won’t work. Here is my developing list of can’ts, won’ts, and impossibles.

Parents won’t support it.

Teachers won’t support it.

Principals won’t support it.

Superintendents won’t support it.

School boards won’t support it.

People won’t get on board. We have to have everybody on board.

We can’t stop the learning.

We can’t just stop grading for a month. We have to grade. It is part of our professional/contractual responsibility.

Kid won’t do anything.

We can’t take the time away from curriculum and instruction. Calendars are set. Scope and sequence are set. We have priority standards to assess.

We can’t waste the valuable time we need to prepare for the state test.

Kids won’t pass the state test, and our scores will drop.

We won’t know if kids are learning.

We won’t know if teachers are teaching.

Kids and teachers won’t take it seriously.

It’s not possible to do something as radical as giving up grades for a month.

We can’t disrupt the learning process.

Kids won’t be ready for the next class in the sequence.

We can’t damage the integrity of our institutional practices.

It’s impossible at the high school level: kids have to earn credits, their GPA will be affected, and it will impact their chances at college and scholarships. And what about the valedictorians and salutatorians?

We won’t get back to normal after such a disruption.

We can’t fight the system. It’s a waste of time and energy.

It’s not possible to change education.

I am sure there are more, but for now, these are some of the objections that come to mind. Tomorrow I will provide my developing responses–my possibles to the impossibles.

Happy Tuesday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

A daily blog. An original My Room Message and Sappy Sy Rhyme each day. A book to publish in August. My first for-pay professional development on relationships to plan for March 5th. You’d think I’d be wise enough not to take something else on. But there in the dark on Saturday morning as I was finishing cup of coffee number two, it appeared, and I couldn’t ignore it. I had to follow the fork.

Though I try–mostly–not to take myself too seriously, I do take seriously my journey for better in education. I took it seriously when I started Project 180 five years ago, and I take it no less seriously today. I didn’t start out on a whim. I didn’t chance upon the name of my website letschangeeducation.com. I wanted–earnestly–to change education. It has been the path; it is the path, and it will continue to be the path. And this past weekend, I came upon another fork, another bend that I did not expect. And as I took the first few tentative steps down the trail, I discovered a new better to chase.

A challenge to all. But mostly to myself. Can you impact change, Sy? I don’t know. But I am going to find out. I think when I first posted this on Twitter, many thought it a one-time tweet, a passing fancy. But, for me this is no passing fancy. I am already too far down the trail. And I will use the time ahead to promote and support #NoGradeNovember21.

I have to do this. I believe I can do this. And so here I go, following another fork.

More to come. Lots more to come.

Happy Monday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Well, that was a poor use of time. That’s what I get for trying to tackle too much with too little time. Just deleted a 500+ word post because it didn’t end up where I wanted it to, and I didn’t have enough time to find or fix, so I just said the heck with it. It was about finding that place of honesty and responsibility with authentic writing tasks. I was trying to explain why I didn’t “bust” one of my writers for plagiarism yesterday, and well, it ended up being a longer, more complicated reflection than I thought it would be. And, well, I just didn’t get there. Sorry.

I will do better next time.

Happy Friday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

How can I create better learning experiences?

How can I create a better community?

There are more. But these two “better-building” questions are the pillars of Project 180. They are my constant companions as I chase better around the bend.

I have recently, explicitly added the word “create” because I want to remind myself that I do have the power to create in my room. My mantra gives me the path and the power. Do. Reflect. Do Better. I have the power to Do. I have the power to Reflect. And I have the power to Do Better. So, I do.

It’s not a super-sophisticated approach. It doesn’t need to be. It’s a simple stride forward.

I shared these questions with my kiddos yesterday (I also shared one for our current work about which I have posted lately, “How do I create better writing experiences?”). I told them, “I wanted to share. It’s all about you, and I thought you should know.”

And I do want them to know. I want them to know it’s the buzz in my brain–this belief in better. I am not content to pass the time and complete transactions. I want to learn from them. I want to create for them. I want to build better with them. That’s the journey.

We have the power to create better. I believe this with every fiber of my being. Better is the force we wield.

Happy Thursday, all. May Better be with you today.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

“How many paragraphs?”

This was the most-asked question yesterday as kids set out to write their personal essays.

“I don’t know.”

Not sure that’s what they expected or wanted to hear. I offered more.

“For now, I’d like you to worry about establishing Focus/Purpose with your introduction, our “Feedback Focus” for this draft. In our next draft, we will worry about Organization. But until then, with this draft, just write and place paragraphs for clarity and effect. The worst that can happen is that we make it better. Just write, kiddo.”

On one hand, I am pleased that they recognize the need for paragraphs in an essay, but on the other hand when the writing veers away from the formula and they are at a loss, I am concerned that have too long engaged in “school writing” and are not prepared for other writing situations.

In their “My Writing, My Process” tASKs, where they provided a detailed outline of their own writing processes, most presented the five-paragraph essay built around the three-point thesis. I expected this. But I also expected the question, “How many paragraphs?” with this particular writing situation, for it doesn’t necessarily fit the formula, and when it’s forced to fit, it becomes stilted and contrived. It becomes “schooly.”

It reminds me of a conversation with my doctor a decade ago. He was remarking that his son who attended a prestigious private school could writer a literary analysis and other academic pieces with ease, but when he began to apply for college and had to write personal essays, he was struck and stuck by something as seemingly simple as writing about himself in a compelling way. To be fair, it is not easy to tell one’s story. It’s especially not easy when one tries to force it into an academic frame. And so, when kids approach this inevitable situation, many of them struggle. Expectedly.

So, I am addressing that “expectation” now when they are sophomores. I am trying to send them down a path where at the end they have added some skills as they explore the craft of writing so they may be better prepared when they encounter writing situations in and out of school.

How can I create better writing experiences for my students?

That’s the better I am chasing.

Happy Wednesday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Last week I asked my kids to present their writing processes. I asked them to imagine they were going to write an essay, and then instead of writing the actual essay, they provided a detailed list of how they approach writing tasks (their process). I discussed this in last week’s “Why My?” post (http://www.letschangeeducation.com/why-my-project-180-day-97/).

As expected, most were formulaic and functional. And, as expected, most were geared towards academic writing–necessary, but not enough in regards to approaching a variety of writing situations–now and later. As such, the approach I take focuses on three simple questions for my writers to ask.

Have I established focus and purpose in my writing?

Have I organized my writing?

Have I developed my writing?

These aren’t sophisticated steps into the writing realm. They aren’t intended to be. They are intended to be general entry points into any writing situation, from tweeting to researching. They are intended to be “carry-with-them” questions long after they leave me and encounter writing situations in and out of school on their own.

One such writing situation for my now-sophomores will be their then-seniors college applications, for which they will encounter personal writing situations. And though they won’t all go to college, a great many of them will apply. So, with that in mind, we are going to use the Common App prompts for kids’ personal writing this quarter. But we are going to approach it differently.

The kids are going to decide when they are done. I will require them to engage with me in at least one stage of the feedback/response process for each of the three questions from above (focus/purpose, organization, development). But from there they will decide how far they want to take it. So, then, I think the “sell” matters. I am going to sell it as “here is a real writing situation,” and “here we have a chance to collaborate on creating a kick-ass essay,” and “here you will decide when we are done.”

Remember, in my class, a 1 = Done. That is the numerical indicator that we put in the learning record to indicate that the learning experience has reached a satisfactory level. Here, I am going to let the kids decide. I will engage with them in the feedback/response process as long as they want, but I am giving them the agency to decide how far out they want to take the work. Really, then, it becomes more about their commitment to learning than about the number in the record.

There’s much I plan to do with this. I will use it as an opportunity to further develop their skills as writers in the areas of focus/purpose, organization, and development, giving them tips and tricks to add to their repertoires. I will also ask them to revisit their “process lists” they created to see if anything has changed from this experience.

In the end, I just want them to grow as writers. And though they may well end up with “kick-ass” writing, my real hope is that feel like kick-ass writers. That is the anchor I want for them. That is the value I want them to find in and take from this experience.

Happy Tuesday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Been a big storm, maybe the biggest. Over the years I’ve encountered lots of storms that have taken me off course, that have upset the work, but the latest tempest, COVID and its impact on my work in the classroom, has whipped the ship into waters uncharted ,and it has been a year lost. So much lost.

This week, as we began our hybrid model, I expected the storm to strengthen again and make turbulent our less-uncalm, less-unsettled waters (we had gotten into a routine with distance learning; we had learned the ebb and the flow). So, as the storm gathered on the horizon, I expected a squall (I still didn’t fully understand the schedule going into Monday, despite the detailed–convoluted–charts in our hands). More loss was surely on the way.

Braced for a crash, I steeled myself against the storm, and as the first wave approached, I saw in the distance a light, a beacon, and instead of despair, I found hope. And as the light grew, I spied in the tide, kids. The lasting lights, the beaming beacons that had always led me into safer harbors. In the chaos, I found the calm. Kids. Kids had saved me–saved us all–again.

And the kids have saved our crazy day(s). No, hybrid isn’t great. Frankly, from an instructional stance, it sucks (sorry, my Mom taught me better words, but it seems the right word, here). From a position of connection, I believe–concede–it’s been better for kids. I have seen it in their eyes; I have heard it in their words; I have felt it from their spirits. They are glad to be back, to be together, to be the lights–even if they don’t fully know their glow.

Happy weekend, all. Stay safe and warm.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.