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.

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.