“We have to do another practice analysis?”

My kids didn’t actually say this. They didn’t have to. I have learned to anticipate how they might respond to the work I put in front of them. So, as I was posting yet another “Analyzing Rhetorical Appeals in Advertising” practice tASK in Google Classroom, I imagined their voices, which prompted my going to the board to sort it out–for them, for me, for us.

I often find myself thinking on my board, trying to find the frame of things. Here, I wanted to frame–once again–the distinction between practice and performance in my room. I needed to first find it for myself, so I could frame it for my kids. Oh, it’s certainly not the first time I have done this; better is always about framing new findings from the Do-Reflect-Do Better cycle that is Project 180. My hope in such a cycle is to always find a better way to clarify our experience. So, this was the latest go.

Practice with Purpose

The purpose of practice in my room is to give the kids opportunity. It is here where I start them, give them direction, ask them to wade into the learning. At this point, unless they ask for support, it is a solo expedition. I never look at their practice. The agreement is completion from commitment, not compliance. So, it is never worth points. I trust they have committed. I have to. Otherwise, it’s compliance in disguise. I have to let them own it. And I tell them as much. And I have to remind them as much (they’ve had years of compliance conditioning before they get to me), so I remind them with discussions like this and the #MyRoomMessages and #DailyDiscssions I post each day.

Perform with Purpose

The purpose of performance in my room is support. This is where I formally and purposefully join my kids by responding to their work, giving them feedback for growth. It where the work becomes ours. It’s where I wade into teaching so we can swim around in the learning. The practice progresses into performance. It’s where the daily tASKs become learning checks (my name for assessments). And as the name suggests, we check their learning to activate my teaching. It is here where I become teacher. It is here in the feedback/response process where I feel I am performing my purpose as a teacher: supporting growth. And I tell my kids this. And I remind them of this. I am forever framing the experience.

Frames

Frames matter, especially for those of us who are braving better and daring different. It’s requisite. I discovered this as I began my own journey to better, which began with how I wanted to frame learning in my room, which led me to grappling with grading. And that is where Project 180 began: taking grades off the table, leaving only learning. I had to find a frame. And as I have moved through the years of Project 180, I find I am forever framing my work in and out of my room. And I am never more aware of this when I post on Twitter, and I realize how much depends on the frame, on the context.

I posted this yesterday morning as I was making my way through Year Four of the book, and I was reminded of a “cheating” aha I’d had that year. And, understandably, folks needed a frame, needed some context. So, I tried to frame what I meant by cheating, which took me to finding that framing is everything.

And I do think it’s all in how we frame it. But I also think it’s about discovering that we are always framing our work. We are forever framing. That’s the journey.

Happy Sunday, all. Sorry I have been MIA. Putting all my time and energy into finishing the book. Hope everyone is well. Happy New Year.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Morning, all. Been a while. Sorry. Finding that most of my creative energy is going to the book right now, and as such, I’ve had little motivation to blog, which is a strange feeling for me. I usually have something to say, but the last few times I have sat down to write here, I have struggled to come up with something worthwhile. And this morning, sadly, is no exception.

So, I won’t force it. I will accept what is. Thank you for understanding. I hope all are well. Maybe next week my muse will return, and I will find something worth your while. Take care.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Morning, all. A little tired and uninspired this week. Sorry.

So, I think I will just share the “form poem” I created for my kiddos on Friday.

I searched online for a template, but I couldn’t find anything I liked, so I made my own.

One, I wanted to thank my kids. So, for the example, I wrote them a poem. Two, I wanted to give them a form to follow so they could write a poem to someone in their lives for whom they were thankful.

And they did. As a challenge, I asked them to actually deliver and/or read the poem to the person in the poem. Lots of moms were the subjects of their poems. My hope is that those moms get to see or hear the words.

One of my kiddos decided I needed to hear her poem, and she stayed after class to read it.

“Sy, will you listen to this and see if I did it right.”

It was a poem to her mom. It wasn’t even close to the form. But it was a beautiful poem to her mom.

“Yes, Lissa, you did it exactly right.”

Not sure there’s ever a wrong way to thank mom.

Happy Thanksgiving, all. Hope everyone has a chance to rest and recharge. Thank YOU for being here.

I am thankful for

Your support

I need it

When doubt calls

You give me courage

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Something had to give. So, we both gave. And we both got.

Mutual promise. Compromissum. My kids and I have arrived at a compromise. We had to. As I said, something had to give. We were out of balance. And better needs balance. So we sought balance for our better.

Phones. Been a problem. Are a problem. Will be a problem. And the last year and a half has not helped as we have turned to technology to deal with the distance and isolation. Many of us, young and old, have found ourselves living more regularly with and depending more deeply on technology than ever. Our imbalance is immense. And we (I believe I am not alone) have discovered that this is no more true than in our classrooms where our kids daily display their out-of-balance behaviors. Something had to give.

I told my kids as much. I told them that things had to change at quarter. And this is the plan I proposed.

[Note: Part of the pronounced problem here at CHS is that we went to four, 85-minute periods this year. This and myriad other challenges with COVID, etc. has made for a difficult transition.]

This was my plan. I thought it was fairly firm plan. But I forgot about one of my key weaknesses: I listen to kids. And so, I should have known that they would speak and I would listen. Of course, I suppose I knew this when I asked for feedback, and I also knew that my “fairly firm” would become “fairly flexible.” So, the day before, knowing that we would have our “Phone Summit” the following day, I posted this as our daily discussion.

We had a great discussion. The general consensus? We give to get. Something had to give.

And the next morning, after reading some of their feedback, especially on #3, I knew I would be the one giving. And I shared my premonition on Twitter the next morning.

It should be. It should be as simple as a policy. And I suppose some will think me weak for compromising, and maybe I am but, I stand by my assertion: it’s as complex as a conversation. And if compromise were an easy conversation, then we likely didn’t arrive at a compromise.

And so, we talked. I listened. They listened. We listened. And we compromised. I didn’t get everything I wanted. They didn’t everything they wanted. But we left the discussion content with the balance we found, with the better we built.

Perfect? Nope. Better? I believe so. But there’s work ahead. Better is practice, not a plan on paper. Over the coming days and weeks, we will regularly reflect on our routine, and we will keep seeking to balance our better.

And I will continue to reflect on my being more flexible than firm, hoping to balance the faults I find in myself and my work as I chase betters around the bend.

Happy Sunday, all. Stay safe.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Morning, all. Sorry I missed last week. Been a busy, stressful last couple of weeks both professionally and personally. Technically, this is week 10, but I am just going to call it week 9. Thank you for understanding.

It’s the end of term one for us. Our school went to a different schedule this year: 4 period days and a half year equals one year of credit. It’s been an adjustment for sure, but we are getting/doing better as we go.

One major adjustment is kids’ having to select-and-support their grades only nine weeks in. A quarter now equals a semester, so here at the quarter mark, kids are selecting and supporting a final, official grade for their transcripts. Ready or not.

And regardless the schedule, I am not sure we are ever fully ready to reconcile the wreck where grading and learning meet. But I have discovered, I am less unready with select-and-support grading. The wreck is less-messy when I ask the kids to help me make sense of their learning, their stories. Here’s how we capture it at the ends.

And in the end, it’s really nothing fancy. It is simply an opportunity for kids to consider and capture their learning. And though it’s not as easy or natural as I’d like it to be (they are not accustomed to such agency), they constantly amaze and humble me with their honesty and integrity. One of the “raised concerns” for this approach is that kids will take advantage of it. But that has not been the case in my four years of experience with this. If anything, kids are too hard on themselves, not trusting that there’s more to their story than the “record” in Skyward. And so, when they are too hard on themselves, when the evidence suggests otherwise, I exercise my option to “upgrade” them, as I did here with Adam.

Of course, we don’t really arm wrestle, and usually–eventually–kids find ways to “live with it.” And, of course, some might think it unprofessional to engage with kids in such ways about something as serious as grades, but I have found that when we take such a serious tack with grades, we make the meaning of the grade less-authentic for it creates the “this-is-something-that-is-being-done-to-me” context rather than “with-me.”

And that is what I want for my kids: with me. As in, I am with them. They are the me in this. And even when it’s a little less-silly, and I have to disagree and “down-grade” on the basis of an imbalance between the select and the support (a rather-rare occurrence), I want my kids to feel that I am still with them. As such, I peddle possibility, giving them opportunities to demonstrate their learning, so we can “balance the books.” I also take it as an opportunity for “reachable moments,” as I try to reach them where they are currently so that we may move forward with building a better for next quarter with sentiments as such.

“Let’s both commit to staying on top of things a little better next quarter. We share in this responsibility, so let’s make sure we are consistently committed to helping you get to your learning goals.”

In end, I just want them to make sense of their learning, and I have found when they find themselves in this place (holding the pen), it makes more sense than it ever has, for it becomes our sense in common, something we found with each other.

Happy Sunday, all. See ya here next week.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Morning, all. Yesterday, I had the honor of speaking (virtually) at the PCTELA Conference in Harrisburg, PA. It was an awesome opportunity to share more of my Project 180 work and words. For my post this week, I have decided to share my full transcript for the talk. A special thank you to Nicholas Emmanuele for inviting me to participate. Thank you, Nick.

Sorry for the long post. I left it in its speech format. Hope everyone is safe. Happy Sunday. See you next week.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

My Learning, My Story

I am going to begin by telling two tales today.

They are familiar tales. They have been told a million times. 

They are ones you have heard. They are ones you have lived. They are ones you, too, have told. 

They are adventures. They are dramas. They are comedies. They are tragedies. They are mysteries. They are horrors. They are fantasies. 

They are at once, all. And all at once, unique. 

[Share Slides]

Once Upon A Classroom (1)

Once Upon A Classroom (2)

And there’s a third tale. A tale I could not capture for you. A tale I have tried in vain to capture for 26 years in the classroom. The tale where the two converge, where kid meets letter, where learning meets grading, and we are forced to reconcile the wreck where and when the two inevitably collide at the end. 

It is a tale I tried to tell too many times, for too many years. For, try as I might, I could never quite get it right. 

And I knew it. 

Well, I suspected it early on, but before long it became my burden to bear, and I knew. I knew I was not telling the true tale. And the longer I knew, the more I came to rue the wreck I had to reconcile there at the end, when I had to put a letter on each kid.

I hated it. Hated it. And worse, I had come to hate myself. Something had to give. And five years ago, something did. 

I gave up grading. 

In 2016, I took grades off the table for the entire year. On day one, I handed–literally handed–each of my kids an A for the year, telling them no matter what, they would end the year with an A on their transcript. 

On day one, the awful deed of grading was done. And with grading gone, learning was all that was left. 

No carrots. No sticks. No points. No percentages. 

For 180 days, we would venture into and live in the land of learning with nothing but each other. 

It was the most consequential year of my career.

With my grading goggles gone, I learned to see. 

I no longer saw the graded in the grading. 

I came to see the learner in the learning, the humans in the room. 

And I would never not see them again. 

Learning would never be the same. Teaching would never be the same. I would never be the same. 

For in that consequential year, I learned it was not my story alone to tell. I learned that I had been, but I would never again be, the unreliable narrator in someone else’s story.

My facts were fiction. 

That A was not always all it seemed. 

That C could just as well be B in the room down the hall. 

That mastery became mystery when it did not endure. 

And that F. That F was a fable with no moral. Kids do not learn to not fail by failing. 

And if anyone ever looked inside my little black book, they’d find my fiction. So, I hid it. 

And the longer I hid it, the louder my telltale heart beat beneath the floorboards of twenty-year career. I was living in no small way a lie. And the ghosts of practice past, haunted me. 

So, I sought to escape this plot. There had to be better. And as with any better I have ever discovered along my way, to find it, I simply had to turn to my kids. 

I always discover my better in kids. 

And this better would be no different.

I did not continue with the practice of giving an A. For many reasons I moved on, but I never went back. 

I never went back. I couldn’t go back, for as I said earlier, once you see the learners in the learning, you will never not see them again. 

So what did I do? 

I began what I came to call select-and-support grading. 

Kids would pen the paper. 

They would select a final grade and support it with evidence. And we would meet there at the end to come to an agreement on their final grade. 

The final act would no longer be something I did to them, but something I did with them. 

And though this was better, for the wreck at the end was no longer mine to reconcile alone, I still thought there might yet be a better better.

And I found it in a frame. 

The Story. 

Learning is a story. All learning is a story. That is the frame for the classroom experience. 

And if there were ever a time to frame it as such, the past year and a half has been that time. It still is that time. 

For the reverberations in our world and in our work continue. 

Whether it’s within our control or not, movement and motion are at hand. Things are unsettled, and when–if–things do finally settle, they will never be the same.

And that’s as tantalizing as it is terrifying. 

But let’s not live in the latter. Let’s find freedom in the former. Let’s take this momentous moment in hand by putting learning where it belongs: in the hands of our learners. 

Kids’ lives and learning have been disrupted in ways we never expected. And as we have tried to make sense of it all, we have found it to be, in too many ways, a wreck irreconcilable. 

How do we put a grade on it? On them? 

How would we–could we–do this to them? What instead could we do for them? 

Hand them the pen. Let them make meaning of the mess. Let them capture their learning. Let them tell their stories.

Let them think, let them say, let them live within the frame, “My Learning, My Story.” 

Fortunately, I had begun this work before the world went weird. From select-and-support, “My Learning, My Story” had already been born. 

I had already handed the penpower to my kids to shape and share their learning stories. 

So, how do you do it, Sy? 

Simply. It’s not terribly technical. It doesn’t need to be. It’s a simple invitation for kids to write a narrative letter to me at the end where they select-and-support a final grade based on the evidence they have collected over the course of the term. 

But isn’t that just their putting the gradebook in their own words? 

Yes and no. 

Yes, we still keep a learning record that the kids must reference in their letters. 

But no, it’s not just a repeat of the record I keep for them. It’s an interpretation of that record. 

More, it’s an opportunity for them to add to the record the things I may not see, or do not know. 

And so, when I listen to their letters, I lean in to hear the real record as much as I can so we can come to a mutually agreed upon end. 

And it is an agreement. I tell them, that if I find myself in disagreement, that means I have to present them with possibilities to get to that grade, not overrule their grade. 

I have to deal in possibility, not power. 

So, how does it go, Sy? 

We agree. I cannot think of a single time in four years, where a kid and I have not left the table in amicable agreement. 

I don’t have to degrade kids. If anything, I have had to upgrade them. 

Kids, I have found, generally are too hard on themselves. As such, I have had many, “you’re-getting-an-A-whether-you-want-it-or-not-kiddo” conversations. And that is really what it’s about in the end. 

The conversation. 

The human effort to reconcile the wreck where learning and grading meet. 

Okay, Sy, but you have a rather radical approach to grading, and it works for you, but will it work for others? 

Why wouldn’t it? Whether we are traditional, standards-based, gradeless, or radical, the story is not ours alone to tell. 

And when we pass the pen, and lean in to listen, we change the dynamic in the room, in the experience, and hopefully–eventually–in the system as kids come to expect that they are necessary to the narrative. 

That it is something that must be done with them, not to them. 

That’s the frame in “My Learning, My Story.”

But. 

There’s a fault in the frame. Well, in truth, there’s a fault in the foundation. 

Kids are conditioned to be passive participants in their learning, coming to believe that grading is something done to them. Thus, the longstanding line, “He gave me a C.” 

To which we are often quick to respond, “She earned a C. It’s there in the book. A 74.” 

Given. Earned. Or earned, given. The same story plays out teacher to teacher, classroom to classroom, year to year. And so, by the time they reach high school they tend to apathetically accept their roles of passive participants. And sometimes, tragically, the passive participant becomes the voiceless victim.

[Share Story from class.]

Daily Discussion
What story does a grade tell?
-how hard we worked, how much we learned, how well we tested, the list went on.
-How much the teacher liked us. (nods around the room)
-Kristin’s story

There is a fault in the foundation. And we know it. I certainly knew it. And I could no longer simply shrug the shame off my shoulders. 

No more passive participants. No more voiceless victims. 

Kids had to participate. Kids had to speak. Kids had to own their learning. Kids had to own their stories. 

So I eagerly gave them the keys.

And then something perplexing and vexing happened: nothing. 

We just sat there. 

They didn’t know how to start the car, much less drive the car. 

By the time they reach me in 10th grade, they’ve been driven around for so long, they’ve no idea how to accept, much less activate, their agency, instead clinging to the comfort of their passive parts in the system’s play.

And there I was thinking, “Damn. I thought it would be easier. Give them the keys. Let them drive. How hard could it be? 

Harder than it should. I won’t pretend otherwise. This is simple work, but it’s not easy work. 

And I believed it was better work, so I braved better. I dared different.

And as I did, I discovered that better and different don’t avoid the crash at the end. 

There’s still a wreck to reconcile. 

Learning’s messy. And it gets messier when we have to make sense of the mess at the end with a grade. 

But I have learned that the mess becomes more meaningful when we dig through it together. 

I have learned that the more kids drive, the better drivers they become. 

It’s almost like they knew how to all along. 

And last, I have learned to be a patient passenger.

And that’s my advice to you. 

Be patient. Let the faults fill–in the foundation and the frame. 

Let kids unlearn to learn. 

Let yourself unlearn to learn. 

And as you learn, make it yours. The frame has to fit. 

My frame is out there, it’s point peeking through the surface for others to see and use, but there’s much–so much–beneath the surface of my better, of my different, that it’s not simply a plug and play. 

It won’t work if you don’t make it your own, for it’s “your teaching, your story.”

And as our stories collect and reverberate, it is my hope… 

…that we do indeed fill the faults in the foundation and the frame–for our kids. 

That we do indeed move beyond the passive participant, and the voiceless victim. 

That we do indeed give rise to active agents who hold in their hands, their heads, and their hearts the words, 

“My Learning, My Story.” 

Thank you for letting me share my work and my words with you today. It was an honor to join you, but before I go, I have one more thing to share.

In my classroom, we always end with a Sappy Sy Rhyme, so I will end my day the same with you. 

I wrote you a Sappy Sy Rhyme.

Pass the Pen

I thought it mine
Alone to tell
And so I did
For quite a spell

I judged and ranked
Labeled and sorted
I did my duty
Their learning reported

For 20 years running
I alone kept score
It was my job, my duty
And nothing more

But deep inside
Something bugged
Something nagged
Something tugged

A worry, a wonder
A telltale sign
That maybe, just maybe
It wasn’t mine

Alone to tell
But theirs instead
A notion I couldn’t
Get out of my head

So I then tried
Something brand new
A way to capture
The tale more true

I gave them the pen
And said, “Go tell.
Capture your story
Tell it more well,”

But they just stared
In awkward silence
Accustomed instead
To calls for compliance

They did not trust
It was not a tease
When I handed over
The car and the keys

But after awhile
They came to trust
With the wheel in their hand
That drive they must

And so they did
With me at their side
A patient passenger
Along for the ride

And what a ride
An adventure it’s been
Now that they have
The power of pen

To tell their stories
As their lives unfold
My Learning, My Story
Now theirs to hold

And I on the side
Where I belong
Where I wish I had been
And lived all along.

Thank you.

You can connect with me on my blog

www.letschangeeducation.com

On Twitter @MonteSyrie  

Email: montesyrie@gmail.com 

And my book will be out earlier next year!

Better: A Teacher’s Journey (CodeBreaker Inc. Publishing)

Better Learning

How can I consistently meet kids where they are?

Simple. I have to continue to meet my kids. Because their learning is always changing, then where they are is always changing, too. So, where they were isn’t where they are. And I need to meet them where they are. So I need to meet them. Simple as that.

But not so simple. Apparently. For, what was to be my primary focus (my gonna-do-it-no-matter-what) this year has taken me six weeks to get to. For a variety of reasons, it has gotten delayed and waylaid. And this week, as another reason surfaced for why it wasn’t the perfect time and “next week” seemed once again to be the “right time,” I said eff it. It is time. This week. This week I will meet my kids.

I am calling them “Meet-Me” meetings. Yes, it seems and sounds a little strange. For as my kids reminded me, “Sy, you’ve already met us.” And I tell them, “I know, but if I am going to talk the talk about meeting you where you are in your learning, then I have to walk the walk in word and deed. So, I am going to meet you in your learning each week.” I don’t think, though, that this made it any less-strange for them. I am sure in their minds it remains, “We’ve already met, Sy.”

Of course, there’s more to it than I am telling them right now. I have a hope. I hope that my modeling meeting them where they are will compel them to expect the same from their other teachers, present and future. I hope they come to see it as a necessary part of their narrative. I want them to see, to hear, to feel, to live, to demand, “Meet ME in MY Learning.”

And this week, I will do just that. But what will it look like? Well, eventually, better, but for now, this is what I have planned.

And it will get better, but sometimes to get better we just have to begin. And now that I’ve begun, it will get better.

This will work for now. As I told my kids, this is just an intentional step to help us frame our conversation, which I hope will be natural and organic. Of course, it helps that I am already committed to meeting my kids daily through Smiles and Frowns and so it will not seem completely awkward, but this will give me an even greater opportunity to meet them, to know them, to serve them. To meet them (where they are).

Happy Sunday, all. Hope everyone is safe and sane. See you next week.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Better Learning

How can I compel kids to capture their stories?

Someday I may. Someday day I may arrive. Some day I may arrive at an end, on an answer. But someday seems faraway. For even now, six years down the road, there’s no end in sight, no answer in hand. There’s only better around the bend. And though I know this (I live this), it’s more apparent than ever as I sift through past posts for my book and face just how often and how much my “present” practice changes. One might wonder, I suppose, if I ever pause long enough for practice to become present, for it always seems to be behind as I stalk better better around the next bend, and my practice becomes past.

This year, of course, is no different. Year Six is as mercurial as the previous five–no end, no answer. Just another present practice.

The Journey Journal

The Journey Journal, at least the idea of the Journey Journal, has been an ever-present partner on the 180 journey. In one form or another (usually another), I have used the Journey Journal as a means to get kids to capture their own journeys in a daily reflection. The form has changed a number of times over the years, but the function remains the same. Reflection as learning.

Seems simple enough, but I have found kids (in truth, people) aren’t great reflectors. We don’t do it enough to become good at it. And I have learned that “enough” has to be daily. We have to reflect daily to find the frame of mind to really reflect and make sense of our days and ways to learn about ourselves and the world around us. So, once again, I have taken up the charge to help my kids get enough, to get their daily dose of Vitamin R. Reflection.

Here’s my present practice.

And we are getting better at it. One day, one word at a time. We are getting better at capturing and sharing our stories. For many the struggle is still very real. And I work with that. A victory with John is just getting him to write something–anything–each day. And I praise him, and then I push him (gently). “Okay, dude. Let’s see if we can write two sentences a day next week. Maybe for your second sentence, tell me how you felt about the activity.” Every kid is in a different place with this–just as they are with everything. Yes, of course, I want them all to practice the week’s “Craft Skill,” to write a 100 words, to capture a significant moment (big or small), but in the end I just want them to get better at discovering themselves and the world around them for the brief amount of time we spend together each day. Some kids spend a good deal of time talking about their lives outside of school. And I am more than okay with that. Yes, I nudge them to find something from class that day, but I don’t go overboard with it. As with everything I do, I just try to meet them where they are as I read and learn from them about their journeys.

So, I read each one? Yes and no. I skim and respond. I leave a quick comment each day. I want them to know that I am reading them, that I value their stories. And sometimes, we have fun with it.

I do read them. I am committed to that this year. In the past, good intentions have not sustained my commitment to this. But this year, I am determined to see it through to the end. And this is why. My reading them and interacting with my kids through them (responding) creates authentic accountability. I don’t “grade” these. There are no points to hold over my kids’ heads. As with all that I do, I don’t want their compliance. I want their commitment. And I have found when one wants commitment, he must give commitment. So, I am committed to their commitment, and I have found no more authentic way to make that happen than engaging them. If I am telling them that their stories matter, then I have to read their stories. And as I do, I learn the most important thing in the room–each human in the room.

This past week seemed to be a breakthrough week. More entries. More words. And I think it has everything to do with my taking a few minutes to listen to their voices. I think it matters to them.

Also, cause I know you read these, I wanted to say you’re a really good teacher. I love how you teach, you’re always so calm and understanding it makes school more tolerable, so thank you.

Of course, and I praise them for it, the kids also offer plenty of constructive criticism. And I make sure they know how much I value their input. I love that they have the comfort and the confidence to be honest with me.

Another year. Another Journey Journal. But this one feels better than some from the past. I feel like we are all getting our daily dose of Vitamin R, and it’s making a difference. One day, one word at a time.

Happy Sunday, all. See ya next week.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.