Relationships require work. They are not things that magically materialize. They are things created and sustained through work. Hard work. And as with any job, there are the less-seemly, the less-pleasant aspects that sooner or later must be done. I tackled such a task recently.

It had been a long time coming. 75 days in fact. And though I cannot put my finger on what finally triggered my response, it happened, and it was long overdue. I finally called them out. I finally took the necessary risk.

John and Mike (names changed) for the better part of the year had managed to do very little. I knew it. They knew it. Not sure their parents knew it–really knew it, but it was time to face the reality. It was time for a hard conversation. It happened during the second day of the Night final last week. As most know, the kids were able to seek help and get feedback on the final. As such, all of the sudden, John and Mike were awakened to the fact that they couldn’t easily skate outta this one; they’d have to produce something. And they seized the opportunity to get help, which was great, until help quickly turned into “write my paper for me, Sy.” One, it was obvious they had not read the book. Two, because they had not done any of the practice essays, they had no clue how to proceed independently. Three, they were taking valuable time away from peers who had actually read the book and completed the practice. Four, I found it distasteful that they were trying to BS an essay on Night. And so, enough was enough. Time for the hall.

And so, we sat and had a real–a tough–conversation. I will spare the details. But I took a risk. I bluntly called them out, and I made them mad. I had to. I told them as much. I told them that if that’s what it took, I would pay the price. When the dust finally settled, I offered an opportunity, an opportunity for them to redeem themselves, to salvage something from the predicament we found ourselves in. It was too late to read Night. But they had both seen the movies–this I knew. So, I presented them the opportunity to use one of the movies with the same prompt for the final. I told them that I wanted the introduction in hand Monday. They delivered.

Years from now, Mike and John will likely forget the details, but I hope they remember the moment. And, when they do, I hope they do not remember it as “Syrie made me write the essay.” I hope they remember it as “Syrie gave me a chance.” I will remember it as “Syrie took a chance, a risk,” I hope it’s one that pays off in the end–for all of us.

Happy Wednesday, all.

While this does not perfectly capture my thinking, it did resonate with me this morning as I was wandering through the Twitterverse. Words matter. What we say or sometimes don’t say has an impact on our young  spirits. And, above all, our words should communicate to our kids that they matter most, not content, not test scores.

Last night, I began another new quarter at Eastern with kids who are just entering the education program. And though my course title is technically “Classroom Management,” I took a new approach last night and changed it, giving it the unofficial-but-better title, “Classroom Culture.” And while it may simply be semantics, success in the classroom is not about managing kids; it’s about creating culture, a culture where kids can thrive and succeed socially , emotionally, and academically. I tell my Eastern students, in a sense, “management” really comes down to how you want kids to feel when they enter your room. And that takes work. It takes an intentional, I-am-going-to-make-you-feel-like-you-matter approach. And that means, content becomes a secondary consideration. Of course, that does not always readily resonate with all my just-entering the program students. Oh, I don’t think it’s that they neither understand nor accept the notion; rather, I think it’s simply that they hadn’t thought of it in those terms before.

Managing a classroom is an incredibly complex undertaking. It is not as simple as teacher teaches and students learn. Recently I heard the claim that a teacher makes more decisions than a brain surgeon, and while I don’t know if that’s exactly the case, I do make an inestimable number of decisions in my day, and only a fraction of them involve content. Most of them center around the social and emotional development and well-being of my kids. And I get that some think that it shouldn’t be that way, that we should just whip the kids into line and make them learn, that we should set aside the touchy-feely aspects and get down to basics. I get it. But that’s not how it works. Classrooms are cultures, not factories. Kids are people, not products. And the strength of any culture is measured by the disposition of its individuals. As creators of culture, teachers must make kids the priority; the content in a healthy classroom culture will take care of itself. As is often said in ed. circles, “They don’t care how much you know until they know how much you care.” Kids first. Content second. This is the first, key consideration in creating and maintaining a healthy culture in the classroom.

Happy Tuesday, all. 2-hour late start today. For any who are keeping track, I called this day 77.1 because of our cancellation yesterday. Have to make sure I end on 180.

Take grades off the table and things change. “Have-to’s” give way to “choose-to’s,” compliance yields to commitment. In the 180 classroom, kids, in a sense, don’t have to do anything. Well, there is one exception; they have to sign their learning logs/progress reports. But beyond that, by design, they choose to do things. Where there is choice, there is commitment. And this is a core element to the 180 approach.

Many of you will recognize the graphic above, but when you last saw it, the “I-will-not-forget”  space was blank. Knowing that I did not have the “power” of a grade to force compliance, I had to approach our reading of Night differently. Tradition generally dictates giving a test at the end of a novel to reward those who read and punish those who did not. I did not want the kids to read the book to “pass the test.” I wanted them to read the book for a greater purpose. Elie did not write the book so future generations of school children could pass a test at the end. Indeed, he wrote it so future generations would not forget. And that is how we approached it. Those who read it did so out of commitment to a greater end. They read. They will not forget. They passed the test.

Of course, not all my kids read it. And they have owned that. In earnest, I asked they only sign it if they actually read it cover to cover. “Don’t BS me. Don’t BS yourselves.” And while I am disheartened that not all were able to pledge, I was not surprised. We live and have lived in a time where it is becoming increasingly difficult to get kids to read books. Very few kids actually read the books we put in front of them. Oh, they turn some pages, but for various reasons they rarely see it through, relying instead on CliffsNotes and Sparknotes to get through the test at the end.

Last year, when I still used grades to “motivate” kids, very few read the book. I know because of how they performed on the test at the end, many of them later intimating that they read the “notes” instead–again for reasons varying from “I was busy” to “I didn’t really get into the book,” etc. This year, without a test hanging over their heads, a majority of my kids read Night. Yes, it is possible that some signed the pledge without having read the book in its entirety, but I believe most did based not only on our class discussions but also on their in-class writes at the end. And I am proud of them for accepting the challenge, for committing themselves to a bigger purpose. And for each who signed, I will write and deliver a personal thank you note. I am proud of them. I am proud of them for choosing to do something because they found value in it, for themselves, for society.

Just learned that school’s closed today. Be safe everyone.

In my day, I often wish for witnesses. I wish there were “others” in the room to observe and see, to share the experiences. Yesterday, was one of those days. Of course, I know that there are those of you who would gladly visit, and I would warmly welcome you, but it seems it’s never quite the same when it’s planned. I wish you could just materialize or see without my knowing and witness the moments authentically. I wish I could just “livestream” my class and let people check in when they wanted. Maybe next year?

Anyway, back to yesterday. Why a witness? Well, it was a “test” day. The kids started their Night final. Okay. So what was there to see? Ordinarily, test days are otherwise “unobservable days,” for kids are just sitting silently at their desks, taking the test. Nothing to see. But the 180 classroom is not an ordinary classroom. I can and will do things that are out of the ordinary to reach the paramount goal: growth. And it all stems from the difference between an “assessment of learning” and an “assessment for learning.” Yes, I use the assessments as a measurement, to see how the kids fare against the standards, but I also use it to inform my instruction, and yesterday I discovered it can be an opportunity to give feedback in real time.

As the graphic above suggests, once we put a grade on something the learning is generally “over.” We teachers know this. True. It frequently is manifested by kids who ignore our comments just to find the letter grade. The final judgment. The summative sentence. In the gradeless 180 classroom, in a sense, there are no summative assessments. By design, they are all formative. Their sole purpose is to promote growth, to be vehicles for feedback. Yesterday, I saw a chance to transform my approach and give feedback during the process. Simply said, I helped kids on the test. For those who requested it, I gave them feedback along the way. Doing and feedback are necessary growth steps. Growth is the ultimate goal. Thus, growth should be a part of the equation for everything that we do, including “tests.” But does that taint the product? Does my helping the process skew the outcome? I don’t know. I don’t think so. Katie (name changed) visited my desk 5 times yesterday for help on her introduction. This is what my help looked/sounded like.

• “Look at the board, Kate. What’s missing in your TAGS ? Go back to your desk.”
• “Nope,” as I scribbled out several lines. “Why did Elie share his story? You have to consider and include the greater context. Back to your seat.” Exasperated sigh from Katie.
• “Okay. Now we’re talking. Now we have to get to you and the passage. I see the passage but I don’t know what the specific impact is. You can’t just say, ‘it impacted me greatly.’ How did this passage affect you?  Did it disturb you, horrify you, dishearten you? You got this.” A reassuring tap on her elbow. “Back to it, kiddo.
• “Okay. Better. But now you have to go back and tie all of this together. You’re almost there.”
• “Now we’re dancing. Good. Your ready to jump into the rest of the essay. You’ll be fine.”

I think that’s learning. I think Katie found herself in the “struggle zone” yesterday. The challenge was high, thinking was required, and with my help, the stress was low. Yesterday’s graphic suggested that those were the elements of effective learning. Though I cannot speak to that definitively or defend it empirically, I can share earnestly that I believe Katie grew yesterday. I want others to share that belief. I want others to rethink and re-imagine learning. I want others to witness the potential of different, the reward of risk. To be clear, I am not suggesting that I have it all figured out. To be sure, I am just trying to do different to do better, and I want to share my journey.

Happy Friday, all. Have a splendid weekend.

Wow. Slept in. Short post. Sorry. This caught my attention as I was traveling through the Twitterverse yesterday. Most teachers strive to get kids out of their comfort zones, and we generally do, but the trick is finding the appropriate zone once we move them beyond that threshold. Too often, teachers jump straight to the panic zone, defending the jump as rigor, but we have to be careful. Rigor is not severity or quantity. Rigor is not stress and panic. Rigor is not without support. Rather, rigor presents complexity and invites creativity. Rigor creates struggle, which requires grit and support. The struggle zone is the sweet spot, that place where kids are challenged but not overwhelmed. This is my goal for the 180 classroom. I want my kids to face challenges, but I want them to be able to breathe, to be able to learn. And that is not easy. Tough to do with 150 different souls in my day. But I try. Ever in search for that sweet spot.

Happy, Thursday, all. Sorry for the short post.

The point of learning transcends grades. The point of learning is to build oneself. And this idea is at the core of the P-180 classroom. When I took grades off the table, I sought to drive home this point, forcing kids to take that first giant step into taking responsibility for their learning, for themselves. Yes, that is a lot of pressure, and quite possibly there are some students who are not prepared for such a burden, but it is a necessary step in their personal journey towards better, their personal journey towards best. And that takes courage, maturity, reflection, and introspection. But it also takes support. I cannot deliver them at their end, but I can support them along their way.

To varying degrees, kids will leave 211 at year’s end “knowing things.” They will know the difference between a gerund and a participle. They will know what parallel structures are. They will know how to integrate text evidence into their writing. They will know a lot of things. But of all they know and discover by year’s end, I hope they better know themselves. I hope they are more mature, more wise, more self-disciplined, more effective, and more productive, for if they are, then they will have grown; they will have learned. And that is the point.

We finish Night today.  We will have our final discussion before I provide performance opportunities to hold the kids accountable for their learning. But I am not holding them accountable by giving them a traditional, transactional test. I never wanted them to read the book to make a transaction with me at the end. I wanted them to read the book to make a connection with the world. Here is a brief look at the two opportunities.

1. Holocaust Memory Project

   Goal: Create and present something that honors the memory of the Holocaust

   Guidelines

   • Collaborate in self-selected teams of 2, 3, or 4. No exceptions.
   • Each class will collaborate to determine general requirements and quality indicators.
   • Each team will develop quality targets/criteria for self-assessment.
   • I will provide 4 days of class time for your creation.
   • I will serve as a consultant and facilitator only. The rest is up to you.
   • You will present your creation during semester finals
   • Your peers will judge your creations.
2. Night Final: On-Demand Write

   Prompt: Elie Wiesel wrote Night so the world would not forget the Holocaust. He did not want “his past to become [our] future.” To that end, he wanted his memoir to have an impact on a modern audience.

   As a member of this “modern audience,” select a specific scene that had a significant impact on you. In an essay, present a brief summary of the scene and a thorough discussion of the scene’s impact. In your discussion, include at least two pieces of quoted text evidence to support your thinking.  

No, I am not testing their knowledge of dates, places, names, etc. I am not trying to “catch” those who didn’t read. I am trying to give them a greater purpose for their learning. I want them to connect. Transactions expire, often as soon as the lesson, test, and/or unit are over. Connections endure. To know things is great. To know oneself is greater. I prefer and push the latter. It’s the 180 difference.

Happy Wednesday, all.

Off to a slow start this morning. And though it is Tuesday, as I always tell my kids, Monday is more a feeling than a day, and oh boy does it feel like a Monday. Still, I am glad to get back to my kiddos again as we resume our journey into the largely unknown realm of gradeless learning, a journey where there are no sidewalks, a journey where the path is not always clear, a journey  where the reality of getting lost is all too real, but that’s the risk. Can’t get anywhere if we don’t first venture forth from the familiarity and safety of our comfort zones.

So, with a new year here and 107 days to go, we will continue to take risks in 211. Today, though, we will start slowly. I’ve learned that Monday–real or feel–is rarely a day to step too far from the path. Slow and steady today.

Happy 2017, all. Glad to be back.

To get better. To rise. To grow. To learn. To go above. To go beyond. All require a challenge. In the P-180 classroom, challenge presents itself in the form of commitment, not compliance. In P-180 classroom, challenge equals responsibility and ownership. When I presented my kids with an “A” 72 days ago, I did not set them on a path paved for success; indeed, I placed them on the rocky road of responsibility. In truth, the “A” was no gift it all. It was, instead a burden to bear, the ultimate challenge of facing oneself on a personal journey to get better, to rise, to grow, to learn, to go above, and to go beyond. Over the last week, two kids have taken a look within, facing that challenge. Here are their stories.

I thought he was on his way back from getting a tissue when I whispered, “Love to see an essay, kiddo.” And he barely nodded a “yeah” as he made his way back to his seat. I took his response as embarrassment for not having an essay in to me. Turns out he was not embarrassed, he was frustrated–maybe angry. He had not been over to the shelf to take care of a sniffle. He had left me a comment in the comment box.

“I don’t want to write summaries about the movies we watched. I want to write about something that interests me.”

I knew it was his comment because he is the only one in the class who writes in cursive. So, when I pulled the card and read it, I knew I had misunderstood our earlier, brief interaction. Ordinarily, I save student comments for “The Voices Within” post on the weekends, but I decided to handle this one differently, especially since I knew who had written it and had a better sense of what was going on. Here is what I wrote on the back of the card in response.

“I hear you, and I am sorry that you are frustrated. But I think it is an oversimplification to say that we are writing summaries about the movies we watched. The true intent here is to give you an opportunity to demonstrate proficiency with analysis, an opportunity for me to give you feedback to help you grow. In the end, the movies don’t matter, but your ability to analyze does, so if there is something else you want to write about to show me an analysis, I am all for it. Please let me know.”

I put it in an envelope and handed it to him yesterday. As class ended, he walked by and I just said, “Hey, dude. I just need you to show me you can analyze. I don’t care what you write about.” He smiled and said, I have an essay coming. The challenge? Doing what he didn’t want to do. It’s a challenge when we are young; it’s a challenge when we are old. And he has accepted the challenge. I’m not suggesting he’s happy about it, but I am suggesting that he will be better for it.

Next story. For nearly two weeks, she had avoided making eye contact with me. I knew why. “Operation Email” had brought Mom and Dad into the game, and she wasn’t pleased with our meddling. So, for the last several days, conscious of her stress level, I did not engage or push her. Yesterday, she stayed after class. She began by apologizing for not getting her essay into me yet. And then she let me in. “Here’s the deal, Sy. I am a procrastinator, but I am also a perfectionist, and the two do not make a good pair. I am nearly done, but I’m not turning it in till it’s perfect. I will have it to you tomorrow.” Honored that she had opened up to me, I let her know that I was sorry for the stress and that I was glad that she was making her way through it. As she was leaving, I told her that her parents and I just cared, and she gave me the famous, yeah-I-know-but-whatever teenage smirk. She, as he above, though not happy, will be better for accepting and facing the challenge of that which often presents the biggest hurdle of all–oneself.

Happy Friday, all. Off for two weeks now. Looking forward to the break.  See you back here in January. Happy Holidays!

We’ll step into the middle of Night today with our second discussion. Last week’s discussion went well, but ever-searching for a way to make things better, I asked the kids for some feedback, and they obliged, so we will do things a bit differently this week. Here are some of the things they asked for.

1. More time. Granted.
2. More people contributing/participating. Random selection no more.
3. More Syrie. Not necessarily. Wishing to avoid awkward moments of silence, many asked me to help “fill the air” during these moments. And I’m torn. I want them to fill the air. That’s the goal, and the moments of silence are a but a means to an end. Moments of silence are moments of thought. Constant noise is not always a sign of deep discussion. He or she who talks the most does not always say the most. Sometimes she or he who says the least does. We should listen to silence, too. Oh, I will help today. But when I fill the air, it will be my asking probing and clarifying questions, not giving answers. #sorrynotsorrykiddos

We will continue with the no-hands approach this week. Kids did a great job with it last week, especially for the first time. Funny how many still raised their hands. All good. They’ve been conditioned to do so. It was kinda fun to playfully rebuke them for raising their hands. I’ll have more fun today.

Happy Thursday, all. Stay warm and safe.