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.

One of the primary pursuits with Project 180 has been providing paths for student ownership. In year one I took grades of the table, so kids could take greater responsibility for and ownership of their learning, which has led to our current select-and-support approach to capturing learning, “My Learning, My Story.” Kids are senior partners in that they have a great deal of seniority (say) in naming their learning at the end. Their learning.

But that’s not the only place I try to provide paths. I try to present paths in our work as well, and I have found a great deal of promise in the word, “my.”

Your is a teacher word. My is a student word. “Your” still sounds like it’s mine to give. Your learning. “My” sounds like it’s their own. My Learning. Yes, semantics to the nth, I suppose, but words matter, and so I use them as if they do matter. I believe the transfer of ownership begins with perception (I say transfer because I don’t think kids feel like they own their learning). And so, I believe when kids say the word “my” in connection with their learning, the transfer begins, and if they say it enough, then perception changes, and that transforms how they see their learning. Their learning.

This semester, I am still chasing this necessary better to my kids’ experiences in my classroom. Here are two paths that we are going to explore as we begin our journey.

My writing. My Process. My kids will do this today. I want them to really consider and capture their present process with writing. I have no idea what they will discover or share, but I am deeply interested in what they find as they explore this path. And I don’t think it will be a particularly easy hike. I think they will struggle with this a bit. In truth, I hope they do struggle some. I think this is an important path, and in the necessary struggle they may discover some agency as writers. We will see. I will share some of their discoveries with you, as well as next steps with this approach.

For reading, I have asked kids to select their own paths.

Interestingly, despite my efforts here and in my verbal instruction on the screencast to establish that they indeed had choice, a fair number still emailed me asking permission to read this or that (seeking transfer). I responded with, “Your reading. Your choice.” Which I hope they repeated (even if only subconsciously) as “My reading, My choice.”

Transfer. Translate. Transform. That is my hope. That is the why behind my.

Happy Thursday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Sy – love reading your thoughts. I have been wrestling with many of these same questions. The biggest one for me is what do you do with a student who turns nothing in? They are very, very rare for me. Zeros are crushing. I will die on that hill. I avoid them until I can’t. Would you really give a student a .7 all marking period even if they turned in nothing? Thanks for helping me with my own journey!

Bill Velto, North Carolina

My friend Bill posted this comment in response to yesterday’s post.

So, would I? Would I really give a student a .7 (a “C”) if they turned in nothing over the course of the marking period?

The short answer, yes. I am still the same guy who gave every kid an A back in year one of Project 180.

And now, the long answer.

It’s a bit of a bet, I suppose. But it’s a gamble I am willing to make in an effort to place learning ahead of grading, which really–as I look back now–is what the whole Project 180 journey has been about, discovering better learning experiences for kids. And, with this most recent exploration, I am still seeking that same end. Better learning.

Okay, but how does giving kids something for nothing result in better learning? I don’t know. Yet. And while on the surface it looks like I am simply giving away grades, I like to think that I am digging at something deeper here, and to get to the roots of it, I had to change the dynamic. And that’s the bet. If can change the dynamic, then maybe I can change the experience, and maybe if the experience is better, then the learning will be better.

And so, here, it’s really about changing the dynamic, about changing the interactions and conversations with my kids.

The Zero

As I shared in yesterdays’ post a zero is an indicator of missing work. Okay, so what’s new about that? On the surface, nothing. But when viewed as a starting point for a conversation (a different conversation, the kids know the tired, old talk about zeros damaging their grades. Bill please know that I view zeros as you), then the zero becomes less harmful and more useful. This is how I imagine the conversation.

Hey, kiddo, I see you are missing some Learning Checks, and our tank’s a bit low. (I just came up with this idea, “our tank.” I began with “your tank” but then I thought it might change the dynamic even more if I used “our.” The idea here being if the learning tank is low, then the teaching tank is low, too. Remember, I don’t believe I have really taught anything until I have responded with feedback, and I don’t believe kids have really learned anything until they have responded to my feedback. So, then, the conversation focuses on our not taking advantage of the opportunity to grow as a learner or as a teacher. I am not growing if I am not teaching. I want to grow, and they can help me grow.) I need you to put some work in the tank, so we can move forward. Please take your first step, so I can take my next step. Okay? Let’s keep moving.

I believe this same dynamic changes the conversation with parents, too. I am coming from a place not of deficit (your child is failing) but from a place of movement and opportunity. I need John to submit so I can support.

That is how imagine the “zero conversation” going. And once kids have submitted, the learning continues (begins), and I have chosen to indicate that first step with a .7.

So, really, Bill, when I said “yes,” this is what I imagined. I have long wondered and worried over the question, “Why won’t kids do work?” And I have long known that the carrot and stick were inadequate and inauthentic answers. So, I have sought better. Will this approach result in fewer zeros? I don’t know, but I do know that I previous practice has not worked. So I am taking a reasoned risk.

The C

The learning’s begun, but it’s not done. As I shared in yesterday’s post, I have guaranteed a “C” by taking “D” and “F” off the table. And so with that, really a .7 is an indicator that learning is on the table. And as I shared yesterday, there is an open invitation to continue the learning by responding to the teaching (my feedback). And with that “C” becomes the center, that place where we come together as learner and teacher, and from there we continue together as we engage in the feedback/response process, through which the goal is to get to a 1, indicating done. And eventually, our journey comes to an end, and we have to name the learning with a grade. And since it is a shared journey, I ask the kids to partner with me by selecting and supporting their final grade with evidence from the learning experience.

The goal for all is an A. But to get there, they have to forage on feedback and grow. And now, when I imagine these future conversations with this brand new approach, I imagine our agreement being even more deeply rooted in the evidence of the learning experience. I imagine the conversation turning to the learning still on the table (.7), and the how the opportunity–the invitation–to grow, is still there. That’s the table I am seeking to set, the better I am trying to build.

I hope this helps, Bill. Thank you for helping me stretch my thinking this morning. Wish I could have shared more, but I am out of time, so I am going to wrap it up here, my friend.

Happy Tuesday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

It’s not the first time I have taken a leap. Back in year one I took a flying leap when I gave each kid an A for the year. And while this leap may not be as big and bold (brash) a jump, it is another significant step away from grading to better learning. But it’s not a reckless rush as much as it is a reasoned response to my continuing reflection on present practice in my search for my next better.

Below is my communication to a brand new group of kids about what to expect from their learning experiences with me as we enter second semester. In it you will find changes that I have made to delve deeper into the feedback/response process, to fade farther away from points and grading, and to come closer to learning.

Feedback

This has been the focus all year. Last semester, I made strides into elevating the feedback/response process as the place where learning happens, where I teach and where kids learn. I contend that I don’t really teach until I engage kids in this process. I facilitate and guide to get things moving, but I don’t really teach anything until I respond to their work, and thus, I, too, believe, they don’t really begin to learn until they respond to my response (feedback). And the process continues.

This semester, I want to front load this idea, and I believe I have arrived at something with the “not done till one” mantra. The goal is to get everyone to a 1. Everyone. If they are not at a 1, then there is still learning on the table, and if there’s still learning, there’s still work. Our work.

Scores

Rather, “numerical indicators” (yes, I hate the name, too, but I wanted something that sounded ostentatious, not for it’s formality but it’s inanity). They are just numbers, just symbols, just indicators–for convenience. I began playing with 1 and .7 last semester for a couple of reasons. One, I got tired of Skyward deciding my kids’ grades and raising alarms for outside eyes (parents). So, I changed it to .7 so the bottom was a “C” for those looking in. For inside eyes (kids), it was an invitation to revise and resubmit. I want that in front of our work this semester. Two, I wanted to give the middle finger to points and scores by reducing them as much as I possibly could (for now) in a way that let me manipulate Skyward to better fit my approach. My wife asked why I don’t just use 10 and 7 or 100 and 70 to keep it simpler for the kids. I told her that’s too close to the traditional view of points and scores. I wanted to reduce them to mean as little as possible. 1 = Done. .7 = Invitation.

Off the Table

This is the biggest step. I had planned on doing this next year, and I have even written about it here recently in the “C to See” post (http://www.letschangeeducation.com/c-to-see-project-180-day-83/). But I decided to take the leap this year, this semester by formally taking “D” and “F” grades off the table. I will no longer offer them as options in my class. The goal is for all to learn, to grow. And so, I don’t want kids worrying about what’s below (Deficit and Failure). I want them worrying about what’s above. I am done with the deficit approach to teaching and learning. Well, I have been for some time now, but this more formally cements my decision.

Will kids then magically do all the work, then? Of course not. But it’s my reasoned belief that where we meet will be a more authentic commitment to each other in our shared experience. And so, I decided to go for it now. I am ready, so I might as well jump. And if it so happens that I don’t land on my feet, I have grown accustomed to 180 cycle, and I will Do, Reflect, and Do Better until I find my feet again.

Happy Monday, all. Wish me luck on my first day of Hybrid.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Strange day ahead. Strange days behind. Been a strange time.

Today I will say goodbye to my kids for the year. Our distance model fit a year into a semester, so with the end of semester one, my kids are done with LA for the year. And I will begin another “year” next week with a new group of kids, who’ve not had LA yet this year. Strange.

And it won’t get any less-strange with our hybrid model. Kids will be back in the building but we won’t be back “in school.” Not saying that’s good or bad, but I am saying it’s not school. But that new strange comes next week. I still have today’s strange to face: saying goodbye to kids I hardly know.

Should be easy, then, right? Just bid them farewell and move on, they are strangers after all. No, they aren’t. We’ve shared a strange experience, perhaps the strangest of which is the personal connection I have come to feel towards a name on a black Zoom screen.

“Hi, Connor. Good morning. Do you have a Smile or Frown to share with us today?

“Pass.”

“Okay, Connor. Thank you. I am glad you are here.”

I have often felt like Tom Hanks’ character from Castaway talking to Wilson the volleyball. Strange. But they are not strangers.

They are my kids. And I have tried my “best better” during this time to connect with them. And I have. But it’s not the same. I know it. They know it. We all know it, I suppose.

And, I suppose, it will be something we will always know as we look back on this time and these students who lived through it with us. And in that, I guess, we may find our strongest connection. On some level, I find it similar to my very first class, that group that has a distinction like no other. Our first class. We remember them a bit differently from the rest of our groups. And, now, this group, too, will be remembered a bit differently.

And today, I will let them know that as I say goodbye to my screens my kids, as we “power off” for the final time.

Happy Tuesday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

If ya give ’em an inch, they’ll take a mile.

I’ve never cared much for cynical views of students. This one bugs me as much as,

You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make them drink.

I have always been disturbed by the notion that kids (humans who thirst for learning) won’t drink. Maybe it’s not them. Maybe it’s the water. Horses won’t drink bad water.

And if we give them a wide-range, too much room, too much freedom, they won’t return. We have to keep them corralled.

Do we? Do we know that from practice? Or do we simply cling to the notion that we have to exercise our control over kids, because we’ve always thought we had to? And while, of course, there are examples of kids’ “success” with such approaches, there are examples from the other side as well.

“She’s on the verge of quitting school. And I just want to know what she can do to pass.”

This is from a phone conversation with a parent last week. Her daughter has done nothing this quarter.

“Well, first of all. She won’t fail. I won’t fail kids.”

“Well, we can do something. I want her to do something. I want her to learn.”

“Okay. How about having her just focus on the Night work? At this late stage, I think it would be incredibly overwhelming for her to try to do everything.”

And that is generally where the conversation ended. And the work started trickling in. Work, well done, I might add.

And then the flood.

10:45 PM. 11:20 PM. 12:24 AM. 12:49 AM. 1:04 AM. 1:17 AM. 1:42 AM. 1:51 AM. 2:32 AM. 2:52 AM. 2:55 AM. 3:05 AM. 3:13 AM. 3:28 AM. 3:31 AM. 3:41 AM. 3:51 AM. 4:03 AM. 4:25 AM. 4:44 AM. 4:55 AM. 5:06 AM. 5:13 AM. 5:16 AM.

These are the time stamps on her submitted work. She pulled an all-nighter. And I have been getting them “live” since 4:44 AM.

She, apparently, has decided to do it all, despite her knowing that she would pass, despite her knowing that a “C” was on the table if she completed the Night work.

I moved an inch, a small step closer to meeting her somewhere. And she ran a mile. She’s still running. I just got another. 5:23 AM.

Kids can and will do more than we believe. Sometimes, they just need the room–and rein–to show us.

Happy Monday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.