I miss the kids. I miss the kidding. I was reminded of this yesterday when I got a chance to call one of my kiddos a loser.

Strange thing the “loser test.” But I have always used it as a measure of sorts for my connections with kids. No, I do not call all my kids losers. Of course, I don’t. There are other things to call them, too. Okay, I’m kidding around some about kidding with kids. But I do kid with kids. Right thing to do? I don’t know. But I’m not sure it’s wrong either. I am not sure there’s a script for human interaction. I don’t mean it meanly, and my kids know this. Professionally appropriate? Maybe not. And perhaps I don’t have the right of it. But it feels real. And that can’t all be wrong. And though it may sound odd to say it feels right, if I am honest, it does. My world felt right yesterday. For a moment it felt like we were back in the classroom and wrongs of the world without were washed away. And there was nothing wrong with that.

Happy Friday, all. Have a great weekend.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Morning, all. Bowing out today. WiFi’s wonky. Not enough time. Too much on plate. Looks like I’m going to need permission to pause again. Sorry. Maybe tomorrow I will get back on track. Take care.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Morning, all. Gonna ask for permission to pause the “Trash Talk” series this morning. (Eek, might be I could have picked a better title). Either way, things are piling up more than usual with end of term this week, and I need to turn my attention to other matters, so with that, I am going to push the pause button for today (and maybe tomorrow). Hopefully you understand. No one probably wants to hear me talk trash again today anyway.

Happy Tuesday, all. Thank you for understanding. Sorry.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

I once–twice actually (in person)–heard Kelly Gallagher say, “Writing is never done; it’s only due.” And though I am not certain this originated from him, I heard it from him, and it stuck. Writing is only due. But, beyond the due, which I believe we get too fixated on in education, is the never done, which means it can always be better. And this is where I focus. On the better.

Our writing can always be better. But better takes time, and better takes feedback. For our inexperienced writers, who often lack confidence and enthusiasm for writing, it takes a lot of time, and it takes a lot of feedback. And this is where I think we fall short in our instruction. We don’t give enough time, and we don’t give enough feedback. And though there are things–the calendar for one–that we cannot control, there are things we can.

First, we can give fewer writing assignments (some classrooms boast as many as five to seven “full-process” essays in a semester). To me that’s a focus on writing, not the writer. I suppose the argument would be the volume translates into better writing, but I am not convinced it equals better writers. Maybe better “transactors” who follow the formula and regard the rubric for a good grade. In short, they become better at the game, and then we cry foul, when they only care about the grade in the end. But it’s the game we have asked them to play if we are honest. How much writing then should we assign? I assign no more than one major piece per quarter, two per semester. Why? Simple. Time. Writing is first–and I believe foremost–a creative endeavor. Writing is creating, not completing. But when we focus on due dates and volume, it becomes about completing, even if we don’t mean it to. And completing becomes about the grade. What reward or punishment have they earned? Oh we can scoff at the notion, but isn’t that what our kids have come to believe about the transactional nature of their writing experiences?

On the on the other hand, creating becomes about the creator and the process. It becomes about the volume of time, not the volume of writing. So, we have to give our kids time to live in their writing, sustained by the time we allow and the feedback we feed. But, and I think this is important, even in this time-abundant space we offer, the goal is better writers, not good writing. Our kids come to us all over the map in terms of their perceptions and abilities with writing. And as we seek to guide them each to better, we cannot expect that dogged allegiance to good products can happen without better process. And that is where I believe the sweet spot can be found for each of our writers, but it begins with time. We have to give them time. We have to give ourselves time. That is the first thing we have to do.

Speaking of time, I am out of it this morning. I will continue the conversation tomorrow.

Happy Monday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

There’s no national repository for student essays. There’s no push to publish the stuff coming out of our classrooms (unless, we’re talking about the “we-will-publish-your-writing-so-we-can-relentlessly-harass-you-to-buy-our-book-with-your-child’s-name-and-writing-in-it” predators). And there’s a reason for this reality, it’s not–generally speaking, of course–very good writing.

And why would it be? Most of it is transactional, formulaic, artificial school writing that gets “archived” in the local landfill as soon as it’s returned. Oh, to be fair. Some of it is brilliant writing, and some of it gets “stored” for years (I just recently came across one of my brilliant 8th grade essays. Well, it seemed brilliant then). And some of it–rightly so–gets published. But, by and large, the products our kids are creating in our classrooms aren’t worth hanging on to. And a quick check in the trash can or recycling bin in America’s classrooms after the grade is read, would support such a claim.

Okay, so where are you going with this, Sy? You seem a little negative this morning. Fair enough. Let me explain.

I feel like our passionate push for perfect products, which demonstrate “mastery,” misses the mark. First, even the perfect product isn’t very good. Oh, it might be reflective of the Rosetta Rubric we offer as the means to master, but even it often gets left behind–transaction complete. Second, mastery is a myth if we believe it’s found in the product, the end. Even in the real world a true “master” admits he’s not a master–yet. And so, if the master’s never a master, is there really mastery? There’s the journey. But we never reach the destination. And yet, it seems, in our work we are too often subservient to this notion that we must, that we can get our kids to mastery–as reflected in the product.

Oh, I am not meaning to disparage the impossible work my ELA colleagues do with their young writers. It is hard–incredibly hard–and necessary work. Communication is a vital skill. But our work I believe is in the communicator–the writer, not the writing. And I have a feeling that even my product-oriented partners in this would agree. It’s about the process. It’s about the writer. But is it? Is that our walk of our talk? I am not convinced that we are truly there in our practice. But I do believe that if we could get there, it would be better for all. And I have some ideas that might help, but, unfortunately, I only have about five more minutes this morning. I knew I probably should not have tackled this. So, I will have to come back to it next week, and I will. For now, I will leave it with this.

Writers move. Writing gets left behind. So, then, it would seem in our work we need to give our writers experiences that become bridges. (And no, I don’t think the products are the bridges).

Sorry if I upset any of you this morning by “talking trash” about student writing. Certainly not my intent to upset. I just think there are crucial conversations we should be having about our students’ experiences as writers. And I had to start somewhere.

I will continue the conversation next week.

Happy Friday. Have a great weekend.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

“Thank you for allowing me to join you in your work.”

Much of the time, the how of it exceeds the what of it. How we speak affects what is heard. To be sure, we have to get through how before we get to what. And I want to get to the what of it with my kids when I am giving them feedback on their learning experiences in my classroom, especially their writing experiences. Writing, like any creative endeavor, is personal, and if I am going to join kids in this personal work, then I have to be mindful of how approach what I want to say.

Always difficult, giving feedback has proven particularly difficult from a distance, especially written feedback. Tone is so easily mistaken, and from a distance with kids I’ve never met (some never even seen), it is not easily corrected. So, I approach it very carefully. I have to. I want the kids to hear my what, so I have to watch my how.

As such, this is how I have begun presenting my feedback to them.

Thank you for allowing me to join you in your work. Please see my feedback in the comments and resubmit once you have made revisions. As we continue this work, please remember that this is about process and progress, not getting done, so when I send it back to you with recommendations, it is not because I want to give you more work; it’s because I want to help you with the difficult craft of writing. I sincerely hope you see it that way. ~sy

When I can (and I am making an earnest effort to make it my norm), I make a Screencastify video using the same language, hoping that my intonations and expressions cement my sincerity in my efforts to join their journey as a guest in their growth.

But, even so, I worry things get lost as I move through my how to get to our what. But with every interaction I am learning the steps of the how to what dance, trying not to step on the toes of those with whom I partner. A delicate dance indeed.

Happy Thursday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Is it fair to the rest of the kids who did all the work?

This was a parking lot question from one of my colleagues yesterday afternoon as he wondered about a situation he is facing with taking in a new student only days before the end of the first term.

But that was his second question. His first question, “Do I pass him?”

“Of course you pass him,” I replied.

“Thank you, it helps to hear that.”

It helps to hear that.

Why does it help? How does it help? I mean really. Why does it help to hear such things?

Such things. Many would scoff and cry foul at such things. You can’t pass him. He hasn’t done the time or the work. What about the other kids? Ah, the first question.

Fairness. Where does that start and end? I have never known, for as I consider what might be fair in response to the bajillion kids I’ve had with a bajillion different circumstances and a bajillion different needs, I can never quite find the right of it–for that one kid. And now you want me to think about the other kids, too? I need help.

I need to hear that it’s complicated and others wrestle with such things, too. I need to be reminded that no one–no one–during my training as a teacher told me I was charged with policing fairness. I need to hear that teaching humans is a messy affair. I need to hear that we are engaged in a grand experiment where our hypotheses ride the coaster and our tests–formal and informal–are fallible. I need to hear that I am among other humans who make mistakes but listen to their guts anyway. I need to hear that I am not alone.

Alone. We are not alone. We are wrong. We are right. We fail. We succeed. We learn. We grow. We suffer. We thrive. We are humans facing the impossible to make things possible. We are teachers.

Teachers. In a parking lot. Cars coming. Cars going. Questions asked. Answers offered. We go home. We come back. Some day. Maybe today. We will get it right.

Happy Wednesday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Ten days (.03652968%) of their lives and you’d think it might be a life-defining moment. We are nearing the end of the quarter. You’d think we might be nearing the end of their time. The rush. The stress. The frantic frenzy. The tide on the rise.

Oh, but we are used to this. We do it year after year, term after term. What we do is important. It warrants such a response. This is their education. This is their window. They have to learn. And we have to judge their experience, else they are not learning. We have to rank. We have to sort. It’s time. The term is up.

Okay, I’m feeling/being a little snarky this Monday morning. And though this is a “formal moment” in our kids’ experience. And though there is value in what we do during our time with them, it is not everything. It is simply something that makes up a tiny part of their lives.

The average person in the United States lives an average of 27, 375 days. American students go to school for 2,160 days over the course of their K-12 experience. We account for only almost 8% of their lives. And though it could certainly be argued and supported that we serve in an important time of their lives, they will continue living and learning long after they leave us. They came to us learning. They leave us learning. And they live with us learning. All of them–regardless our record. Living is learning. And we just get to be a part of their living, their learning. We are not their lives. We are part of their lives–a small part in their vast ocean.

Okay, Sy, where ya going with this?

Here–which is likely not a popular position. We need to take things a little less seriously. We play an important role. I feel like I play an important role. I have to feel/believe that, and I do. But when we let the end-of-term and the marks we make on the transcript define us, our kids, our system, we miss the mark. And while we think we make the most of time with such formal marking moments, we diminish the best parts of our service, the best parts of our experience, the best parts of our kids.

Most of us hate grading time, for we now have to don our “Judge” hats, and we feel–I assume I am not alone in this–that our messy, beautiful moments with kids have to be reduced to a number or letter on a transcript, where we much of the time have to reduce learning to earning, as if it can’t be helped: the score is the score. But when we allow such “formality” to be the end all of our time with kids, we miss the mark. Yes, we “have to grade,” and we likely always will, but we don’t have to buy into the idea that grading, especially in the traditional sense, has to be done the way it’s always been done because it’s always been done, especially now. We need to give ourselves the permission and freedom to trust our human instincts, not our academic allegiance.

Not sure how that may manifest itself? Give kids an opportunity to select and support their final grade. But they are not grading experts. No, they are not. But they are experts of their own experiences. It’s their learning. It’s their story. They should get a chance to tell it. And we should not miss an opportunity to listen to their messy, beautiful, human stories. That’s the measure. That’s the tale that will endure time’s tide.

Wow. Did not expect to go here on Monday morning. Not even sure I went anywhere. Maybe I should have posted an “I am tired and uninspired” post as I originally planned.

Happy Monday.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Decided to take half a day yesterday afternoon. Not sick. Just worn out. Mentally. Physically. Emotionally. Spiritually. Felt better as soon as I made the decision. And then I felt worse. Well, I felt guilt.

Not a new feeling. And I know, after 25 years of working with other teachers, that it is not an exclusive feeling, either. It’s hard for us to be gone. We feel obligated to be there, to serve–even at the cost of our own well-being. Admittedly, over the years I have learned to better deal with the “guilt of gone,” but as admittedly, it still presents itself when I am. Still, I have learned that when my body, my spirit speaks, I need to listen. Yesterday, it spoke. Yesterday, I listened. And today, I am feeling more wise than guilty.

And, it is this I must remember. There is wisdom in self-care. And though I imagine guilt will attempt to attach himself now and again, I will peel him from my chest. He will not mark me, and I will instead walk with wisdom. He is a better companion by far. Maybe, she. Seems Wisdom is more likely a woman.

Happy Friday, all. Listen to your body and spirit.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Took a moment yesterday to remind my kiddos that grades don’t exist in the Project 180 Classroom until they and I sit down at the end of the term and come to an agreement, and only then do they come into being. Everything else up to that point is simply a record of the learning evidence that they have gathered over the course of our experience. And so to reinforce that notion in many of their unsettled minds, I made a quick, unrehearsed, candid Screencastify video.

It’s new to them, and so I have to remind them. And since the distance has prevented me from reinforcing and reassuring as much as I’d like, I felt compelled yesterday to have a “face-to-face” conversation.

The result? I don’t know fully know yet, but I have begun getting work from kiddos who heretofore had nothing in the book. Could I have gotten the same results with a scare-them-into-compliance, fear-the-fail approach? Maybe. But I can’t well do that since I told kids from day one that they can’t fail my class, that “F” marks are not option. There is no “fear-the-fail” card in my hand to deal, so I have to deal differently. Yesterday’s video message was the card I played.

As my longtime followers of Project 180 know, I have no interest in compliance. I am seeking their commitment, not to me, to their learning and to themselves. And so, that is what we focus on–learning and selves–until we have to come up with a mark at the end of the term, and then when that time comes, we make that mark together. It has to be together. It’s their learning. It’s their story. I just help them record it.

Happy Thursday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.