Well, some of the time. Even less, if you never ask. So, I asked.

From my My Room Message yesterday (the photo won’t load this morning).

“That email you’ve been waiting to send about what to do about your grade? Send it. I’m here. It’s why I am here. But you gotta click send, kiddo. Please, send it.”

And they answered. They “clicked it.” They “sent it.” And now I have to answer. And, no, it won’t be convenient. I have had to write post-its, flag emails, look up assignments, find resources, etc. But I asked for it. And now I have promises to keep. And miles to go before I sleep, but I have found that when I do sleep, I sleep better knowing that I have offered opportunity and presented possibility.

Happy Tuesday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Lots of late work trickling in. Must be nearing the end of the term. Of course, this is not an uncommon phenomenon. It happens every term, everywhere. Teachers encounter late work. It comes with the territory.

But, as common as it may be, we seem to deal with it in a variety of ways. In my twenty-five years, I have run the gamut, from not accepting late work to deducting points to now taking it whenever they get it to me, even, in some rare cases, if that means after the term is over. I tell my kids, especially now, “Do what you can, when you can.”

Well, it seems, “when” is now for a lot of my kids. Then, of course, I have to accept what I have offered. And I do, graciously and without penalty. But isn’t timeliness important? Isn’t there a teachable moment in this for responsibility, for accountability? Probably, but I find those considerations secondary to the primary: learning.

And I tried to communicate that to my kiddos in my latest My Room Message.

Most of our deadlines are arbitrary constructs that either fit the calendar or create convenience–for us. Learning isn’t time bound, it does not regard calendar or convenience. It, regardless our attempts at control, happens at its own pace. And so I let it. What they can, when they can.

I am not going anywhere. I will be here when they are ready. I am contracted to help kids learn. And I believe I best do that by providing opportunity and possibility. Inconvenient? Yes. I accepted that long ago. Working with humans is inconvenient. I work with humans. I teach humans, and it’s never been convenient. Maybe it’s not supposed to be.

Happy Monday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Well, a “week of why” is in the books, so to say. As I pledged on Monday, I provided a “why” for every tASK I put in front of my kids this week. And, as I shared on Monday, I aim to make this standard practice moving forward–habit to routine to ritual. At the moment, it is still in the habit stage, but I am committed to seeing it through to ritual. Just like my other rituals (My Room Messages, Sappy Sy Rhymes, Smiles and Frowns) “Why, Sy?” will have a permanent place at the table.

Does it matter to the kids? Not sure, in this distance model, it’s hard to know. They see it/hear it on a Screencastify video, so I am unable to gauge their initial responses. Today, I am going to ask them for feedback, both generally and specifically on my approach and its impact on their experience. It is my earnest hope that they find value in the rituals. I hope they matter to them. If they don’t, that might be hard to swallow because they matter to me. I guess we’ll see. The worst that could happen? I will have some reflecting and bettering to do, but that’s kinda old hat by now.

Its own ritual.

Happy Friday, all. Have a great weekend. See ya back here on Monday.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

I have no idea. I haven’t seen their faces once in thirty days. I hear their voices–well, most. Some haven’t even shared that. They are only letters in the chat. I see their work–well, most. Some haven’t even shared that. They are blank cells in Skyward. I see their dark screens with names in white–well, most. Some haven’t even come to class once. They are names on a roster for me to mark absent. I am teaching screens.

Yes, many I have seen. Many I have heard. Many work. Many show up. But even the “animated” screen seems…well, distant. We go through our daily routine. We even smile and laugh, but it seems of late that even in this, fewer each day partake. In the gallery, I see more names than faces, faces I once saw, but now the screen. I try not to take it personally. I will not make them turn their video on. And, thus, behind the screen we go on.

And that’s not easy, for either. They, too, must feel the distance. They, too, must feel the contrivance. They, too, must feel the fatigue. They, too, must feel the apathy. They, too, must feel that this…. That this is not real. I imagine that’s how they feel.

And so, as I meet them each day, I breathe in deeply and try my best to imagine that they are there in the room with me, that I can see them, that I can hear them. And for now it’s working. But if it will last, I do not know.

I have no idea.

Happy Thursday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Morning, all. Gonna wish everyone a happy Wednesday and call it good this morning. Lots to get done, and too little time, so I’m gonna take the easy road this morning. Sorry. Tomorrow I will do better.

Happy Wednesday.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Yesterday was day one of #WhyWeek. I ended up calling it “Why, Sy?” for my kids. Below are the four “Why, Sy?” screencasts that I made to share “my why” for our work. The first is an introduction to “Why, Sy?” And the other three accompanied the three tASKs I presented to kids.

Unrehearsed and unscripted, they are a little rough and clunky. In truth, this was harder than I imagined it might be, and though scripting and practicing may have created a “better” product, I am not sure it would have been as authentic, which was/is my goal with these.

I wanted to share them this morning, not for their cinematic or pedagogical value, but rather, I wanted to share them to show that I try to walk my talk. Day two today of “looking them in the eye” and speaking a why for each tASK I present. My hope is to make this habit, then routine, then ritual. If I talk why, I have to walk why.

Happy Tuesday, all. Stay safe.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Why?

Little word. Big impact. Reminds me of the power we place in another three-letter word, “yet.”

Both, for their own part, play a role in our attempts to motivate students. Yet is the card we ask them to play when they experience challenges along the way. “I can’t do it. Yet.” And even if this is a little different perhaps than Dweck really intended, it’s a card that gets dealt time and again in classrooms all over with many believing it’s a magical card trick that transforms the learning experience for kids. Maybe.

But what about why? Why, though dealt far less, seems as important a factor to motivating kids in their learning experiences. If yet compels them to continue, then why presents a purpose to begin. But it seems we skirt around this a bit. Oh, many post a learning target each day. Some even post a purpose on the board. But I wonder if that’s enough–for kids. No doubt, whenever adults visit, they gush at such stuff. But what about kids? Do such things really motivate them to dig into the work? Are our answers to the the implied (most kids are afraid to ask) question, “Why are we doing this?” sufficient? Are they authentic? I am not convinced they are. And that lack of conviction has led me to challenge myself to think more deeply about and present more authentically to my kids the word “why.”

This was from my early-morning musing on Saturday. I want to do better with the “why” in our work, so this week I am going to challenge myself to present a “Screencastify why” for each and every task I ask this week. I am going to “look them in the eye and tell them why.”

And I am going to strive diligently to be authentic. For some things, I imagine I will not come up with a great answer. But when that happens, I am just going to tell the kids, “This is just a school thing. Out of this context it will matter little. It might add value to your growth with language, but it is not the be all, end all to your development.”

Yes, I know, and yes, I expect such honesty is likely to reduce completion of work. And yes, I know the focus here is motivation, but I also know that “dressing things up in learning targets and eduspeak” isn’t all that effective either. So, I am gonna try. I am gonna focus on why.

Happy Monday, all. Have a great week.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Where the Sidewalk Ends by Shel Silverstein

There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we’ll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we’ll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.

Where The Classroom Ends

This is my “My Room Message” to my students yesterday. And though I am no Silverstein, I tried to capture in my message that which lies beyond the classroom.

Beyond the classroom? Is there such a place? Yes, I think there is. It’s that place where we seek to reach kids who can’t stay, won’t stay on the sidewalk because it’s not leading them anywhere. We know this. They know this.

“For the children, they mark, and the children, they know…”

They know (especially by the time they get to us in high school). The endless track of teaching and testing to keep them away from the edges, to keep them centered on the sidewalk. And I am not only talking about “students of concern.” I am talking about all kids–high, low, medium-who’ve become disillusioned about and disengaged from their learning, as if it’s not theirs to own. And I imagine it seems to them more a game of earning than learning. But isn’t that the game we invite them to play? And if by some chance they go astray…well, the rules of the “earning game” can be harsh.

And so for them–for each, I seek to see that place where their learning is their own, where their learning can live.

“And watch where the chalk-white arrows go…”

I “seek to see,” not to show. Where each kid walks, so I may help them grow. Around their corners and around their bends, so I may find where the classroom ends.

And they begin.

A bit of fancy this morning, I suppose. But maybe we need a little fancy. Maybe we need to step off the track a bit and seek the “chalk-white arrows” and see where they go.

Happy Thursday, all. No school for us tomorrow. See you back here on Monday.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Where the Learning Ends

Traditionally, generally, a test marks the end. In many instances–too many, in my opinion–it becomes a point of no return for kids: “The score is in the book. We are moving on, to the next unit of study, to the next test.” And the cycle repeats itself so many times that kids–and educators–come to think that testing is learning, that testing is teaching: that testing is everything.

Proof? Ask 100 teachers how much weight they give their tests in the grade book. I imagine the answer would reveal a weighty reality, one that strikes fear and raises anxiety in kids. Fear and anxiety? Why? Why ever?

And to what end the end (the test)? “Will this be on the test?” Is that learning compass for kids? All else matters not, only that which will be on the test? And what of the test after we have moved on? Is all that the kids dumped on the test and now forgotten really as important as we make it out to be? Did they really learn it if they take the test on Friday only to have forgotten most of it by Monday? This type of learning does not seem to endure, and the kids know it. But it does often come with a lasting impact: the one in the gradebook. If the impact of the grade endures but the impact of the learning does not, what does this say about our means, about our end? How do kids translate the meaning of this? I don’t know. Ask them how they feel about tests? That might give us some insight, but I suspect we already know. And I suspect for many of us, despite our own compasses pointing us away from such practice, we continue towards the only end we’ve ever known: the test. Seems a sorry end.

But there is hope. I have heard heartening tales of more and more teachers offering corrections and retakes. And when it’s kids telling the tales, I become heartily hopeful that there may be a better end after all. For when kids experience opportunity to continue learning, the means make more sense and the ends seem to be but short stops before the next steps towards learning and growing. No dead ends. Just steps.

Out of time this morning on this third installment. Wanted to get further down the trail, but I will have to make a short stop here until I can continue towards my next end tomorrow.

Happy Wednesday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.