Belief matters. I use my belief in students to drive and shape their beliefs in themselves. And that has certainly been at the core of Project 180 this year. When I gave my kids an A, I was saying, “I believe in you. You can and will learn this year out of commitment, not compliance.” And while commitment has taken many forms this year, traditional compliance has been non-existent. And though we still have 29 days to go, there are some indicators that my belief has made a difference.

First, some preliminary SBA results have already begun to roll in. With results from a little over half of my kids in the database, I am thrilled with our success; the kids have already exceeded my expectations. I am reluctant to share numbers at this stage, but I should be able to by week’s end. Suffice it to say, I am very happy with the results.

Second, on a whim, I changed things up a bit for the practice speeches on Friday. Wanting to test personal commitment to growth opportunities, I told the kids that they did not have to participate in the day’s practice round. I told them they had an opportunity to grow from experience and feedback, and if they wanted to capitalize on it, the podium was open. And one after one, the kids stepped up. It was perhaps a crowning moment on the year. Here were kids doing what they perhaps hate and fear most–public speaking–for the sake of growth. Of course, not every kid got up and some needed some cajoling from their peers, but most seized the opportunity. Not sure there is much that is more fulfilling than that. I believe. So they will believe.

Happy Monday, all.

I cannot believe we are down to 30 days! Crazy. Yesterday was a great day in 211. The practice speeches went splendidly. As I have shared numerous times, kids in their moments is what I live for, and yesterday provided lots of mini-moments. Kids never cease to amaze me on so many levels. Favorite moment yesterday: Dylan, one of my quiet, brilliant lights finally got up to do his practice round. He was certainly facing fear, and past experiences reminded all of us that his speaking in front of his peers was a particularly tough task for him. But he got to the podium, started…then, stopped. I was sure he was going to walk away, but he stayed, compelled by a chorus of “You got this.” He made it through the rest of his speech, actually getting more comfortable as he went, even making decent eye contact. Immediately, afterwards, Tate’s hand shot up and she shared, “Dylan, you always say you’re nervous, but you never look it.” Dylan was surprised by this. And I chimed in sharing that we often feel more nervous than we look. I was proud of Dylan yesterday. But I was equally proud of the 29 supportive peers around him. Man, I love kids. Next week, Dylan and others will no doubt struggle to face an audience as they deliver their real speeches, but I want to believe that our intentional practice will make the struggle a little less daunting. Kids. Moments. Doesn’t get any better.

Happy Friday, all.

Speech practice today. Yesterday, the kids wrote some brief pieces (100-word paragraphs) to deliver so they can practice eye contact. The goal here is to connect visually with the audience, attempting to make eye contact with each member. This is not easy, especially for inexperienced speakers. But it’s an essential element for engaging an audience.  And the only way that we can get better at it is to practice and get feedback. So, we are going to practice. And we are going to give and get feedback.

Each kid will go twice. The process here is to get more practice, but it’s also to have another shot at it after feedback. After each kid speaks, as an audience, we will give both general and specific feedback. For general feedback, we will simply indicate our response to “visual connectedness” with our fingers, a quick visual for the speaker. 3 = felt visually connected. 2 = felt somewhat visually connected. 1 = did not feel visually connected. For specific feedback, we will give some verbal responses regarding our perceived visual connection with the speaker. The goal, then, is for each kid to take into account what he/she learned from the feedback, using that information to improve in the next round. Growth is the goal here. I do not expect the kids to be Ted-Talk caliber speakers after this exercise, but I do expect them to improve, to grow.

What’s more, I expect them to apply their growth in practice this week to their performance opportunities next week. I hope for most that the biggest takeaway–and something over which they have a great deal of control–is the importance of preparedness. They cannot transform themselves into polished speakers in the span of a couple of days. But they can through intentional, diligent practice reach a level of familiarity with the text that will put them into a position to more effectively employ the six elements of effective speaking. I tell them that, at minimum, they must read aloud a text ten times to become familiar. I encouraged them to do that for today’s practice. My hope is that many did not. No, I’m not keen on their failing today to fail; rather, I am keen on their failing today to succeed next week. Today, my kids will be brave. Today my kids will struggle. Today my kids will grow.

Happy Thursday, all.

Next week many of the kids will face their toughest challenge of the year. They will have to face an audience of their peers. I can’t wait. No, I do not revel in their anxious discomfort. But I will marvel in their moments to come. They will face their fears. They will grow. They will shine. And I will have the best seat in the house when they do. I live for it.

Yesterday, I revealed this in an unexpected way to my kiddos. Haley, Chromebook in hand, twinkle in her eye, came to me asking me to read her finished speech. She was obviously proud and pleased with the final outcome. I told her, “No.” Confused, crestfallen, she tilted her head and locked my eyes with a “What gives, Sy?” Noting her hurt, I quickly tried to explain.

“It’s selfish, Hale. It’s not that I don’t want to read your speech. I do. It’s just that…well, I live for your moments. I live for your opportunity to rise and shine next week, kiddo. If I read your speech today, it will diminish the experience for me next week. I want to experience it all at once. The first time. One time. Your beautiful moment. So, please understand my not reading your speech is not my being lazy or shirking my responsibilities. It is my selfish trust that you will rise to the moment, that you will face your fears, and in that, you will truly shine. Of course, if you must have me read it now, I will, but I am reluctant to do so, kiddo. I will help you with specific parts or answer specific questions, but please don’t make me spoil the moment.”

And, she obliged. We continued to talk. She did seek feedback on a few specific elements, but she did not cajole me into reading her full speech. Of course, by now, the entire class had heard bits and pieces of the exchange, so I saw an opportunity to make the same pitch to all my kids, explaining again my need for their moments next week.  And I used the same Haley-exchange to explain my selfish stance to all my other classes yesterday.

Today, we are going to engage in an activity to practice making eye-contact when speaking.  Below, I have included the Speech Feedback form that I will use next week to assess the kids’ performances. Can’t wait.

Happy Wednesday, all.

A year ago, I began scheming and dreaming. I wanted to make a bold move against tradition and convention in our public schools. I wanted to challenge the status quo, especially in the area of grading. So, I devised a bold plan. I wanted to challenge the perception that kids won’t do, that kids can’t learn without grades. In earnest, I believed differently, so I decided to take grades off the table. And though I knew that I would have to push the pendulum past center, I never expected to shove it clean to the other end.

My initial plan did not include giving everyone an A. It was a late development stemming from my learning that my plan of giving everyone a “pass” may prove problematic for college entrance and scholarship opportunities, so I went with plan B. I decided to take grades completely off the table by awarding an A to each student so as to make the focus learning, not simply earning.  But I also sought to call attention to my approach by making a radical move, a move that I was certain would warrant strong opposition from my peers, opposition that would hopefully lead to a deep dialogue around grading practices and policies. However, astonishingly, that opposition never manifested as I thought it might. Not even a little bit. And I’m not sure why. I have my guesses of course, but I’m not certain that airing them will matter now anyhow, so I will let them lie. It’s time to move forward. It’s time, as I planned all along, to let the pendulum swing back to center.

Next year’s plan for grading is currently under development. I have taken what I have learned thus far from the 146 days of 180 and begun to construct an approach that still bears the core principles of 180 but presents a far-less radical approach to rebuffing convention and tradition. Oh, there’s still plenty of “rebel” in it–I’m still me, but it is not so crazy as not to discourage others from joining the journey. In fact I am honored to announce that the other sophomore LA teachers Jenna Tamura and Maddie Alderete have already signed on to creating a unified approach to grading for all tenth-grade language arts courses, regular and honors. I am so excited to collaborate with these exceptional educators. They have been staunch 180 supporters from the beginning and now they are jumping on board. I will reveal the plan over the coming weeks. The swing back to center has begun. Excited. Truly.

Happy Tuesday, all.

We build automobiles on the factory assembly line. It is efficient. It is effective. And it gets more so all the time, for with each analysis of the system, we find ways to streamline our approach, increasing productivity, decreasing cost. It works. Really well. It works because we are tweaking products on the production line. And over the last century, we have attempted to emulate this model of success in nearly every aspect of our culture, including school.

Maybe, especially school. As more students poured into the system through compulsory education, we had to find ways to educate the masses, and so the factory model seemed a good approach to maximize production and minimize cost. We presented a K-12 system where in each year new standard features would be added to the vehicles as they made their way down the thirteen-year production line.

• Place student on conveyor belt at 8:20.
• Allow subject-area specialists an hour to make uniform additions and modifications to thirty models.
• Ring a bell signifying the move to another manufacturing department.
• Allow five minutes for system to re-calibrate for new additions and modifications.
• Ring bell. Begin next hour-long production. Repeat six times per day.
• Shut down system for cooling and maintenance for a half-hour each midday.
• Resume production.
• Remove students from conveyor belt at 3:00.
• Repeat five days per week.
• Repeat 180 days per year.
• Repeat for 13 years.
• Apply to every school in the nation.

And voila, we have hundreds of shiny new stock cars ready to enter society.  But, of course, it’s not working. Oh, we cling to it as if it were, for it has remained essentially unchanged for a century.  But it’s a lie. We are not churning out uniform models, equally equipped for all roads and driving conditions. We are churning out vehicles with cheap paint jobs, so they look fresh with success at the end of the line. Turns out, we don’t need actual success. We only need the appearance of success. And thus we continue to cling to that which is efficient, but not effective. It is madness. And as we’ve reached an unprecedented level of standardized testing in the realm of education, the madness is out of control.  It is time for a new model. It is time to do away with the factory mentality. It is time to see education as an investment, not an expense. It is time to see students as people, not products. It’s time. It’s way past due.

Sorry for the vent this morning, all. Happy Monday.

Well, officially anyway. So proud of the kids for the hard work they put into the state testing this year. Glad the ELA section is behind us. Sadly, the kids still have math and science ahead of them, and a good number will also be taking the AP World History test.  Too much testing. Too much.

Back in 211 today after a nine day absence. We will just ease back into normal. The kids are spent. Glad to be back with them. Can’t believe we are down to thirty-five days. Crazy.

Happy Friday, all.

Finally. Today marks our last “official day” of testing, and fortunately most kids will cross the finish line today. However, there will be a good number of kids who, for various reasons, will have to get pulled out of class to finish up next week. It’s been a long, grueling event, but the kids toughed it out, and I am proud of them. They have worked very hard.  And though some will still not pass this first go, many will, and the mad marathon will be over. Finally.

Happy Thursday, all. Looking forward to getting my kids and “normal” back next week. Been a long haul.

Okay, this may be a bit much, but if one were to have observed my class the last seven days, he would have seen this “training” in real time. And, we still have two days to go. Why so long? One word. Kids. It is a kid-centered decision. We have decided to give kids the time they need to perform to the best of their abilities. It is the least that we can do for them. Yes, it rankles me that I am losing nine days of instructional time. It pisses me off. But I am not pissed at the kids. I am pissed at the system, a system that’s stuck in a rut. I used to think it routine, part of the deal, but I now think it’s a rut, an expensive, misguided, ineffective rut that we cling to out of stubborn insistence that we have to measure everything, even if the measurements yield no real progress or movement in the system.  And what’s most unsettling is that I think on some level we all know this. But we persist. And it makes me wonder if we persist because we don’t know how to write the next chapter, or if it’s because we have been repeating the same story for so long that we’ve actually begun to believe it. Either way. We are here. The kids are here. Big rut. Stuck.

Happy Wednesday, all. Grumble.

We will, Dory. Thank you. Maybe forever. Wish it felt more like swimming than drowning. Ugh.

Morning, all. Hard to find my morning inspiration lately. Just keep testing…