Morning, all. Been struggling a bit of late. Don’t know if it’s the time of year or just the year itself, but I have been experiencing a bit of an idea drought, and posts aren’t coming to me as easily as they normally do. And this morning’s no exception.

Sorry. Supposed to rain today. Maybe that will help. See ya tomorrow.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

“Your approach to learning is intuitive and allows for much freedom.”

I am pleased with this response from one of my kiddo’s recent “Check-In Chapters.” Please know that I am not sharing it to pat myself on the back. I am sharing it because it’s reflective of the work I have been doing to change–to better–the learning experience for my kids in the 180 Classroom. It’s finally making sense. They are finally beginning to see what I am trying to do, and that matters a great deal to me. Of course, not all are there. I still have kiddos, despite my considerable efforts, who default to worrying about their grades, clinging to experiences past to make sense of their experience. So, as such, my work remains and continues. But some are certainly there where I ‘d like them to be with their learning.

And maybe that “where” comes with a cost. Can a kid have too much freedom? Should a kid have any freedom? I don’t know. Traditional approaches seem to balk at such freedom, depending on the control of carrot-and-stick compliance to get kids to “learn.” But I believed there was a better to build around commitment, and that required a foundation of freedom. So, I have worked to create that experience for my kids, so they can find themselves in their learning. And for that to happen, they have to have some freedom.

Do I go too far? I don’t know. How far is far? How far did this young lady have to go to discover what she did? She had to go as far as she needed to. I just wanted to make sure she had the opportunity to to build her own bridge to reach her other side.

Happy Tuesday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

“Teachers don’t understand.”

We were talking about whether or not schools should allow retakes on Friday as part of our work with argumentation. One of the reasons that held the conversation for some time was this notion that teachers don’t understand kids’ situations. They talked. I listened. And as I listened, I learned.

Oh, it wasn’t an entirely new idea (kids have claimed this for eternity, I suppose), but it was an important idea. Because whether it’s true or not, kids feel this way. And beyond the idea of this particular topic, it got me to thinking about how small kids’ voices really are in their own experiences. They don’t get to speak often enough. And when they do, it’s not for very long, for we have more important things to get to. And that, gives me pause. What’s more important? The content is important, but is it more important? And while I am not suggesting it’s less important, I am wondering if it’s at least not equally important. But we only have so much instructional time. Yes, we only have so much time. We only ever have so much time. But maybe there’s more to the work than getting kids to understand. Maybe it’s about our understanding, too.

Yes, we believe we already know, for we were kids once. And, yes, we can already anticipate and therefore assume what they will say (we work with kids), and so, we don’t need to devote the time. But maybe in our place of “knowing,” we could know more. Maybe we don’t know as much as we believe. Maybe there are things that we can learn from them. And maybe there is just simply something to letting them speak. Maybe there’s something to their feeling like they are being heard. Maybe there’s something to our just listening. So, maybe we need to make time to listen. Seems there may be something to that.

Happy Monday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Morning, all. Feeling tired and uninspired this morning, and the coffee’s just not winding me up, so I am not going to force it.

Sorry. Will be back Monday morning. Have a great weekend.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Are you learning?

Simple question. Important answer. But I wonder how often we ask the words, “Are you learning?”

Oh, I think we do formative checks that imply the question with fingers, and traffic lights, and windshield wipers, and all sorts of other clever and creative checks, but I wonder how often we actually ask the words.

Seems it should be the question in our work. But I am not sure it is. And I wonder why.

Is it that we don’t trust kids’ responses? Which in itself is weird, right? I mean who else really knows the answer to this question if not the learner? To be fair, maybe that mistrust is placed in the “I don’t know” responses we tend to get. But is that “not knowing” a result of our not beginning and continuing their experiences with the opportunity to reflect and self-assess? Have we made them too dependent on us to make the call?

Is it that we have become overly dependent on data? And though we claim to have multiple measures to determine student learning, are they regarded equally, or is there a pecking order? Can we ever get to a place where we regard state testing data and student self-assessment/reflection as equally important measures? Have we come to rely on outside data because those are the data the outside accepts? Maybe, then, we don’t see the need to ask such a question. And even if we did, would it matter?

But doesn’t that seem a little off, to place more trust in an external entity to make the call when then the learner is right there in the room? But the learner is subjective. Okay, but isn’t learning subjective? Aren’t there factors that impact each learner that inevitably make learning subjective? Do standardized tests acknowledge and account for these factors? They can’t. Oh, they try, I suppose. But in truth, they can’t address all the factors, and thereby students become subjected to this factor, too. And so there comes to be a degree of subjectivity in all learning. And I am not sure we can ever avoid that. But I am sure that we can pay more attention to the learner in the room. And I think that begins with a simple question.

Are you learning?

Happy Tuesday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

“John will have an opportunity to select and support his final grade.”

Though the name changed each time, the words were basically the same as I met with parents last Thursday and Friday to discuss their children’s learning experiences in my class. They do get to select their grades. And though parents nodded and smiled, seeming to understand–and even appreciate–such an approach, I wonder what they were really thinking as I shared my many “different’s” from the 180 classroom.

“I don’t grade practice.”

“I have a commitment-based approach to practice, so, really, it’s optional.”

“I want John to find relevance and value in our daily work. That’s the point.”

“Skyward is not my grade book. It is a tool for recording and reporting learning.”

“I haven’t really taught and they haven’t really learned until we engage in the feedback/response process.”

“John’s grade doesn’t exist until the end of the term when he and I bring it to life.”

“I expect everyone to get an A. That is the goal. Where else would I want them to arrive?”

“A .7 in Skyward is an invitation to revise and resubmit. There’s still learning on the table.”

“A 0 in Skyward is an invitation to submit as soon as you can.”

“No one knows John’s learning better than John. It’s his learning, his story, so I invite him to make sense of the mess where learning and grading meet.”

“For too long in my career, I felt like grading was something that I was doing to kids. So, I changed it. I want it to feel like it’s something I am doing with them.”

Can he do this? Why aren’t other teachers doing this? Where did he come up with this? Does the principal know?

He is. I don’t know. Years of doing, reflecting, and doing better. Yes, the principal knows. And the superintendent. And the school board.

Of course, this is just what I imagine they might think. In truth, I don’t really know. Nor do I really know what they think of the various approaches their children’s other teachers use for teaching and learning. I imagine they at times feel like they are comparing apples to apples (it’s all generally the same). Or maybe they feel like they are comparing apples to oranges (why does one teacher do this and the other that?).

Who knows? In my room, I hope they feel like it’s a whole new fruit, for when I set out to find better with Project 180 five years ago, I wasn’t looking for a different apple. I wasn’t even looking for an orange. I was looking for an entirely different fruit. I didn’t expect to “change education,” by simply trading one thing for another, or changing the color of the fruit’s skin. I expected to dare different and brave better for the sake of finding something new. And though I am not suggesting that everything I am doing is unique to room 206 (lots of us looking for better), I am suggesting that it is different from the norm that I set out to escape when my journey began.

And now, as I share the fruits of my labor, I hope to plant a seed in parents’ and students’ minds about the possibilities of consuming a different diet. There’s more out there than apples and oranges.

Happy Monday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

No kiddos for the next two days. We are hosting parent-teacher conferences via Zoom. So, I won’t be posting as normal. Instead, I will be spending some much needed time on my book.

Happy Thursday, everyone. I will be back here Monday morning. Have a great weekend.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

“Can a student ever really reach their full potential in a classroom where they do not feel comfortable or valued? How much can be gained by having an environment that is supportive and connected?

These are two questions that one my kiddos posed in the beginning of her “Check-In Chapter” last week. To me, these are profound–on many levels. But perhaps most profound is that a sixteen-year-old is posing them. A student is asking what many teachers maybe never ask–in the entirety of their careers. Do we really wonder about their comfort and value? Do we ever tie that to their potential? Do we consider what might be gained by creating an environment that is supportive and connected? And do we ever really consider that collectively? Lately there’s been a buzz about “Collective Teacher Efficacy” (Hattie), but in our collective considerations, do we remember to include the human priorities next to our curricular priorities?

Last week, when I presented “How They Feel: Our Beautiful Burden” to the folks at the Royal School District, one of the participants asked me an important question, “How do you reconcile the connection time and the instructional time with Smiles and Frowns?”

How, indeed? It is an important question. Our time is finite. We have never had and we will never have enough time. Unfortunately, this truth too often translates to and results in our budgeting connection time for instructional time. If we don’t get through this chapter, this content, or these standards, then kids won’t be ready for the next unit, the next class, the next grade-level. We know the narrative. We live this narrative. But we also know the rest of the story. We never get through everything we set out to. We never have kids show up exactly where we want them to be. Never. Despite our earnest, collective efforts to make it happen. And then, when someone brings up the idea of using time for things like connection, impossible gets “impossibler.” And there comes a reckoning.

Do we invest in the humans? Or do we invest in curriculum? Yes. We have no choice. We can’t remove ourselves from our professional responsibility. We can’t excuse ourselves from our human responsibility. We have to find balance. That is the reckoning. That is our work. And it saddens me that we have to fret and feel guilty about investing our time in the humans in the room. We know that, despite our efforts, kids will forget a great deal of the content we teach them. But we also know that kids will never forget how we made them feel. And that is the burden I speak of in the presentation. That is the world on our shoulders. But seen another way, that is the world in our hands when they enter our room. That is the beauty. We can control how they feel in our rooms. That is in our hands, and it begins with a simple question. How do we want kids to feel in our rooms?

My first and most important answer (and it’s on my classroom door, and it’s my why for Smiles and Frowns), “In my room, I want kids to feel connected.” Because, I want to know…

“How much can be gained by having an environment that is supportive and connected?”

Much, I believe. And that is why I invest in the humans. I have to balance the books. Because, I want to know…

“Can a student ever really reach their full potential in a classroom where they do not feel comfortable or valued?”

I don’t think they can. And I am beginning to believe that in a little corner of the world (room 206), kids are beginning to believe the same. Maybe they will begin to wonder the same in their other little corners of the world. And maybe, just maybe, their worlds will change.

Happy Wednesday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Some days I feel the folly. Who are you kidding, Sy? Thinking you’re changing anything. You’re just creating more work for yourself. The world’s too big. You’re too small.

Other days, I feel the hope. You helped somebody today. You inspired somebody today. Keep going. Just float your ideas and share your journey–even if it helps one person. One person finding their better is better.

And the world turns. The days change. I change. One day doubtful. One day hopeful. I never quite know what to expect. But maybe that’s the journey. Maybe hope and folly need and feed each other? Some see the folly in the hopeful. Some see the hope in the foolish. So is it foolish hope? Or is it hopeful folly? Yes, it seems.

Maybe I am just a hopeful fool.

Sorry for the odd post this morning. I’m just working through some of my own doubts and demons out here on the trail.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.