Some day it’ll happen. And they’ll find me. Broken. Bent beyond recognition. A fatality by flexibility. I’ll have bent too far.

One lives. One does. One thinks. One wonders. One worries. I am one. And so, I worry. I worry about my flaws. I worry about my flaws as a father, a husband, a friend, a son, a person, and far too often I worry about my flaws as a teacher. And while my list beneath that particular hat is long, presently I ponder one practice, one habit I cannot break, cannot escape. Flexibility. Am I too easy? Am I a pushover? Am I too forgiving? Am I making a difference? Am I ruining lives?

I don’t think that it’s that I really believe those things, but I find them in my head, and so, I have to accept that on some level they are real, for they are present. And, as they are present, they make me especially vulnerable to doubt. And, then when the doubt creeps in from the outside, well…one worries.

Gifted A’s aside, I forever find myself being overly flexible, manifesting itself in my giving more time, more chances, more options, more of anything at my disposal. And though by now I have come to generally accept that after 20 years that’s just who I am as a teacher, it does not mean that I am free from the worry that I bend too much. Still, when I worry further and reach deeper into the core recesses of my belief set, I find that perhaps when one endeavors to create a realm of possibility for his students, flexibility becomes a necessary by-product. If I am going to sell “possible,” then I have to produce possible. I have to be flexible. So I am.

To that point, the two-day in-class final became, for many, a four-day in-class final, and for some that still has not been enough. So, what does Captain Flexibility do? He lets those not done, take it home. Bye-bye in-class final. Hello take-home final. Am I crazy? Maybe. But if the kids are motivated to finish, to do their best, and I stand in the way, am I still peddling possibility? I have to give them more time. After all, in the 180 classroom, it’s not about the grade. There is no reason to cheat. It’s about learning. And if learning requires time, a commodity I possess, then I will freely distribute it. We know that kids have to be motivated. It’s 60% of the 180 Formula.  My 60% is my being dedicated. To my students. My students need time. I have the flexibility to give them more time. I will give it. It’s who I am.

I also can and will give options. Had two more boys “own” that they had not read Night, wanting to know if they, too, could then possibly use one of the movies for their essay. Of course they can. No, I am not happy that they failed to read the book, but if there is an option to salvage the situation and provide a learning opportunity, then I will grant it. They–though unable to find it for the book, have found some motivation to do, to learn. And when learning is still possible, I will be flexible.

In the end, when they do find me broken from bending too far, I may well do some time in teacher purgatory, guilty of my sins, but I’ll take my chances. No choice, really. It’s who I am.

Happy Thursday, all.

I have to remember. I have to remember that this change is as big for them as it is for me. I have to remember that they, too, are going through the process of change. I have to remember.

But I forget. I forget when I am faced with resistance without. I forget when I am confronted by the chaos within. I forget.

And so, I vow to work harder to not forget to remember. It’s not only about me. It’s not only about me. It’s not only about me…

Of late, I have found myself frustrated by some kids’ lack of commitment to their learning. And though I try to put on a brave face and not take it personally, I do. I do. And while that is awfully human of me, it is also awfully selfish of me. And then, just like that, it becomes about me again. And it’s not. It’s about us. All of us.

Tuesday, I wrote about the essence of the shared commitment, introducing the triad: dedicated teachers, motivated students, and involved parents. We are all on this journey together, a journey not easy, a journey still in descent as we claw our way through the unfamiliar territory, the “foreign element” that is 180.

We are all of us strangers in a strange land. And as such, we need each other more than ever if we are to make our transformational ascent to a new status quo. For me, it’s about experimenting and discovering the right formula for 180. For kids, it’s about finding comfort and confidence behind the wheel of their own learning. For parents, it’s about shrugging off the school-perpetuated myth that they no longer need to be involved in their children’s education. It may very well be that we need you now more than ever. We have to dispel the notion that parents need to fade away as their kids progress through the system. Just as teachers need to be dedicated and students need to be motivated Pre-K – 12, parents need to be involved for the whole trip, too–a shared commitment from start to finish. 60 + 60 + 60 = 180.

Happy Thursday, all. A little less chicken-wingy this morning. Ready to feel the wind beneath my cape again.

Young writers need models. And while that “need” certainly varies from writer to writer, providing models for our students is one way to help them grow as writers. Some will use them more than others. Some will rely heavily upon them. Others will not use them at all.  Regardless, with the only cost being time, I find them effective means to  help my developing writers.

Above is just a screenshot of the introduction to the model essay. It is the annotated version. At the top is a color-coded key to the necessary elements in the essay. Beyond, the color codes, and not visible in the screenshot, I also offer explanatory annotations through the comment tool in Google Docs. With the use of Google Classroom I can push the annotated model to my kids, providing them with a resource as they work through their own essays.

The essay is a practice opportunity for the students to demonstrate their abilities to critically view a film. As they watched the film, I asked that they view it through the lenses of historical accuracy, point-of-view, and audience impact. The essay puts into play the latter two. The model represents the point-of-view lens. I will also offer an annotated audience-impact model.

Process, then Product. Here is the process we followed for viewing The Book Thief and will continue to follow for the next two movies, The Boy in the Striped Pajamas and Life is Beautiful.

1. I introduced the after-viewing guides to give the students during-viewing direction in the form of the three lenses.
2. We watched the movie in roughly 30-minute segments.
3. During the segment, each student took notes for the three lenses.
4. After the segment, students worked in teams to complete the lens-driven viewing guides.
5. We repeated the process until the completion of the movie. The Book Thief was completed in four segments.

Here I try to find a balance between viewing for the experience of the story and viewing for the critique of the film. To that end, the provided 15 – 20 minute team time at the end is essential. It not only gives the kids time to immediately capture their thinking at the end of the segment, but it also puts a little less pressure on them, allowing them to watch the movie not only for the purpose of the critique but also the story. The opportunity for collective team-time thinking is a must.

Feedback. One film = 90 essays. 3 films = 270 essays. That = insanity. 270 practice essays. Practice is the paramount word. Here is the method in the madness.

1. I will not read the entire essay.
2. I will not “score” the essay.
3. I will look to provide feedback for each kid in one or more of the following strands.
4. Purpose/Focus, Organization, Evidence/Elaboration.
5. My feedback will be “this-is-what-I-see-you-need-at-this-moment” suggestions for each writer. I may give John feedback on organization. I may give  Sara feedback on Purpose/Focus and Evidence/Elaboration. It will be personalized to each kid. I will point out at least one “doing well” and one “needs work” within the strands.
6. I will keep track of trends in each class. And I will use that information to guide my whole-class interventions. For example, I may discover that most kids need support with Organization, and so I will take the time to address that with the entire class. In some cases, the intervention will occur in the form of an invite, my asking kids who received “needs-work” feedback on Organization to join me in a small group intervention.
7. Now that the kids have feedback, they will get a timely opportunity with the next movie and essay to apply their learning. This is important for growth. Kids have to have the opportunity to circle back.
8. By the time we have completed the full process, the kids will have had three similar opportunities to grow from practice and feedback, stretching their skills with analysis in a medium that is all too familiar, a medium–like it or not–that is here to stay.

Viewing is a 21st Century Literacy Skill.  Movies in a language arts classroom? Some suggest it is sacrosanct to the literary tradition in an English classroom. I understand that idealized, nostalgic longing for tradition and ceremony. But I also understand the realities of the 21st century, and the various media which better capture and hold the attention of our students. This is the reality. Kids are not reading books. Of course, I am deeply troubled by this. I am a reader–always have been, always will be. And it is a trend that I found both disturbing and disheartening. But it is a trend, an irreversible one. We are not going back now.

Faced with that reality as a high school ELA teacher, I strive, then, to find ways to engage my kids in “literature-based” experiences that better ensure that before our work begins all kids have consumed the content. Far too frequently over the years, I have found myself frustrated that only a handful of kids actually read the novel, despite my valiant, sometimes crazy efforts to motivate them to read. And yet, despite my knowing that many did not in fact read the book, I charge on with the essay, with the project as if they had. With movies, I know with certainty that all kids have consumed the content. Wish beyond wishing, that I could make this happen with novels, but I have yet to find the magic means. In the end, I want my kids to think. We will still read, of course–Night is right around the corner, but we will also watch movies. They, too, can be used to get kids to think critically. And I’m okay with that. As it is, maybe I have to be.

And that concludes this P-180 Growth Garage post. More to come. Have a great weekend.

Morning, all. Not necessarily a 180 post, but I wanted to share an email that I received last night from a student at the University of South Carolina. I also included my response.

Hi, all. Got this in a message today. Totally caught me off guard and rocked my world. Mrs. Thompson was my inspiration to become an English teacher. I was so moved by her granddaughter’s thoughtful message. Touched and humbled. Wanted to share.

Hi Monte,

We’ve never met but you were a student if my grandmother’s at Cheney High School, Mrs. T (Milli Thompson). As you may have heard, she passed away a little over a month ago. Our family had her memorial this weekend and among the things of hers that I inherited was her graduation hood. In the box with her hood was a card that you wrote to her at the time of her retirement. She’s kept it over these 25+ years and I know she so, so valued the impact she had on her students, and you must have been one of them. I’ll send you a picture of the sweet message you wrote for her.  But I just wanted to reach out and tell you that it means a lot to our family to know that she touched so many students. I see that you’re at Cheney High now. It makes me happy knowing her legacy might live on in people like you.

Tori Rae

So, yesterday, as a follow up to our “help” discussion, I wrote the above words on the board, imploring my kids to make my day by asking me for help and giving me feedback. And, for fun, when they did, I would dramatically place my hand on my heart, breathe in deeply, and exhale, “I am full, my heart is full. You need me.”  And for the rest of the morning, the theatrics continued as we wandered along the path, doing the day’s work. My heart full. My smile wide. My eyes bright. A day made brilliant by the shining suns in my midst. But my day did not last, and just like that my heart emptied, my smile fell down, and my eyes dulled, for sometimes an ask for help is more than we can bear, more than should be, more than we are. Here’s the story.

She was standing just inside my door. It was the beginning of the passing period between 3rd and 4th. A former student, now a junior, her eyes were downcast, and immediately I was transported back to her freshmen year when life dealt her some tougher cards, a hand that she did not play well, a hand which ultimately ended in her expulsion. And it was with an “oh-what-now-kiddo” worry that I approached her as I sought her downcast eyes, making contact as I asked what was up. This was our conversation.

Her: Sy, you know that store-sign thingy that’s down in the office, the one that says you have food?

Me: Yeah. (thinking crap, I don’t have any food at the moment)

Her: Well (her eyes finding the floor again), I don’t get free-and-reduced anymore, and mom doesn’t get paid until Friday, and we’re outta food, and…

Me: I have an apple I can part with, but it’s down in the staff room, and I can probably round up some other stuff, too…

Her: It’s just for today. Anything would be great.

Me: Come back after 4th, kiddo, and I will have something for you.

Her: Thanks, Sy.

What’s disturbing is that I’m not all that relieved that it was hunger instead of trouble that brought her to my door. Of course I am thankful that she is not in trouble, but I am unsettled, deeply unsettled, that she–and she is not alone–has to come and ask for food. FOR FOOD. I wonder if it feels like begging. I wonder about what this must do to her young mind, her spirit. Of course, I can never know. But, I should never have to know. Kids shouldn’t be hungry ever. EVER. And at school, their only hunger should be for knowledge. But that is simply, in too many situations, not the reality. We do have hungry kids, kids who struggle through their days with worries bigger than homework, fears larger than a mark on a report card. In our country.

I so want to get political right now. I so want to point to the trivial matters upon which we heap ideological hate and waste when we have hungry kids. I wonder how many kids we could feed on the money from failed presidential campaigns this election year? But I’ll keep my wondering to myself, else I poke the political bear.  I’ll move on to bigger, more noble things. I’ll move on to teachers.

My story is neither unique nor special. Happens all the time. And teachers live it every day. We help kids in ways that transcend test scores, in ways that exceed the scope of our curricula, in ways that we did not prepare for in college. It’s what we do. We have hearts bigger than our bank accounts. We have dreams bigger than our realities. We do it because we know no other way. I am proud to work with so many under-appreciated heroes, heroes that helped me help a young lady in need yesterday.

After settling my seniors 4th period, I scrambled from room-to-room seeking extra food to put together a lunch. And graciously, selflessly, Mr. Martin, Ms. Tamura, and Ms. Alderete contributed to the cause, and we put together a pretty decent lunch, which I put in a lunch sack along with the note below. Lucky to work, to serve with so many great people.

And the story ends. Nothing overly dramatic or climactic. She came to get her lunch, thanked me humbly, and went on her way. I don’t know if she ate last night. I don’t know if she will ask for help today. I don’t know if she will stay out of trouble and stay in school all year. I don’t know who the next kid will be. But I do know there will be a next kid. And I do know that we’ll help. And I do know that teaching is more than curriculum. So much more.

Happy Thursday, all.

I have long believed that we teach kids, not content. In fact, though I never do it, I have always wanted to reply when asked what I teach with, “I teach kids.” But I never do. I always say that I teach high school English. In part I worry that people won’t get it, but I also wonder if they would find it flip, find it sarcastic, but nothing could be further from the truth. No flippancy in that remark. I teach kids. English just happens to be the subject matter that occupies much of the space in our work. I teach kids. Yes, I help them grow in the arena of reading, writing, speaking, and thinking, but I also  help them find themselves and their places in their world. And it’s reciprocal, for they, too, help me along my own path as I continue to discover again and again myself and my place.

Yesterday, in an effort to teach my little wonders, I tried to put a notion in their heads. I tried to get them to think differently about asking for help. Sadly, in school, needing help is often perceived as a weakness, as a sign of “dumbness.” This seems especially true for honors kids, for they often have a strongly-fixed mindset in this, and help becomes taboo,–something to be avoided, not embraced. I aim to correct this misguided thinking, especially as we continue to learn about and develop our growth mindsets.

As such, in 211, we have come to put a lot of stock in the idea of “yet,” and the power it brings to progress, the bridge from “I can’t” to “I can.” What I want my kiddos to understand is that “yet” by design necessitates help. Yes, dogged determination and persistent practice are essential elements, but they alone are not always enough to move us beyond our struggles towards “can.” We need help. There is no shame in that. There is wisdom in that. I want my kids to discover that wisdom. Here is a snippet of a conversation from yesterday.

Me: Does learning require questions?

Them: Yes. Of course.

Me: Are you learners?

Them: Yes.

Me: Then you should have questions, right? Should teachers have answers?

Them: Yes and Yes.

Me: Learning something new or working on something that is difficult requires help, yes?

Them: (Nods)

Me: Good. Today’s learning is generally new and certainly difficult, so do what you are supposed to do, ask for help, and I will do what I am supposed to do, give help.

Proud of my attempts to inspire their neediness, I turned them loose on their task, and they…wait for it…didn’t ask for help. Fail. But not really. I know from past experiences that the “no-help” trend is tough to buck, so I will be patient and remain diligent in my deeds to change what’s sadly become standard in too many classrooms: the horror of help. Maybe if I let them know that the number one way to make my day is to ask me for help, they’d ask. Nothing pleases or energizes me more. Maybe if I let them know. Maybe they would do that for me. Maybe.

Fun

So on a silly whim yesterday, I got a notion in my head to add some novelty to our work. It requires having seen the movie The Princess Bride to appreciate it perhaps. And, fortunately, most of the kids had, so I believe it worked for them. Anyway, I provided kids with the name tags below to wear as they worked on hooks.

Again, it will likely be lost on those who have not seen the movie. Either way, I was happy that the kids found some fun it. Two of my more theatrical boys even helped me create two video clips of their reciting the lines on their name tags–in perfect character, but unfortunately, the videos wouldn’t load this morning. Sorry Ralphe and Mekhai.

Happy Wednesday, all. And, as ever, thanks for tuning in. It, too, makes my day.

Lost my entire post this morning. Have to rewrite and post later. UGHH.