I am uncomfortable. And I couldn’t be happier. For I am learning. Actually, I am unlearning, and that is the source of my discomfort. Willingham’s book Why Don’t Students Like School? has knocked me off course, challenging my thinking, and I am a bit lost right now. But really that’s the Project 180 goal. To turn myself upside down, so I can find my feet again, as I chase my next better.

So, what’s got me off my feet? Too much–way too much–to dig into right now. And, to be honest, I am not done digging. There’s a fair amount of backtracking to do as I will have to go back and read and reread some sections to fully find my feet. But I have the energy to do so, and that’s a bit of a rarity for me at this time of year. So, I am going to embrace my disCOMFORT. It’s where I learn. It’s where I grow.

I will share when I reach some greater clarity. Happy Thursday.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

I have a lot to learn about learning. So, recently, I’ve begun to dig into the brain a bit, and I started here.

Of course, the title was the initial draw for me. I have long known and long wondered why kids don’t like school. More, I have wondered why wouldn’t/shouldn’t/couldn’t kids love school. I think they would/should/could, but that’s gonna take some serious work on our part. And, to some degree, I believe that’s been–at least a behind-the-scenes–part of Project 180, a part of the “better” classroom.

I believe kids can love school, and more, I believe we can make it a place (and experience) they love. And maybe in our doing, we can make it a place and experience teachers love, too. I believe, and not for different reasons necessarily, he could have called his book, Why Don’t Teachers Like School? Maybe, I’ll write that one.

Anyway, only three chapters in, and I am finding lots to chew on. At some point, I will share some of my innovations for the next leg of the Project 180 journey.

Happy Friday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Yesterday, I was able to bring back what’s been missing all year in the 180 Classroom. Now that we are back in person, we can begin again one of my favorite community-building activities.

Kindness Cards.

Kids write them to each other. I deliver them. We talk as a community about the importance of being inclusive. It takes 5-10 minutes. Former students frequently tell me that they have kept them, and that they still cherish them. It’s a powerful way to cultivate connections in the classroom. So glad that we were able to do it again. So glad.

Happy Thursday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

We grow gardens, for we grow kids. But over the years my gardening skills have changed. I used to think that I just had to feed and fertilize them with content. I sprinkled and sprayed and trusted that they would grow from there, and if they didn’t it was the seed, not the gardening. And certainly not the gardener. I was good at my content craft. A green thumb, mine. If kids grew, it was me. If kids didn’t grow it was them.

But one day–I don’t remember when (but–fortunately earlier than later), I went to pull what I thought a weed, only to discover it was one of the seedlings in my care. So, I stopped. And as I stopped, I wondered. How could one of my seedlings be looking so poorly? Surely, here in the middle, she had gotten all the care of my craft. What was this? How could this be? And as I looked, I discovered more–many–in want of water. And I saw, I think, my garden for the first time. More, I saw, I think, myself for the first time. Most, I saw, I think, each plant for the first time. And I did not like what I saw.

For too long I had only seen the green of the garden (a mirage), which hid the health of the humans in my room.

So, I threw away the bags of fertilizer, and I started an organic garden. I quit cultivating content, and I started cultivating kids.

That’s the garden I grow.

Happy Tuesday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Thank you. That you are reading this right now matters to me. It matters to me every day that we meet here. Some of you I know. Many of you I don’t, and I probably never will. Some of you I will get to meet when by chance or circumstance our paths converge in the “real world.” All that said, here we are today, and for that and you, I am grateful. Many a morning you’ve helped me down the trail. Thank you.

Have a great weekend. I will meet you back here on Monday.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

“How does school make you feel?”

“How should school make kids feel?”

I asked my kids these two questions last week. Of course, there were a number of different responses. This did not surprise me. And among the responses there seemed to be one common denominator, which they frequently expressed as, “It depends on the teacher.”

This did not surprise me either.

So much. So much that it seems unfair sometimes. It’s a lot to carry. Everything we do–or don’t–impacts our kids’ days. It’s unavoidable. And as such, when kids regard their experiences, it’s inevitable that their feelings lead them to us.

But fair or not, it’s our lot. I call it our “Beautiful Burden.”

The Burden

We can carry it on our backs. 

And we often do. 

We feel the weight of the world as outside forces impact our work with our kids. 

From state tests, to poverty, to system shortcomings, to global pandemics, we often feel overwhelmed and powerless. 

And sometimes how kids feel is beyond our control. 

And then when someone reminds us that they will never forget how they felt with us, it weighs on us, and it becomes the burden we carry on our backs.

The Beauty

Or we can carry it in our hands. 

We can come to realize that while there is much outside our rooms that we cannot control, there is a great deal inside our rooms that we can. 

Our work is human work. 

And in that there is power, there is beauty, for we can impact people, young people in ways that will last a lifetime. 

There’s truth in that. 

No less than there’s truth in the fact that culture in the classroom happens with or without us. 

Without us, it is left to chance and chaos as if someone else is in front of the room. 

But we are in front of the room. 

And when we assume that responsibility, we become creators of culture. 

And culture is a human construct.

And because we are nothing if not emotional beings, then culture begins and ends with how we feel. 

And how kids feel begins the moment they enter our rooms, and in that we have an opportunity in our hands.

Whether you carry it on your back today or you have it hand, thank you. I know–we know–the weight you carry. We know the beautiful burden, and we want you to know that you are not alone. We get it. And that’s why we are proud to stand at the front of the room with you. Thank you for being a teacher.

The kids depend on you.

Happy Thursday, all. May you carry it in your hands today.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

We often talk about risk taking and mistake making. But I wonder what we really mean when we say such things.

I just recently uttered such words during parent-teacher conferences. But, because of my approach to grading, I was able to frame it a bit differently.

“I suspect John has always gotten A’s. I suspect he has all A’s right now. I suspect (know) he will have an A in here at the end. And I suspect that he will continue to get A’s from here on. So, he will get an A, and now that that’s outta of the way, let’s just take some risks; let’s stretch ourselves; let’s make mistakes. The worst that can happen is better.”

Let’s. Let us. I chose these words very intentionally. John’s risk is my risk. His stretch is my stretch. His mistakes are my mistakes. Better here is a shared responsibility. How is it my risk? I might fail to support him. Learning and teaching are messy affairs. And if I am going to ask better of him, then I have to ask better of myself. And in that, I risk making some mistakes. Better isn’t good. Better is a commitment. Better expects mistakes. But better also requires reflection. And from there, better continues.

Let us risk better together.

Happy Wednesday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

We started Hybrid this week. And though the challenges have been and will continue to be real, there’s a feel I have not felt for nearly a year now, the energy of humans in the room. Real energy.

I don’t know how else to describe it. But in my describing it, I feel like I sell short the enormous energy I had to muster in the daily distance over the past several months, energy that seemed the only defense against the divide. I believed I could “energy” us to normal, and each day as we Zoomed, I put on my suit and played the part. And so it was real in the sense that it was not fake. It was genuine; it just wasn’t real.

Yeah, like that clears it up. Sorry. Regardless which is “realer”, there’s no denying the feel now that kids are back in the room. Maybe it’s not so much how real it is, but how easy it is to tap into. Huge human energy, filling the room, fueling my drive. But something so easily found, can turn to something so easily lost. There’s a price when one draws too deeply from the source, when one burns too brightly for too long. The drain.

I forgot about the drain. I got so caught up in the feel of the real that I got greedy and I took too much. And now, only two days in, I am depleted in ways that I have not been in nearly a year. I forgot about the price. And now I feel another real: exhaustion. And I even have “scientific proof.” Well, I have Garmin gadget proof.

I got a Garmin smartwatch for Christmas, and one of the app features is what they call a “Body Battery.” And though I don’t really need Garmin to tell me how I feel, I have come to take heed, realizing it’s relatively right most days. Interestingly (but not surprisingly), the last 2 days my battery’s been lower, and recharging has become harder. But as I said, this is no surprise. The kids are back. I am back. And that means energy. Real energy. The power to boost. The power to burn. The need to balance.

Balance. Gotta find that balance again. But that energy. So hard not get ahead of myself, especially since it’s been gone so long.

Happy Wednesday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Something to note. Not something to be. But I worry that the data become labels to be believed, and when they are, they come to be.

I am a good student. I am an average student. I am a bad student.

Good. Average. Bad.

I wonder how long these last, I wonder how they seep and settle into consciousness. I wonder how they impact other aspects of our kids’ lives–now, later…forever.

But we have to know. We have to label learning. We have to sort and rank.

Do we?

And if we label the learning, does that then label the learner? And if a learner is labeled, then how does that impact her learning, her life? We see the impacts, I think. The lack of confidence. The abundance of anxiety, even–especially–among our “good” students, who come to worry not about the learning but the grading. And among our “bad,” we see something even more unsettling. The lost hope. The helplessness. The apathy. And our “averages” are lost somewhere in between.

But as I pause, and I ponder such a list. I wonder what we’ve done. How could such things come from learning? How could kids find themselves in such places? Surely we never intended such things. I didn’t become a teacher to lead kids to such places. I don’t think any of us did. I think we became teachers to help kids learn. So how, then, did we get here?

I suppose that is long, sordid story. And while we may some day sort out the details, we have kids in our rooms who need us to change the story now.

So how do we do it? I don’t know the answer. But I do know that we have somehow lost our way. And I believe it can be found. And I think it begins with a simple step forward towards better. Yes, better, my go-to word. But here, too, I think there is application.

Let’s begin better by throwing out labels. Good, average, bad–gone. And let’s continue with the simplest of stories. Teacher. Student. Better.

Better is where we meet. Good, bad, average can always be better. Anything can always be better. My job, I am learning, is not to give learning–or learners–names; my job is to note the learning, know the learner, and simply support better.

Too simple? Maybe. But who said it needs to be complex? Did we really intend to end up here where we are? And if so, did we expect to be as unsettled as we are? I grew tired of being unsettled and unsure; I grew weary from and wary of the story, so I decided to change it. No, it didn’t happen over night. And yes, it’s still happening, for better isn’t an end, it’s simply a means to unlearn the good, the average, the bad, a means to learn the better in all.

Happy Friday, all. Have a great weekend.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Every day. Every day I wonder if I might be wrong. Some days the wonder is sharper, and I worry I’ve wandered too far off center. Other days it’s less sharp, and I am less-concerned about being off course. But whether sharp, whether dull, the wonder waits for me, an old friend now as I wander the wilds of disrupting the status quo.

I used to call it doubt–the devil dancing on my shoulder. He would visit in my weaker moments, and I would dance with him. I had no choice. But as I’ve wandered farther along the path, I have distanced myself from doubt. And my commitment to better has been the breakaway.

I do not doubt what I am doing. I am doing–I believe–what I have to do. I set out to find better because I had to. Unsettled, unhappy with the way things were, I set out to discover what might be. And as I have journeyed along, wandered about, I have discovered the work of wonder.

Not in the “wonderful” sense but in the “worryful” sense. Every step a wonder. But doesn’t that get heavy, all that worry? No. Well, maybe a little. But I have come to discover that wonder is the work of better. It is from my wonders that I find my better. Oh, plenty of missteps and dead ends along the way–plenty. But those have been balanced by discoveries of new possibilities. And that’s the work of better, which begins and continues–never ceasing–with wonder.

I have to imagine that many of you are on your own journey to better. I have to imagine that you, too, have danced with doubt. I have to imagine that you, too, have wondered in your wandering. And if so, then, it seems we are not alone on this adventure, our paths not separate. And if I may from one wanderer to another, embrace your wonders, the sharp and the dull, for they are the work and the way of better. And more, if there is a worry, it’s when we cease to wonder.

Happy Friday, all. I hope your day is full of wonder.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.