Relationships matter.

Kids over content.

Students over standards.

We “talk” this a lot in education. And, I believe, we generally walk it a lot, too (though I’d like more specific talk and walk). And while such talking and walking gives me heart and hope for kids’ experiences in our classrooms, I find it funny that we have to talk it at all.

Seems I talk it, too. But, of late, I’ve begun to wonder why we have to talk it. Whom are we trying to convince? Why do we have to convince them? Maybe I should wonder if we even have to convince them? Is it already a given? Are we just talking because it’s the “good talk?” Are there still classrooms without fountains? Are there still classrooms where kids are dying from our human thirst for connection? Sadly–seemingly, for we feel compelled to continue the call.

There aren’t fountains in every room from which kids drink daily. As I have written before, relationships aren’t one-time, opening events to break the ice. We can’t give kids a water bottle on day one (ice-breaker, get-to-know activities) and expect that to quench them for the duration. Our kids need to be and stay hydrated for the distance. They need a fountain to drink from.

Okay, big talk, Sy. Where’s your walk? Smiles and Frowns. That’s the fountain. Kids have a chance to drink daily. Some drink deeply. Others sip. Others don’t drink at all. But the fountain flows. Every day. No matter what. That’s my walk. Not bragging. Certainly not putting on airs. I committed my practice to my preaching a long time ago. And I would like to see others do the same. Oh, it doesn’t have to be Smiles and Frowns, but I do believe it has to be something that honors and supports the humans in the room. Every single day. Don’t tell others about the importance of relationships. Show them the fountain flows and flows and flows.

Happy Thursday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Nothing really matters. I guide kids through all sorts of things. Some of it registers with them. Some of it–If I am lucky–even resonates with them. But most of the things we encounter together are just experiences, and as we know, as experiences become memory, it is not the thing that’s carried; it’s the feeling. So no thing really matters in the end.

But everyone does. Every one I teach matters. And how they feel from their experience with me is–I believe–a better mark than any label of of learning attached to any thing I “teach” them. So, I teach ones, not things.

What does that look like? It’s not fully in focus for me yet, but as I continue through the Project 180 process of do-reflect-do better, I believe things are coming into view, and as I try to zoom in on the finer details, I keep coming to the place of humanizing the experience, for that focuses on the ones I teach, not the things I teach, which seem to come from that place of standardizing the experience. And when we come to that place, we find ourselves disconnected and the things become the “every,” not the ones, and we lose sight of our why, which should be who, not what. And so, I focus on the one.

And though I may never fully find the answer on my journey, I have come to accept that everyone I teach matters more than anything I teach, and that has changed the experience–for everyone.

Happy Tuesday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

“For they will get to carry with them the humanizing experience of inhabiting a space that belongs to them, a space they are willing to invest in and improve upon for they see themselves as benefactors of commitment, not merely subjects of compliance.”

New quarter today. Same kids. Two “teacher-paced” classes and one “self-paced” class. Not sure when we will make a transition to a hybrid model with Covid numbers, but for now, it will be much the same as last quarter. And though I have made some adjustments after reflecting on our first-quarter experience, I am hoping for a big change in regard to kids’ having a better understanding of how I approach learning.

A few picked it up right away last quarter, but many seemed uncertain about my approach. And why wouldn’t they? A decade of being conditioned in the system, many found the notion of their having a voice in determining the final judgment of their learning a foreign idea. Oh, I don’t think they didn’t understand it; I just don’t think they trusted it or me. Nothing personal of course, and I did not take their distrust personally. It’s new. It’s a little radical. And such things take awhile to warm up to. For some, that “warmth” never occurred as they have continued–despite my reassurances–to worry about the score in Skyward. So, I sent out another assurance yesterday afternoon, trying again to put their minds at ease.

Trust takes time. And in this distance situation, it takes even more time and messaging. But, for many, as I have learned from their “Learning Letters,” they are starting to warm to the idea that we are partners in this. They are beginning to trust it and me. And I think on some level they are beginning to trust themselves. They are beginning to see themselves as owners of their learning. And as owners, not renters, they get to make decisions. They get to build equity. For they will get to carry with them the humanizing experience of inhabiting a space that belongs to them, a space they are willing to invest in and improve upon for they see themselves as benefactors of commitment, not merely subjects of compliance.

Happy Monday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

I miss the kids. I miss the kidding. I was reminded of this yesterday when I got a chance to call one of my kiddos a loser.

Strange thing the “loser test.” But I have always used it as a measure of sorts for my connections with kids. No, I do not call all my kids losers. Of course, I don’t. There are other things to call them, too. Okay, I’m kidding around some about kidding with kids. But I do kid with kids. Right thing to do? I don’t know. But I’m not sure it’s wrong either. I am not sure there’s a script for human interaction. I don’t mean it meanly, and my kids know this. Professionally appropriate? Maybe not. And perhaps I don’t have the right of it. But it feels real. And that can’t all be wrong. And though it may sound odd to say it feels right, if I am honest, it does. My world felt right yesterday. For a moment it felt like we were back in the classroom and wrongs of the world without were washed away. And there was nothing wrong with that.

Happy Friday, all. Have a great weekend.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Morning, all. Bowing out today. WiFi’s wonky. Not enough time. Too much on plate. Looks like I’m going to need permission to pause again. Sorry. Maybe tomorrow I will get back on track. Take care.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Morning, all. Gonna ask for permission to pause the “Trash Talk” series this morning. (Eek, might be I could have picked a better title). Either way, things are piling up more than usual with end of term this week, and I need to turn my attention to other matters, so with that, I am going to push the pause button for today (and maybe tomorrow). Hopefully you understand. No one probably wants to hear me talk trash again today anyway.

Happy Tuesday, all. Thank you for understanding. Sorry.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

I once–twice actually (in person)–heard Kelly Gallagher say, “Writing is never done; it’s only due.” And though I am not certain this originated from him, I heard it from him, and it stuck. Writing is only due. But, beyond the due, which I believe we get too fixated on in education, is the never done, which means it can always be better. And this is where I focus. On the better.

Our writing can always be better. But better takes time, and better takes feedback. For our inexperienced writers, who often lack confidence and enthusiasm for writing, it takes a lot of time, and it takes a lot of feedback. And this is where I think we fall short in our instruction. We don’t give enough time, and we don’t give enough feedback. And though there are things–the calendar for one–that we cannot control, there are things we can.

First, we can give fewer writing assignments (some classrooms boast as many as five to seven “full-process” essays in a semester). To me that’s a focus on writing, not the writer. I suppose the argument would be the volume translates into better writing, but I am not convinced it equals better writers. Maybe better “transactors” who follow the formula and regard the rubric for a good grade. In short, they become better at the game, and then we cry foul, when they only care about the grade in the end. But it’s the game we have asked them to play if we are honest. How much writing then should we assign? I assign no more than one major piece per quarter, two per semester. Why? Simple. Time. Writing is first–and I believe foremost–a creative endeavor. Writing is creating, not completing. But when we focus on due dates and volume, it becomes about completing, even if we don’t mean it to. And completing becomes about the grade. What reward or punishment have they earned? Oh we can scoff at the notion, but isn’t that what our kids have come to believe about the transactional nature of their writing experiences?

On the on the other hand, creating becomes about the creator and the process. It becomes about the volume of time, not the volume of writing. So, we have to give our kids time to live in their writing, sustained by the time we allow and the feedback we feed. But, and I think this is important, even in this time-abundant space we offer, the goal is better writers, not good writing. Our kids come to us all over the map in terms of their perceptions and abilities with writing. And as we seek to guide them each to better, we cannot expect that dogged allegiance to good products can happen without better process. And that is where I believe the sweet spot can be found for each of our writers, but it begins with time. We have to give them time. We have to give ourselves time. That is the first thing we have to do.

Speaking of time, I am out of it this morning. I will continue the conversation tomorrow.

Happy Monday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

There’s no national repository for student essays. There’s no push to publish the stuff coming out of our classrooms (unless, we’re talking about the “we-will-publish-your-writing-so-we-can-relentlessly-harass-you-to-buy-our-book-with-your-child’s-name-and-writing-in-it” predators). And there’s a reason for this reality, it’s not–generally speaking, of course–very good writing.

And why would it be? Most of it is transactional, formulaic, artificial school writing that gets “archived” in the local landfill as soon as it’s returned. Oh, to be fair. Some of it is brilliant writing, and some of it gets “stored” for years (I just recently came across one of my brilliant 8th grade essays. Well, it seemed brilliant then). And some of it–rightly so–gets published. But, by and large, the products our kids are creating in our classrooms aren’t worth hanging on to. And a quick check in the trash can or recycling bin in America’s classrooms after the grade is read, would support such a claim.

Okay, so where are you going with this, Sy? You seem a little negative this morning. Fair enough. Let me explain.

I feel like our passionate push for perfect products, which demonstrate “mastery,” misses the mark. First, even the perfect product isn’t very good. Oh, it might be reflective of the Rosetta Rubric we offer as the means to master, but even it often gets left behind–transaction complete. Second, mastery is a myth if we believe it’s found in the product, the end. Even in the real world a true “master” admits he’s not a master–yet. And so, if the master’s never a master, is there really mastery? There’s the journey. But we never reach the destination. And yet, it seems, in our work we are too often subservient to this notion that we must, that we can get our kids to mastery–as reflected in the product.

Oh, I am not meaning to disparage the impossible work my ELA colleagues do with their young writers. It is hard–incredibly hard–and necessary work. Communication is a vital skill. But our work I believe is in the communicator–the writer, not the writing. And I have a feeling that even my product-oriented partners in this would agree. It’s about the process. It’s about the writer. But is it? Is that our walk of our talk? I am not convinced that we are truly there in our practice. But I do believe that if we could get there, it would be better for all. And I have some ideas that might help, but, unfortunately, I only have about five more minutes this morning. I knew I probably should not have tackled this. So, I will have to come back to it next week, and I will. For now, I will leave it with this.

Writers move. Writing gets left behind. So, then, it would seem in our work we need to give our writers experiences that become bridges. (And no, I don’t think the products are the bridges).

Sorry if I upset any of you this morning by “talking trash” about student writing. Certainly not my intent to upset. I just think there are crucial conversations we should be having about our students’ experiences as writers. And I had to start somewhere.

I will continue the conversation next week.

Happy Friday. Have a great weekend.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

“Thank you for allowing me to join you in your work.”

Much of the time, the how of it exceeds the what of it. How we speak affects what is heard. To be sure, we have to get through how before we get to what. And I want to get to the what of it with my kids when I am giving them feedback on their learning experiences in my classroom, especially their writing experiences. Writing, like any creative endeavor, is personal, and if I am going to join kids in this personal work, then I have to be mindful of how approach what I want to say.

Always difficult, giving feedback has proven particularly difficult from a distance, especially written feedback. Tone is so easily mistaken, and from a distance with kids I’ve never met (some never even seen), it is not easily corrected. So, I approach it very carefully. I have to. I want the kids to hear my what, so I have to watch my how.

As such, this is how I have begun presenting my feedback to them.

Thank you for allowing me to join you in your work. Please see my feedback in the comments and resubmit once you have made revisions. As we continue this work, please remember that this is about process and progress, not getting done, so when I send it back to you with recommendations, it is not because I want to give you more work; it’s because I want to help you with the difficult craft of writing. I sincerely hope you see it that way. ~sy

When I can (and I am making an earnest effort to make it my norm), I make a Screencastify video using the same language, hoping that my intonations and expressions cement my sincerity in my efforts to join their journey as a guest in their growth.

But, even so, I worry things get lost as I move through my how to get to our what. But with every interaction I am learning the steps of the how to what dance, trying not to step on the toes of those with whom I partner. A delicate dance indeed.

Happy Thursday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.