Is it fair to the rest of the kids who did all the work?

This was a parking lot question from one of my colleagues yesterday afternoon as he wondered about a situation he is facing with taking in a new student only days before the end of the first term.

But that was his second question. His first question, “Do I pass him?”

“Of course you pass him,” I replied.

“Thank you, it helps to hear that.”

It helps to hear that.

Why does it help? How does it help? I mean really. Why does it help to hear such things?

Such things. Many would scoff and cry foul at such things. You can’t pass him. He hasn’t done the time or the work. What about the other kids? Ah, the first question.

Fairness. Where does that start and end? I have never known, for as I consider what might be fair in response to the bajillion kids I’ve had with a bajillion different circumstances and a bajillion different needs, I can never quite find the right of it–for that one kid. And now you want me to think about the other kids, too? I need help.

I need to hear that it’s complicated and others wrestle with such things, too. I need to be reminded that no one–no one–during my training as a teacher told me I was charged with policing fairness. I need to hear that teaching humans is a messy affair. I need to hear that we are engaged in a grand experiment where our hypotheses ride the coaster and our tests–formal and informal–are fallible. I need to hear that I am among other humans who make mistakes but listen to their guts anyway. I need to hear that I am not alone.

Alone. We are not alone. We are wrong. We are right. We fail. We succeed. We learn. We grow. We suffer. We thrive. We are humans facing the impossible to make things possible. We are teachers.

Teachers. In a parking lot. Cars coming. Cars going. Questions asked. Answers offered. We go home. We come back. Some day. Maybe today. We will get it right.

Happy Wednesday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Ten days (.03652968%) of their lives and you’d think it might be a life-defining moment. We are nearing the end of the quarter. You’d think we might be nearing the end of their time. The rush. The stress. The frantic frenzy. The tide on the rise.

Oh, but we are used to this. We do it year after year, term after term. What we do is important. It warrants such a response. This is their education. This is their window. They have to learn. And we have to judge their experience, else they are not learning. We have to rank. We have to sort. It’s time. The term is up.

Okay, I’m feeling/being a little snarky this Monday morning. And though this is a “formal moment” in our kids’ experience. And though there is value in what we do during our time with them, it is not everything. It is simply something that makes up a tiny part of their lives.

The average person in the United States lives an average of 27, 375 days. American students go to school for 2,160 days over the course of their K-12 experience. We account for only almost 8% of their lives. And though it could certainly be argued and supported that we serve in an important time of their lives, they will continue living and learning long after they leave us. They came to us learning. They leave us learning. And they live with us learning. All of them–regardless our record. Living is learning. And we just get to be a part of their living, their learning. We are not their lives. We are part of their lives–a small part in their vast ocean.

Okay, Sy, where ya going with this?

Here–which is likely not a popular position. We need to take things a little less seriously. We play an important role. I feel like I play an important role. I have to feel/believe that, and I do. But when we let the end-of-term and the marks we make on the transcript define us, our kids, our system, we miss the mark. And while we think we make the most of time with such formal marking moments, we diminish the best parts of our service, the best parts of our experience, the best parts of our kids.

Most of us hate grading time, for we now have to don our “Judge” hats, and we feel–I assume I am not alone in this–that our messy, beautiful moments with kids have to be reduced to a number or letter on a transcript, where we much of the time have to reduce learning to earning, as if it can’t be helped: the score is the score. But when we allow such “formality” to be the end all of our time with kids, we miss the mark. Yes, we “have to grade,” and we likely always will, but we don’t have to buy into the idea that grading, especially in the traditional sense, has to be done the way it’s always been done because it’s always been done, especially now. We need to give ourselves the permission and freedom to trust our human instincts, not our academic allegiance.

Not sure how that may manifest itself? Give kids an opportunity to select and support their final grade. But they are not grading experts. No, they are not. But they are experts of their own experiences. It’s their learning. It’s their story. They should get a chance to tell it. And we should not miss an opportunity to listen to their messy, beautiful, human stories. That’s the measure. That’s the tale that will endure time’s tide.

Wow. Did not expect to go here on Monday morning. Not even sure I went anywhere. Maybe I should have posted an “I am tired and uninspired” post as I originally planned.

Happy Monday.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Decided to take half a day yesterday afternoon. Not sick. Just worn out. Mentally. Physically. Emotionally. Spiritually. Felt better as soon as I made the decision. And then I felt worse. Well, I felt guilt.

Not a new feeling. And I know, after 25 years of working with other teachers, that it is not an exclusive feeling, either. It’s hard for us to be gone. We feel obligated to be there, to serve–even at the cost of our own well-being. Admittedly, over the years I have learned to better deal with the “guilt of gone,” but as admittedly, it still presents itself when I am. Still, I have learned that when my body, my spirit speaks, I need to listen. Yesterday, it spoke. Yesterday, I listened. And today, I am feeling more wise than guilty.

And, it is this I must remember. There is wisdom in self-care. And though I imagine guilt will attempt to attach himself now and again, I will peel him from my chest. He will not mark me, and I will instead walk with wisdom. He is a better companion by far. Maybe, she. Seems Wisdom is more likely a woman.

Happy Friday, all. Listen to your body and spirit.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Took a moment yesterday to remind my kiddos that grades don’t exist in the Project 180 Classroom until they and I sit down at the end of the term and come to an agreement, and only then do they come into being. Everything else up to that point is simply a record of the learning evidence that they have gathered over the course of our experience. And so to reinforce that notion in many of their unsettled minds, I made a quick, unrehearsed, candid Screencastify video.

It’s new to them, and so I have to remind them. And since the distance has prevented me from reinforcing and reassuring as much as I’d like, I felt compelled yesterday to have a “face-to-face” conversation.

The result? I don’t know fully know yet, but I have begun getting work from kiddos who heretofore had nothing in the book. Could I have gotten the same results with a scare-them-into-compliance, fear-the-fail approach? Maybe. But I can’t well do that since I told kids from day one that they can’t fail my class, that “F” marks are not option. There is no “fear-the-fail” card in my hand to deal, so I have to deal differently. Yesterday’s video message was the card I played.

As my longtime followers of Project 180 know, I have no interest in compliance. I am seeking their commitment, not to me, to their learning and to themselves. And so, that is what we focus on–learning and selves–until we have to come up with a mark at the end of the term, and then when that time comes, we make that mark together. It has to be together. It’s their learning. It’s their story. I just help them record it.

Happy Thursday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Well, some of the time. Even less, if you never ask. So, I asked.

From my My Room Message yesterday (the photo won’t load this morning).

“That email you’ve been waiting to send about what to do about your grade? Send it. I’m here. It’s why I am here. But you gotta click send, kiddo. Please, send it.”

And they answered. They “clicked it.” They “sent it.” And now I have to answer. And, no, it won’t be convenient. I have had to write post-its, flag emails, look up assignments, find resources, etc. But I asked for it. And now I have promises to keep. And miles to go before I sleep, but I have found that when I do sleep, I sleep better knowing that I have offered opportunity and presented possibility.

Happy Tuesday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Lots of late work trickling in. Must be nearing the end of the term. Of course, this is not an uncommon phenomenon. It happens every term, everywhere. Teachers encounter late work. It comes with the territory.

But, as common as it may be, we seem to deal with it in a variety of ways. In my twenty-five years, I have run the gamut, from not accepting late work to deducting points to now taking it whenever they get it to me, even, in some rare cases, if that means after the term is over. I tell my kids, especially now, “Do what you can, when you can.”

Well, it seems, “when” is now for a lot of my kids. Then, of course, I have to accept what I have offered. And I do, graciously and without penalty. But isn’t timeliness important? Isn’t there a teachable moment in this for responsibility, for accountability? Probably, but I find those considerations secondary to the primary: learning.

And I tried to communicate that to my kiddos in my latest My Room Message.

Most of our deadlines are arbitrary constructs that either fit the calendar or create convenience–for us. Learning isn’t time bound, it does not regard calendar or convenience. It, regardless our attempts at control, happens at its own pace. And so I let it. What they can, when they can.

I am not going anywhere. I will be here when they are ready. I am contracted to help kids learn. And I believe I best do that by providing opportunity and possibility. Inconvenient? Yes. I accepted that long ago. Working with humans is inconvenient. I work with humans. I teach humans, and it’s never been convenient. Maybe it’s not supposed to be.

Happy Monday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

Well, a “week of why” is in the books, so to say. As I pledged on Monday, I provided a “why” for every tASK I put in front of my kids this week. And, as I shared on Monday, I aim to make this standard practice moving forward–habit to routine to ritual. At the moment, it is still in the habit stage, but I am committed to seeing it through to ritual. Just like my other rituals (My Room Messages, Sappy Sy Rhymes, Smiles and Frowns) “Why, Sy?” will have a permanent place at the table.

Does it matter to the kids? Not sure, in this distance model, it’s hard to know. They see it/hear it on a Screencastify video, so I am unable to gauge their initial responses. Today, I am going to ask them for feedback, both generally and specifically on my approach and its impact on their experience. It is my earnest hope that they find value in the rituals. I hope they matter to them. If they don’t, that might be hard to swallow because they matter to me. I guess we’ll see. The worst that could happen? I will have some reflecting and bettering to do, but that’s kinda old hat by now.

Its own ritual.

Happy Friday, all. Have a great weekend. See ya back here on Monday.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.

I have no idea. I haven’t seen their faces once in thirty days. I hear their voices–well, most. Some haven’t even shared that. They are only letters in the chat. I see their work–well, most. Some haven’t even shared that. They are blank cells in Skyward. I see their dark screens with names in white–well, most. Some haven’t even come to class once. They are names on a roster for me to mark absent. I am teaching screens.

Yes, many I have seen. Many I have heard. Many work. Many show up. But even the “animated” screen seems…well, distant. We go through our daily routine. We even smile and laugh, but it seems of late that even in this, fewer each day partake. In the gallery, I see more names than faces, faces I once saw, but now the screen. I try not to take it personally. I will not make them turn their video on. And, thus, behind the screen we go on.

And that’s not easy, for either. They, too, must feel the distance. They, too, must feel the contrivance. They, too, must feel the fatigue. They, too, must feel the apathy. They, too, must feel that this…. That this is not real. I imagine that’s how they feel.

And so, as I meet them each day, I breathe in deeply and try my best to imagine that they are there in the room with me, that I can see them, that I can hear them. And for now it’s working. But if it will last, I do not know.

I have no idea.

Happy Thursday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.